,
boot-licking,  baseness,  servility,  selfless  love  of  others  and  total
disregard for human life ... especially for those on  top, human  life loses
all value, especially in Moscow, among those bastards who wear out the seats
of their pants in HQ offices ... they do  not see us as individuals, but  as
battalions, companies and divisions ...

     ...  that's  enough  philosophizing,  Sharagin, time  to  get  back  to
business,  the war, and not sit around meditating ... what did I start with?
oh, yes - the boundless courage of Russian soldiers...</i>

     No  matter  how  hard  Sharagin tried  to  get away from  philosophical
musings, he kept plunging  back  into thought. He turned over and started to
examine  the  peeling green paint of  the APC, the dried mud plastering  its
body, the thick layer of dust that covered it just as it lined his lungs.
     Soviet  people  in Afghanistan choked on dust and spat it out  in thick
gobs of yellow, pus-like spittle.
     Unexpectedly  it  came  to  him  that glorification  of  war,  romantic
perception  of  battle  begins in  childhood,  when  a  child  encounters  a
veritable landslide of  literature on the subject, when his mind  is  barely
able  to digest heroic films in  which the soldier is always victorious, and
where death of the enemy is a great feat.

     <i>...  kids barely out of the cradle run around with wooden machine guns:
bang-bang, you're dead! ... nobody ever told us what real war is like, not a
single book  explained that by  its nature, war is  an abomination  ...  the
Great Patriotic War was idealized, made into a fetish ... yes,  we won,  but
at  what  price! ... I  learnt  a lot  from my grandfather ...  but  this is
something that will never be published in a single book or newspaper! ... so
it looks as though the  loss  of ten million lives is justified, and instead
of  condemning  such  monstrous  losses,  instead of  condemning  those  who
couldn't give a damn  whether thirty or forty millions perish in the name of
victory,  we eulogise martial success  and prepare another generation hooked
on self-sacrifice ...  my  generation  was well prepared,  that's why  we're
here,  that's  why  our Soviet soldiers in  Afghanistan  perform miracles of
heroism ....</i>

     Saturated  with  specious, sweet, superficial  and erroneous images  of
war, boys with wooden guns dream of battle, dream of going to war, no matter
where or what.

     <i>...  sadly, most of them never  shed these  childish illusions as  they
grow up ...  stop! cancel that! it looks  as  though we can't  live  without
violent  emotion, without heroics, we  always  need  an enemy  who  must  be
destroyed  ...  so  were we  all, our whole  country,  only waiting for  yet
another war, like this one in Afghanistan? ...</i>

     As soon as the sun was  past the zenith, the soldiers, who  had quieted
down for a  while, came  back to life, rubbing their eyes, yawning, crawling
out of their holes.  With returned  vigour  came jokes,  laughter, swearing,
shouts.
     The day before, when the squad was moving out to its assigned position,
the lads pulled a  fast  number to get additional food, which  they hid from
their commander while they were digging in and sheltering from the "afghan."
     The armoured military vehicles,  BMPs,  met a herd of goats on a narrow
mountain  road. The  older  herdsman,  a  sturdy man who struck Sharagin  as
highly suspicious,

     <i>... he's a  "spook,"  for  sure ... and he'll remain in  our  rear, the
bastard ...</i>

     and a young boy, were  driving  the  herd toward them. The Afghans were
afraid  that the shuravi would run  down their goats and began to mill about
and fuss.  Sharagin signalled  a  halt.  At the same  moment, lance-corporal
Prokhorov,  the wiry  and  daring  gunner in the first BMP,  opened the rear
hatch and seized a young kid.
     Sharagin didn't  notice anything, all he heard  was a dull thud  as the
hatch slammed shut,  and  turned  around  in surprise to see a  female  goat
butting the BMP's armour:

     <i>... stupid animal ... what on earth possessed it? ...</i>

     The  kid traveled on with the squad,  quietly  chewing into a  sack  of
potatoes. Halfway through, it almost started on some sticks of TNT that were
kept to  help  in digging trenches. Prokhorov and  Panasyuk caught  the  kid
devouring  the  short-supply  potatoes and  dragged  it out of the  vehicle,
swearing profusely, to the encouraging shouts of their comrades.
     The poor, frightened animal plunged wildly  amid a forest  of legs  and
shadows cast by surrounding soldiery until Titov felled it to earth and slit
its throat with his bayonet.
     Naturally, there was  not enough fresh  meat to go  around. The younger
men had to make do with boiled pearl  barley, but the youngsters devoured it
greedily, chomping and belching, licking their spoons and mess tins clean in
their  hurry  to  fill  their  bellies  before  their  older comrades  could
intervene.
     They  watched  from a  respectful distance how  the old  hands savoured
their  meat,  sucking  the  bones  clean  and helping  themselves  to  baked
potatoes: first they would  poke around in the hot ashes with  a twig,  roll
out a potato, pull off the blackened peel, pop the white  inside into  their
mouths, and take another bite of goat meat.
     "A drop of whaddya call it, port, would go down a treat now, eh Panas?"
Asked lance-corporal Prokhorov, licking his greasy fingers.
     "Stop breaking my heart. When we get back to the Union, then we'll pull
out all the stops and celebrate! As much port and vodka as you can hold!"
     "Shit yes, that'll be really something!"
     "When we get back to the  company, fuck me if  I get up off my bunk for
anything. I won't move a finger until I'm demobbed!"  Panansyuk took  a bite
of potato.  "If it wasn't  for this assignment, we'd  be getting ready to go
back right now..."
     The  youngsters chewed on dry crackers,  listening enviously to the old
hands' fantasies.
     "Hey, Chiri, why are you resting your balls  by that fire? Where's  the
tea, boy?" shouted Prokhorov.  "Damn greenhorns! You'll be jerking off for a
long time yet  before you can think of  demob!" He laughed loudly.  "But the
grand-daddies of the Soviet Army  will  be getting up to God knows what in a
month's time. Lock  up  your daughters,  people! I  told you,  remember, how
we've got this whole female hostel right next door, a new slit every night,"
he went on,  making things up on the spur of the  moment, and believing  his
own lies. "I  remember Panas, see,  how you'd  come  every night to a dance,
pick up a chick, and on the way back to the hostel, naturally, you'd get her
into a clinch somewhere in  the bushes,  then take her home, and another one
would be waving out the window at you, like, hell, come and hop into my cot,
soldier-boy! Just think, fuck it, what a life we had!"
     "Who d'you think  you're shitting, Prokhor?" jeered  Titov. "One  and a
half years I've  known you,  and all you've done is  bullshit on about  that
hostel, and I bet before that you hadn't so much as squeezed a tit!"
     "Bullshit yourself,  I didn't!" roared  Prokhorov,  though  he  clearly
realized that any moment now he'd be pinned down for outright lying.
     "With a  willy like yours, even if you got to climb up  on  a woman she
wouldn't feel  a  thing!  It'd be  like a  pencil in  a glass!"  said Titov,
quashing his friend even further.
     "How would you know?" challenged Prokhorov sourly.
     "Well,  it's  no  great  military  secret,  is  it?  We've been in  the
bath-house together, haven't we?"
     "Chiri, you  mother-fucker!" Shouted lance-corporal Prokhorov,  glaring
at a soldier sitting nearby.  "How long  are  we going to wait for that tea,
eh? It's  ready? Well, bring it here,  bugger  it, before I  have to get up!
I'll count to three ... fucking one ... fucking two ..."
     Thin, fair-haired Chirikov grabbed up the hot mugs with his bare hands,
and just made it on the count of three.
     "And where's the  jam, worm?" Demanded Prokhorov, pinning  the  hapless
soldier with a merciless glare.
     " ? "
     "I'll count to one and a half! Starting now! One..."
     "Come off  it,"  interrupted  Panasyuk. "Dismissed,  Chiri!" After  the
soldier  retreated, he added: "You've driven the poor sod  into  the ground.
He's just  come off duty. Give  him a  break. Otherwise,  he'll goof  off on
duty, fall asleep, and that will be that."
     "Fuck the  lot  of you!" Retorted Prokhorov,  offended, and stumped off
with his mug, muttering as he went: "Fine friends, bugger them!  If I hadn't
swiped that fucking goat, you'd all be sitting around sucking your balls!"
     "Hold it!" Shouted Panansyuk.
     "Let him go," interposed Titov, waving dismissively. "Five minutes, and
he'll be back to normal."
     They sat around, slurping thick black tea, which had been overboiled on
an improvised grill  made out of  a zinc  cartridge box.  The subject  under
discussion was how to make a cake out of biscuits and condensed milk. It was
imperative  to  make  their  own  demob cake.  Tradition.  Sweet  dreams  of
demobilisation  reflected   on  the  faces  of  Panasyuk  and  Titov,  while
Prokhorov,  miffed by his friends' digs,  wandered around the  post, sipping
his  tea, burning  his  mouth on the  hot aluminum mug, and shouting at  the
younger soldiers.
     Sharagin, relaxing with an after-dinner cigarette, heard a single shot.
     "Find  out  who   that  was,  and  report  back,"  he  ordered  private
Myshkovsky, who  had jumped at the shot, and again at the harsh tone  of his
commanding officer's voice.

