However, Sharagin liked the look of the new lieutenant, and this helped
lessen the gloom.
     There  was something child-like in Nikolai Yepimakhov that  immediately
appealed, something  clean and naive - in his  eyes, his long eyelashes,  in
his  unfeigned  enthusiasm, mixed  with a measure of shyness, in the  way he
would spread a thick layer of butter on a slice of bread and top it off with
home-made jam or sweetened condensed milk from  additional rations,  sipping
tea into which he put at least six lumps of sugar.

     <i>... interesting, how did he get into the army at all? ..</i>


     Yepimakhov changed his uniform  for the "experimental" rig and now held
himself proudly, trying not to crease his imperfectly ironed new outfit. His
uniform stood out in its bright greenish-yellow markings and  smell of  dust
from the quartermaster's shelves. The clothing of  the other officers in the
room was faded from numerous washings, almost colorless.
     "Fabulous uniform!"  enthused the lieutenant.  Like  a child, he played
with the Velcro stickers on the  pockets. "It's really comfortable,  and all
these pockets...!"
     "Sure,"  interjected Ivan Zebrev, "only for  some reason you're cold in
it in winter, and boil to death in summer..."
     Zhenka Chistyakov, as  hero of  the day, poured  the  drinks.  He  also
offered a toast: "To replacements! I've been  a  long time waiting  for you,
baby!"

     <i>... we drink the first seventeen toasts quickly, and another forty nine
     slowly...</i>

     That was how such parties usually went.
     In the short breaks between  toasts, everyone  questioned  the newcomer
about news from home, and where had he served and with whom.
     Paratroops means a  school in Ryazan and a few air-borne divisions  and
storm brigades for  the entire  Soviet  Union.  Its like  being  on a  small
island, on which it is hard to land and even harder to leave, where everyone
knows everything about each other: either they studied together, either they
served together,  or from hearsay.  A  closed  circuit.  Being a paratrooper
means belonging to a caste, the  elite among the armed services, great pride
and  amazing chauvinism  with regard  to  the other  branches of  the  armed
forces.

     <i>... paratroopers are  like  mythical beasts, descending from  the skies
... there's nobody to  equal us! ... the paras strike unexpectedly, like the
wrath of God, they are as unpredictable as Judgment Day...</i>

     'Where'd you guys buy vodka?" asked Yepimakhov in his turn.

