e  latter -
to the commander of the division. Then comes the commander of the army.
     Commanders of the 40th army changed every couple of years. Therefore it
would  be  wrong to single  out any particular  individual. One  brought  in
troops, another took them out, yet another built and fought and so on.  Each
had  his  own  pluses  and  minuses,  but irrespective  of  anything,  every
commander  was  the  viceroy of  the distant great  power, the master of  an
estate on which, beyond any doubt, Soviet directives and laws were in force.
The viceroy  was assisted by  party and political  structures  that kept  an
eagle eye on the men  to ensure  that everyone prayed to one God only  - the
Communist Party  of the  Soviet  Union,  that not a shadow of doubt  crossed
their  minds  concerning  the  correctness  of  the  choice  made  by  their
grandparents.
     For some of  the men the  horizon  is determined by  the battalion, for
others - the  regiment, others think within the framework of a division, and
very  few who serve  in headquarters think in terms of an army comprised  of
hundreds of  thousands. For those close to headquarters, the  commander  was
always a mere mortal.
     The lower army ranks  had  no time to wonder or discuss where  this  or
that general lives, with whom he lives, what  car he  uses to drive to work,
what he  eats for dinner  and which bath house he patronizes.  For them, the
level of the commander is inaccessible.
     The people at the bottom of the ladder, whose feet supported the weight
of the  entire  army machine, know  that it  is not done  to criticize their
commanders,  - history would laugh at them later if they were inadequate  or
foolish, -  these  people at  the top of  the iceberg must be  cared for and
nurtured, they must be  objects of  pride, because their resonant names were
more likely to go down in history than the names of those who served in  the
same battalion, and some five or ten years later  it would be nice to recall
that one served under such  and such a commander, stress that he would visit
once, regiment  frequently,  that  we knew him, saw him in combat  more than
once and that he was one hell of a guy!
     The commander of the 40th army  had returned from  the  battle  command
center where  he had taken early  morning reports,  and was now  engaged  on
urgent  matters concerning the imminent large operation. He was concluding a
telephone conversation with someone and gestured the advisor and the general
to come in and sit down.
     Sorokin made a mental note that the commander was once  again acting in
a not too friendly manner, for all that they used the familiar "you" form of
address.  Furthermore,  twice  in the past  few  days  the commander had not
called  Sorokin "Alyosha", but "Alexei Glebovich" indicating clearly that no
particular buddy  stuff was to be  expected. His rise  had been too swift in
recent years,  he had become too far removed from his old comrades in  arms.
Still, Sorokin hoped that during his stay in Kabul  there would be a  chance
to  share  a  bottle, just  the two  of them, and indulge in some  nostalgic
reminiscences  about  those early years. Then everything  would get  back to
normal.
     "Over  here,  please,"  said the  commander,  wanting to get rid of his
visitors  as  quickly  as possible.  "Viktor  Konstantinovich, and  you too,
Alexei Glebovich. Come and take a look."
     He led  them  over  to  the window and  pulled  back  the  white  tulle
curtains,  allowing  a view  of a  summer  house with a  pointed roof. Right
behind  it was a  swimming pool with  sky-blue water, covered completely  by
camouflage netting. Some home-made deckchairs stood  to the left, behind the
pine trees. A fat man  in striped trunks lay sunning himself, while a second
man swam  in the pool, pushing himself strongly away from the sides. A small
table was covered with various kinds of bottles.
     "Don't lose any time, Viktor Konstantinovich, go down to the pool, I'll
have my adjutant escort you there. I'm really sorry, but  there's no  way  I
can go there myself today. I'm absolutely snowed under with work."
     After saying his good-byes to  the commander and the  advisor,  Sorokin
made his way to the party commission chairman and went inside.
     "Alexei Glebovich!  Do sit  down! I want to copy some  Afghan  songs. I
could make you a copy too, if you like?"
     "Why not?"
     The stout  colonel  who  issued  coupons  for imported  technology  and
'Adidas' track suits unsealed a block of "Sony" tapes purchased in an Afghan
shop, and began to put stickers on every cassette to indicate sides A and B,
and on which one could write the name of the content.
     "Yes, I'll certainly manage that!"
     It was impossible to  refuse a request for coupons from a general,  let
alone a  general from an operative group of the Ministry of Defense, but the
chairman,  sly fox that he was, managed to give the conversation such a turn
that Sorokin found himself in the role of a supplicant.
     "Come in any  time, comrade  general.  Always happy  to be of service,"
invited the chairman in parting.
     Ask  a trifling  favor,  and find yourself  indebted,  thought  Sorokin
angrily. That sonofabitch will call in the favor, you can bet on that.

