----------CHAPTER 1---------I am running. My lungs are bursting. The wheeze is killing me.

I have to
run in zig-zags, or as we call it in our brigade do the corkscrew.
Help me godhelp me. Help me endure this mad race. This is it - if I make
it, Im quitting smoking. Clang, snap. Please not a sniper. I fall and
crawl, crawl out of harms way.
Im laying low. It seems Im OK after all - it wasnt a sniper, simply a
stray.
I catch my breath a little and reorientate myself, then launch forward in search of the commanding post of the first battalion of my brigade.
Just a few hours ago they reported that they have captured a sniper. From
that report is was clear that he is Russian and from his own words even
from Novosibirsk. A ****ing Siberian! I and some reconnaissance troops
departed to fetch the tongue on a pair of BMPs. My partner remained at
the brigade headquarters.
On approaching the railway terminal we started encountering burned-out,
mutilated vehicles and a lot of corpses. Our corpses, brothers-Slavs.
That was all that remained of the Maikop Brigade, the same one that was
shot up and burned by the Chechens on New Years night 1994-95. God help
us break out
It was said that when the first battalion expelled those ****ers from the
terminal building and there was lull in the fighting, one of the
soldiers, took a careful look over his surroundings and howled like a
wolf. From then on the others avoided him - like he was rabid. He would
blunder forward a man possessed and nothing scared him. And there are
plenty of these rabid ones in our formation and in that of the enemy.
What are you doing to you sons, mother Russia?! They wanted to have him
hospitalised, but no, they said we cant even get the wounded out and
this one is still fighting, even though hes cracked it. Back on the
continent hell lose it completely.
After only a few blocks we encountered heavy fire. The hurricane of
ammunition came from above, maybe twenty barrels, but it lacked
precision. We had to leave the personnel carriers behind and continue
towards friendly positions on foot with a pair of soldiers. Luckily, the
guys had some experience under fire and were used to it. At first though,
youd howl, like that soldier. A green soldieryoud have to extract out
of the trenches and armoured vehicles with the aid of mat and the boot.
Behind me is Baku and Kutaisi 90, Tskhinvali 91, Transnistria 92 and
now Chechnya 95. Well sort it out, if only we can escape this hell. If
only in one piece. I keep an RGD-5 grenade in my pocket in case I am
crippled. It will be enough. I dont care how the crippled heroes of
previous wars live in the world. Those heroes that executed their
Motherlands orders, the orders of their party or government and ****
knows who else during the period of restoration of constitutional order
in the former Soviet territories. Just like we are now pounding our own
Russian land according to yet another secret decree.

All this passed by in my head in just a few seconds. I looked around. My

guys have taken cover near-by and are looking around also. Their mugs
black with soot, only the eyes and teeth are glistening. I probably look
no better. I indicate to one with my hand and the other with my head forward, forward, zig-zag, corkscrew and roll. These acrobatics are
awkward in field uniform. The sweat pours into your eyes, steam rises
from the fabric, a taste of blood in the mouth and pounding in the
temples. Our bloodstreams full of adrenaline. Short dashes over minced
brick, concrete and glass. Carefully avoiding open spaces. Still alive,
thank God.
Swish, swish! Your mother, is it really a sniper after all? We dive into
the nearest basement, grenades at the ready, hell knows whos waiting for
us there. A pair of bodies. Judging by the uniform they are ours. With a
nod I indicate to one fighter to keep watch through the window, whilst
taking position near the door. The second fighter leans over one of the
fallen and undoes his uniform. He retrieves his papers and tears off the
string with the dog-tag. He does the same with the other. The lads wont
care any more, but their families should surely be notified. Otherwise
the smart guys from government wont pay them pensions and motivate it
say by the fact that the soldiers are missing in action, possibly even
deserted or have crossed over to the enemy.
-So, did you get the documents? - I asked.
-Got them, - answered private Semyonov aka Semyon. - Whats our next
move?
-Well go through the basement to the neighbouring street and the first
battalion is right there. Are you able to radio them? - I enquired from
the radio man, private Kharlamov, aka Glue. His huge, long hands with
disproportionately developed wrists, stick-like stuck out of his sleeves
- no uniform fit him. When you first see him, you imagine that these
hands off were torn of a gorilla and sawn onto a man. Meanwhile, nobody
now remembered why he was nick-named Glue.
These are our soldiers, compatriots, Siberians. And collectively, we are
makhra, from the word makhorka. Only in books and in movies about the
Great Patriotic War do they praise infantry with the epithet Queen of
the Fields. In real life, we are makhra, whilst singularly an
infantryman is a makhor. And thats how it is.
-And radio the boxes, - that would be our BMP, that remained behind, on
the approaches to the train terminal, - find out how they are faring.
Glue left his post at the window and started mumbling into the radio,
summoning the Commanding Post of the first battalion, then our BMP.
-All good, comrade Captain, - reported the radioman. - Sopka is
expecting us, the boxes were shot at, so they rolled back down one
block.
-Allright, lets go before we cark it, - I rasped, coughing. Finally I
caught my breath and spat out yellow-green phlegm - the consequences of a
years-long smoking habit. - Mamma always told me: Learn English.
-My mamma always told me, Dont go climbing in wells, sonny, continued
Semyon.

Having glanced through the window on the opposite side of the house and
detected no traces of the enemys presence, we ran, bent over almost
quadruple, towards the rail terminal. The aviation is hovering over the
city, dropping bombs and strafing someones positions from an untouchable
altitude. There is no single frontline here, the fighting is patchy and
the result is a layered cake of our forces and that of the Chechens, our
forces again and so forth. In other words - an idiot-house. No
coordination of almost any kind. It is especially hard to work with the
internal forces. Mainly this is their operation and we are makhra doing all their work for them. Oftentimes we would storm the same target
without realising. Sometimes wed call in artillery or air support
against their positions, whilst they do the same to ours. We take eachother prisoner and exchange fire in the dark.
Just now, we're headed for the rail terminal, where almost the entire
Maikop brigade parted with their lives. They disappeared into the night,
with no proper reconnaissance of the approaches or the positions and
numbers of the enemy. Without artillery preparation. When the Maikopians
relaxed after the assault and began to dose off - its no joke to run on
only vodka and adrenaline for more than a week, the Chechens approached
and shot them up at point-blank. Just like with Chapaev, who didnt put
up patrols. Here the patrols either fell asleep or were knifed out
quietly. Everything that could burn and could not burnburned. The
ground, the asphalt, the walls of buildings burned from the spilled fuel.
The people dashed about in this fiery hell: some shot back, some helped
the wounded, some shot themselves, just to avoid falling into Chechen
hands, others ran and those cannot be blamed for it. How would you, the
reader, carry yourself in this inferno? You wouldnt know. There you have
it and dont you dare judge them.
Nobody will know how they died. The commander, with shot-up legs,
commanded to the end, whilest he could have left for the rear. He
remained. God, keep their souls and our lives
When our brigade, after heavy fighting broke through to the Maikopians,
the tanks had to roll over the piled-up bodies of our brother-SlavsAnd
when you remember how the tracks of the tanks and the personnel carriers
break and crush the flesh, the guts of those just like you winding up on
their rollers, how the head bursts open under the caterpillar and with a
crackling sound everything around it is spattered with a red-grey mass of
brainsthe brains of perhaps a future genius, a poet, a scientist or
maybe just a good guy, son, friend, who didnt cowardly run, who instead
went to this shitty Chechnya and who did not perhaps fully understand
what happened; when your boots slide through a bloody messit is then
that is most important is to think of nothing but the one thing: forward
and survive, forward and survive, protect your people, because the
fighters you loose will be in your dreams. And you will have to write
obituaries and acts of identification of corpses.
I would not wish this work upon my worst enemy. It would be better to
bulge your eyes and spray right and left out of your trusty AKS, than to
sit in a dugout and write out these terrible papers. What are these wars
for? Although, honestly, still, none of us understood completely what is
and was happening here. There is only one goal - to survive and to fulfil

the objective, retaining a maximum of your people. If you do not fulfil

it, theyll send others, who perhaps and due to your unprofessionalism,
cowardice, the desire to return home will lie under assault-machine gun
fire, be torn apart by grenades, mines, would endure capture. Would you
feel uneasy bearing such responsibility? So do I.
Glue spotted a stirring in the window of a five-floor block, that stood
adjacent to the square next to the terminal. He managed a yell of
Chechens! and rolled back. I and Simyon also hid behind a pile of
concrete. Glue started to feverishly soak the window out of his gun,
whilst we prepared the grenade launchers.
Oh what a wonderful thing it is this grenade-launcher, that is lovingly
called the underbarreler with all the diminutiveness the Russian
language can offer, although it weighs in a bit at about 500 grams. It is
attached to the underside of the assault rifles barrel. It can fire
directly or via a ballistic trajectory. Imagine yourself a small length
of pipe with a trigger and a safety bracket. The sight is included, but
we got so good-dogged at it in the first days of war that we are now
doing without it. Using the under-barrel launcher GP-25, one can lob a
grenade into any window and if need be throw it over any building. In a
straight line, it shoots to about four hundred meters. The radius of
fragment dispersionfourteen meters. A sheer fairytale. This thing saved
countless lives in Grozny. How does one smoke out snipers from the upper
floors in a rapid combat environment? One does not. As you wait for the
artillery, the aviation, whilst you roll back and summon your boxes,
that can easily get torched by RPG troopsMeanwhile every fighter has his
own underbarreller, so he smokes the bastards out himself. Also the
grenade ammunition has one major advantage: it explodes on impact. When
fighting at close quarters, say in a stairwell of an apartment building,
where the enemy is located on the upper floorsimagine, you throw a hand
grenade and it has a 3-4 second delay after the pin is removed. So count
you tear off the pin, lob it upstairs, but the **** bounces off something
and is flying back down to you. Only later, approximately January 15-17,
they supplied us with highland or as we called them Afghan grenades,
that exploded only when they hit something hard. In the meantime, someone
from the local Kulibinskites thought of a method, where you knock the
grenade against the heel of your boot, which arms it and then you throw
the dear thing as far away from you as you can, where it explodes upon
first contact with an obstacle and mows down everything living in the
confined space.
So, me and Simyon started lobbing out of our underbarrelers into the
window, where Glue spotted some sort of movement. Semyon got it first go,
Ithe second. My first hit the wall, exploded sending down a substantial
slice of veneer and raising a cloud of dust.
We exploited this diversion and traversed the open space before us,
sometimes running sometimes crawling and after two more buildings finally
reached friendly positions.
Those idiots nearly shot us, thinking we were Chechens.