     "From the locals," replied Sharagin.
     "Wha-a-t?" Yepimakhov glanced warily  at his  glass,  and  tried again.
"I've heard that they often sell poisoned stuff..."
     "Hey,   you   don't   want  it,  don't  drink  it!"  retorted  Pashkov.
"Personally, I've become  im-mu-ne (he stressed the word deliberately, don't
teach granny to suck eggs, boy!) to it."
     "Quit  scaring  him,"  protested  Sharagin.  "They'd  never  dare  sell
poisoned vodka in Kabul, and everyone knows where they bought their supply."
     "If need be, we'll shell the shop," explained Zhenka Chistyakov.
     They were nearing the end of  the third bottle when  captain Morgultsev
arrived together with captain Osipov from Reconnaissance.
     The entrance door flew open, and somebody coughed loudly.  It was clear
that the arrivals were friends, so everyone continued eating and drinking as
though nothing had happened except  for lieutenant  Yepimakhov, who  shifted
uneasily and put aside  his glass, obviously afraid of being caught drinking
on his first day.
     Yepimakhov did not know that any appearance by one of the regimental or
battalion  brass within  fifty  meters  of the  barracks  would  be  spotted
immediately by some of the juniors, who had been taught to  stand guard, and
who would warn the  officers in time to avoid  being punished  for  drinking
just because some damn sonofabitch in the political section had insomnia.
     Captain  Morgultsev was worried about something,  and therefore sounded
aggressive:
     "Bloody hell!  Why are you giving  me  this  thimble?  Pour me a proper
glass -  right,  right, half is enough. Got  another glass?" Warrant officer
Pashkov trotted over to the hand-basin, rinsed out  a mug  and placed it  in
front of captain Osipov. "Right men, your health! To you, Chistyakov!"
     "When are you off?" asked Osipov.
     "No need to hurry now."
     "I thought you'd be off first thing tomorrow."
     "I have to get rid of the hangover tomorrow, tidy up any loose ends..."
     "Any loose ends are already in the hands of  the military prosecutors,"
joked  Pashkov, who was on  the jump, opening new  cans and clearing  things
from the table.
     "...get  a good  sleep, get  my  gear together,"  continued Chistyakov,
oblivious of Pashkov's attempt at humor. "Then I have to go around  and  say
good-bye to everyone..."
     "And get roaring drunk again in the evening. Ha-ha-ha!" needled Pashkov
with a braying laugh that shook the barracks.
     "By the way, Sharagin, take a  good look through your idiots' stuff.  I
feel it  in my bones  that  they got some hash  when you went  out on combat
duty.  Damn their eyes," said  Morgultsev angrily. "They'll smoke themselves
silly on shit ... You know full well that our sergeant does bugger all about
it," he indicated Pashkov. "All he can do is chuck grenades at scorpions..."
     Everyone laughed except Pashkov.
     "Sorry, comrade  captain, but that's unfair.  Everything in  our unit's
tip-top..."
     "Nobody's asking you, warrant officer!" snapped Morgultsev. "Never mind
shoving your fucking nose into officers' discussions!"
     "Senior warrant officer, " corrected Pashkov.
     "Same shit," retorted his commander.
     Pashkov never took umbrage. He was not young and very cunning, like all
warrant officers. Morgultsev once remarked, that "being a warrant officer is
a state of  the soul" and that "the  world  is divided into people  who  can
become warrant officers, and  those who cannot." The  company commander  was
fond  of  Pashkov,  but yelled  at him in public, chewed him out like  a raw
recruit and accused him of all the deadly  sins. Pashkov drank in  one gulp,
not eating  anything afterwards. He was older than the other officers in the
company, but the alcohol  which he consumed in inordinate  amounts seemed to
rejuvenate him. Amazingly, nobody ever noticed in the  mornings that Pashkov
was suffering from a hangover.
     "Solid  bone,"  declared  Morgultsev, rapping Pashkov  on the forehead.
"Nothing there  to  hurt." Pashkov was always  first for  physical exercises
after  any  drunken  spree.  "A bottomless  pit," the  commander  would  say
jokingly. "Don't give him  any more, it's  a waste of a precious product. If
it's free of charge he'll drink a full jerrican of vodka in three days."
     After  an  "introductory" amount, Pashkov's cheeks  would redden  as if
he'd been out in the sow, he would perk up and become full of energy, like a
car which had just received a tankful of gas. And if  he had been ordered to
do so at that moment,  Pashkov  would have  scaled the  peak of  the highest
mountain in Afghanistan, dragging a mortar on his  back, taken on ten spooks
and beaten them!
     Pashkov's favorite word was "Montana." He applied it universally - from
the   brand  of   jeans  so  popular  in  the  Soviet  Union,  to   delight,
understanding, agreement with an interlocutor,  happiness and joy. If he did
not like something he would  say: "That's not Montana!" He  savored  today's
vodka very much, real,  not some cheap substitute, and he  repeated over and
over, wiping a hand across his whiskers:
     "Montana, real Montana!"
     Pashkov  took a bite of ham, spread a thick layer of butter  on a slice
of bread.
     "Yakshi Montana!  Dukan,  baksheesh,  hanoum, buru!" This  was the  sum
total of the senior warrant officer's knowledge of the local tongue.
     "What did you say?" asked Yepimakhov.
     "It's an old Afghan saying," replied Pashkov sagely.
     "Literally: shop, gift, woman, get out of here!" translated Morgultsev.
"Don't give him any more to drink!"
     "Why's that?"
     "Because  every time I  hear that idiotic phrase,  you go on a drinking
bout!"
     Ivan Zebrev winced when he drank  vodka, so his face always looked worn
and tired.
     "How the hell do the Bolsheviks drink  this  shit?" he would  say every
time.
     To which Morgultsev's usual reply was:
     "Yes, it's as strong as Soviet power!"
     Some nights Zebrev, swearing profusely, would command in battle, waking
Sharagin, Chistyakov and  Pashkov; without  saying a word, they all  tacitly
agreed that Zebrev,  if  he didn't get killed in the meantime,  would be the
next company  commander.  Because inside  this medium-built, unprepossessing
and grayish man there was a stubborn, conscientious officer who, through his
ability and application  and  devotion  to the army would climb  the  career