     "There goes the younger generation," said the duty officer in the  main
vestibule  to  his  partner, following Sorokin  with  his eyes. "Some  sharp
dresser! Thinks a lot of himself." He waited until the general  got into his
car.  "Before,  generals  were all  five  minutes  to their retirement date.
Nowadays  it's all different, Yura. They barely  have time to put  on  their
colonel's shoulder  boards before placing  an order  for those of a general.
That's all due to  Afghanistan, pal. If it weren't for the war, where  would
the  army get new blood?  You have to think here, run  risks, but those  old
farts  at the  top  couldn't handle it, this is  no  office  job,  or  paper
shuffling or spending a weekend with the grandchildren  at  their dacha. You
mark my words, Yura, those elders in the Kremlin will soon feel the pressure
of  new  forces,  they're  already  being  squeezed  with  perestroikas  and
accelerations. How can they speed themselves up?

     There were  two roads leading  to Kabul  from  staff  headquarters. The
first was meant for the higher ranks and served as a kind of parade entrance
to the HQ of the 40th. It  started from the front of the Amin palace, passed
the residence  where the operative  group of the  Ministry of Defense worked
and  where  Fyodor  Konstantinovich,  the  personal  representative  of  the
Minister of Defense and for whom a cow plus  a milkmaid had been flown in on
a special freight run, lived.
     The  road  came to an  asphalt-surfaced  square  surrounding the Afghan
Ministry of Defense. Another road came out on this square, too, one that was
virtually unknown to the army brass because generals, like lords and masters
of old, did not like to travel along dusty, uneven roads, they did not  look
at  the  rear   entrance  which  was   designated  for  lesser  beings,  the
insignificant, the servants.
     However,  the  general  opted for  this  particular  road,  which began
between the officers' houses, the commissary and the cafe, and was manned by
two checkpoints.
     They passed the first checkpoint, the thin chimneys of the boiler house
which  protruded like matches  above the single-storey barrackss, the sports
field, then the  second  checkpoint and  took  the  downward slope,  leaving
behind the shoddy museum of the  Afghan  armed forces, filled with obsolete,
disintegrating  Soviet military  technology,  covered with a  thick layer of
green  paint.  A  sort  of  crossroads popularly referred to  simply as "the
cross" was directly behind the museum. To  the left of it lay a road leading
to two regiments - the paratroops and the motorized infantry - and the goods
depot with its enormous  storage hangars. A  long line of  military vehicles
had passed through  here  early in  the morning. Now  they were replaced  by
numerous Kamaz trucks, which raised clouds of dust in their wake.
     A swarm  of bare-legged urchins "attacked" the trucks. The  more  agile
would  seize  the  tailboards,  pull  back the  canvas  cover and throw  out
everything they could reach.  Others ran behind the truck, catching whatever
they could and disappearing into alleyways.
     "Just  look  at  them!  Look what  they're  doing,  the  rotten  little
beggars!" cried Sorokin. "The cheek!-"
     Such pirate raids  by Afghan kids were carried out frequently on Soviet
columns, and were  accomplished so swiftly that the  truck drivers  did  not
have time to react in most cases.
     Sashka couldn't care  less at the moment, even though he dutifully made
noises  indicating agreement. Sashka was thinking his own soldier's thoughts
about the load hidden  in the boot and caught  himself on  the thought  that
those kids must be making a bundle and maybe he, since he  had already  been
dragged  into this shady matter, should demand a cut,  even  a tiny one, for
the  risk he  was  running, instead  of  a  mere "thanks!" You can't  spread
"thanks" on a piece of bread, after all.
     A  handful  of  modest  container-shops on wheels clustered  around the
"cross"  selling the  traditional selection of  shawls, "stone-washed" jeans
outfits,  pens  to suit every taste, sunglasses  and "biters", nail clippers
which were a favorite gift back home; you could buy a bottle of vodka at the
"cross"  at any  time  of the day  or night. The  shops were  decorated with
notices  in  mutilated  Russian   such   as  "Mischa-empori-shope",  posters
depicting  black-browed Indian beauties or heroes  of American action movies
such  as Rambo,  with mountainous biceps, streamlined  torsos and  cartridge
belts slung across their chests.
     Several more  container shops  stood behind  the Coca-Cola factory with
its yard full of hundreds of cases of  empty bottles. The road at this point
was  particularly bad, the general's  car and  the trucks bouncing along the
uneven surface. They slowed down  in  order not to wreck  their  suspension,
crawling past the military traffic police post lurking behind a wall. It was
here that  the dust they had raised caught up with the trucks and hung  in a
thick pall inside their cabins.
     From time to time the shop owners would come out with shovels and throw
some water on the road from  surrounding  puddles  in an effort to damp down
the yellow, choking dust.
     The general's "Volga" came out by the Afghan Ministry of Defense, drove
around its perimeter and sped along  the tree-lined Dar-ul-Aman, the lengthy
strip of asphalt leading to the center of Kabul.
     Various ministries and other  official  buildings,  schools,  shops and
bakeries and private villas flashed by.
     Sashka glanced at  the  general  in the rear  view mirror  from time to
time.
     Sorokin looked about forty years of age. He was in good shape,  but had
aged early, gray-haired and with red veins on and around his nose.
     The general  was puffing on a  cigarette  and  speaking  in  a slightly
hoarse voice, more to himself than the river:
     "There's another road parallel to this one, a bit narrower, that  leads
to the Institute of Polytechnics. .. ever driven down it?"
     "Of course I know it, comrade general, "  replied Sashka. "It's  called
"the 'spooker'. We're not allowed to use it."
     "-.'spooker,, hmmm-we almost got burned alive there in '80-"
     They  passed the fork  where  soldiers from  the Tsarandoi,  the Afghan
militia, stopped and searched vehicles. One soldier made a move to flag down
the "Volga", but noticed  the uniformed Soviet driver behind  the wheel just
in time.
     They drove past villas, then the Soviet embassy with its two-meter high
walls. A lone ancient armored car with the hood  up  stood in  a vacant  lot
near the embassy - Afghan soldiers on guard duty.
