istan.
Naturally, they were overjoyed, but they - both his parents an Lena -
had their own estimates of possible times and had prepared to wait
accordingly. Then suddenly - Oleg phones to say that he's in Tashkent and
will be flying out in two hours' time.
The presents Oleg brought home! Tell me how you've all been without me?
We're managing, son, don't worry about anything, dearest. Father could have
kept his mouth shut, though: who asked him to try and put Oleg "in the know"
when they found themselves alone:
"You have a word with her."
"Who?"
"Lena."
"What about?"
"About that guy who's been hanging around her..."
It was like an unexpected slap in the face. He felt dirty. It was not
like him to doubt Lena, but he couldn't bring himself to ask her directly in
case she took offense. Until he spoke to his mother. Mother explained
everything with feminine simplicity. Yes, there was this lieutenant, not a
local but just passing through, and there's absolutely no cause for concern
and Lena is completely blameless. The lieutenant saw her and fell in love at
first sight. Then he showed up after a while with a bunch of flowers. Lena
only felt sorry for him. Who could blame him? These boys sit around for
months on duty at the rocket launching site, there's nothing else to think
about, so in order not to go crazy, the lieutenant imagined himself in love
with her. Lena had a serious talk with him, and he had not been back since.
After a week by the sea, Nastyusha began to sniff and sneeze, then Lena
caught the cold, then Oleg.
... some home leave!..
"We forgot to throw a coin into the sea!" exclaimed Lena. They went
back to the beach, put down their suitcases and went to the water's edge.
Seagulls mewled dismally under the darkening sky.
"This is so we'll come back again," explained Oleg to his daughter. He
put a twenty kopeck coin into her little hand. "Go on, throw it in. There's
a belief like that."
The coin rattled against the pebbles...
+ + +
A new "son of the regiment" had appeared in Oleg's absence. In fact,
Sharagin never got to see him, as everything was over by the time he
returned. The pup had been adopted by Yepimakhov on a mission, a mixture of
boxer and German shepherd by the looks of him. You couldn't tell straight
away. A gift from the "road brigade". The pup was noisy, naive, funny,
trusting and good-natured. He absolutely oozed affection. Whenever someone
came near or stroked him, he would start to wag his tail like the blades of
a chopper and try to lick them from head to foot. The man dubbed him "son of
the regiment" or just "Son." The puppy rode the armored vehicles like a born
paratrooper. In no time at all, he learned to yap at the Afghans. But what
was to be done with him? It was winter. He'd perish alone. Then again, he
could hardly stay with the platoon. They weren't manning an outpost, but
living within the regiment. The rules here were different. The trained dogs
belonging to the sappers were a different breed, but the "son of the
regiment" was a ragamuffin mongrel.
If Bogdanov got to hear about him, everyone would get it in the neck.
They brought Son into the regiment anyway. Now what? He couldn't be
taken into the barracks, and you could hardly build him a kennel out of a
box in the depths of the vehicle park. They put an old trench-coat inside
for warmth and took turns bringing him food. The most assiduous benefactors
were Myshkovsky and Yepimakhov.
Morgultsev, as was to be expected, frowned and fumed. However, he was
spotted feeding the pup secretly. A soldier told Yepimakhov that the
commander had brought Son a mixture of porridge and canned meat, and tried
teaching him the "Sit!" and "Lie down!" commands. However, the pup was till
too young, so all he did was mess up the commander's uniform with dirty paws
and cover him with saliva in attempts to lick Morgultsev's nose.
We'll keep him for a bit, reasoned Yepimakhov, feed him up and on our
next sortie, we'll find a place for him, fix him up at an outpost.
All would have been well if Son had not been spotted by Bogdanov.
Myshkovsky had time to hide behind a BMP, but Son was unaccustomed to hiding
on what he plainly considered to be his territory. And home territory must
be protected. In fact, it was not that Bogdanov spotted him, but Son got
under his feet. Son knew no distinctions between an ordinary soldier, a
lieutenant or a lieutenant-colonel. And there was no way he could tell a
general from a captain.
The puppy bounded out from under the BMP, guarding the equipment
entrusted to him, and started yapping furiously. Not the way he would at an
Afghan - he was good at distinguishing smells. He was just giving a warning
as if to say - careful! I'm here to keep watch and am awaiting further
orders! Bogdanov, meanwhile, had been talking to someone and, taken aback,
stepped on Son's paw with a heavy boot.