ladder to the height of battalion  commander. People like  that are born  so
that in due time they  will  occupy  their proper place in the armed forces.
Ivan Zebrev was born to  command a battalion, and by all  laws he would be a
battalion  commander  at  thirty,  and  forty, and go on  pension  with  the
battalion commander still alive inside him. At this stage, Zebrev dreamed of
captain's shoulder boards because, as he often stressed and repeated tonight
for Yepimakhov's benefit:
     "Captain's boards have more stars on them than any others."
     Zhenka  Chistyakov always took  a sip  of pickled  gherkin  brine after
drinking  vodka.  Waving aside a  can opener, he pushed the lid in with  his
elbow, prized it up  with his  thumbs,  speared out all the gherkins  with a
fork as if  they were fish in a pond  and put them on a plate.  The can with
the brine he put by his own plate and wouldn't let anyone else touch it.
     The  deputy  commander  of  the  company's  political  section,  senior
lieutenant  Nemilov, never drank  his entire glass, always  left a little at
the  bottom.  Neither the officers nor the men liked Nemilov, he  didn't fit
in. From the very first day he was disliked for his small, cunning, deep-set
eyes, which seemed to lurk inside his skull. It was obvious that he had come
to Afghanistan  out of career considerations and personal ambitions, that he
couldn't care less about his  colleagues  and despised everyone. Even if  he
had been  a  teetotaler,  as  was implied  by some of his fiery  speeches at
meetings, the others would have treated him with a measure  of distrust, but
would have forgiven what they considered sheer nonsense. But because Nemilov
only acted the part of a high-principled communist, obeying the instructions
of the Party  and  the new  secretary-general  comrade  Mikhail  Sergeyevich
Gorbachev,  who had declared  war on  drunkenness  and alcoholism  and  even
ordered that there should  be no champagne at weddings, the officers and men
turned their noses up at the political officer.
     However, despite his superciliousness, high-handedness and  sententious
pronouncements, senior  lieutenant  Nemilov did not miss  any opportunity to
have a drink  with  or without good reason,  because everyone in Afghanistan
wanted to drink vodka, but not everyone was willing to spend their own money
on  it.  Moreover, Nemilov  did not  say  much in company, and  this  fueled
further suspicions.
     Nikolai Yepimakhov  prepared to down his  vodka after every  toast with
great care:  first he would breathe out, tip the drink down with difficulty,
and  it  was  clear that  although he was  unaccustomed to drinking in  such
quantities,  he was doing his best  to keep up. The  new boy became  visibly
drunker by the minute.
     Morgultsev, whose lower jaw tended to stick out, and who was often  the
butt of jokes to the effect that he must  get a mouthful of water every time
it rains, followed each draught with a gherkin,  crunching  them in  evident
enjoyment. He had a prominent forehead, and  was the  author  of many snappy
phrases and sayings such as: "An officer has a head not to eat porridge, but
to wear a cap."
     This  was his second tour of duty in Afghanistan. He never talked about
the first months after Soviet forces entered Afghanistan in 1979.
     Captain  Osipov was an  unexpected guest, but the legendary "regimental
scout" was greeted  enthusiastically, despite  the old Russian  saying:  "An
unbidden guest is worse than a Tatar."
     "An  unbidden guest is better than a Tatar," quipped Chistyakov when he
saw Osipov.
     Osipov drank  vodka  as  though  it  was ordinary  water,  occasionally
sniffing an onion. His reconnaissance company had recently caught a  caravan
carrying a large consignment of weapons, so a medal for past accomplishments
arrived  right  on cue. For  some days,  he had  been "watering"  his award.
Osipov  was of  medium height, sturdily  built, a tough nut  with wiry  hair
cropped short, with a prickly mustache and a hard stare, the stare of a lone
wolf. Even drunk, his eyes never lost that hardness, his gaze did not become
blurred but seemed even more penetrating.
     "Fuck it, Vasili, show us  the medal!" Zhenka Chistyakov  held  out his
hand. Somewhat reluctantly, captain Osipov  parted  with his  trophy. Zhenka
had no intention of examining the "piece of tin", he had one exactly like it
himself.  Chistyakov just wanted to  test his friend, so he  said: "Shall we
'water' it again?"
     "What?" asked Osipov.
     "One more time," proceeded Chistyakov, putting the medal in a glass and
filling it to the brim with vodka. "Can you handle it?"
     "Sure thing!"
     "O, my replacement," said Chistyakov,  slapping Yepimakhov  on the back
and pointing  at captain Osipov: "Remember  captain Osipov, he'll go far.  A
regimental legend! Not just the regiment - the division! A famous scout!"
     "Come off it!"
     "This man will soon be awarded the Hero's Star.  Fuck it, I  heard with
my own ears how the commander said: "I'll give the Hero to whoever  gets the
first  Stinger  from the spooks!" So when are you  going  to get a  Stinger,
Vasili?"
     "We're working on it."
     "There you go!" Chistyakov held  out the glass and slopping out some of
the vodka.  "Drink  it down, Vasili. God grant you'll be given the Hero. But
that'll be without me. I'm fucking  off  out of here. .. Enough, I've fought
enough. It's impossible to  kill all the Afghans. The bastards breed  faster
than we can kill them!"
     Captain Osipov stared into the glass  as if he were  preparing to  dive
off a bridge into the river, but couldn't decide at the  last moment whether
he should remove his  shoes, or the hell  with them? He gathered himself and
took  the  plunge  .... Choked, but  kept drinking. His short hair seemed to
stand  on  end,  his Adam's apple  bobbed  up and down  like the breech of a
rifle, forcing down the vodka. The glass rose to a steeper angle, now it was
vertical, now the medal slid down the side. Captain Osipov seized  it in his
teeth and sat there beaming and looking for  all  the world like a satisfied
walrus.  He took the  medal out of his mouth, put it back  into his  pocket,
cleared his throat and took a bite out of a chunk of ham, which had been cut
the way men cut - in thick slices.
     "Basta!  " said Osipov when Zhenka  began  to  pour for the next toast.
"I've  had my litre for today ... one  should practice moderation, my fellow
gentlemen-officers!"