They escorted us to the commanding post, where we located the battalions

commander.
The combat was a character. Not too tall, but he made up for it as a
commander and as a person. As it was our brigade had good fortune as far
as the quality of its commanders was concerned. I wont get into the
nitty-gritty of their flaws and virtues, suffice to say they were real
men. Those who served and fought will understand what that means.
First battalions command post was quartered in the basement of a railway
terminal. When we entered, the combat was vigorously employing the mat at
somebody on the other end of the field telephone.
-You ****ing scarecrow, where are you going! They are trying to lure, you
simpleton ass out and you and your kindergarten are playing right into
it! Execute a mop-up and defend everything around you! Not a single
Chechen in your zone of responsibility! - bellowed the combat into the
handset. - Drag the boxes back, let the makhra do the work! You sit in
that observation post and keep your head in!
Throwing down the receiver, he saw me.
-Good health, - he smiled.
-Gods help, - said I, extending my hand.
-Whats new at the headquarters? Lets have dinner, - he offered, looking
me over, pleased. To see a familiar face in war is a happy occasion. It
means that fortune is not only on your side, but also that of your
comrades.
Having not yet recovered from all the running and gunfire, I knew: that
if I was to not drink something now and calm down, I would start shaking
rapidly and nervously. Or maybe instead Id enter a semi-hysterical state
where I want to babble on an on. So I gladly accepted this invitation to
table.
We seated ourselves upon empty shell crates and the combat quietly called
out: Ivan, we have guests, come have dinner. Captain Iliin, chief of
staff of the first battalion emerged from the adjacent basement room.
Thin, if not to say wiry, the first in the brigade on the subject of a
volleyball contests, but pedantic and neat in his work. In peace, always
well-ironed, buttoned up and sparkling, but now he little stood out from
the rest. Same as all, he was covered in soot, unshaven and sleepless.
-Hello, Slava, - he said and his eyes glittered
the same age, but I - an officer of the brigade
of the battalion staff. And we were both in the
been friends for a long time now, our wives and

slightly. We were almost

staff, whilst he, chief
rank of captain. We have
children - also.

I did not conceal emotion and we embraced. Quietly, the nerves were
kicking in, hysterics were lapping at my composure after that short
excursion through death.
I wasnt worried about my fightersthey were amongst their own kind and
will be warm and fed.
-Did you come for the sniper, Slava?, asked the combat.

-Yes, who else would I be after?, - I answered. - How did you take that
bitch?
-Yeah, for three days that bastard didnt let us have any peace, complained Ivan. - holed up next to the terminal, across the square and
sprayed us from there. He laid down three fighters and he wounded the
first company commander in the leg. Meanwhile we cant evacuate. We
summoned the medics here and they operated on the spot.
-Oh yeah, how is he? - I asked. - I heard the story from the medics,
great work, those guys, but hows the company commander - will he live
and walk?
-He will, he will, - the combat confirmed happily, - only I had to
relieve him, and as you know company commanders are in deficit, so the
two-shitters are in charge now (this pejorative term was applied to
tertiary graduates conscripted for two years with an officers rank) But,
this lad seems to be allright. Hot in the head, like Chapaev on his
horse, wants to liberate all Chechnya on his own.
-What did the sniper have on him? - I asked. - Since it could well be
that its some crazy local, theres a lot of them wandering about the
city now.
Combat and COS looked offended. Ivan leapt up, ran to his quarters and
brought back our own Russian-made SKS rifle. Only the optical sight was
imported, mounted on a non-standard bracket. I spotted it straight away
having seen it beforemost likely Japanese. Nice toy.
While we examine the carabin, Pal Palych, - the combat - tells us that in
the snipers pockets they found two packets of bullets whilst in his
lair, meaning in spot where he set up the ambush - a carton of beer and
two cartons of cigarettes. Whilst he was telling us this, Palych was
setting the table: he cut the bread, opened the condensed milk, spam,
mysterious salads, pickled tomatoes and cucumbers. Finally upon this
improvised table, he placed a bottle of vodka.
Meanwhile I counted the notches on the stock. 32 interrupted lives. We
all knew how snipers worked from direct experience. When we entered the
city using old, almost pre-war maps, they were there to greet us. Whilst
we were racing down the highway splitting heads and cracking teeth inside
the BMPs, cursing all and everything, the snipers managed to shoot off
our radio antennas that were swaying to and froand this was in the dark
and obscured by clouds of dust. When that resulted in communications
disruptions and the commanders would send the fighters to investigate
what the hell is going on, the snipers shot them. Also the Chechen
shooters have this ploy: they hit the legs, so the fighter cant crawl
away, then they wait. The wounded cry out and those coming to them to
help are shot up like chickens. In this manner, the brigade lost about
thirty. As a result we have a special grudge with these people. Its
surprising that the fighters took this bastard alive.
The other day the second battalion came upon a lair with all signs of a
woman occupant. The common elements are: a couch or an armchair, nonalcoholic drinks, in contrast to the men-snipers and some sort of a soft
toy. The rifle is hidden nearby. A whole day the fighters laid in wait,

not going to the toilet, not even smoking. Then she came. What happened
there - no-one knows, but the Checheness flew out like a bird from the
roof of the nine-storey house and a grenade blast tore her to shreds on
the way down. The fighters insisted that when she caught a whiff of their
unwashed bodies, the sniper sprinted up to the top and jumped out with a
live grenade. Naturally everyone nodded with mock regret that they had no
chance to assist her in her flight. No-one really believed that this last
journey with a live grenade was voluntary. As far as I remember the
Chechens did not commit suicide. This is our native trait - a fear of
capture, dishonour, torture. After this incident the combat said
something, that became our divisions motto: Siberians do not surrender,
nor do they take prisoners.
Meanwhile, the com-batt poured the vodka, and I and Ivan sat down. If
somebody tells you that we were drunk when fighting this war - spit in
their face. In war, men drink as a means of disinfection. They cant
always boil water or wash their hands properly. Red eyes dont go
yellow was the motto of our field medics. Water for cooking, drinking
and washing had to be drawn from Sunzha - a small river that runs through
all of Chechnya, including Grozny. There were so many corpses of men and
animals floating in it that hygiene was not to be thought of. No, nobody
would get pissed in warits certain death. Besides, your comrades would
not let you - who knows whats on the mind of a drunk and armed man?
We raised our plastic cups of which we obtained a large number at the
airport Severny and brought them together. The resulting sound was not
a clink, but a rustling, so that the political officer doesnt hear,
jested the officers.
-To good fortune, men, - pronounced the combat and having breathed the
air out of his lungs sunk the half-glass of vodka.
-To her, the cursed, - I picked up and also drank. Immediately I felt the
heat in my throat and a warm wave rolled inwards and stopped in my
stomach.
Languor spread through the body. Everyone started shovelling in the food
- who knows when we can eat in peace again. The bread, the spam, pickles,
all flew down into my stomach. Now it was Ivan, who poured the vodka and
we drank silently, having rustled the cups together. I retrieved my
cigarettes Tu-134, that I brought from home, but noticed that the
combat and Ivan have Marlboros, I put them back.
-Snipers?
-Yeah, answered the combat.
-Hows the second battalion? - asked Ivan, dragging deeply.
-They are taking the hotel Kavkaz, and to their aid were sending the
third battalion with the tanks. The Chechens are dug in hard and holding
on. Ulianovites and the marines are storming the Minutka Square and
Dudaevs palace, but for now are just loosing lives with little result.
-That means that well be sent to their aid soon, interdicted the combat.
- This, unlike smashing bottles over heads requires thinking - how to
save lives and how to achieve the objective. I never understood the
paratroopers, imagine to leap out of the plane in a sober state of mind
hm? - joked Palych, merrily.
-As for me, I never understood the border guards, picked up Ivan, - four
years in the academy, where they are taught to look into the binoculars

and walk next to a dog. I feel it in my heart, well be gnawing the

asphalt on this ****ing square.
In the back of my mind, I have already decided, that I wont deliver this
sniper to the brigade staff. The bitch will die from a stray bullet or
during an attempted escape. Same ****, he has already told us
everything he could have said.
Only in movies do they convince the tongue on ideological grounds to
cough up the military secrets known to him. In real life, everything is
simpler. It all depends on imagination, anger and time. If time and
desire are present, one can take the enamel off the prisoners teeth
using a chisel and convince them with the aid of the field telephone.
This is a certain brown box with a crank on the side. You connect a pair
of wires to the interlocutor and spin the crank, having first asked a
number of questions. But this is done in comfortable conditions and if
the subject is to be handed over to the attorney's aides. No traces
remain. It is recommended to douse the subject in water and so that the
screams are muffled to run big engines nearbly. But that is purely
aesthetics.
In the field, everything is much simpler. The toes are shot off, one by
one. There is no man that can endure this. You would tell all you know
and all you remember. Does this make the reader ill? You were celebrating
new year, visited friends, went down ice-hills with your kiddies, half
drunk, instead of protesting in public squares demanding to save our
fighters. You did not collect warm clothes or gave money to those
Russians that fled Chechnya and did not donate any part of the money that
you pissed up the wall towards cigarettes for the soldiers. So dont turn
away and listen to the truth of what war is like.
Allright, lets go for the third and come see your shooter, I said,
pouring the remnants of vodka into the glasses.
We stood up, took the glasses, kept a few seconds silence and drank
without clinking. The third toast is the most important for us soldiers.
Whilst this toast for civilians is usually for love, for the students
is for something else, for soldiers it is for the fallen. It is drunk
upright, silently and without touching the glasses, with all partaking
letting the images of those they have lost pass before their inner sight.
Its a terrible toast, but from another perspective, you know that if you
were to perish, in five and in twenty-five years some snotty lieutenant
in some far-east garrison forgotten by God, or some portly colonel in the
staff of a prestigious base would raise the third toast and drink to you.
We drank and I threw down a chunk of spam and a piece of officers
lemon - an onion. There are no vitamins on the front, the body needs
them, and so the onion was nicknamed the officers lemon. It is eaten in
war everywhere and always, the smell is indeed terrible, but you get used
to it, especially as it, at least a little, covers up the omnipresent,
vomit inducing and inside-out-turning smell of decaying human flesh.
Having consumed the chaser and washed it down with condensed milk,
straight from the can, I took a cigarette from the com-batt's pack that
was on the table and headed straight for the exit.

Com-batt and Ivan Iliin followed. About thirty meters from the entrance
to the basement, a tight circle of fighters surrounded a tank. They were
debating something loudly. I noticed the barrel of the tanks gun somehow
unnaturally pointed upwards. When we came closer, we noticed the rope
hanging down from the gun-barrel.
Having seen us, the fighters parted. The picture before us was colourful,
but at the same time frightening: at the end of this rope hung a man. His
face was swollen from beatings, his eyes semi-closed, the tongue stuck
out of his mouth, his hands were tied behind him. I have seen plenty of
corpses in the past, but I do not like them, I do not like them.
The com-batt started shouting at the fighters:
-Who did this?! Which bitches, guts uncut? (I wont quote the other
epithets used, just ask any army man who served ten years or more to
swear a bit, youll enrich your lexicon with new and exciting turns of
speech).
The combat continued to rage and demand explanations, however looking at
the sly expression on his mug, I knew that he was not mad at all. Of
course he regretted not having the opportunity to string the sniper up
himself, but appearances have to be kept up in front of an officer of the
staff. And everyone present understood this completely. Also it was
understood that nobody will report this incident to the military
tribunal. All of this crossed my mind as I was smoking the com-batts
Marlboro. To think of it; that just a few short hours ago, these
cigarettes belonged to this man, whose feet are dangling in the air in
front of my face, then they passed onto the com-batt, who is now busy
shouting and finally I am smoking them as I watch this spectacle.
This circus started to bore me, so I asked the soldiers surrounding me,
amongst whom I also spotted Semyon and Glue:
- What did he say before kicking the bucket?
The soldiers burst out, interrupting one another that that bitch (which
is the kindest epithet they used) shouted that he regretted felling only
thirty of your men.
The fighters emphasised the word your and I could see that they were
telling the truth. Had he not said this, he might have lived a while
longer.
At this point, one of the soldiers said something that amused everyone:
-Comrade Captain, he hung himself.
-He tied the noose on a raised barrel with bound hands and then leapt
from the armour? - I asked, holding back laughter.
I then turned to the com-batt:
-Oh well, take your corpse down and well report that he suicided, having
not being able to live with a guilty conscience, - I spat out the butt
and crushed it with my heel, - And Ill take his rifle with me.
-Nikolaich, - he addressed me for the first time in the patronymic, Leave the rifle with me, my guts churn when I see it.