     <i>... you'd swear someone dropped him flat on his face on some asphalt in
childhood  ... he's put up with the grand-dads, month after month ...  never
mind, Myshkovsky, we'll make a paratrooper out of you yet ...</i>

     "It  was  lance-corporal  Prokhorov  shooting,   comrade   lieutenant,"
reported Myshkovsky breathlessly when  he  got back.  "He said it was so the
spooks in the  village wouldn't  stick their noses out.  Remedial  shot,  he
said."
     Prokhorov had taken up a position with a  sniper's rifle, and turned to
the cowed sentry:
     "Burkov, fuck you! Get over to the sergeant and tell him to come here."
     "But I'm on duty, I can't leave my post ..."
     "Whaaat? Lost your marbles in attack, or something? On your  way -- one
foot here, the other one there!"
     At first, they  just fooled around to shape  up, aiming  at  rocks  and
bushes from the top of the hill. However, this pastime soon palled. Panasyuk
offered a bet to make things more interesting:
     "For five chits,  all right? Prokhor, let's see which one of us can hit
that donkey over there."
     Prokhorov missed,  which made him even  more  angry. Panasyuk  got  the
donkey with  his  first  shot, leaned  back against a rock and  pulled out a
packet of cigarettes, while the unlucky grand-dad, boiling with frustration,
studied  the  village through the rifle sights,  hoping  that something live
would appear, a domestic animal, say, or an Afghan,  so that he  could renew
the bet and win back his five chits -- a whole FIVE -- from Panasyuk.
     Sharagin went  for a piss  after his tea and saw the grand-dads messing
around with the rifle. He saw  Prokhorov, pop-eyed and red-faced, pull money
out of his pocket and give it  to the  sergeant. Buttoning up  his fly as he
went, Sharagin  wandered over to the shooters.  He wouldn't mind doing a bit
of shooting himself.
     "Hey, Prokhor, look! An old  woman's come out! No, no, a bit further to
the right," prompted the sergeant.
     "Same conditions as before?" Asked Prokhorov, just to be sure.
     "Yep.  There's a war on, she's  got no  business  roaming the  streets.
Right, comrade lieutenant?"
     "I guess so."
     "One fucking spook about to bite the dust!" Cried Prokhorov gleefully.
     The sun was already low, and the veiled woman cast a long shadow, which
dragged  behind  her  along  a  wall, as  if  trying to  hold  her back from
inevitable disaster.
     A 7.62 whooshed toward the village.
     The old woman stopped,  as  if  struck  by a sudden  thought, then slid
slowly to the ground, fell on her side and lay motionless.
     "Never cross the  road on a red light," quipped one of  the men who had
gathered to watch the show.
     "Want a go, comrade  lieutenant?" Offered  Panansyuk. "I'll load  it up
with  an  exploding  head, if you like." He retreated a few steps behind the
beaming Prokhorov and  returned the five chits. They stood there watching as
their  commanding officer  settled down  on a sleeping bag, and adjusted the
rifle sights.
     "Look,  look,  comrade  lieutenant,  over  on  the left  by the  wall!"
Prompted Titov, eyes glued  to a pair of binoculars. "There's a spook there,
see him?"
     "Yes, I see him..."
     He  did  not dampen the  grand-dads'  exhilaration, consenting silently
that the  village belonged to the spooks and was thus doomed to destruction,
so there was no point in wasting pity on  its inhabitants. He had agreed, so
he, too, was now part of this "game." He lay cradling  the rifle and looking
through its sights at an old man who peered out from behind a wall from time
to time.

     <i>...  Prokhorov's right: there's a war on,  they've no business  showing
themselves outside ...  there's a war on, so it's either them or us ...  all
these so-called  peaceful civilians, old and young, hate our guts, and given
the  chance, they'll wind our  gizzards around a pitchfork and put  them out
for all to see ... they help the spooks, the bastards, going back and  forth
as  if they're tending their fields,  but  at  the same  time,  the sons  of
bitches are setting out trip-wires ... "</i>

     Sharagin took  aim, but at the same moment decided not to kill  the old
man, just shoot  over his  head, and tightened his finger on the trigger. In
training, he had  been the best  shot in his  group. It would be easy to hit
the target at this range -- too easy.

     <i>... live, old man ....</i>

     "Bet you he'll miss," came a whisper from behind.
     " ....."
     "No guts?"
     "No ... Bet you ten chits." That was Panasyuk.
     Sharagin aimed again. A  drop of sweat trickled from his  hairline past
his ear, down  his cheek and fell on the rifle butt. He  held his breath. He
couldn't understand  why he  had  suddenly given way to  doubts. His fingers
felt the stiffness of the trigger, as though it was resisting him.
     "...  taking too long to aim, fuck it,  he'll  miss for  sure!" needled
Prokhorov's voice.
     The  shot  boomed out. The  old man fell away from the wall,  staggered
forward a few steps and fell.
     "Ha! Gotcha!" whooped Panasyuk.
     "Class shot! Right in the brain box!"  Confirmed Titov,  still glued to
the  binoculars.  "Head's gone like it was  never  there. Just  his  jawbone
hanging on his neck!"