     There were some shops  to  the left of the embassy, and Sashka caught a
few glimpses of jeans hung out for sale.
     They passed the  bridge over the  small Kabul River, which crossed  the
capital in a murky, brownish-green stream. Local women washed clothing along
the banks of the half-dry  riverbed, bathed children,  rinsed dishes, people
cleaned cars and if the  natives had refrained  from urinating in the river,
it would certainly have dried completely by now.
     At the end of the street,  where it  entered the  city  square, a  huge
portrait-poster of the start of the century Afghan king, Amanullah Khan, was
prominently displayed. He had luxuriant  whiskers,  was dressed in  a  field
jacket with red  tabs.  Soviet  military men and civilians working  in Kabul
would argue as to who it was really -  hero of the Russian civil war Blucher
or  Beria,  and  were  honestly puzzled why the Afghans had such  a reverent
attitude to Soviet leaders of  the  Stalin era. By the end of the discussion
they  usually agreed  that  the  Afghan people,  just like  Soviet citizens,
respect strong personalities and an  iron hand,  and sadly miss  those times
when order reigned supreme.
     Sorokin smoked all the way  to  the airport, immersed in  recollections
about the introduction of  the armed  forces, about  a  lieutenant-colonel's
life.
     ...They had been pushing a  division down long wintry roads through the
tunnel  towards the  Salang pass,  choking from diesel and petrol fumes. The
winding  road  was  made even  narrower by  snowdrifts along  its sides, the
vehicles skidded on the icy surface. The column of tanks and APCs got stuck.
They pushed a broken down truck off the road into the precipice.
     Sorokin remembered how he had been driving through unfamiliar Kabul and
wanted nothing so much as to eat some mandarins. On every corner  there were
rough wooden two-wheeled carts  full  of  crates  of mandarins.  He told the
driver of the APC to stop, hopped out and approached one of the vendors. All
he had in his pocket were Soviet rubles. He offered the man five rubles. The
vendor  turned the  unknown  blue note around in his hands, handed  it back.
Sorokin offered ten  rubles, with  the same  result. Damn  you,  he thought,
pulling out a  twenty five  ruble note from  the bottom  of his pocket.  The
seller shook his head again .
     Then there was that time when he had gone into town in a  new UAZ jeep,
and was  stopped by  a crowd  of girls, several hundred of  them, near Kabul
University. They dragged  him out  of the jeep,  smeared him and  his driver
with some kind of paint and threw rotten tomatoes and eggs at them.
     When you talked  about it, everything was crystal clear:  international
aid, defense  of the southern  borders.  The party said one thing,  but  the
reality was quite different, and one had to live with this ambiguity.
     Almost got burned alive- It was  in February, on the eve of Soviet Army
Day.  He  was  then  a  member  of  the  Military Council and  had  been  in
conference. They  were returning late  to the division, it was already dark,
and  they decided to take a short  cut along the 'spooker' as Sashka  called
it: straight  for the Institute of Polytechnics, then left to the grain silo
and  down, along  the fringes  of Kabul  and straight to the  division,  the
"Teply Stan" (Warm Haven) district as it had been named by the Soviets.
     The  'spooker' was  quite  empty,  not a single oncoming  car. All  the
streets were  empty, the shops closed even  though at  that time  they  were
usually open,  and shafts of light from kerosene lamps speared out into  the
dark street.
     Sorokin rode the armor,  legs dangling  down into the  open hatch, eyes
half-shut against the bitter wind.  The APC took a  sharp  bend and began to
brake - ahead  of  them,  about a hundred meters away,  a  crowd of  Afghans
blocked the road.
     "Is it some holiday of theirs, or what?"  called Sorokin down the hatch
to the lieutenant who  sat in the command seat inside the APC. "Slow down as
much as possible, easy does it. They'll move!"
     The crowd engulfed the APC and would not let it  pass any further. What
an idiotic situation! For  a few  moments, Sorokin  lost  his composure.  He
tried to  smile in a friendly manner, waved his hand, but  the response  was
frankly hostile. Suddenly, the crowd boiled into  motion, like a stormy sea,
roaring its hatred of the Soviet military.
     "Allah akbar!  Allah  akbar!" screamed  the  crowd.  Sorokin seized the
machine gun hanging on  the open hatch, slipped off the safety catch, pulled
the breech and fired a shot in the air. Something struck  him on the back of
the head,  felt like a stick, just  as well  he was  wearing  a fur  hat, it
absorbed the blow. Rocks flew.  He fired  a few more warning shots into  the
air. The  crowd  continued to  press in on  the APC.  Quickly  and therefore
clumsily,  Sorokin scrambled  down  into  the  vehicle  -  for a  moment  he
panicked, thinking he was stuck - to hide from the rocks and seal the hatch.
Noses  pressed to the triplex,  they waited tensely. Dull blows  sounded all
around. The crowd was attacking the APC with  stones, shovels, hoes. Someone
jumped on top of the vehicle, pounding his  heel  against the closed  hatch.
The homogenous, infuriated mob, faces distorted with hate, ringed the APC on
all sides.
     About  five minutes went  by. The  lieutenant was first of the three to
break the silence:
     "They're coming with torches!"
     Someone from the mob threw a bottle of either kerosene or petrol at the
APC, then the  flaming torch. The  armor burst  into  flame on top, the fire
running swiftly along  the streaks of inflammable  liquid. The mob retreated
from the vehicle.
     A smell of smoke penetrated the cabin. The  lieutenant  awaited orders.
Rivulets of sweat ran down the lieutenant-colonel's face.
     "We'll burn, comrade colonel," warned the lieutenant finally
     "Take your choice, son," said Sorokin to  the driver  mechanic. "Either
we roast alive, or we go forward."
     Wisps of smoke appeared in the cabin. The lieutenant began to cough.
     The engine  roared into life and  the APC  lurched forward. There was a
shout, then another and another. The vehicle  gathered  speed and  velocity,
bouncing over human bodies like ruts on a country road.
     About  two  hundred meters further along they broke out and raced  full
speed, banging into and overturning oncoming cars, through the dark city.
     Once on the territory of the division, the soldier driver clambered out
of the cabin and made his way directly to the barracks, forgetting to switch
off the engine. It seemed to Sorokin that the young man had gone gray all of
a sudden-.