Having looked into his eyes, his expression begging, I knew that I could
not take the gun with me.
-You will owe me, and you, - I directed to Ivan, - will be the witness.
-Thank you, Nikolaich, - Palych vigorously shook my hand.
-Because of this idiot, I had to leg it here, under fire and now go back
the same way.
-So take him with you, and say that he died during an exchange of fire,
Ivan joked.
-Go to hell, - I replied, un-maliciously. You can grab and cart this
stiff yourself. And if in the future, youll allow yourself the
misjudgement of taking someone prisoner, either you bring him to the
brigade staff yourself or finish him quietly and on the spot. Make sure
to somehow commend the fighters that took him. Thats all, were leaving.
Issue the order to have us escorted for a few blocks.
We shook hands and the com-batt, snorting, reached into his inner pocket
and produced a sealed Marlboro pack. I thanked him and called out to my
fighters:
-Semyon, Glue, were leaving.
They approached, adjusting their guns.
-Ready? Did you at least get fed?
-They fed us and poured us a hundred grams, - answered Semyon. - They
also replenished our ammo and provisions.
-OK men, lets go, we have to reach our positions while its still light,
- I muttered, buttoning up as I walked and attaching a new magazine.
I had a superb magazine, taken from the RPK. Their capacity is fifteen
rounds greater than the standard assault rifle magazines, - each one
holds 45 rounds. I laid them together like The Jack and taped them up
with isolation tape. So I always have 90 rounds at my disposal.
Unfortunately the calibre is only 5.45 instead of the old 7.62. The 5.45
has a large ricochet and the bullet wonders, whilst 7.62 once you lay
it down, you lay it down. There is a story around, that during the
Vietnam war, the Americans complained to their gun-makers that the M-16
wounds more than it kills (same as with the AK-47 and the AKM by the
way). So the gun-makers went to visit their troops in the field. They
looked about a bit and began experimenting on the spotthey drilled a
hole in the top of the bullet and welded in a needle. This operation
resulted in a shift in the centre of gravity, the bullet began to
ricochet more and upon contact wound up almost all of the mans guts onto
itself. The enemy experienced a decrease in woundings and an increase in
lethal outcomes.
Our guys thought of nothing more original than to follow the American
example and in Afghanistan replaced the 7.62-caliber Kalashnikovs with
the forty fives. Maybe some like it, but not me.
Having buttoned up and taken up our guns, we hopped up and down a bit and
looked each-other over.
-Lords help, - I pronounced and having turned around saw the five
fighters that were preparing in the same manner, to escort us.

One more time I glanced over at the hanged sniper. The tanks gun
returned to its normal angle and the rope with the dead man was gone.
-Thats it, lets go, - I commanded and with a nod indicated that the
first battalion fighters go first.
Being more familiar with their surroundings, they, unlike we, who got
here over the topside, dove into a basement and lead us through pile-ups
and fissures. In one spot we descended into the sewer, somewhere else we
emerged again on top. I completely lost my sense of direction and could
only determine the route using the hand compass. It indicated that we
were going the right way. After about thirty minutes, the sergeant that
led us, stopped and started searching for his cigarettes. We all lit up.
Then he said: -Thats it - there are about five to seven blocks remaining
to your boxes, no more than that. But youll have to continue on your own
over the top-side.
Having finished my smoke, I extended my arm to the sergeant and
farewelled each of the escorting soldiers. And I said:
-Good luck! We all need good luck.
-Why dont you go ahead and well remain here and listen for ten minutes
or so.
-This way, - I directed to Semyon and Glue indicating the direction with
my hand. I leapt out first, fell down and tolled and looked around,
pointing with my gun. Having noticed nothing suspicious, I waved tot he
others. Semyon emerged first, then Glue with the radio.
In this manner we continued for another forty minutes until we came up
our boxes. As soon as we set off, we came under a hurricane of fire
from the top levels.
The leading vehicle, which I was riding, veered to the left, then hit a
corner. Its speed dropped and then it stopped completely. We were sitting
on the armour and swore as we opened fire.
-Mechanic! Youre ****ed over the head, what are you doing, your mother,
quickly get out of here! I hummed into the hatch. Then addressing the
fighters sitting next to me:
-Deploy a smoke screen!
-The caterpillar is torn off! - shouted the mechanic, getting out of the
BMP.
-Your mother, everyone off the armour. Four of you stretch the
caterpillar back on, the rest of you take up defence. Ready two
underbarrelers - the rest use the assault rifles, the second vehicle use the gun. Thats it lads, lets roll!
The heat of battle seized me once again. Fear is the first thing one
feels, but you know that when fear is defeated, youll taste a hint of
blood in your mouth, you feel calm and powerful, your senses are
sharpened. You notice all, your brain like a good computer
instantaneously delivers the correct solutions and a heap of
combinations. Immediately having rolled off the armour, rolled on the
ground and Im behind a fragment of concrete wall. I feverishly search
for the target, but cannot yet see whence from they are shooting us up.
Hold. A breath in and out, in and slowly out, thats it Im ready, lets
roll Slavs, well stretch their eyes over their black ass. Adrenaline is

once again raging in my veins and a feel a merry draw of the battle
boiling up inside of me.
The fighters did not have to be ordered twice. They quickly and precisely
pulled out the rings from the smoke generator boxes and our vehicle
disappeared in multi-coloured plumes of smoke. The Russian soldier is
thrifty and consequently takes everything that isnt nailed down, just in
case. So, when we took the airport Severny the lads picked up a bunch
of smoke sticks. The second vehicle having seen us, released their own
smokescreen. This was fortunate timing as the Chechens realised they
wont be able to pick the infantry off the armour and started firing out
of an RPG.
What is an RPG? An ordinary grenade launcher, he also has a little
sister, called the fly. It looks like a pipe, the first modifications
folded out telescopically. Both are designed for destruction of armoured
vehicles and infantry. As the grenade encounters an obstacle, (this would
often be an armoured plate), it releases a stream of fire the thickness
of a needle that burns through the metal and inside the target creates a
high level of pressure and a happy temperature of say three thousand
degrees, or so. The shells and ammo begin to explode. This terrible
explosion can tear off a many-ton turret and propel it thirty meters,
shred the crew and the riders on top. How many infantry perished, when
the lads were sitting thusly inside metal death-traps? However, there
were instances when the mechanic or the gunner had their hatches open, in
which case the explosion simply propelled them outward, slightly broken
and concussed, but alive and not crippled.
So these sons of bitches started to peck us with an RPG and on top of
that from bumblebees, and neither could the enemy see us, nor could we
see them. It should be noted that we looked quite funny. Enveloped in
heavy standard-issue black smoke from which coloured aviation smokes blue, red, yellow, issued like geysers, weaving together and then
separating, distracting the adversary.
The second BMPs gun started reporting, shooting randomly into the
general direction of the grenade launchers. And then there was an
explosion over there. Either we hit something, or the RPG trooper slipped
up in the heat of battle. Both fly and bumblebee are after all a
pipe. For the complete idiot only, there is a label direction of fire.
Who knows what happened there, but the Lord was on our side today it
seems. Hearing that the shooting from the Chechen side died down, our
fighters started shouting merrily, mainly in mat and monosyllables that
are understood no doubt by all warriors of the globe.
-No stuffing around! - I barked. - Continue stretching on the
caterpillar, second vehicle, take up defence.
I stood up and began stretching my stiff legs and back, not relaxing for
even a second, peering though the clearing smoke at the building from
which the shooting came from.
Judging by the angle of fire, it was probably the third floor. In the
confusion and because of the smoke, I didnt properly determine where we

were being shot at from. And only now did I see a gaping hole on the
third level, torn open by the blast, belching smoke.
Semyon, who during the whole fight was beside me, pointed at the hole in
the wall:
-The bitches cooked! Vyacheslav Nikolayevich, lets go check maybe?
In his eyes was such a begging expression, one would think that his bride
was waiting for him there.
-In a moment, wait, - I said and addressing the mechanics working near
the vehicle: - How long are you going to screw around with that track?
-Almost done, Comrade Captain, another five minutes, rasped one of the
fighters, as he assisted in affixing the caterpillar onto the leading
sprocket.
-Semyon, Glue, Mauser, American, Picasso - youre with me. The rest
continue the repairs and cover us. If we do not return in half an hour,
roll back two blocks and then wait for another half an hour. If we dont
return then, go back to headquarters. Thats all.
And to the fighters that were to come with me:
-Lets go, you devil spawn. Picassolead, rearguardGlue, Semyonon the
right side, Mauserleft side. Prepare the grenades.
-What about me? - piped up the weedy, but outwardly charming fighter, who
possessed a first grade in rock climbing and nicknamed American because
he turned up to be conscripted wearing shorts with the American flag
design.
-And you will walk next to us and wont snap with your soup-hole, - I
answered un-maliciously. Lets go mop up the Chechens.
-Everyone understood what it meant to mop up, namely, no prisoners. A
good Indian is a dead Indian - the conquistadors motto was very fitting
in our situation. What can a live Chechen offer us, especially some
infantryman? Well - nothing, no maps, no stores, no communications
systems - not-a-thing. And if the bitch is wounded, you have to stuff
around with him - set out a guard. Meanwhile he could pull some trick sabotage for example. Neither can we exchange him. Well finish him and
that the end of story. Its even better for him - at least we wont
torture him.

----------CHAPTER 2---------Carefully, we ascended to the third floor. There were fire points set up
in two adjacent apartments. In one laid the RPG trooper, in the other,
two gunners equipped with Kalashnikov machine guns. The most amazing
thing was that they were kids 13-15 years of age. One of the gunners was
still alive, unconscious, and was moaning softly. Judging by the
profusely bleeding stump, in place of a leg, he was not going to survive.
The shell hit the RPG gunners room and by the looks of it destroyed his
stores. I glanced around once more and the good mood evaporated. Of
course these were Chechens and they shot at us, thirsting for our death,

but But they were kids. ****. I spat off to the side and ordered the
fighters standing beside me: Finish him off and then comb the entire
stairwell, in case somebody else crawled off. Though, somehow I doubted
it.
The three assault rifle reported - this was Semyon, Glue and Picasso
releasing a short burst each into the mangled body. The kid bulked, the
bullets tore up his chest, somebody hit the head, which cracked open
marring the floorI calmly watched this murder. I then turned away from
the corpse, I hate corpses, maybe this is a normal response from a
healthy individual? Who knows. I took out the snipers Marlboro and
treated the fighters.
-I thought I said it in plain Russian - comb the stairwell. Is that
understood? I said dragging on the cigarette. - The fighters mumbled
something and went off to carry out the order. Meanwhile, I went through
the pockets of the deceased, holding back bouts of vomit and covering
myself in puffs of cigarette smoke.
Oo! This wouldnt be the military ID card? Here, lets see: Semyonov
Aleksei Pavlovich, born 1975. Semyonov, Semyonov, Semyonov. Something
stirred in my memory. Wasnt there a Semyonov in the sapper engineers,
that went missing in action during the storming of the Severny airport?
He was sent to bring the fuse chord for de-mining and the kid
disappeared. I hope he wasnt shooting at us. I carefully examined the
Chechens faces, comparing it to the bad photo on the ID card. I looked
through a hole in the wall at the guy with the grenade launcher. Thank
God, it wasnt any of them. I leafed through the ID a bit more. ****! Our
detachment, our Semyonov. You ****ers are lucky, otherwise your death
would have been terrible. I would have questioned you personally, I know
how to loosen tongues virtue of being through many wars in the former
Soviet territories, and I know how to keep them alive long and sane.
The feeling of regret over
hatred remained, hatred so
If I have to, I will crush
only I can bring the moron

the dead kids passed immediately and only

strong that my teeth clenched spasmodically.
with my own hands not sparing my own life. If
back, alive and unharmed.