     The  armoured vehicles  were  like pincers  around the village;  moving
inward,  the  paratroopers  began  combing  through the  village.  Groups of
soldiers dispersed along its dusty, crooked streets.

     <i>...  the  village  is  empty,  definitely empty ... and  the  artillery
pounded the hell out of it ... everyone must be long gone ... but, then, who
knows? ...</i>

     A dead donkey lay beside the last hut, distended  from the heat  like a
barrel to which  someone had tied four legs for fun. A suffocating stench of
decaying flesh hung in the air for several dozen meters around.
     Suppressing  the urge  to vomit, the soldiers tried to keep as far away
from it  as  possible,  as  if fearing that the  rock-hard  hide of the dead
animal,  bloated to its  limits,  might burst and douse  them with stinking,
rotten matter.
     Armed men filed through the winding streets, which were not wide enough
for  their  vehicles: a  BMP  was bound to  get  stuck and become a  sitting
target.
     The new boys gazed  around fearfully, creeping sideways along the walls
in momentary  expectation  of  attack, delaying the others  as  they pressed
their  backs to the blind walls  of houses.  Lacking experience, borne along
only by  the fear and excitement arising  out of terror of the unknown, they
could  only count on  the  speed of their reaction, the ability to  fire  at
once, emptying the entire magazine.
     The  more   experienced  soldiers   were  like  predators:   listening,
constantly  evaluating  their position  in relation  to  a  possible  enemy,
estimating the best  and closest cover to dive into at the first  sound of a
shot. Intuitively, they sought the temper of the village, tried to catch its
breath,  and moved confidently ever deeper, to  complete the combing and get
out of this silent, malevolent and alien kingdom.
     The men advanced quickly but quietly,  fearful of mines and trip-wires.
Their  eyes searched the ground. The labyrinths under  the houses led to the
very heart of the village.
     Part of  the  village was destroyed by artillery fire: some  roofs  and
grey  mud walls had collapsed,  shattered  windows  were  black holes in the
walls of houses.  Here and  there, on houses that were still standing, there
were small Chinese-manufactured padlocks -- a sure sign that the inhabitants
had fled, expecting the worst, but hoped to return at some later time.
     "Check 'em out!"
     A door was rammed in.
     "Sychev,  follow  me!"  Ordered  Sharagin.  "Titov,  Myshkovsky!  Check
opposite, in the yard!"
     "All clear!"
     "The spooks have fucked off!..."

     Captain Morgultsev took off  his hat, wiped the sweat off his brow with
his sleeve, and unfolded a map on the armour.
     "Combing through  the "greenery" is like chasing lice  out of your hair
with a bloody fine-tooth comb ... All right ...The Afghan units will move in
from here,  and  here. Our orders are to move along here." He poked a finger
at a green-shaded section on the map,  criss-crossed by roads, like so  many
veins.
     "To hell  and gone with that  fucking greenery!" Chistyakov  hawked and
spat through his teeth, then rubbed the spittle into the ground with the toe
of his boot. "Can't we do  without  those bloody  Afghans? They'll scare off
the spooks for miles around!"

     <i>... wants  to take a  last drink of blood, and there  aren't any spooks
about, nobody to kill ...</i>

     guessed Sharagin.
     "Comrade senior lieutenant!" squeaked the political officer. "Enough of
your fu ... '' he cut  himself off.  ''Enough  of these emotional outbursts!
They're our military allies!"
     Chistyakov bit his lip, scowled at Nemilov and burst out:
     "What do you fucking well want, more than anyone else?"
     "Bloody hell, will you stop that?!" interrupted Morgultsev. He gave the
platoon leaders their instructions and ordered them to their vehicles.
     "I won't leave it at that," fumed the political  officer. "I don't care
if he's due for replacement! What kind of an example is he setting others?"
     "Leave him alone," advised Morgultsev.

     Sharagin's  BMP  bounced across a trench, the  armour slicing through a
corner of a house, and raced away from the village.
     They penetrated deeper into the valley and the "greenery", breathing in
the unhealthy, greasy dust of deserted houses,  the treads  of BMPs churning
up the spooks' former land holdings,  driving them away and pursuing;  their
advance drove  the spooks back from their bolt-holes,  squeezed them  out of
the  valley, pointing them toward other hunters, even though they knew  that
once the operation was  over and the companies went back to base, the spooks
who  had managed to break through  would return and  bring others with them,
return and take up  residence once more, and revolutionary power would never
be established in these parts.
     Unruly  and defiant, condemned as treacherous or  subversive,  at times
due to errors inevitable in war time, the villages were methodically pounded
by Soviet air  power  and artillery. Heavy  arms fire  felled and  destroyed
Muslim  gravestones,  flags  fluttering  in  the  wind. Shells  disemboweled
cemeteries and homes of the heathen, cleared  Afghan  mountains, plains  and
deserts of the spooks, of the unclean, making way for the builders of a new,
bright future. The shuravi hoped the time would come when they would finally
wipe  all treacherous  villages  from the face of the earth. Villages  fell,
burned,  disintegrated, but  for some  reason never disappeared  completely.
Like scabbed-over sores  they lay on  mountain slopes, in the "greenery" and
along  roadsides  -- a blind reproach, malignant and unforgiving of what was
done  to them, ready to wreak revenge for the cruelty with  which, free from
doubt and hesitation, the people from the North, the shuravi, who always did
whatever they wanted, had dealt with them.