     "That's what  I'm always saying," added Morgultsev.  "Drink your  norm,
and into bed."
     A few  months ago  Morgultsev had behaved differently, more  simply and
comradely, and  would not have left until the last drop  had been drunk. Now
that he was aiming to become  battalion commander, he kept his distance from
his subordinates.  Furthermore,  the  captain  felt  that  the newly-arrived
lieutenant should begin his service in strict  observance of discipline, and
not a  drunken spree. However,  there was  no  way he could  forbid Zhenka's
farewell evening.
     Morgultsev reluctantly stayed another strained quarter of  an hour, but
managed to  drink quite a  lot in that time. Finally he rose from the table,
pleading pressure of work and collected Osipov, who was dead  drunk. Nemilov
began taking his leave as well.

     <i>... it's way over time...</i>

     Morgultsev poured a  final glass, breathed out  with all his might  and
downed it with a single gulp, belched loudly and grabbed the last gherkin:
     "I'm off, guys. Make sure you keep order here, dammit! Sharagin, you're
the least drunk. I'm making you responsible!"
     "Don't worry, Volodya, everything will be fine," promised Chistyakov.
     "Bye,  Volodya,"  intoned lieutenant  Yepimakhov, completely drunk  and
barely able  to  move his  tongue, without realizing that Morgultsev had not
left yet.  "He's a first class guy, our commander!  And all you guys are all
first class..."
     "On  your feet,  comrade lieutenant!" bellowed Morgultsev, forging back
into the  room.  "Attention!  Who the hell  do you  think you  are,  comrade
lieutenant? You go teach your granny to piss through a  straw first! I'm not
your kith and kin for you to use the familiar  form of address to me! Do you
understand that, comrade lieutenant?"
     Lieutenant  Yepimakhov stood  rocking  slightly and trying to  find  an
answer. Instead of that, he suddenly gave a loud hiccup.
     All the officers burst out laughing, and the tension dissipated.
     "What's so funny?" asked Pashkov plaintively.
     After Morgultsev left, everyone took a turn at imitating Yepimakhov. He
sat there, embarrassed and magically sober, blushing like a schoolgirl.
     Everyone in the room was drunk.

     <i>... when  you're drunk, you want  it  even more,  I'd smother  anyone I
could drag into bed right now ...</i>

     Sharagin drank all evening without cheating, taking little  part in the
conversation and watching Chistyakov and Yepimakhov.
     The lieutenant choked but forced himself to drink vodka in order not to
shame himself before  his new comrades. He listened  avidly to stories about
the Panjsher Valley,  twiddling his wheat-colored mustache and poking  at it
with his tongue. In spite of the drink, his eyes glistened with interest.
     Chistyakov was not as tall as Yepimakhov, but more solidly  built, more
muscular. His hair had  started to thin  and hung down onto  his forehead in
stringy  wisps, his  eyes either  went around the room slowly,  softly, then
seeming  to stop, die.  When he looked  at his neighbor with that  colorless
gaze, it was impossible to tell whether  Chistyakov felt anything about what
he was telling, or not.
     Drunk Chistyakov was remembering how he was wounded and had to pick out
fragments which had entered his body in different places. Pointing at a deep
cleft a centimeter from his eye, he explained:
     "Just a fraction over, and  I could have  played the leading  part in a
film about general Kutuzov. "
     Zhenka knew dozens  of  stories about the spooks  and took  pleasure in
regaling his  replacement with them, so that the new boy would realize  that
there  was  a  real  war  on  here,  fuck  it,  that  they  weren't  playing
pick-up-sticks.
     Chistyakov called the Afghans "monkeys" and repeated constantly that if
he had his way, they would all be exterminated, root and branch.
     "But why all of  them?" protested Yepimakhov.  "Are the simple peasants
guilty of anything?"

     <i>...O, God, another truth-seeker ...</i>

     "Why?" exploded Chistyakov. "Why? Because your fucking peasants  finish
off  our  wounded  with  pitchforks!  And  hang out  severed  heads  in  the
marketplace! Animals!"