At this point, my fighters called out from stairwell.

-Comrade Captain, Comrade Captain, we found somebody, up there, on the
roof! Gasping shouted the American.
I sprinted up the stairs like an arrow, and didnt wheeze. Our fighter
was on the roof, nailed down, like Jesus, on a cross. His severed penis
was inserted into his mouth. And despite the layer of mud encrusting his
face, I recognised him from the photograph: it was himSemyonov. And even
though I have seen him only about ten times and didnt interact with him,
I felt a lump in my throat, tears welling up in my eyes and a tickling in
my nose. I regretted having not spoken to him earlier. I think he was
commandeered to our brigade out of Abakan immediately before departure
for Chechnya.
-They nailed him to the cross and placed him on the roof. It looks like
he was toppled over by the blast, which is why we didnt notice him,

Picasso began. He seemed to be ashamed that we didnt spot the lad

earlier.
This is our soldier, - I laboured through the lump in my throat and
holding back shouting and expletives, Semyonov, a sapper, disappeared at
Severny during de-mining. I found his ID on one of the shooters.
The fighters were as if struck by electricity, they started bustling
around Semyonov, carefully removing from the cross, trying all the while
not to damage him as though he was still alive. They whispered as if not
to wake him, tears dripping and dripping from their eyes, making it
harder to work. I turned away and retrieved the cigarette pack, light up,
drawing greedily, trying to chase down the lump in my throat. I glanced
sideways to check on the progress. When Semyonov was taken off the cross,
a makeshift stretcher was constructed from the planks and rags lying
nearbly and the martyr was placed upon it, I said:
-Glue, talk to the boxes, tell them to drive up closer and that we are
carrying Cargo 200. Our Cargo 200.
I went first, checking the route, while the fighters carefully as if
handling a wounded man, carried Semyonov on the stretcher. Glue concluded
our procession weighed down with the radio and whatever remaining
weaponry we found on the Chechens.
Having emerged from the stairwell, we loaded the body into the crew
compartment and set off. I thought to myself, woe to any Chechen that
tried to show his nose in our way. For confirmation, I looked around and
saw the fighters with the same frightening, empty eyes as mine. Only the
fire of vengeance blazes inside and not a thing more, just emptiness.
Blood, blood, blood, to pour out my rage, that a scull crack under my
gun-stock and ribs crunch under my boot. To punch through with my
knuckles and tear arteries and to look in their eyes and ask them: Why
did you, carrion, shoot at Russians?
Hold on bitches, there will be no mercy, not to the elderly or the
children, nor to the women - nobody. Stalin and Yermolov were right these people cannot be re-educated, only destroyed.
The BMPs raced forward as if sensing our mood, its engines ran evenly,
without interruptions, immersing us in greasy clouds of unburned diesel,
lending our grimy composure a certain glistening dandyness. But our eyes
continued to burn with a mad fire, demanding vengeance and there was no
place in our souls for cowardice, no desire to run. It is perhaps this
sort of state that compels a man to lay over an embrasure, so as to
forfeit their life to save the lives others. The desire for revenge
becomes a desire to protect those close to you, a willingness to
sacrifice oneself for others.
Glancing at my surroundings, with my very skin, I felt the stirrings in
the ruins. Having rested the gun in the bend of my arm, I pulled out the
remaining ID cards that were taken off the dead Chechen and started
reading them. Petrov Andrej Aleksandrovich, - Maikop Brigade. Yelizaryev
Evgenii Anatolyevich - MVD forces (MVD and border guards have four-digit
unit numbers, regular armys are five-digit). All up - eight Ids. All up

- eight lives. Where are you boys? It seems nobody will ever find this
out and for the rest of her life the mother will weep, no grave, nowhere
to go. Its scary stuff.
I finished with the Ids, making sure there were no more fighters from our
brigade and no Siberians. I put the documents away and looked my
arkharovtsy over, thus indicating that there were no more of our
comrades. They turned away again and gazed at the scenes of recent
battles racing by.
Demolished buildings, houses, uprooted trees. Burned out vehicles could
be seen in places. Commonly, these were tanks with turrets blasted off
over the distance of many meters, ripped tracks. The BMP and BTR got torn
to pieces sometimes, depending on where the grenade trooper hit it and
also what type of ammo was inside. Some mechanics got lucky, others not.
It was painful to see felled trees - I like nature. A man has a choice.
He can choose not to go here, to serve time for desertion, to buy a
white ticket, engage in self-harm, or one of the many other ploys the
cunning mind of a Russian citizen is capable of. Meanwhile trees, animals
- they do not have the same choice. They are not responsible for any of
this. They are kept or planted due to a mans whim and another man comes
and maims them and there is nothing that they can do. Neither the trees
nor the animals can flee and somehow protect themselves. So many accepted
death on the threshold of their own house, together with their keepers.
Those animals that remain will soon be eaten as there will surely be a
famine. Already I witnessed people, shuffling like shadows amongst the
ruins, mostly the elderly or middle-aged women. Everyone capable of
bearing arms has left to join the partisans, to avenge themselves. Fair
enough, well avenge also. And the circle is complete. Each one of us is
fighting, in their opinion, the just, holy cause. Each one prays to their
own gods, calling to their aid and demanding vengeance for their
comrades, cursing the enemy. The Lord divides the spoils of war evenly.
Fine then, well go to war. Only it is hard to fight a people. It would
be better to fight the regular army of a state, as we were taught to
fight. Knock out the enemy in an open field, conquer a city, grab some
trophies and then into the open fields again. Meanwhile, this place is
just like Afghanistan - youre fighting a whole people, hell knows for
how long and neither is it a real war. By law - a crappy police operation
to restore constitutional order and what this order means exactly, nobody
really knows and are unlikely to ever find out. OK, so while we and the
Chechens shred each-other, somebody up in the capital will handsomely
warm their hands. I have seen enough of it already. For some its war and
for others its their own mother. If one of those bitches was indicted
for all the blood that has already been spilled on the former Union
lands. I am not talking about the Balts - having jailed their thugs and
OMON cops, what good did that do? They gained nothing other than
vengeance for their comrades. Meanwhile those that sanctioned such
actions, those that lead and gave the orders - it is in their bellybutton that one would like to dig around with a bayonet-blade, look into
their eyes, dilated from pain and fear, to grow deaf from their screams,
to inhale the scent of their blood - that would be truly fun. Not this
****.

The people here, for four years lived according to GULAG laws. It was us
that fed them with money, supplied them with arms, raised and trained
them in GRU camps. We wanted them to fight for us in Ossetia and
Abkhazia, as if it was none of our concern. And when they were no longer
needed, they had to be exterminated, but no - we hoped to tame the
Chechen. High hopes - the Chechen turned against the Moskovite posse. One
question remains - why is it that the whole country has to suffer from
your Chicago shoot-outs and we had to race over here all the way from
Siberia to pull you apart. China for us is closer than Chechnya. On top
of that you brought in troops from Transbaikal, The Far East, Marines
from the Pacific, for whom the States are closer. And another things Im
wondering about: why did these Chechens leave the oil refinery completely
untouched and that we are strictly forbidden to use heavy arms there?
Look at the air force - merrily bombing residential districts, but the
old industrial districtno no.
That means that this is somebodys property, somebody who can shoo the
Minister of Defence, that he dare not wreck it. He has leave to level the
entire city, but not the oil refinery. Naturally when the Russian trooper
gets wound up, its difficult to contain him, but even the Chechens know
not to go there. Naively reckoning he is fighting for his shitty freedom,
the idiot has no clue meanwhile that we are all simply a part of
somebodys sort-out. Ordinary, urkagan sort-outs, although particularly
brutal ones. One little pakhan, decided to throw a big one and establish
his own business, so the pakhan sent his possethe Russian army to sort
it out. The little pakhan meanwhile smartly, squealed about independence
of state and his bulls also rose up also. And so the sort-outs began.
Nobody can now properly recall how this **** started. The boys are
smashing each-other up, the pakhans are raking in the dough. Using the
war as an excuse they take away pensions and allowances. The little
pakhan meanwhile is inciting the Islamic world with his cheap religious
ideology. God, have mercy and help us!
At this point, the BMP made a sharp turn and we nearly fell off the
armour. Serves you right, you idiot. You sit on the armour and shut your
soup-hole, or you get picked off or fall off and break your neck. The
commanders will do the thinking for you and deliver the right decision.
Your task is to survive and fulfil the objective. Everything else is
nothing but ****. For example Andrej Petrov, the former commander of the
Mortar battery, upon dispatch demanded that his formation be given two
weeks for personnel training. He motivated his demands with the fact that
his fighters were conscripted in November, having held an assault rifle
in their hands only once beforeduring the taking of the oath ceremony.
He was discharged, so that others would not deign, discharged with
dishonour for desertion. A snotty, lieutenant was promoted in his place a two-year tertiary graduate. Where is this lieutenant and his battery
now? During the assault on the airport, he laid down most of his men
himself including. Thats how it is. The army is staffed with idiots.
With some you mess around for two years and with others - twenty five.
No matter how we tried to convince our big-star commanders that we are
not prepared for war either materially or technically. The men are
unprepared physically. When in December, the command came to load up onto

the echelons and head out, just then it was bitterly frosty. As it
happens in our army, the BMPs were fuelled by the summer formula, whose
constituency at this point resembled that of syrup. So the military
district smartasses decided to pour kerosene into this syrup to dilute
it. They pouredOne BMP went off right in the motor-park, along with full
munitions kit and it was simply a miracle, that nobody got hurt. The
second exploded when loading onto the railway platform, but again The
Lord was on our side. Again, as it happens in the army, a heap of
equipment and armament was written off on these accidents, exactly like
in Suvorovs The Liberators. According to documentation, it turned out
that these machines carried no less than fifty winter coats, twenty five
night-vision instruments and no less than a hundred ugg boots and
camouflage suits. When the write-off papers were brought to an officer of
the staff for authorisation, having read it, he ordered: A winter coat
and camo-suit, report to me. The rear commanders deputy increased the
number of destroyed winter coats and camo-suits exactly by one unit
each and brought one of each back together with the papers for signing.
The general signed without hesitation.
This general is now here with us. Thank god he does not interfere in the
running of the brigade, just signs disposal papers for combat losses.
My thought then switched over to how best to convincingly lie regarding
the snipers failure to reach the headquarters alive. I understood, that
naturally, nobody will be breathing into my face in righteous
indignation, only regret that they themselves had not the opportunity to
spin his guts onto their elbow. Special forces and reconnaissance will
experience heightened regret. For both want nothing more but to lay their
hands on the adversary so they can be made to talk. In this we are also
quite capable with the only difference being that they retain a veneer of
intellect, whilst we are much simpler, although we can loosen some
tongues much faster. You cant beat a master at his trade.
Something stirred in the ruins and glimmered in the rays of the dying
sun. The brain did not even react properly, the arms already cocked the
gun, the finger gripped the trigger, searching for the target. Only then
did I consciously perceive that these were anti aircraft gunners from our
brigade, that took up positions upon the ruins of some house. They too
were greeting us with pointed guns, but we both had enough brains and
composure in order to not open fire. Moreover since their Shilka, the
self-propelled anti-aircraft mount ZSU-23 with four paired barrels was
already turning in our direction. If they were to open up on us out of
that thing, there would be nothing left. Oh well, its a good thing we
identified one another. We yelled something merrily to greet each other.
OK, this means the command post is right ahead of us. Oh and theres the
fountain of fire spewing out of the ruptured gas pipeline. Another two
hundred meters or so and we are home We can even relax.
-Radioman, I directed to Glue, - inform them of our arrival, or theyll
start shooting.
Glue chattered something into his apparatus and then nodded to me to
indicate that yes, we are being expected. There was no desire to talk and
more so shout over the din of battle hanging over the city, exasperated
by that feeling of the presence of a fallen comrade. It is as if we felt