     The  "Volga"  stopped on  one of the central streets, making way for an
open-bodied  "Toyota."  The car  was  filled  to  the brim  with  chunks  of
butchered camels.  A  Khazara  boy aged  about nine lay  on the mountain  of
bloody  carcasses. He was  incredibly dirty and clad  in a much-mended  blue
nylon  jacket. The meat must  have still been  warm, and he laughed happily,
waving at passers-by and calling out something.
     Choppers filled  the air above the landing  strip, affording cover to a
descending Il-76. The plane was spiraling  down, weaving through the sky and
leaving a trail of curlicues behind it - trails  of  decoys,  like  the ones
being released from the choppers.
     The guard  on  the gates  of the airport  looked  questioningly at  the
"Volga"  with its  Afghan  number  plates. One of  the paratroopers remained
standing by  the gates with their welded-on  red star, the other  approached
the car lazily and peered in from under his helmet.
     "What's taking you so long?" barked Sashka.
     'Where's the car from?"
     " It's general Sorokin's car from army HQ. C'mon, open those gates-"
     "I can't admit a car with Afghan plates."
     "See this  pass?" demanded  Sashka,  thrusting a cardboard square under
the guard's nose.
     "Another one's needed for entry to the airdrome."
     "Will you quit stalling?!"
     "Wait a moment, I'll have to report -"
     "Idiots!"  muttered  Sashka, who  was  accustomed to more respect  from
guards.
     "I'm  sorry, comrade general," said the guard returning  from his post,
"but I can't let the car through."
     "Never mind." Sorokin got  out of the car. "I'll  let you know when  to
pick  me up, I  think I'll be back in three or four days. See you then! Take
care!"
     "Don't worry comrade  general, Alexei Glebovich, everything will be  in
order. I'll go straight back to HQ  now." Sashka did not look at the general
when he uttered those final words. He had trouble with barefaced lying.
     What if they catch me? Worried Sashka. I'll go to the shop, and what if
there's  a patrol nearby, or  the Afghans report on me? What will I tell the
general?  He trusts me. All right,  he decided finally.  I'll  go  just this
once, never again. Just deliver this stuff. But if they make me take  stolen
goods from HQ again-.No, let them take me off driving duty, let them beat me
up, but I'm not taking anything again. And I don't need any money!
     Sorokin  made  his way towards a  single-storey wooden building next to
landing place.
     "Comrade general, we take off in twenty minutes."
     "Fine."
     While he waited, another  two Il-76s landed, rolled forward to  park on
the concrete apron and disgorged their passengers.
     Two  UAZ  jeeps carrying  senior officers drew up. The officers saluted
the general respectfully and came up to greet him. They stood there smoking.
     "We were coming back from Jalalabad  once," said a colonel, "and had  a
monkey with us for the divisional commander.  A  birthday present. We had it
in  a  bag, but it  managed  to  get  out somehow. Well,  I thought, there's
nowhere  it can go, the doors are shut. We took off, and  that damned monkey
shot  off and got  through  to the pilot's  cabin.  There it  was, over  the
pilots'  heads, grabbing everything in sight  and flipping switches. Can you
imagine it? There you are,  flying  along, and  this blasted  ape  goes  and
switches off  the engines  or something. Mind you, the  first pilot kept his
head, grabbed the monkey and tossed it to hell and gone out of the window.
     Two more choppers were brought up, Sorokin entered the first and took a
soft seat by the window.
     The senior  pilot  greeted  Sorokin,  saluted  smartly  and  introduced
himself as major Mitrofanov.
     Sorokin nodded.
     "Put on your parachute, please, general."
     "I fly without a parachute.  If they  knock us down, it's not likely to
help."
     "Sorry, sir, but otherwise we can't take off."
     "Very well, then," agreed  Sorokin, fumbling  with the straps. "Show me
how to get this thing on!"