     A lone,  stunted tree stuck out above a  long, partially  ruined  wall,
chunks missing from it like bites from an apple. The tree had lost its crown
in  the  shelling, but  it still  lived.  It  looked out  fearfully  at  the
surrounding world after the artillery storm.

     <i>... just like that old man behind the house ...</i>

     The familiar, relatively safe passage of life,  accompanied by the roar
of  diesel engines and  shuddering  armour, suddenly broke  off.  A  grenade
launcher opened up on the first BMP from behind the wall.

     <i>... like a fireball ...</i>

     it flew from  the shelter of  the  wall, beside  the tree, and a moment
later  the  armour under  Oleg jumped.  The  shell hit the  vehicle's tread,
blasting it off.
     Whee, whee, whee! Screamed wayward spook bullets on all sides. Soldiers
fell  flat,  pressing  themselves  against the ground,  into the dust, dived
under vehicles. Everyone took whatever shelter they could.
     A machine gun  chattered  in  fury and  hatred, striving to kill off as
many as it could of these suddenly vulnerable people, jumping off the armour
to the ground.
     Sergeant Panasyuk was caught in mid-leap. He bounded up and fell like a
sack on his back; his helmet rolled away, and his hand clenched his gun.
     The  sergeant  had  no  time to  even  shout, he  just  grunted  almost
inaudibly, as  if to himself, before his long, bony body  struck the ground.
In  the  all-embracing  silence before  death, the sergeant  was  quiet  and
relaxed for the  first  time in one and a  half years of war, as  if he  had
returned home  and wrapped himself in a  blanket,  hid his head  and went to
sleep.
     Hefty Titov crawled up  and dragged him behind the BMP,  pulled off his
bullet-proof vest,  and only  then  saw the reddish-brown spot on Panasyuk's
shirt.
     The battle cut off the  squad from the  rest  of the world, deafened it
with shell-fire, blinded it with explosions; lead whizzed all around.
     Sharagin emptied his second magazine, replaced it and turned, wondering
why the BMPs were  not firing. The  cannon of the nearest one  was swiveling
back and forth.  Prokhorov, staggering,  as  if  drunk, could not figure out
where the  fire  was  coming  from  and where  the spooks had taken up their
position. Finally he fired by guess: Kaboom! Kaboom! Kaboom!
     Kaboom! Kaboom! Came belated fire from the second BMP.

     <i>... serve the bastards right! ... give them another one! ...</i>

     Ah, that was better. Now all guns were firing.

     Shattered by explosions, the village  fell silent. The spooks  must  be
retreating. But  the  infuriated soldiers kept raking  the  area with  every
available weapon. Eventually  the  barrage ceased,  hot barrels cooling  one
after another.
     Death, which seemed to have come from nowhere and almost won, fell back
in the face of the soldiers' desperate resistance, taking  sergeant Panasyuk
with it.
     He lay there with an expression of faint  chagrin or  disappointment on
his face, his legs  bent and doubled  over like  a snapped branch,  pitiful,
frail,  shot  through  the  side  just  in  the spot  left  exposed  by  the
bullet-proof vest.
     Sharagin  railed,   swore   at  the  radio  operator,  who   spluttered
desperately, trying to summon a  helicopter. There was not a single cloud in
the  sky,  and  not  a  single  chopper.  Time   was  passing,  flying  away
uncontrolled,  and together  with  it,  with  those  speeding  minutes  that
replaced one another on the  liquid  crystal display  of  the  black, quartz
watch in a plastic thick casing on the sergeant's wrist, hope faded.
     "Where the hell are  they, the swine!" Shouted Sharagin, but there  was
nothing  anyone could say. "I've got  a man dying here!" He yelled into  the
silent airwaves.
     Titov, Prokhorov and others stared at the distant pass, hoping to catch
sight  of the choppers, then  looked  back  at Panasyuk, seeing  how he  was
slipping away, without a  word of farewell, into another world,  giving  up,
cornered  and unable  to find anything to grasp and  hold  on to  life.  The
younger soldiers  gaped at their  dying comrade  in  terror, as though  they
could no longer recognize him, so helpless and no longer in charge of them.
     The men wandered around, smoking, chewing dry rations, talking in muted
voices, and each one was thinking: fuck, what lousy luck ...
     Unable to  do  anything,  the  squad leader  went  through  moments  of
despair.  When  the sergeant  opened  his  eyes  slightly for the last time,
Sharagin thought:


     <i>... it'll be all right ... hang on, just don't die ...</i>

     Even though it was obvious that the sergeant wouldn't pull through: and
in that moment,  in some distant corner of his mind, a hint of his own death
raised  its head, a hint he immediately and naturally brushed  aside, unable
to agree or accept such an eventuality, but at the same time, he wished that
his own end would be quick and without suffering.
     Panasyuk died fifteen minutes before the choppers  arrived.  Lieutenant
Sharagin sat beside the  dead  sergeant, exhausted, drained, for  the  first
time  in  his  service  in  Afghanistan  cursing  the  war, cursing himself,
suffering as though he could have stopped those bullets that penetrate human
bodies, or dissipate  the  fog  at  the  other  end  of  the  pass,  so  the
helicopters could come sooner and get the sergeant to the hospital on time.





        Chapter Four. Chistyakov

     He saw Yepimakhov for the first time when  he  returned to the regiment
after  conducting  the  column,  and  was  dragging  his tired  body to  the
barracks, thinking only of two  things - to have a bath  and down a glass of
vodka. Zhenka  had stopped in town and bought a couple of bottles. Almost as
if he knew they would be needed.
     The new man  with  a lieutenant's shoulder  boards  was being  escorted
toward regimental  headquarters by  a  soldier. He was  dressed in a "Union"
uniform, which nobody in Afghanistan had worn for a long time as it had been
superseded  by  the  special  so-called  "experimental" uniform,  supposedly
tailored  to  new field conditions.  The  soldier  was  lugging  a suitcase,
bending under its weight,  and  a  carrier bag. The lieutenant,  natty in  a
tailored military jacket  with  a high collar, carried a  greatcoat over his
left arm.

     <i>.... must be Zhenka's replacement at last ....</i>

     Sharagin  unlocked  the Chinese padlock which hung  on  two bent  nails
after they had lost the only key to the  dead lock  on the door  and stepped
into the tiny  entry hall. He leaned his rifle against the wall, dropped his
rucksack on the floor, gave a tired yank  at his bootlaces, too lazy to undo
them completely, and  got his boots off by pushing the  heel of one with the
toe  of the other foot.  He flung back  the curtain separating the entrance,
and stepped into the main room. The platoon leaders and sergeant lived here,
surrounded by family photographs and cuttings out  of the "Ogonyok" magazine
pinned  to  the walls. Standard iron  bunks lined  the walls, and a doorless
clothes cupboard leaned crookedly. A  heating pipe ran under the window with
a  thin, flat radiator  which  leaked frequently  and was  therefore  rusted
through. Wooden pegs were stuck into the radiator here and there,  where the
leaks were strongest. They all froze in winter, wrapped themselves in  their
greatcoats. Home-made heaters  made no difference. A lone, naked  light bulb
hung from the ceiling.  Greatcoats hung  on nails hammered into the walls. A
twin-cassette player stood on the table, surrounded by old newspapers and an
ashtray made out of half of a can of imported "Si-Si" soda.

     <i>... towel, soap, clean underwear...that's all ...</i>

     The burner by the bath-house was silent, cooling down.

     <i>... too damn late...</i>

     Usually the gas burner hissed, throwing out a  tongue of flame, heating
up the steam room. Sharagin threw off his stiff uniform and underwear, which
stank of  sweat and diesel and which he  had not changed for  some time, and
his  socks which  had a big hole on one toe and  also  smelled  terrible and
stuck to his road-weary feet.  He did not throw  away the socks, but  washed
them with the rest of his clothing. The trickle of water from the shower was
lukewarm, but he gloried in it nonetheless. He stood  under it  for at least
five minutes as if trying to soak  himself through and through, rubbing  his
body  briskly   with  a  sponge   to  get  rid  of   the  accumulated  dirt,
simultaneously shedding  the fatigue and nervousness  brought  on by combat,
washed his cropped hair.

     <i>... maybe I should shave  my head bald once more?  No, once  was enough
...</i>


     He  scraped  his cheeks  under the now cold shower,  swore at the cheap
blade which lost its edge  straight after  contact with the stubble of  many
days.