guilty for his death but at the same time each one of us knew that it
could have been them in that kids place.
The vehicles reduced speed and slowly manoeuvred through the improvised
labyrinth of wall panels and piles of broken brick. From around each
corner, a soldier with a dusty face watched us through his gun-sight.
Because of the dust, their weary, strained and chronically sleepless,
red-eyed faces looked as if made of stone. Having recognised us, they
lowered their weapons and greeted us with smiles and waves. I guessed
that already the officers, like the soldiers were betting on the delivery
of the captured sniper. Personally I would not wager on delivery. We
greeted the minutemen wearily.
It a good thing that we arrived while its still light, as some smartass
at the Ministry of Defence invented a new system of passwords. If before
everything was simple and understandable, now without ten classes of
education and a half-litre, there is no working this **** out. Example.
If before there was the password Saratov and the response Leningrad that, a dummy can understand. We now have fighters who cant read or
write properly - children of the Perestroika. Meanwhile the gist of the
new system is such that a numerical password is established for a day,
lets say thirteen. So. The sentry spots a silhouette in the darkness and
shouts Halt! The password is seven!. You must immediately calculate in
your head that thirteen minus seven is six and shout into the darkness
The answer is six!, after which the sentry adds six and seven in his
head, resulting in thirteen and lets you through. But if one of you cant
count or think straight, the sentry, according to the Charter of sentry
and garrison duty and in wartime on top of that has the full right to
shoot you without trial or jury and no prosecutor will lift a finger to
punish him later. In that, you idiot, should have studied maths at
school, harder. All good if youre not too concussed and the fighter is
thinking straight, but there are some smartasses, who shout out fractions
or negative numbers, which is where youll curse all their relatives and
loved ones, involuntarily remembering meanwhile middle-school maths. On
top of all, some Moskva shithead might get a commendation out of all this
or even a medal for his chest. Those ****ers can easily pull something
like that off.
With such thoughts in mind, we rode up to the semi-demolished
kindergarten housing our brigades command post. I jumped off the BMP,
massaging stiff, frozen legs and walking rigidly approached the head of
staff Bilich Alexandr Alexandrovich, or as he was known to everyone in
the brigade, San Sanych. As I moved, I turned around and yelled to my
fighters:
-Unload the hero and be careful.
They nodded their understanding.
Bilich San Sanych was about one seventy in height. His hair, not so much
white as they were fair. Wide in the shoulders, he always had sparks in
his eyes, or perhaps it always seemed that way to those around him? What
set him apart from the other brigade officers was that by his very nature
and in life, he was an intellectual. At first it seemed to everyone, this
was a front, but the more one interacts with him, the more they see that

no, this was just his nature. It seemed like he did not belong in our
times, but in the times of hussars, balls and duels. Even now, when
having more or less learned to fight, having acclimatised to the city
conditions and having began to rout the enemy, when the war took on a
positional, if still patchy character, Bilich found the time for his
small morning exercises.
In the mornings, if we managed to nap over night, we crawled out of our
holes in the basement and shook from the cold. Because winter, even if it
was in the south is still winter. As a rule, there usually was no water
and the several days stubble no longer stuck out, but grew smoothly over
our faces. But looking at our nonchalant commander one somehow felt the
desire to straighten up and find wanter and time for shaving. Although
many officers didnt shave due to superstition or laziness. Some even
looked all-right that way. Only Khlopov Roman, the commander of the recon
troop, that possessed a naturally dark skin looked like a true Chechen
when he let out his beard. During the battle for the train terminal, his
own fighters shot at him. To his good luck he was wearing a helmet and a
flack jacket, otherwise they would have wacked him. From then on Khlopov,
whom we called Khlop took up the habit of shaving daily, disregarding the
conditions.
A week and a half or so back, when he and the reconnaissance chief broke
through to the Severny airport to the staff of the united forces
commander, they came upon an ambush on the way back. Grenade troops shot
up their BMP at point-blank. Khlop was killed instantly, the recon chief
was heavily concussed. The soldiers fought their way back to their
positions for two days. They even brought back the mutilated Khlop and
the concussed, almost deaf and semi-blind chief of reconnaissance captain
Stepchenko Sergei Stanislavovich. As the fighters later told us, they
laid low in basements during the day and moved by night, risking assault
rifle fire from both the Chechens and their own. They slept in turns,
sometimes using Khlops remains as a pillow.
Something went awry with Seryoga Stepchenkos head. Maybe due to the
concussion, maybe due to the time spent holed up in basements next to a
corpse. His concussion treated with vodka, spirit and cognac saw his
hearing and sight gradually restored, but he could not stand enclosed
spaces. At first glance he seemed all-right - fighting, working, but
suddenly, hed start talking utter nonsense. The brigade commander,
colonel Bakhel Aleksandr Antonovich ordered to relieve Stepchenko from
duty and keep an eye on him, lest he pull something. There was no
prospect of evacuation - the wounded were kept in dugouts and the
helicopters could not approach. Leutenant Krivosheev Stepan, a recon
troop commander was temporarily assigned to the post of recon chief.
Bilich San Sanych took care of Stepchenko and not only him - but all who
were by his side. He decreed that the fighters that pulled Stepchenko and
Khlop out were recommended for the title of Hero of Russia. But for now
these papers were kept in the mobile safe of the brigades chief of
staff.
Bilich did not recognise on principle the use of physical methods or
obscenities in conversation with the enemy or subordinates. But I know

that shouting in mat at somebody ensures a clearer understanding and a

speedier execution of the orders. From personal I experience.
And so it was to this hussar intellectual that I was meant to explain
that I did not deliver the sniper because the fighters lost all restraint
and strung him up on a tank gun barrel. As I walked into the staff
building, in my head I was polishing some of the gentler phrases that
might spare the refined depths of San Sanychs soul whilst at the same
time covering the asses of the com-batt and Ivan Ilin.
On the way I ran into the deputy chief of brigade rear Kleimenov Arkadij
Nikolayevich. Everyone spoke of him that Suvorow was right, any
quartermaster can be safely hung after a year on the job. And when one
beheld the well-fed face and figure of this man, they knew that the
Generalissimo was indeed right, and in his time Kleimenov would long
since have swung from a thill. His personal baggage grew continuously,
despite the state of warfare we were in.
-Ah, Slava, how was the trip? Did you bring the shooter?
-Alas, Arkadij Nikolaevich, he carked it. Passed away. - I made a sombre
face, though my eyes were speaking otherwise, the quartermaster
understood and parried.
-How did he die? - surprised, he put on a questioning expression.
-Weak heart, - I scoffed, - also he was wounded, so he didnt live until
departure. Except, how to tell this to San Sanych, lest he become too
upset?
-Hes got other worries other than that sniper. Neither did anyone
believe youd really deliver him. Especially when you and Ilin could
well have administered him harakiri on the spot. It a shame though, as
there was a line-up forming here for a colloquy, - grinned Klejmenov.
-Did they wager on delivery? - I asked.
-Yeah, but mainly on non-delivery.
-Yeah, also I brought Semyonov - the fighter went MIA during the storming
of Severnyj. My guys are currently unloading him. So what else is new?
-So youve only been away for four hours. Oh, also, - Arkadij
Nikolaevichs voice changed to a gloomy tone, - second battalions chief
of staff was wounded.
It seemed for a moment that the walls tilted.
-This is Sashka Pakhomenko? - I asked.
-Him. They are storming the hotel Kavkaz, and in that area there as
many Chechens as demons in hell, so he got it in the chest. The medics
could not get through. The nurse bandaged him. Right now we are preparing
a storm troop who will try to drag him out under the cover of darkness.
I could see that Klejmenov became very upset as he told me this.
Captain Pakhomenko Aleksandr Ilich was the brigades favourite. Of huge
stature and open personality he loved to wisecrack and jest. He knew many
anecdotes, stories, tall tales and lacked maliciousness. Most importantly
he was responsive and sincere and this endeared him to the people, who
after just ten minutes of interacting with him felt as if they knew him
since academy days. On top of it all he was no idler or freeloader. He
threw himself first into the toughest spots, came to the aid of his
comrade and because of this the officers and soldiers loved him dearly.

He could help in word or deed as well as he could lay on in three-tiered

mat - he swore virtuosicaly. He could drive a BMP in place of a mechanicdriver, dig around in the engine in the bitter frost and competently
conduct exercises. In less words, he was that very type of officer that
the mass media went on about. Loathed the enemy, did not hide his
feelings, always ready to get you out of trouble. Unfaltering. Although
sometimes overly noisy, but one got used to that fairly quickly. That was
Sashka Pakhomenko, who asked to be called simply Ilich. Its strange
but somehow the war dredges up long forgotten details about your
interactions with people. And now this joker was lying around in the
basement of a semi-demolished house with a hole in his chest. The Lord,
give him strength.
-Well, Arkadij Nikolaevich, Im off to report to San Sanych, - I nodded
my head and departed onwards down the corridor.
-Hes with an agent of the unified command there. Bakhel is out visiting
the third battalion, so this straightedge chap is riveting Sanychs
brains. Theyll probably send us on some break-through again, where the
elite troops shat themselves. Its always like this with us. The elite
forces get to receive medals and shoot up the parliament in Moskva, while
Siberian Makhra has to gnaw the asphalt in the cold of winter. Then when
its over, theyll send us away and these slinks will tell pretty girls
about their feats as the cameras flash. He spat, gesticulated in
resignation and departed.
There were soldiers and officers in the corridor, some smoked, some slept
leaning against the bullet-cratered wall, rising up to the sound of the
particularly close gun reports.
This kindergarten came to us a high cost. Dudaev declared that he doesnt
need academics, only warriors, so the boys should study three classes,
whilst the girls only one. And since all women now stay at home, there is
no need for kindergartens. People close to the government, either through
bribery or force, would appropriate the premises, just like this one,
refurbished as a mansion for some bandit. The host and his guard fought
for it fiercely.
We spent half a day smoking them out of here and when we finally stormed
in, we could establish that this particular bandit lived well: carpets
everywhere, not the mass-produced kind, but hand-made, expensive
furniture, crystal, porcelain, such electronics that we had seen only on
TV. We studied the photographs of the owner and his household. As much as
we missed women, I have never seen beauties here, neither in photographs,
not in real life. They all have small faces, small eyes, their noses are
kind of crooked, small mouths, to my mind, really resemblant of rats.
Everyone has his tastes, but as they say - there are no ugly women, only
a shortage of vodka, but I cant drink that much
My mind thus occupied, I descended into the basement where the brigade
headquarters were located. Drawing away a soldiers water-proof cape that
hung over the door I immediately felt the warmth of a soldiers field
stove - the potbelly, that probably survives only in the army. But as
long as the Russian Army survives, this stove will warm its soldiers in
training and in battle.