     The choppers  passed  over the villages  clinging  to  the outskirts of
Kabul,  swept above the hills. A  couple of Mi-24s flew  in front, providing
cover, greenish-brown-gray  camouflaged "crocodiles."  They  soon  caught up
with the column,  followed  the road. Peering out of the window, the general
watched  the  rails  snaking through the  valley,  interrupted in places  by
groups of cars. Everything reminded him of those first years in Afghanistan,
but at  the same time,  it all  looked different, somehow more  orderly  and
better planned.
     Its a  good army, thought  the general, only you need to get everything
properly organized. We had it a hundred times harder because when we came in
there  was  nothing. Yes,  today's  40th is  completely  different.  Strong,
experienced, with sound rear services. Look at the way they equip operations
now, they know  everything,  reconnaissance  is  reliable, the  Spetsnaz  is
active, there  is cooperation  with Afghan special structures, all is  taken
into account. We've certainly learned  a lot! The only bad thing is that the
political situation  hasn't changed,  it's  getting  worse. The  rebels have
grown in strength in these years, too. If the West wasn't helping them  with
arms, money  and  military advisors,  we  would  have  crushed  this blasted
counter-revolution long ago with our strength! The way it  works out is that
victory seems to be a mere step away, but you still can't see the end of the
war. How long is  it  going to  take?  We've learned to  fight  them in  the
mountains,  too, but can we be certain  of a final victory? So a year,  two,
three will pass. Then  what?  Then the Afghans will  have to learn to defend
their revolution  themselves.  We'll help them  build up a strong  army, and
then let them go at it! It looks as though we'll have to pull out anyway. We
can't stay here forever! This isn't Germany, or Poland or Hungary
     The   general's   thoughts   turned   to   inadequacies.   Specifically
inadequacies.  There  were and  could be  no  problems  in  the Soviet Army.
Sorokin realized this as soon as  he was promoted to colonel. If  you've got
problems,  you're  no good  as a political officer.  There were  problems in
companies,  battalions, regiments.  It was  permissible  now to discuss only
matters that still needed perfecting.
     Why do we worry most  about the men's outward  appearance, the neatness
of the paths  in the  compound, bright  tents  with portraits of  Lenin  and
quotes from party congresses instead of the essence of  the matter, wondered
the general.
     However, despite knowing  the  deficiencies of  the army,  occasionally
criticizing  them in his own mind or in a  circle of very close friends, the
general had no intention - and he did  not conceal this - of trying to right
any wrongs, stupidities and window-dressing. He hadn't  worked his way up to
general only to wreck his career by an open display of dissatisfaction.
     He criticized  mentally, noted numerous lapses, and was proud that  he,
unlike  the aging generals back  home, understood  and was concerned by  the
fact that not everything was ideal  in the Soviet army. He comforted himself
with the hope that  the time would come when he would climb  a bit higher up
the hierarchical ladder, and then get down to the business of putting things
to rights.
     In fact, though, the general contradicted his own thoughts on the spot,
has there ever been a  time when EVERYTHING we had was ideal? Is it possible
to  correct  EVERYTHING?  That  takes a great deal of  time and effort. If I
were, say,  head  of the  Chief Political Directorate, maybe I could  try to
improve EVERYTHING, or at least a great deal. And  anyway, not EVERYTHING is
all that bad even now.