     <i>... poor naive kid ...</i>

     Yepimakhov  wriggled around uneasily in his chair while Zhenka informed
him how he had shot a captive spook, and Sharagin remembered, because he had
been there, how Chistyakov had emptied a whole magazine into that spook. The
Afghan lay without breathing

     Yepimakhov wriggled around uneasily  in his chair while Zhenka informed
him how he had shot a captive spook, and Sharagin remembered, because he had
been there, how Chistyakov had emptied a whole magazine into that spook. The
Afghan lay dead, his body jerking as it was riddled by bullets.

     <i>...Zhenka laughed, then spat in the spook's face ...</i>

     The  new  lieutenant was fascinated by  stories  about the real war, no
doubt about it,  it was all new and rather strange, rather frightening.  Not
frightening because combat officers  could casually discuss with panache how
to kill  someone, and  not  from the realistic descriptions, but out of fear
that something  like  that would  happen  to him, the  way it  had  with the
platoon commander Chistyakov had mentioned - the one who got blown up on his
first sortie.  As for any normal  person, something quaked inside Yepimakhov
at the thought that there were two more years he would have to spend at war,
that anything at all could happen to him, that he might stop a bullet from a
"Boer" at the very beginning of his service.
     "That's  an old  rifle,  dates back to  the  start  of  the  century, "
explained Chistyakov. "The spooks can hit you in the head from a distance of
three kilometers. The rifles were left here by the English. The Afghans beat
the shit out of the English. Killed  half the expeditionary corps, the other
half dies from hepatitis..."
     The  vodka  helped  in  overcoming  bad  premonitions  and   Yepimakhov
listened, spellbound. They filled him to the brim with stories and drink.
     That evening  he  had  only  one real hero, one  truly  combat-hardened
officer - senior lieutenant Chistyakov, who would be  leaving Afghanistan in
a few days time with a combat medal.
     Sharagin  reacted quite  differently to  his  friend's  tales.  He  was
genuinely fond of Zhenka, pitied him but acknowledged  that he feared  him a
bit at times because Zhenka was not  quite right in the head, just like many
who had  served  a full term in Afghanistan, not sitting in HQ, but taking a
big and real part in the fighting.
     It was said that Zhenka had changed noticeably in two years. He came to
Afghanistan voluntarily, like his brother Andrei.

     <i>... probably came here just as green and naive as lieutenant Yepimakhov
...</i>

     There  was  no  more cheerful officer in the  regiment  or, indeed, the
battalion  than Chistyakov He lived  easily, served diligently,  fought well
and  bravely, so he  was  put up for  a  medal  in  a few months'  time. The
battalion commander thought the world of Zhenka.
     Then   once  Zhenka  wandered   in  to  visit  the  regimental  Counter
Intelligence officer - they were practically neighbors back home - and saw a
pile of specially selected photos of "brutalities committed  by the spooks."
The  Counter  Intelligence  officer kept them mainly as an object lesson for
the common soldiers. Once you see photos like that, you'll think twice about
venturing beyond the gates  of the  compound, trade with the  Afghans at the
post or on sortie, stay within twenty meters of your position and not take a
step outside the guard post.
     "See this soldier with the star cut on his back -  he left the  post to
go for a swim," the  Counter Intelligence officer would  say in confidential
tones,  steering  a  soldier into  a  separate room.  Then  he  would  apply
pressure: "That's what will happen to you, too, but the whole band of spooks
will fuck your ass first and tear it  apart into  the  shape of a  swastika.
Never  been  fucked in  your ass before?  No? Good, that  means you're not a
queer. The spooks will make one  out of  you, though!  Then they'll cut your
balls off!"
     The Counter Intelligence officer worked on the newcomers who, according
to his  information,  had  been  driven to  the edge  of desperation  by the
violence in  the ranks and were  contemplating whether to make a run for it,
or hang themselves.
     He would scare them, shove the photos under their noses:
     "Is this what you want, you idiot? No, don't turn away! Look at me!"
     If  a soldier  shot himself, that  was no big  deal,  it could be swept
under the rug, write it off as careless  handling of  weapons  or some  such
thing. In a case like that, let his direct commander find  a way out. But if
a soldier driven to despair  were to run off into the mountains - that would
be something the Counter Intelligence officer would have to answer for.
     Someone knocked on the door.
     "Pour yourself a cup of tea, help yourself  to some jam. I'll only be a
moment." The Counter Intelligence officer slid out into the corridor.
     Chistyakov scooped  a  spoonful  of jam,  licked  the spoon. Delicious!
Raspberry jam. Just like mother used to  make. He put a spoonful of jam into
his tea,  reached out  and  picked up the half-open  file. Sipping  tea,  he
leafed  through it dispassionately:  torn  bellies,  guts  scattered  around
everywhere, eyes put out, probably prized out of their  sockets with knives,
a cut off penis thrust  into  a  mouth  like a  gag, severed heads.  Nothing
special. Back home Zhenka would have been horrified by such sights, but here
it was run-of-the-mill, he'd seen just about the lot.
     "Hey, let me put that away, said his host when he returned. "That's for
special occur..."
     He stopped  in  mid-word  in the center  of  the  room,  because Zhenka
suddenly jerked, went pale. He thought he'd recognized his brother on one of
the photos.  He  took  a  closer  look. Yes! It was  him! Andrei! Rather, he
recognized a severed head, lying next to a body.
     Andrei Chistyakov  had served in  the "Spetsnaz", their group had  been
ambushed and  nobody  survived.  Zhenka went  to his brother's  funeral back
home,  but  it  had  proved  impossible to find out the details of what  had
happened. The  authorities were  evasive.  They kept silent about  what  the
spooks  did  with wounded  Russians, how they desecrated the bodies  of  the
dead.  The spooks did not dent themselves anything with prisoners. Some were
skinned alive, and  the skins were hung out to dry in  the sun in the market
place for all to see. The men taken prisoner died terrible deaths.
     "You knew all  the time, you  bastard!  You knew it was my brother! And
showed these photos to the men  as a teaching aid! You fucking sonofabitch!"
yelled Zhenka in fury.
     The Counter Intelligence  officer  was  perturbed, demanded  the  photo
back, threatened with dire consequences.
     "You rotten  swine! And  a  fellow-countryman at that! All  you Counter
Intelligence  bitches  are the same, dirt!  Don't you come  near me!" Zhenka
picked up a chair and swung it warningly. He clutched the photo, then thrust
it into his pocket.
     They  really went at it, a genuine fight, Zhenka almost  gouged out the
man's eyes. He was totally beside himself:
     "Just try and take it away, I'll shoot you, you bastard!"
     It was when he found out about his brother  that  Zhenka went  slightly
crazy. He became vicious and retreated into himself. And for the rest of his
term, he wreaked revenge for his brother, showing the spooks no mercy.