-Comrade colonel, captain Mironov, after fulfilment of objective,

reporting. - I chanted, seeing Bilich rising his head from the map. Over
that map also leaned a senior officer of the staff - my partner or as we
referred to each other accomplice, major Ryzhov Yurij Nikolaevich and
some major unknown to me.
-We have been waiting for you a long time now. How did you go with
fetching the sniper? - asked, looking inquisitively into my eyes, the
chief of staff. - Your buddy here wagers a case of cognac that you would
not bring him.
-Had I known that the talk was of cognac, I would have at least bought
his head. But he died, the dog, from his wounds and by the looks of it
from a weak heart. The bastard was our comrade by his own admission, a
Siberian. Thirty two notches on the stock and an excellent sight on his
gun - Japanese.
-Wheres the gun? - inquired Ryzhov.
-I left it with the com-batt and Ilin. They only have to show it to
their fighters and they go berserk. And its a good charge-up for them
too.
-Enough, enough out of you about the charge-up. Right now we need only
the one type of charge-up - aviation from the air, the approximate
location of the enemy and where those bitches are getting their supplies
from. They were not prepared for war and consequently had no stores of
arms, ammunition or supplies.
-Thats not all, - I interrupted Bilich, - upon our return route, we were
fired upon, engaged, counter-attacked, destroying the enemy and
discovered upon one of their bodies, here - I handed over the dead
privates Id, - Our fighter. Semyonov is his surname.
Again, I felt that lump in my throat, interfering with my speech and
breathing. I took out the cigarettes and although Bilich did not smoke,
he sympathetically did not object. I felt the lump disappear after I
dragged a few times. I continued:
-It seems, that these bastards subjected him to prolonged torture, then
cut off his member while he was still alive and nailed him to the cross.
Then they shoved it in his mouth. We brought him back, the fighters must
have unloaded him by now. Also, here are some more, - I handed over the
other Ids, - no more of our boys.
San Sanych listened attentively, then looked straight into my eyes and
then accepted the Ids. He quickly looked them over examining only the
serial numbers of army formations, then stacked them down on the table.
-By the way, say hello, - he turned to the major, - major Karpov
Vyacheslav Viktorovich, a representative of the unified command, officer
of the General Staff. And this, - pointing at me, - is captain Mironov, a
senior staff officer, an adventurer, still drawn to battle, still cant
get used to not being a company commander, but a staffer.San Sanych
chided me fatherly-like.
I was a little startled, I did not expect my boss to report me so warmly.
I extended my arm, the major did also.
-Vyacheslav, - he introduced himself.

A namesake, huh. Lets see what sort of a bird you are and why the dick
you fluttered in here. He must be a really big deal, this guy, seeing he
was sent here to us. Maybe they want to butter us up before a suicide
mission, check out the state of affairs in the collective, so as to
remove the commander later. These far cats from Moskva like to pull such
tricks.
I looked him over attentively. A familiar mug. Ive seen him somewhere,
but where, for now, I could not remember. Very well, well sort that out
later. But the fact that this was a Moskovite and on top of that General
Staff made me dislike him immediately as it would any field officer.
These Moskovites are the root of all evil, all of them scoundrels,
thieves and coveters. This acxiom was known to every soldier, who watched
them come down for inspections and engage in nothing but drunkenness.
They then left carrying away lavish gifts. Slinks in other words - these
Moskovites. We are here because of them. Moskva planned the first and the
current storming of Grozny. November 25 and January 1 will be days of
mourning in Russian military history.
All of this raced through my head, as I shook the moskovites hand and
squeezed out a semblance of a smile. I think that my thoughts broadcast
on my soot-covered faced very well. But I could not right there and then
and in the presence of the commander send this fop to hell.
-Vyacheslav, - I introduced myself in reply to the Moskva fop.
-Major Karpov, take these documents to the stavka, let them sort out
whos who and inform the relatives. - San Sanych handed him the Ids.
The Moskovite nodded in agreement, took the Ids and without looking at or
counting them shoved them into his pocket, not even the inner pocket as a
normal officer would do out of respect for the fallen, but the outer
pocket of his coat that hung on the chair.
This severely pissed me off and with a poorly concealed irritation in my
voice I said to this son of a bitch:
-Dear sir, make sure you dont loose them, huh, after all these are
someones lives.
San Sanych and Ryzhkov both sensed the rage in my voice and looked at the
newcomer like he was the enemy of the people. Perceiving hopefully, that
he made a mistake, he muttered something under his nose and moved the
documents into his inner pocket. As he did this the ****er looked at me
very expressively as if he wanted to grind me into dust. Well well,
kiddo, have a good look, I can calm a drunken soldier with my stare, but
as for you, you dandy, Ill put you on your knees with my stare and my
gun. I held out the stare of his watery unremarkable eyes. He himself
looked a bit puny. A meter seventy in height, maybe less, thin with a
small head. Very pale, almost an albino, the difference being that the
eyes are not red, but somehow colourless. Somehow he immediately
instilled a repulsive impression. His long fringe, that he constantly
adjusted gave him an almost impercievable effeminacy. Maybe a faggot,
raced a mischievous stray thought through my head. An officer of the
General Staff is a queer. Imagine the hoo-hah. Although they say that to
change sexual orientation is fashionable in Moskva now. But no - I wont
sleep next to him. Maybe hes just colourless like a jellyfish. I should

tell this reamer to paint himself into some happy colour - like red for
instance. The snipers job would be easier too.
For a second, I imagined major Karpov painted red and a smile stretched
over my face. Karpov began to look himself over nervously checking if by
any chance there was something out of order with his clothes.
Establishing this not to be the case he realised that I was insolently
laughing at him and stared back at me angrily.
Knowing my explosive temper, San Sanych spoke in order to discharge the
atmosphere:
-Enough glaring at one another, lets go look at the corpse, fill in the
papers and you, Vyachelav Ivanovich, - he looked at Karpov, - will have
to take him to the airport and send him home.
We rose to exit. The soldiers and officers already gathered in the yard.
Semyenovs corpse was neatly laid out on a tarp, his hands folded on his
chest and the nail wounds clearly visible on the backs of his palms.
Somebody covered his face with a soldiers handkerchief. The people
simply stood there, keeping a mournful silence, their heads bared. And
only by the tenseness of their figures could one judge what was going on
inside each of their souls. The sniper was lucky that he was finished off
over there. Here he would have had the misfortune to live a lot longer.
Bilich approached the dead man, lifted up the handkerchief and looked
into the dirty face contorted in an unmoving mask of horror. He sighed
and turned to Klejmenov, who stood near. He ordered:
-Arkadij Nikolaevich, fill out the act of identification and prepare him
for shipping. The stavka agent will take him with, when he goes.
-All right, Aleksandr Aleksandrovich, - and to the surrounding soldiers:
- Take him, bring him in, its warmer there and well be able to sew him
up. And call the scribe, let him prepare the identification act, death
notice and everything else thats needed.
Everyone got busy at the same time. Bilich, addressing me, Ryzhov and the
Moskva fop:
-Lets go have dinner.
I would not have minded a snack of course, and to let through a hundred
grams, but not in the company of this colourless mug, so I politely
declined.
-Thank you comrade colonel, but Ill eat a little later. I need to wash
up from the road, prepare the report about the sniper and Semyonov plus
the other work is piling up. I need to catch up.
-As you wish, and report to me at 21.00, the brigade commander should be
back by then. - he looked at me attentively as he said this, it seemed he
knew the real reason for my refusal.
They entered the building. I watched how the fighters brought in what
remained of Semyonov, turned about and departed towards my vehicle.
Each staff officer had his own vehicle. I and Yurka Ryzhkov had a GAZ-66
with a plywood kung. Whereas many officers preferred to spend the short
periods of rest in basements, me and Ryzhov loved our kung. We had a

driver - Kharin Pashka, a meter seventy in height, big-boned, wide, evergrinning mug, small eyes with ginger hair and a shaven back and flowing
forelock, as was the soldiers fashion. Paskas nature was that of a
scoundrel, wriggler and conman, but I have seen him numerous times in
action, driving the truck and us out of the line of fire, which is why we
loved and trusted him. In civilian life this Pashka was a self-willed,
heinous ****-stirrer and a womaniser. A pregnant fianc awaited him where
we came from. He had another year until leave into reserves. Pashka knew
about almost everything that happened in the brigade as he kept up warm
relations with the fighters in the staff, communications, the mess. He
supplied us with news and knew some things before we did, having learned
them from the communications officers. This gave us time to think and
prepare and to deliver ripened ideas during meeting, while the others
were only beginning to digest the new information. The command
appreciated this and thought of us as competent officers. We were not
debils of course, but it helped.
Having reached the vehicle, I noted with satisfaction that over the
course of the day, Pashka found the time to fill up paper sandbags and
position them around the vehicle. I can breathe easier now. A waft of
smoke was streaming from the pipe, meaning that inside there is warmth,
hot water and dry cigarettes. I went to the door and without opening it,
called out:
-Pashka! Where are you?
-I am here, comrade captain. Im guarding.
Pashka emerged from the twilight. I glanced at the spot he picked to take
up guard duty and noted that it was well-chosen.
-So, my illegitimate son, what will you delight your father with? Did you
behave? - I jested to Pashka.
-All is well, Vyacheslav Nikolaevich. Here - I secured the vehicle with
sand, procured some provisions.
There was a problem with provisions, as well as mattresses, underwear and
uniforms. The supply columns fell back , back at Severny and there was
no sense to drag them here under numerous cross-fires. Only the fuel
trucks, under escort brought us diesel for the vehicles and power
generators. Its a given that every soldier and officer in their vehicle
or BMP, had access to spam, preserved porridge with meat, etc, but that
is not food. That is a direct route to a stomach ulcer. For that reason,
everyone, without exception constantly hunted for provisions.
During the storming of this lovely former kindergarten, significant
stores of provisions and alcohol were located in its basements. A lot of
it we already ate and drank, but we also knew who grabbed more than the
rest and through personal charm or some other ploy of Paskas continued
to dekulakize the communications personnel.
-Dear son, - I directed to Pashka whilst climbing into the kung, - what
exotic delights will you bring your elderly, ailing father?
-Dutch ham, cured lamb, sardines, French, I think, and two bottles of
cognac, also French judging by the label. - he reported.
-Hot water? - I inquired, taking off the gun, the coat and other
ammunition.

-Yes, a full kettle. Pashka reported, as he threw the gun over his
shoulder.
-Come and pour me some water and then well have supper. - I have already
began to enjoy the warmth in the kung and very reluctantly emerged back
out into the gloomy frost, seeing that I had to also undress.
I washed my face thoroughly, snorting like a cat and spitting out the
dust lodged in my mouth and nostrils. There was no sauna for the time
being, so we used sanitary napkins that we picked up at the airport and
some cheap polish cologne, which we periodically rubbed into our skin
having first undressed completely. We simply threw away our underwear,
donning fresh ones each time.
Back in the kung, while I was dressing, and polishing the gun with a rag,
Pashka sliced up the ham and the pungent lamb ribs and opened a can of
sardines. In the cenre of the table he hoisted the unopened bottle of
cognac Hennesy. I opened the bottle and sniffed its contents. They
smelled all-right. I poured into the plastic cups. A little more for
myself, a little less for Pashka. Raised the glass and looked at the
liquid through the light, sniffed it once more. I definitely like the
smell.
-So Pavel, to good fortune.
Clinking, we drank.
-Vyacheslav Nikolaevich, why did you not bring the sniper?
-You know damn well why. Glue, Semyon, the American and the others must
have already told you. He died from a heart attack and from his wounds
and the rest if not your business.
-Tell me the news. Has the war ended yet?
-Nooo. - dragged Pashka. There is an order to assist in the taking of
hotel Kavkaz. They promise air support. Then theyll send the whole
brigade to take the Minutka square together with Dudaevs palace.
-Thats where well perish, because its suicide to storm such a target
with one brigade. What else?
-The chief of staff of the second battalion is wounded. Up there with him
is the singer Shevchuk from DDT. Have you heard of this?