     The  officers  at  the  command  post  looked  like  fantastic  spotted
creatures flecked by  rings of sunlight under the  canopy of the  camouflage
netting. Sorokin was told  that the column from  Kabul was making good time,
more  than twenty vehicles had broken down  on the way, two soldiers died in
an  accident  - their APC fell into a  precipice  -  and a major was  almost
crushed by two APCs when he stood smoking between them: he had been taken to
hospital in a  critical  condition. It was also reported that the main force
was expected to arrive by evening.
     There were still a few days to go before the operation:  all the forces
committed to  it had to be brought  up, concentrated  in the necessary areas
according to the approved plans, regrouped if need be,  reconnaissance  data
had to be studied and analyzed, the  area had to be  worked over politically
and when the critical mass was  ready, when all was set out like pieces on a
chess-board, then the game could begin.




        Chapter Nine. The Operation


     The  "crocodiles" rose  above the  hillocks,  slicing the  grayish-blue
morning  air  with  their blades, dropped altitude closer to the  road along
which army vehicles wove like a steel streamlet; then, some three kilometers
further, the  choppers  veered  to the  left,  and  flying  almost  at  zero
altitude,  examined a ruined village by  the road, sniffing it  out as if it
were a rotting carcass in the heat, then slid like predators into the depths
of the valley.
     Senior  lieutenant Sharagin noticed them from afar, when he  turned  to
get some matches from the men; and while he tried to strike one, cupping his
hands around  it  against  the  wind, he noticed the choppers as he made the
first few drags.  They  were  pretty  sure of themselves, he thought,  as he
watched them fly under the cover of the  "blocks" on the sides of the road -
BMPs with  guns aimed towards the  mountains  and soldiers who  had dug  in,
lying belly  up, on their sides, on their stomachs. The choppers circled the
dead village and swooped away. Sharagin, who had automatically been watching
the walls and a stand of trees relaxed after the survey by the choppers  and
looked  ahead,  over  the column  where  it  disappeared  from sight  in the
foothills.

     <i>... hostile soil, the territory of war...</i>

     He  knew  the  spooks wouldn't  dare  attack the army on  the  march; a
solitary column - yes, a string of "fillers" -  petrol tankers carrying fuel
to  distant  garrisons or a company hemmed  in by mountains - that they'd go
for, but an army was more  than they could  handle. However, writing off the
possibility  of  danger would be  wrong and criminal, and  in any  case, the
dangers were all very different  in this war. If something happened  to just
one of the men, it would be a mote of dust for the army, a mark in the daily
tally of losses, but for Oleg it would be a real person.
     Lots of men died or got  hurt on  any  march, not  necessarily  through
being shot or ambushed, but through their own carelessness or stupidity.
     Larger-bodied choppers with windows - Mi-8s - followed the "crocodiles"
as though  trying  to  catch up with  them,  looking  for all the world like
tadpoles.
     "Probably delivering  the brass, hey comrade  senior lieutenant?" asked
private Sychev for the sake of saying something, following the choppers with
his eyes. Actually,  he did not  so  much say as  shout  in order  that  the
commander could hear him through the noise  of engines and the earphones. He
crouched  on the tower  of the  BMP with the  cannon  protruding between his
legs, which  gave him  the appearance of a sexual  giant. "Maybe they've got
the commander of the division on board?"
     "In  that  case, snap  to attention and  salute  him,  Sychev," replied
Sharagin ironically. "And stay  that way until we arrive. You just might get
a medal."
     "Yeah, the Order of saint  Fucker with  a twirl on the back,"  guffawed
junior sergeant Myshkovsky.