     ...Their parents had been afraid that  the older brother would one  day
land in jail, he kept bad company from his early years, got into fights, all
sorts of mischief,  carried a prison-made blade, dreamed of using it on some
"deal", even had his arms tattooed.
     yet after  all, he  had turned  into a fine officer, a brave commander,
and his nature helped.
     He stopped drinking, took up sport, entered the Ryazan military school.
He found himself when he joined the army.
     Andrei never went around minefields, but plunged  across regardless. He
got  a charge  out of it. He proved an ace  in capturing caravans, came  out
without losses of life from the most  incredible situations. If rumors could
be believed, the spooks set a price on the head of "commander Andrei" to the
sum of 100.000 afghanis or more.
     There  was  just  one  unexplained episode. No one  could say  what had
really  occurred.  The  fact  of  the  matter  was that some  general became
infuriated  and almost sent  Andrei before  a military tribunal.  "What  the
hell,   they  were   one   spook   short!"  fumed  Zhenka.  Andrei's   early
recommendation for a medal was withdrawn, and he had  been under a cloud for
a long time. The general had  a long memory. When Andrei's group was finally
killed in ambush,  he was recommended by his captain for a  posthumous award
of Hero, but the recommendation  was turned back, all Andrei got was  a  Red
Banner order.
     Andrei was shipped home in a zinc  coffin without a small glass window.
As  if he's been canned. There was no  way of opening  the coffin for a last
look.  The coffin stood on a table in their apartment, alien and cold; their
mother  tore  at the  coffin  with her fingernails in grief, pleading for  a
look; she never came to believe, not having seen with her own eyes, that her
son  was dead. She moaned,  holding  a  photo of  Andrei  to her cheek,  his
graduation photo from military school.
     "Leave her be," their father said to Zhenka. "Let her cry herself out."

     Zhenka worked out a reflex for spotting spooks, just like Pavlov's dogs
learned to  salivate  on cue.  He could  tell  them  at a  glance, or so  he
thought, thrusting any doubt aside, and later it would be too late to check,
and  why  bother? Usually  he finished them off on the spot,  straight after
battle, taking no prisoners.

     <i>... paying bloody barbarians in their own coin ...</i>

     and  nobody could stop him, even Morgultsev. He just pretended  that he
knew nothing. Nemilov tried once, when one of the  men tattled to him, tried
to threaten Zhenka with Court Marshals, and then wished he hadn't opened his
mouth.

     <i>...Zhenka warned him: "you're either with us, or against us"...</i>

     However,  despite his hatred of the Afghans, Zhenka did not let his men
go too far and  forbade any brutalities  against spooks taken prisoner, just
as he  never allowed any  marauding in the platoon, any  theft, and punished
all violators with all severity.
     He was the sole judge, avenger and executioner.