----------CHAPTER 3----------No, I havent heard of this. What is he doing there?

-Nothing, he just came to play a concert at Severny and when he was
there, asked to be taken to the frontline. He left his band at the
airport and ended up with our guys. Who would have known that the second
battalion would get surrounded so thoroughly, that they wont be able to
get out? So hes staying put for now. The guys are saying over the radio
that hes a fine lad and is not afraid, wants to fight.

-Wait and see, theyll send reinforcements to break through and get him
out and by the by, theyll take Kavkaz. Then theyll get all the
wounded out to Severny and from there home.
-The moskovite keeps lurking around, asking the soldiers about their
living conditions, probing and so forth.
-You should have sent this ****er to hell and be done with it. They cant
send you further than the front. Meanwhile what hes doingwe have our
own political officer for that, whom we have seen at work and in combat.
He doesnt hide behind other soldiers backs and doesnt gnaw his rations
under his bunk. And he doesnt instigate any showy exercises. Anyway,
Ill sort this condom out. Only, I cant remember where Ive seen him.
But weve crossed paths before somewhere.
-He was saying that he fought in Transnistria and that the situation
there resembled this one. You were there too and maybe thats how you
met?
-Maybe we met there. Only Pashka, Ill tell you the **** in Transnistria
was certainly brutal, but in comparison to Chechnya, that was childs
play in the park. The battles there were mostly of the classical
positional type, although Bender and Dubossary changed hands several
times. But in comparison to the local madhouse, that was a scout camp.
I noticed that Pashka wore a bullet on a string around his neck - an
ancient soldiers amulet, that supposed to represent the bullet cast for
that particular man. Oh if only it was true. These trinkets are no good they help the man relax, blunt his vigilance. I laughed:
-Youd better hang a grenade by its pin and Ill pull it, or a mine or a
shell. How do you know that its a bullet thats cast for you as opposed
to a piece of shrapnel, hmm? Maybe its a concrete slab, you should sling
that around your neck too, itll come in handy. Remember how they found a
fighter from the tank battalion that suffocated on just such a silk
string? The bullet didnt save him, so dont be a bull, take it off and
use it according to specification.
Fooling around in this manner, I finished off the provisions that were on
the table and leaning back against the kungs wall retrieved the snipers
cigarettes and lit up. They were damp, probably from my sweat and lets
face it, its not May out there.
-Pasha, are there dry cigarettes around?
-Here, he handed me a packet of Pamir or as we called them Pauper in
the mountains because the design features some bum with a crooked stick
wearing a safari hat and a felt cloak, a basmach, a dukh in other words.
- Take them Vacheslav Nikolaevich, there are more on the stove. And hand
yours over too, well dry them.
I took the packet, spun it around in my hands and placed it in my pocket.
-Give me some paper, I need to write up the report about the sniper and
Semyonov.
Pashka fetched the paper and sat down near me.
-Some Cossacks came to the commander, asking to be allowed to fight. They
brought recommendations from their commander.Pashka said quietly,
removing the leftovers of my supper from the table as I continued
writing.

-Well, if they want to fight for the Russian idea, let them fight. In
Moldova they fought well, even procured their own weapons, I remarked,
not lofting my head away from the paper.
-Yeah, Bakhel said the same thing and sent them to the reconnaissance
guys. There are five of them.
-We should go make friends with them later...
Suddenly a fierce fire-fight broke out near-by. We leapt out of the kung.
I hurriedly put on my coat, a bag of spare cartridges dangling off my
arm. In the case of the headquarters coming under attack, every soldier
and officer had their own zone of responsibility, their firing range and
knew their place. And so without much ado, we ran to a little trench dug
out by Pashka a few days ago.
The shooting came in long volleys indicating a close range of fire
contact. Somebody was issuing orders out of the darkness:
-North-east, a white five-storey building. An infantry group has been
spotted numbering up to ten people. A diversion manoeuvre is a
possibility.
Nothing could be made out in the thickening gloom, only dim silhouettes.
Suddenly somebody started launching flares and Pashka followed suit with
a few of our own. I noticed that about thirty meters away a group of
Chechens was crawling towards us. They were dressed in good-quality
Turkish camouflage which was conveniently distinctive from ours in both
its pattern and grade of material. If I come across a Chechen my size,
Im going to undress him. Like that time in Transnistria, when we caught
a policeman. It was May and I was dressed in high boots, which were very
hot, my feet nearly melted off. This fellow meanwhile was wearing GPs.
Which were in deficit at the time. On top of that they were the Afghan
lighter model with a reinforced sole, so as to aid in mountain-climbing.
Back then in Moldavia, we did not execute prisoners, they were like us
after all - orthodox and they were fighting because of dumb politicians.
Im wearing these boots even now, three years now and they are still
good, although they lost their shelf appeal. Nobody makes them like this
any more. And maybe someday, somebody will likewise take them off me dead
or alive. The Lord only knows.
I touched Pashkas elbow and pointed out the Chechens.
-Lets go, - I whispered.
And we opened fire. We shot after aiming, in short bursts. One could see
little fountains of snow, earth and mud in the flare light. The Chechens
knowing that they have been discovered, returned fire. They were in a
less favourable position and therefore fired in long volleys as they
crawled back. Someone started firing the underbarreler cutting off their
retreat. Suddenly a machine gun reported behind us. So, the bastards
decided to encircle us?
Tough chance, you mongrels! I felt the days fatigue disappear, the rush
of battle taking over me once again. The blood pumped thudding into my
head, chasing away the remnants of alcohol.

-Pashka, cover me, Im going to work these bitches over with the
underbarreler, I said preparing the grenade launcher for combat.
-Dont let me down, baby, - I muttered inserting the first grenade.
Bang, reported the underbarreler, spitting out the grenade at the
Chechens. Over-flight. I corrected for it and made the second shot.
Gotcha. The grenade exploded in the midst of the crawling infantry. Two
of them span on the spot, wounded by the looks of it, the third rose up
to his knees clutching his head and without taking away his hands
collapsed face first into the mud.
-Done, baked him, - I said in ardour, looking for the next target
meanwhile. But the other Chechens hid behind piles of debris and started
hosing us down with machine gun fire. The flares suspended in the air now
worked against us, revealing our fire-points.

An underbarreler grenade exploded behind us, meaning they too had that
weapon. I wonder if they were issued out of the same supply dump?, I
contemplated bitterly, smirking at such unhappy thoughts.
I switched from the underbarreler to the gun, searching out the source of
the shooting. At this point, the sound of footsteps emerged from behind
us and we turned our guns towards the darkness, ready to fire. It turned
out to be Ryzhov Yurka.
-****, you scared us, you idiot, - I said returning to what I was doing
previously.
-Its merrier here, compared to being with that moskovite, that is. Hes
droning on and on; this isnt right, that document isnt worked out
correctly. Dont write captured, instead write unlawfully held by
unlawful armed formations. It is recommended to continue advancing
towards the hotel Kavkaz, using our own resources. Take it as soon as
is possible and then shift in the direction of Minutka and take it on the
go. - Yura fell silent for a moment. - Take it head-on.
-They can go to hell. They can take it if they want it so badly, we need
aviation meanwhile, the more the better, let them knock away at it, - I
shouted angrily, firing into the darkness. After Yurkas news, I was
riled up and started firing off long volleys. - Yura, I took one out
using the undrerbarreler, and those two are twisting around on the spot must be wounded.
From the way they were firing, we knew that the Chechens did not want to
leave it at this. Meanwhile, the Shilkathe same one that was installed
today, started reporting somewhere behind us. Well, that thing with its
speed of fire and calibre will chop everyone into cabbage. Together with
Pashka, Yurka were also arduously hosing down the darkness with long
volleys, not letting the Chechens peek out.
-Slava, that Moskva asshole says hes seen you somewhere. Says it was in
Kishenyov.
And then it came to me.
I remembered everything. When were shipped into Transnistria from
Kishenyov, over the front line, in civilian clothes and without

documents, this freak was in the human resources of the Stavka of the
South West front. This organ was then made into the Ministry of Defence
of Moldova. This fop remained in the same department as on the same post.
Meanwhile our dossiers fell into Moldovan hands. As a result, we were
declared war criminals and it was to him that I came to appeal for my
dossier to be returned to me. He put on airsno, he said, You are a
criminal and I dont want to be your accomplice. I recommend that you
leave immediately or I will call the guards and you will be arrested.
The chameleon bitch. But it seems, he had to leg it from there in the end
too. An amnesty was declared a few months later, so for now - Im not a
criminal.
The Chechens again started firing at our positions using the
underbarreler. After a grenade explosion, somebody shouted out behind us.
****, one of ours must have been wounded. But we spotted the muzzle flash
in the dark and shifted our fire. After a few minutes we heard screams
issue from there and then some sort of other noise.
We continued firing for another few minutes, but received no response. It
seemed the Chechens having encountered resistance must have fallen back.
There was no desire to go and confirm this in the dark. Once it grows
lightwell sort it out.
-Looks like the former owner came for his cognac, - Yurka joked.
-The ****er must have forgotten what Marx wrote in the second volume of
Capital, on page two, second paragraph.
-So what does it say there, Vyacheslav Nikolaevich? - Pashka enquired out
of the dark.
-Its is very simple, it says - what was yours is now ours, expropriation
of the expropriators. Had they not kicked up a fuss, we would not have
come.
-Is there anything left to drink there? - said Ryzhov to me.
-There is, dont fret. Didnt you drink with the colourless fellow? - I
answered.
-We drank, but that bitch turned us down. Probably because we didnt
offer him cognac - we poured him vodka. And by the by the creep enquired
if we had any trophies.
-Moskovite, ****ing, ulcer his soul, - I spat to the ground, fumbling to
replenish the empty magazines in the utter darkness. Looks like its
quiet. Lets be off, I still have to fill out the report and go to the
meeting with San Sanych.
-Lets go. Pashka, youll remain on guard duty, make a noise if something
happens and well sprint over and save you from the evil Chechen, - Yurka
joked

Shaking off the clumps of mud from our trousers, we emerged from the dugout and walked to the kung. Other officers walked towards their vehicles
beside us, to ready themselves for the war council.
-Oi, people, who was wounded there? - I shouted into the darkness.
-Larionov, the comms driver. Hes OK though - the shrapnel went through
his leg sparing the bones. Hes with the medics now. - A voice answered
from the darkness, probably that of the armament deputy Cherepkov Pavel
Nikolaevich.