     <i>... the unit  had not noticed the loss  of a soldier ...  they  had not
even had  time to deal with the enemy properly  ... this  particular lot  of
spooks  was  very  crafty,  retreating  from  battle along  mountain tracks,
underground tunnels ... But Chistyakov  got his way, did some shooting later
... battalion reconnaissance  took three  prisoners... one  spook was bumped
off on the way ...</i>

     All these days, the simplicity and unexpectedness  of Panasyuk's  death
haunted  Sharagin  and the  war, which had previously given special color to
the  imagination, a  whole spectrum of exhilarating  shades  and fascinating
variety of sounds, now seemed bleak and almost monochrome.  Earlier  the war
had enticed and beckoned with unlimited shooting, frightened from afar  with
shell  explosions,  warned  against hidden peril with  triggered mines which
concussed but did not kill.  Now, for the first time, war had struck a vital
blow, which was serious and extremely painful. War had descended suddenly on
all sides,  grim,  real, merciless. From now on, Death  kept a sharp eye  on
every individual, walked in step and whispered something, its breath cold on
the back of the neck.
     The bath-house  was fast becoming cold. Sharagin splashed a few dippers
on  the stones, climbed  on to  the top bench, stretched himself, closed his
eyes and relaxed. He almost fell asleep. Once something similar happened  to
Pashkov, who had  drunk a lot, set out for a steam bath and went to sleep on
the  top  bench. If  it  were not  for  the soldier  who stood guard at  the
bath-house, Pashkov  would have  been broiled like  a lobster. When  he  was
shaken awake, he could barely move his whiskers and had no idea  about where
he was. He drank nothing but mineral water for a whole week after that. When
Sharagin had soaked enough and washed himself clean, he felt  fresh in  mind
and body

     <i>... like a newborn baby...</i>

     He  went out  into the dressing room  and was already standing  on  the
plank floor, barefoot and in  his underpants, when he  suddenly felt a sharp
surge of desire twist him up inside. Male need.
     In order not to embarrass himself before other officers,  he bent  over
quickly, sat on a bench and pulled on his trousers.
     He had forgotten all about that in the last few months, but  now, after
the bath, he needed a woman. Badly. So much that he ground his teeth.

     <i>... you couldn't bend it using both hands...</i>


     The  meager  handful of  women in the company  were all accounted  for.
Paired off, living with senior officers, no way you could approach them.
     Sharagin went out and lit a cigarette.

     <i>... it's  easier  for the  "elephants" ...  those  who  are  more  shy,
masturbate  in secret,  on sentry duty, when else  is a soldier alone? or in
the latrine, surrounded by the stink of shit...but what  am I to do? I don't
know how to do it for money ... guzzling vodka is all that's left!... Zhenka
manages much better,  straight  into battle with  reconnaissance and  claims
victory over the latest girl...and forgets about it the next day...

     ... what does a man really need in wartime?..</i>

     he wondered, returning from the bath-house.

     -<i>"food, medals, vodka and dames!" according to Morgultsev ....well, the
food situation is bearable, there are never enough  medals to go around, nor
enough vodka, either, but especially women ... you'd think  they'd  bring in
enough for everyone, so  you wouldn't have to think about it! ... good thing
the replacement's arrived, it will mean a drink or two! ..</i>

     The  orderly  on duty  pulled himself  to attention  and reported  that
Chistyakov's replacement  had arrived , and that the company had gone off to
eat.
     Sharagin hung out his washing, lay down on his bunk and turned his head
to the wall, facing the photograph of Lena and Nastyusha. The gray cardboard
was cut  unevenly around  the  edges to palm size,  because for some time he
carried the photo in his pocket. Wife and daughter were frozen in unnatural,
tense poses before the camera, having taken inordinate pains to look as good
as possible.
     The tasteless provincial hairdresser had given Lena a "stylish" hairdo,
hiding her beautiful long hair. For some reason she had colored her lips and
eyelashes with  something.  Her wide-spaced,  usually bright and  warm eyes,
high  forehead  and clear, touching  face were  immobile, as though they had
frozen Lena, enchained her, frightened her. Meek and helpless, but strong in
her love for  him, and fearful  for him, she seemed to look into  the camera
lens as though trying  to  catch  a glimpse of  the future,  the day when he
would  receive this photo, in  order to tell him of  her love, her  anxiety,
about all that  surrounds a woman  who  is left for a long  time without the
husband who has gone off  to war. Nastyusha had huge  bows of ribbon on both
sides of her head, making her look like a funny toy.

     <i>... it would have been better to take the photo at home ...</i>

     At the moment when "the birdie" flew out they, naturally, were thinking
of Daddy,  who  was  serving in a  distant  country,  and  their fears  were
involuntarily captured on film.
     He  had never known  the pulling  power  of  photographs before. That a
glance at a photograph is  like a voyage in time: a moment of human  life is
permanently fixed on a card, so  tiny that the person probably  did not even
notice it or attach any significance to it, it's like a trip into  the past,
a projection into another dimension.

     He closed  his eyes and imagined the hairdresser's they usually went to
- on the corner near  the railway station, possibly  the  only  one in town.
Then - how they stood in  line holding the  receipt  until their time  came,
probably going to the mirror a few times  to check how they looked, tried to
tune  themselves  up to smile  and  then headed back  home, dressed in their
Sunday best, along the pitted, dirty streets.