Oh, the squeals of pain! Myshkovsky poked his head out but did not dare
come forward and dived back behind the BMP. Bogdanov had offended Son
deeply, and Son did not forget. That boot had really hurt his paw badly. And
for what reason?
Bogdanov cursed fluently and demanded to know who had brought a dog
into the regiment. Morgultsev had a strip torn off for turning the vehicle
park into a zoo. Bogdanov ordered that all stray dogs be removed from the
territory forthwith.
In his turn, Morgultsev chewed out Yepimakhov, yelled at him and
ordered him to get rid of Son. Yepimakhov pleaded for a few days' grace to
find Son a good home.
Two days later, Son was found dead in the vehicle yard. Someone had
shot him with a pistol.
By tacit consent, nobody discussed the incident, but individually the
men were all upset. Yepimakhov and Myshkovsky vowed to find out who shot
Son. Everything pointed at Bogdanov, but how could you prove it? And even if
you did, what would that change? It was not as though a human being had been
killed. Even when a soldier or an officer dies, you can't always get to the
bottom of all the circumstances surrounding the death, and in this instance,
the victim is only a mongrel.
A sentry confided to Myshkovsky that Bogdanov had come to the park to
check personally that the dog had been removed. "Did you hear a shot?" No,
the sentry had heard nothing, and refused to say any more. So the pup was
gone - big deal! Tell Myshkovsky that you'd heard a shot and he might go and
shoot the lieutenant-colonel. Then there would really be hell to pay!
Everyone would be drawn in, the Special Section, the Prosecutors...
+ + +
Nothing in the regiment had changed over the one and a half months
Sharagin had been away. When he was leaving, he had worried that there might
be battles. What if he were to miss out on something really big? How would
they go off without him?
...that's no good ... unfair...
On the whole, he had not missed much, just a couple of sorties.
... as if I hadn't been on leave .. as if I'd never left.. .
Yepimakhov seemed to have been scorched under fire several times,
bullets whizzing by his ears, but he was all right. The lieutenant held his
head proudly now.
... as though he's just had his first woman ...
Like any conscientious and proud young officer, in the best sense of
those words. Yepimakhov had had to be restrained by the scruff of the neck
at first, until he understood the difference between the romance of victory
and genuine combat. Invariably, someone needed to cool down the ardor of the
new boy to fling himself into battle so that he would not share the fate of
so many half-baked lieutenants arriving in Afghanistan and not living to see
their first home leave. In this one instance, nobody had been looking out
for Yepimakhov. He was simply lucky.
"I've been told that I'm safe from bullets," he said to Sharagin when
Oleg came back.
"Who told you that crap?"
"A gypsy."
"Go on, spit! That's better. And touch wood..."
The newcomer was gradually adapting to military life. He learned to
kill, swear like the proverbial trooper, accept death. His personal
possessions increased: he'd saved up his chits, haggled over wares in the
shops, spent some money in the army trade depot, bought odds and ends -
jeans, souvenirs, knickknacks - in other words, acquired the standard
baggage of a Soviet officer in Afghanistan.
He also found a reliable friend - vodka, that age-proven Russian remedy
for numerous misfortunes and doubts, from sadness and spiritual desolation.
He had expended his youthful enthusiasm, become slightly cynical,
disillusionment ousted his former belief in the saving role of the Soviet
army in Afghanistan.
He did not share his feelings with anyone, Sharagin was the only one in
whom he would confide to any extent when they went outside for a smoke,
especially after a good intake of vodka, when thoughts and tongues become
more eloquent.
They talked about the country in which they had been born, grew up and
which they served.
They talked about the war, which had brought such dissimilar people
together. They agonized over the frequently stupid, uncaring and useless
ways
... that the strength of Russia was being misused...
battalions and regiments are expended, that nobody gave a damn about
the soldiers or the army.
There was only one topic that was never discussed - the return home.
If it is not admissible, in wartime, when you surrender your life
temporarily into the hands of fate, when a situation may make you sacrifice
yourself for a friend, an aim, a principle, to plan and map out a distant
future left behind in another world, with other values. At least not out
loud, because you could be wrong so easily, or just jinx your hopes.
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 th