     <i>... and if  Zhenka's brother had not died in such tragic circumstances,
if his body had  not been desecrated by  the spooks,  Zhenka  would not have
turned into a blood-soaked avenger ... that's for sure! ..</i>

     Nobody  tried  to stop Chistyakov  because  everyone knew  the  reason,
understood  that he was  wreaking vengeance on the Afghans for his  brother,
and sympathized.

     <i>... who hasn't been changed by Afghanistan? ..</i>

     It usually started when one heard about the cruelties of war; this  was
topped  of  by  personal  experiences  and  impressions,  which followed one
another like  pieces  of good, juicy  meat on a skewer;  and  then,  without
consciously realizing it, a man would move further and further away from the
values he knew back home,  the norms of behavior, and become infected by the
local, temporary Afghan morality, rough mores;

     <i>... just like the times of the Golden Horde ...might becomes right ..</i>

     that  which  seemed  barbaric  back  home,  somehow  became natural  in
Afghanistan, everyday, customary,  like the passage of  day into night, like
reveille and lights out.
     Incredible sufferings and grief for  lost friends,  the difficulties of
semi-nomadic existence essentially incomprehensible  life in a strange land,
hundreds and  hundreds of  kilometers  away from home, physical deprivation,
encounter  with medieval barbarity  and cruelty, horrors endured  - all this
dulled the  senses,  drained  pity,  sapped  the good nature  so  common  to
Russians, reawakened long forgotten, lost in the mists of time crudeness and
inhumanity inherited by  one's ancestors from the times of  the  two-hundred
year reign of the Mongols over Russia.

     <i>...  Zhenka will  come  home  and everything will change, all  the  bad
things will  be forgotten, be  left behind, forever in  the past ... or am I
kidding myself? ..</i>

     In  order  to  break the silence which descended  on  the  room, Zhenka
Chistyakov  began  a  casual  account  of  the  last  raid,  stressing  that
everything had gone well:
     "...  as far as carrying  out my socialist obligations in the matter of
collecting  "ears." Well, I collected  a  bagful. They've already dried  out
quite nicely... I'm going to give them away as presents. I've put  them on a
string, like beads. I'll give you a couple if you want, kid! How about that?
For  luck!" offered Chistyakov sincerely, smiling at his replacement for the
first time that evening and dipping a hand into one of his pockets.
     Lieutenant Yepimakhov grinned  uncertainly,  probably thinking this was
some kind  of joke  invented  by his new friends.  When  the  truth  finally
penetrated  his  alcohol-dulled  brain as  to what  was  being offered as an
Afghan  souvenir  he  paled and stared as if hypnotized  at  the little  rag
Chistyakov had unfolded  in the  palm  of  his  hand. It  contained a  small
cluster of shriveled brownish-black human ears.
     "There you  go, kid, they don't bite,"  urged Chistyakov, thrusting the
ears at Yepimakhov.
     "...?..."
     "Get them out of  sight, fuck you!" said Sharagin  angrily. "He'll spew
all over the table if you don't...Everyone's fed up with those ears..."
     Zhenka  did  not seem to take  offense:  he  gave a snort of  laughter,
shrugged, wrapped up his trophies again and put them back in his pocket.

        x x x

     Chistyakov flew  back to the  Soviet  Union, having said his farewells.
With his departure, the  company suffered a tangible loss, everything became
quiet and  dull. The newcomers slouched around the barracks, making Sharagin
feel  bleak.  He studied  their sleepy, inexpressive  faces, having  trouble
remembering their  names, surnames,  recognizing  the new  recruits by their
snub  noses, freckles, prominent ears,  watched their awkward movements with
distaste, was annoyed by their hesitation in handling weapons and machinery,
but nonetheless, saw potential in several of them.
     Gradually, he got a picture of the replacements. Asked a few of them in
passing about their lives  prior to being drafted,  about their families. He
learned about  some of  them from their  personal dossiers; a whole host  of
small, seemingly insignificant details, made a mental  note  of them for the
future. He  wanted  to  have a  clear  idea, and  quickly  found  out,  what
determined the  mind-set  of  this or  that soldier,  whether  they were all
suitable for duty in  Afghanistan,  what sort of  news from  home upset each
young man before going out on a sortie.
     It was still too soon to try and guess who was capable of what, because
only the war can put things  into proper perspective. As  captain Morgultsev
liked to say  on  such occasions: "Only the  spring  thaw will show who shit
where..."