     <i>... jokers! A  year  ago  they were  all  milksops - was a  time when I
called their whole contingent that, yet now they're grandpas: Myshak,  Sych,
Chiri-they've grown, straightened their backs, matured, the sons of bitches,
they've become the  backbone of my army  - a  soldier remains blinkered only
until  his  first  taste  of combat,  then he starts  to  think about how to
survive, starts  using  his head and  making the  little gray cells do their
job....</i>

     It was expected that their division commander would arrive to watch how
the paratroops battalions would move out of Kabul. That was why that morning
the paratroopers went out as if  on  parade, cleaning, tidying and enhancing
themselves until the last minute. They traveled the first kilometers feeling
tense - expecting the division commander,  although as soon as the main army
column  spread out  on  the road behind the large,  dusty  field  after  the
infectious diseases hospital, all tidiness  vanished in  the fumes  and dust
that  swirled around the vehicles and settled on freshly-laundered uniforms,
columns and undershirts.
     The  Soviet  warriors  saddled their  armored  steeds, and  moved  out;
motorized infantry and paratroops, artillery and communications, sappers and
medics;  all  were  clad  differently: faded  camouflage fatigues,  mountain
outfits, "sands", tattered camouflage  cloaks. Regulation  footwear  mingled
with brown  "trophy" spook boots, and a  scattering of "Kimry," the best  of
the  worst sneakers  created towards  the end  of the  century  by  domestic
industry.
     Engines  roared into life, the column moved forward,  the wind  whipped
the men's faces. A long journey faced the men on the armor and in the trucks
with  bulletproof vests draped over their windows. All  that day, they would
be swallowing  greasy diesel fumes and dust whipped up by the passage of the
first vehicles, covering them from head to foot and getting into clothes and
eyes.
     Earlier  on,  recalled  Sharagin,  the  regimental  leadership   fussed
unnecessarily,  afraid  that  the  division commander would descend  with  a
lightning inspection on the  eve  of the pullout. Because  of this,  all the
preparations  for the  operation were nervous,  tense, and  all  directives,
orders  and  comments were  accompanied  by  shouts  and fists,  which would
supposedly teach sloppy youngsters, toughen up and discipline lazy soldiers.
The  fist of the grandpas  was  pitiless, felling  and numbing, that of  the
commanders - hard, sharp and usually timely and fair.
     Preparations for the operation began well in advance. The orders came a
week earlier, but even  so  it had been  clear that  fighting would  soon be
inevitable, that an operation against the spooks was being planned. Everyone
in the  regiment, from  the  commander to the  waitresses  in  the mess hall
talked about  it.  Even the  shopkeepers in Kabul,  warming  food on  primus
stoves, would ask shopping  officers for how long  they would be going  into
the mountains, and  wished them well, expressing  sympathy.  The  transports
stood ready, patched  up as much as possible,  weapons  had  been cleaned at
least sixteen times, ammunition was loaded and political instruction carried
out. The officers,  who  traditionally "wet the head" of forthcoming  combat
operations had  recovered from  their hangovers; the men had  stocked up  on
cookies, juices and jam from the regimental commissary and  stolen bread and
sandwich spread  from the kitchen or  the commissary,  depending on who  had
friends where; they had already secreted  sacks of potatoes, written off and
stolen spare parts and anything else that wasn't nailed down for exchange or
sale to the Afghans - a small but appreciated bit of extra cash.
     It  would be nice to  get a  bit of sleep and  rest before going out on
combat mission, but no: instead  of that, you have the officers  making  you
run  around. Darkness  outside,  the stars are still bright,  then the alarm
sounds  and the regiment  has  to leap to its feet. The men rush out in full
kit, scramble  into the vehicles, then sit there  like idiots for  one hour,
two:  during  the  day  the  sun melts the asphalt -  the company  commander
decided that it was necessary to hold a drill session:  "Le-- -- e-f'  face!
Left! Left! Left, right, left! Start singing!"
     Those  new to the war - privates or fresh lieutenants - find it hard to
understand  why this stupid  square-bashing  is required.  You'd  think they
weren't in Afghanistan but  some showcase garrison in the  Union, as  though
they weren't going  into combat in a  day or two,  but  simply  had to drive
"boxes" through Red Square.
     It is  no secret that the commander determines what one's service shall
be like.  If  the commander's a  fool, then his foolishness will  affect the
entire  regiment,  until  he's  replaced, or killed  (not  very likely),  or
promoted; if he's fussy, nobody  will have a moment's peace; if they send an
idiot - it's curtains; if they send a great  guy -  that's marvelous, praise
and glory be to  all,  the smart "Cap", and those who sent him, and the fate
that brought you to this regiment.
     The  regimental commander  is like a  father, or  a stepfather - if  he
decides to  have the regiment line up in the middle of the night, it will be
done in minutes; if he can't sleep, then why should anybody else, he's got a
bee  in his bonnet that the commander of the division will stage a lightning
inspection. So he'll  drive  the men to exhaustion, sound the alarm once  an
hour and make them drill twenty-four hours a day, just in case the big brass
turns up. So  it's no easy  task to  earn praise in the  Paratroops, you can
slip  up  at  any  moment and,  if  you do, don't expect mercy, it's a small
world, a narrow one, closed in on itself, everyone knows everyone-.
     The long-servers stopped asking  "why?" and "what for?" ages  ago. They
adapted to the flow  of the  local  version of meaningful army stupidity and
learned  to act  on  reflex  level. They  know it's no use bashing your head
against a brick  wall, so nothing  can dampen  their spirits, their thoughts
are of tomorrow: there's combat ahead, but at the moment it's like  being on
holiday,  a lethally  dangerous  one, to be  sure,  but  still a break  from
endless  drills, boring  political  studies  and in any case,  they had been
sitting around idle for too long, it was time to  get some  action, do  some
shooting, they  had barely poked their noses outside the base gates for more
than a month as there  had  been nothing serious  to deal with. Orders would
come soon,  it  would be  time to start  getting your demobilization uniform
together,  but only a few could boast of a bit of tin to pin to their chest:
those  who  had  been  wounded  and  sent  to  hospital  had  probably  been
recommended for medals, but the others still had to try,  had to catch their
moment, fight a bit more and then - who knows? - you might even get a medal,
they're not always posthumous;  moreover, when you're out on combat mission,
there's always a chance to get  your hands on something  by shaking down the
spooks.
     The further the column got from Kabul, the more chaotic it became. Like
an over-stretched spring,  the  vehicles tried to  get themselves  back into
some semblance of order.
     Sharagin's platoon  encountered more and  more breakdowns: the radiator
of an  "Ural" went on the boil like a kettle, clouds of  steam  pouring from
under  its  bonnet,  like a smokescreen,  infantrymen  struggled to get  the
tracks back on a  BMP, further ahead one armored car was towing another with
great difficulty.