     <i>... I bet it was Mother's idea to have that photo taken ...</i>

     He did not lie alone for long. Solitude  is a great luxury in the army.
The door squeaked open, and senior lieutenant Ivan Zebrev, commander of  the
1st  platoon  entered and, in joyful anticipation  of the imminent  drinking
spree, announced:
     "Chistyakov's   replacement  has  arrived.!"  and  added  his  favorite
"Ulyu-ulyu!"
     "I know, I saw him."
     "Zhenka's beside himself with joy. He's making sure not a speck of dust
settles  on  him.  You  could die laughing.  He  even  missed  going to  the
bath-house,  but took the  lieutenant  by  the  elbow  and  steered him  off
somewhere. Listen - this is what we'll do.  My "elephants" - harrumph! - are
on kitchen duty today, so  they'll  set up everything,  and  we'll  all make
tracks there  after lights out. We'll have a wow of a time. It's been a long
time since we got drunk. What's that you said? You sick or something?"
     "Just tired. Is there anything to drink right now?"
     "Harrumph!.." Zebrev  dived under Chistyakov's  bunk and emerged with a
bottle in his hands. "How much d'you want?"
     "About a hundred grams..."
     It was hard  to force down  the industrial alcohol.  Even if drunk half
and half  with juice  or water, it gave  off  a tang  of either kerosene  or
rubber, seemed  to stop  in your throat and, after drinking a bottle of that
garbage some people broke out in red spots.
     "Going to eat?"
     "No thanks, Ivan, I won't bother if we're going to be eating later."
     "Right. I'm off for a wash, and then to feed my face."
     "There's almost no water left."
     "See you!"
     For  a  while longer  Oleg remained  alone. Relaxed  by the alcohol, he
pulled  out and re-read his wife's last  letters. Lena  never complained and
never would complain  about  any  difficulties, especially  in a letter. She
wrote only about  good  things, even if they were  a tiny drop once a month.
She wrote that she loved him and was waiting  for him. She described all the
new  and funny  things Nastya had  said,  how quickly she was  changing, how
fascinating it is to watch a child's reactions to the surrounding world, and
did not fail to  mention that Nastya loves  her  Daddy very much  and misses
him.
     He really ought to sit down  and  write, but he couldn't  get into  the
right mood. The words written down on paper became generalized, even if warm
and  sufficiently understandable  to someone  close  who was  far  away  and
suffering anxiety. As a rule the tone of his letters was  restrained, brief,
from a desire to save the really important words for his return home.

     <i>... Lena will understand. Lena will forgive ...</i>

     Distrust of the army postal service precluded putting anything secretly
sentimental in  a letter. Letters from home were sometimes a  week late, and
on the back of the envelope he had twice seen the stamp "Letter  received in
damaged condition." That meant that  the letter  had been  opened,  checked,
possibly read. Sometimes letters did not arrive at  all. It was assumed,  in
such  cases, that some swine of  a  soldier on  duty at the  post office had
opened the  letter in search of  money - cash  was often enclosed - and then
thrown the letter away instead of resealing the envelope.
     Suspicion also fell on the KGB personnel,  and he did not want some KGB
sneak finding out the thoughts of lieutenant Sharagin.
     In  the barracks,  everything  went haywire whenever senior  lieutenant
Chistyakov appeared on the threshold. The men would report glibly, one after
another. Chistyakov had trained them well, had them running on a string.
     Zhenka was a bit "under the weather", his face red

     <i>... he's already had a drop or two...</i>

     thrusting  the lieutenant  in the "Union" uniform into the room. "Olly!
Fuck  it,  why are  you lying around? Reveille! It's my big day today!  Look
who's here - my replacement!"
     "Pleased  to meet  you. I'm Nikolai  Yepimakhov, "  said the  newcomer,
standing uncertainly between the doorframe and his big suitcase.
     "Come in,  come  in," urged Chistyakov,  dragging him forward. "Take  a
seat, you'll soon be at home here. "
     "Where?"
     "On this chair. We need  some more  glasses," fussed  Zhenka. He fished
under his bunk for the bottle and was surprised to find it  had been opened.
"Shit, you're gone for half an hour, and some sonofabitch takes advantage!"
     "What's the matter?" asked Oleg, not understanding.
     "Someone's been at my vodka!"
     "Actually, I took a swig."
     "Oh.. well,  in that case, all  right," replied Chistyakov approvingly.
"Right,  mate, we'll drink later. Meantime,  let's go  get  you  some cotton
clothes. It won't do to be wandering around the regiment in Union uniform.!"
     Chistyakov's farewell party made Oleg feel sad. Zhenka had been part of
his  first  months of  service, Zhenka  had taught  him  how  to survive  in
Afghanistan.