        Chapter Five. Yepimakhov

     That first evening, Sharagin had not noticed that lieutenant Yepimakhov
was one of  those people towards whom, after you  have spoken with them, you
begin to feel sympathy and even a degree of pity when you spot a far-off, as
yet  unplayed  tragedy  behind his  indestructible  or  incredibly  youthful
interest and enthusiasm.  Yepimakhov turned out to be well-read and educated
above army level. Paratrooper in the bone and a dreamer at heart.
     After a few weeks, Sharagin  realized Yepimakhov's leadership potential
and grinned dourly:
     "A  brain like  that  shouldn't be  confined  by straps and belts. That
would be criminal! Let's go out and catch a breath of fresh air, Nikolai"
     "Did  you do well at school?" asked Sharagin  casually, dragging on his
cigarette.
     "Reasonably well, I suppose," replied Yepimakhov modestly.
     "D'you remember everything?"
     "Everything..."
     "Well, forget all that crap!"
     Yepimakhov proved to be  an obedient, attentive and grateful  pupil; he
absorbed  advice  like  a thirsty  sponge,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  ask
questions:  what does  one  do in  such a situation? what if it happens like
this? He went into everything in the finest details.
     Only he was more inclined  to talk about other things.  Like a kid (and
he  was little more than that  - almost a contemporary  of  the long service
soldiers!) Yepimakhov swallowed all that he was  told here  and there  about
the  war, all that was  heroic  and tragic; about the war which  lived  next
door, somewhere  beyond the fencing  of the camp,  and everyone had seen  it
except him.
     He was impatient, a typical trait for a newcomer. Yepimakhov  wanted to
try, prove himself  in  battle, under fire, he probably imagined medals  and
all sorts of feats of valor.
     And in those blue eyes, as yet unshadowed by  the war, Sharagin saw the
unspoken question, to the point but not quite: "Have you killed many people?
What did you feel then?" The question shimmered in the air, then disappeared
- lieutenant Yepimakhov could  not  bring himself to ask outright about such
things, even though they had become friends.
     Furthermore, he had burned his fingers in those first weeks, had become
more cautious and  restrained.  Firstly, he had been  put in his place in no
uncertain manner  when he had  used the familiar  "thou" form of address  to
captain Morgultsev, being drunk at the time,  and then being told to go fuck
himself when he had interrupted someone else's story about something.
     "We're not  interested in your philosophy, lieutenant," another officer
had said.  "You're a snotty-nosed newcomer, and you're shoving your  oar in!
We  don't need your clever  quotes out  of books,  we graduated  from  other
universities!"  And an even more telling  blow: "Your philosophy starts with
dinner, and ends up in the latrine!"
     There was  no need to ask Zhenka Chistyakov whether he had killed. Just
count the ears  he kept as trophies, but Sharagin was different. He knew how
to listen, he read if he had the time. He was the only one to appreciate the
books  Yepimakhov  had brought. The  others were still  laughing, and  would
probably be laughing still when he ended his service.
     "What  have  you got  that's  so heavy?"  asked senior  warrant officer
Pashkov with that rehearsed respect for officers and ill-disguised hope of a
freebie,  when he first met Yepimakhov and hefted  his suitcase. "Bet you've
got some beer in here! I could murder for a beer right now!"
     "No."
     "Sausage?  Smoked fat?"  ventured  the slightly  disillusioned Pashkov,
still hoping for a miracle.
     "No, just personal stuff and books and journals."
     "Wha-a-at?" asked  Pashkov in disbelief.  "You brought books here?  You
crazy  or something?"  he  burst out at  this unexpected  turn,  shifting in
amazement  from the  formal 'thou' to the informal 'you.' "What the hell  do
you need them for?"
     The newly-baked lieutenant felt a bit miffed at being addressed in such
a  manner, but Pashkov's age  and the fact that he had been here for  a long
time  did not allow Yepimakhov to show his chagrin. Anyway, there was nobody
else in the room at the time.
     Yepimakhov tried to see Pashkov as simply nice  but stupid, a man twice
his own age, especially as Pashkov really was kind, something you could read
in his face at once, no matter how he puffed himself up.
     "To read. I think I've  brought enough  for the  first  year. Actually,
there are  some very interesting books there, a good  detective  story,  for
instance ... I'll show it to you later."
     "Good  Lord, what have we come to?  Bringing books  into the  war zone.
Don't tell anyone else."
     "Don't tell what?"
     "That  you dragged books across the border. There's got to be about ten
kilos of paper here." Pashkov kicked  a dismissive toe at the bag. "Have you
brought the Great Soviet Encyclopedia, or the complete works of Karl Marx?"
     "Why shouldn't I tell anyone?" persisted Yepimakhov.
     "They won't understand..."
     Sharagin  was  the only one who understood. Yepimakhov was sure of  him
immediately. He was different from  the  other  officers. He put  on a stern
appearance  to the  men, but apart from that he was  friendly, open, refined
and cynical in reasonable measure. Who else would have spoken confidentially
to a newcomer:
     "You think you'll come face to face with the enemy  immediately? If so,
I don't envy you,  if you have to look into their  eyes while they're alive.
You take  a look, and it means you've come too close. It's not likely you'll
live to tell the  tale. It's better to look at  dead spooks after  battle...
And don't think, never think that y