     "Go  on, Degtyarenko, pass them!" Sharagin ordered his driver-mechanic.
Degtyarenko had veered to the  left a few times, but decided against  trying
to pass. Come on! Come on!
     "Pissing  his pants," commented junior sergeant  Myshkovsky, displeased
by Degtyarev's shilly-shallying. "Scared of that heap of junk!"
     They caught  up with  the BMP on  a tow cable,  then  the  one  towing,
driving alongside and forcing oncoming brightly painted Afghan trucks to the
sides

     <i>... they look like Palekh boxes, Afghan-style...</i>

     One  Afghan truck keeled over  on  the  side  of  the  road, while  the
paratroopers proceeded onwards like  kings along the wrong side of the road,
passing the "Kamazes" with their torn  canvas covers fluttering in the wind,
with headlamps like bulging eyes.
     They caught up with the first platoon and fell in behind.
     The sun became kinder, warmed the armor and the men clinging to it like
bees in a hive. The day was  just  beginning, but the men,  who had been  on
their feet since the crack of dawn tended to doze off. Those who had managed
to  get a comfortable spot lay on mattresses, others on  trench  coats, eyes
drooping.

     <i>... it's always  been  like this in  the army: reveille at  two  in the
morning,  breakfast at four, final preparations at six,  pull  out at eight,
and there's nothing you can do about it...</i>

     The  mountain pass slowed  down the pace of the advance. The road began
to wind steeply.  The vehicles  slowed to  a crawl, engines whining,  as  if
complaining about the load they were carrying, but not giving up.
     At  a bend in  the road,  beside  a  steep precipice,  two  machine-gun
carrying   dark-haired   soldiers  stood  beside  a  trailer,  arms  hanging
helplessly. They looked like  Central Asians,  Tadjiks most likely. From his
perch  on the armor Sharagin saw what the problem was without having to ask:
a mobile "Acacia" installation had come off its mounting and fallen into the
chasm.
     The men  cheered  up at the sight  of someone else's  misfortune, their
comments  even  rousing the  old-timers who  had dozed  off to  the familiar
rumble of the engines.
     "Greasers!" uttered Myshkovsky contemptuously.
     "Shit soldiers!" agreed Sychev, who had been napping nearby.
     As they wound through the pass, Sharagin's platoon tried to outwit  the
sun, traveling when possible in the  shade of the cliffs. The vehicles dived
into the stone galleries occasionally, re-em