-The medics are running out of room to keep the wounded, we should break
out to get them out of here, otherwise well loose them, - Yurka
announced loudly, as we approached our vehicle.
-This should be brained over and offered up to the father-commanders, - I
picked up his idea.
-Lets drop a hundred and go hear the moskovite pimples crap, -Yura
said, throwing off the assault rifle into the corner of the kung, - Im
sick of listening to it alone. The Moskovites reckon that we cant fight
and that we should inspire the guys with images of the Siege of Berlin
and that Dudaevs palace is the Reichstag. Its some crazy paranoia. If
we let them, these mongrels will lay us down in stacks for the sake of
their propaganda, - Yurka was riled up, but this did not prevent him from
continuing to pour the cognac and crack open the delicious oily imported
sardines.
-Well, Yurok, dont fuss, well have a drink now and then go **** this
ass-licker up at the meeting. Dont worry. Whatever these geriatrics come
up with for us to accomplishwell accomplish. But with the current
artillery and air support, we wont get far. Let him go to hell. Well, I lifted up the plastic cup filled with amber liquid to eye level,
contemplated the play of light within it, - lets go, to us, good lads
and to death to idiots.
-Whatever, you wont get it from them, - Yurka had no intention to let it
go and continued to foam.No matter how well you fight, the advantage
will remain on the side of idiots, as if they are deliberately working
for the Chechens, so as to waste as many of ours as possible.
-Dont shout, Yura, we should think about how well ferry the wounded
out. The Chechens wont leave us alone anyway, until we resume the
advance. And as you yourself well know there will be more wounded then.
Id say, we take the recon troops by the ass, the third battalion with
anything that theyve got that still rides and break out. Otherwise well
loose people without count. Lets drinkI raised my glass again, and
drank without clinking. Yurka drank his.
When we were departing, our formations incomplete numbers were
supplemented with a battalion from Novosibirsk. The plan was for complete
preparations by autumn and depart for Tajikistan and then to join either
the 201-st division or the peacekeepers, same **** reallyno-one knew for
whom and for what we were to fight. So this battalion arrived in new,
experimental BMP-3s. Outwardly and conceptually, this is a wonderful
machine, but in reality - pure crap. Like your import car, my reader,
its choke-full with electronics. But it is made by our, that is Russian
manufacturers. And so we drank from this chalice together. It cannot
shoot whilst moving, the electronics fail from the jolting. The aiming
and tracking systems are all electronic, so the ****ing thing jams. And
if it shoots, it doesnt ****ing move, also something to do with the
electronics. In other words a very green, scary machine to be in. In
early January the third battalion lost twenty four people because of the
shitty electronicsa scary statistic. Ant its all because untested
machinery was released into armament and into active combat on top of
that. Quite a few of them got burnedfive or so actually. They withdrew
them to safer quarters and are using them as machine gun nests nowthe
cannon jams for half a day after one shot. Or they are used as taxis for
movement over more or less safe ground. Itd rip the arms off the creeps
that approved this half baked **** for armament.

Letting though the second shot, I heard Yurijs account of how my

Moskovite namesake foamed after I left. That apparently in war certain
officers are allowing insubordinations towards senior staff, the
discipline is deteriorating and so on and so forth. So we finished off
the bottle toasting to the extremely distant removal of moskovite
foolishness and departed for the meeting in a merry state of mood. Our
souls were filled with the desire to demonstrate to all the officers in
our brigade a shining example of courtesy and military craft to our
moskovite reviser. The is only one treatment for revisers in waryou
wont be sent further than the front and even if you are reprimanded.
Unlike gonorrhoea it wont hang around and will eventually go away. By
the way, gonorrhoea, my dear reader is known as the officers cold.
Whilst they were still cadets most officers had time to experience this
disease. There is nothing shameful about it in the army, unlike in
civilian life. All sorts of things happen.
Every commander had his place at the meeting. Being officers of the
staff, we sat close to the chief. The meeting was held in the former
childrens gym, which then became the guest room of the Chechen host,
where he constructed a decent fireplace, which was now being vigorously
fired using his own furniture. By the way, mahogany burns poorlya lot of
smoke and little heat.
The chief of staff sat at the head of a large dinging table. It was
obvious that he had not time to even wash his face after his journey and
also that the second battalion was not doing at all well. There was
talking behind me, I turned and saw that the chief of reconnaissance was
sitting there. His mug was just as dusty as the com-brigs. He must have
shared his journey, so I asked:
-How was your trip with Bakhel? Hows the second battalion doing?
-Utter ****ing disaster. We were ambushed on the way back, lost one BMP.
The mechanic was woundedyou know Gusarov? He got banged up. First they
tore up the track, then shot us up. We narrowly escaped from under fire.
-No I dont know him, - I shook my head. Badly wounded?
-His palms got burned and the shrapnel tore off half his ear and cut up
his shoulder. If they save his hands, then all will be well. A shame, he
was a competent mechanic, I wanted to make him a sergeant.
-Listen, Im going to now propose that we bring out the wounded before
coming to the second battalions aid, otherwise theyll cark it. Your
mechanic can be brought out with them. The third battalion will be
required to do thisyour Arkharovites. What say you?
-Of course Im for it. When we were dragging out the wounded guy, I
remembered that a republican pharmacological stores are situated nearbly.
Meanwhile our medics are out of everything other than aspirin and
enthusiasm.
-Great, suggest this to the council, well work out the details and take
the medicaments from the Chechens. Junkies and speculators will do that
anyway.
-Attention, Comrade officers! The chief of staff addressed all present.

The room fell silent and everyones attention turned to the brigades
command.
-In the last twenty four hours, our brigade engaged in combat at the
railway terminal, the hotel Kavkaz, and here at the bridgehead. Also,
during tours of the brigades positions, some elements of the of the
brigades staff were ambushed and committed to short fire-fights. As a
result of these engagements we have suffered the following lossesthe
room went deadly quiet, - dead: private Azarovtank battalion, sergeant
Kharlapidithe engineer-sapper battalion, totalling two. Woundedthe
chief of staff of the second battalion lieutenant Pakhomenko, the
commander of the first battalion lieutenant Krasnov, private Gusarov
recon troop and private Larionovthe comms battalion. The body of private
Semyenov was located and brought backengineer-sapper battalion, who was
listed as missing in action. The man suffered an agonising death, - here
San Sanych lifted his eyes from the paper and continues without looking
at the brief: - He was tortured for a long time, then crucified, his
member inserted into his mouth. It was a chilling sight, comrade
officers, let me tell you.
There was noise in the audience, as the officers began to loudly discuss
the soldiers death, disregarding the presence of their superiors or the
Moskva reviser.
-Quiet, comrade officers, - Bilich continued having withheld a slight
pause, - I am no less outraged than you, but let us set emotions and
anger aside as for now we cannot do anything about it. The first
battalion captured a sniper, a Siberian by his own admission, from our
own Novosibirsk. Captain Mironov was unable to deliver him to the
headquarters, reporting that he died from wounds he sustained and from
cardiac arrest.
Again it became noisy this time in the sign of approval. Those with whom
I made eye contact, nodded approvingly and winked to me as if it was I
who finished the sniper. Someone remarked from the back He could not
live with his conscious and so his heart gave out. The officers heehawed
approvingly. The room was bathed in a semi-darkness, the only light
falling on the table where the commander, the chief of staff and Karpov
sat. All others gradually receded into the gloom and so those at the back
could comment without fear of being identified. Lucky.
Again San Sanych had to call for order and the noise gradually died down.
I covertly observed the expression on the faces of the commander and that
of the Moskavite. Whilst the commanders lips smiled ever so slightly at
that replica, the reviser continued to grimace with his thin lips
indicating his extreme displeasure with what was happening. A rat is a
rat. I wondered if he ever made at least company commander before ending
up upon the parquet floors of the Stavka? I went through all the levels,
was never promoted early, having licked commanders ass and as a result
ended up travelling around the country and seeing a lot of wars. I do not
want my son in an academy, even though my father, my fathers brother, my
father in law and methe idiot finished the same bloody military academy.
Had I learned English instead, I would not have been stuck here now.
Later San Sanych began to explain the nature of our future task, that
Karpov brought, who meanwhile bloated up from the pomp and importance of

his mission, as if it was all his idea and we owed him bringing it to us
into the very grave. The officers listened tensely, exchanging quiet
replicas.
Then Karpov spoke:
-Comrade officers! The united command honours you with the task to be the
first to storm the layer of the beast and destroy him. The Supreme
Commander himself delegates the progress of this operation. You have
recommended yourself well in the recent battles and in the name of the
command I express my confidence that Siberian warriors will cope with the
task at hand with honour.
And he continued in the same dull manner in the worst traditions of
Soviet cinema. If he supposed that the audience would break out in
unending ovation, he was deeply mistaken. Nothing was heard apart from
quiet snickers and the same replicas as before. Then somebody from the
back row pronounced loudly and clearly: Go get ****ed. I and many
present knew who that was from the way that was phrased. Only one officer
in the brigade spoke like thatMazur Sergej Mikhajlovich the tank
battalion commander. When we entered Grozny, we had forty two T-72 tanks.
Now we had twenty six. In the ten days of fighting we lost sixteen tanks,
often with their crews. So major Mazur had the right to send all the
moskovite smartasses as far away and as often as was possible.
Everyone awaited the response and it came without delay.
-Who said that? I suppose this is not a particularly righteous officer
who would dare step up and say it right to my face.
Mazur got up and pushing aside those sitting in front of him approached
the table.
-I said it, and so what? Because of you ****ers, I lost forty eight
people and who knows how many more will fall because of such bullshit
command. Why cant the artillery and aviation blow that square apart to
hell together with everyone nested there? Why cant the troops just block
it meanwhile and take anyone trying to escape it? There will be less
Russian blood and well take more of them.
Everyone looked to Karpov. Taken aback, he cleared his throat and began:
-The issue here is that the whole world watches the events here with
great intent and even in the Stavka, all leading news and television
outlets registered themselves for coverage. So if we were to employ
artillery and aviation on such a scale, the international community may
not understand. You remarked correctly that the process will take longer,
meanwhile the countrys leadership requires a speedy resolution of this
conflict. Also the local opposition, who are on our side are against a
resolution via the massive deployment of artillery and aviation. Maybe
some of the militants will wish to surrender? Also. We currently have
reliable information that a group of prominent rights activists headed by
a deputy of the State Duma Krylov are currently located in Dudaevs
basement as guarantors of his safety. They may come to harm during a
massed raid.
-**** him in the mouth with sweaty toes!

-Go get ****ed!

-Ill spot the aviation fire myself, so that the lads dont miss!
-That bitch needs to hang!

Many other unflattering things were uttered about the prominent rights
activist Krylov. This would have continued for a long time if the
commander didnt say:
-Enough! I urge you not to speak unless its business. The order is not
subject to discussion but subject to fulfilment. The details such as
artillery and aviation support as well as deadlines will be worked out
later. Im listening. Remember that you have three days to take the hotel
and mop up the surrounding area. Any suggestions?

I raised my hand.
-If I may comrade colonel, - and having received a nod of approval, I
proposed: - If we have to face such an engagement, we will have many more
wounded, whereas we already have no room to pit them or medicine to treat
them. To that end, I propose the following: using the third battalion
forces, supported by the recon and the chemical-warfare companies, we
must break out to Severny tomorrow and bring out all the wounded. In that
vicinity are located the republican medical stores and I think fresh
medical supplies will be of help to us.
-Those stores are meant for the civilian population! - replied the retard
moskovite. - we must not do that under any circumstances, as to not
incite the local populace against us!
-Be quiet, major, youve had your say. The local populace are incited
against us beyond any further measure as it is. Mironov, continue.
-Thats about all from me. If the plan is approved, I am prepared to
personally lead the column. We just need to let the battalions know to
ship their wounded here as early as possible and well move out at 9:30.
If everything goes as I plan, well return by 17:00 with just enough time
left for raiding the pharmaceutical stores.
-And what are your thoughts in regard to Kavkaz and the square?
-I propose that as the wounded are being shipped out, somebody talk to
our superior at the Stavka staff and discuss all available combinations.
If somebody would take over the rail terminal in our stead, then the
first battalion in conjunction with the second can easily knock out the
Chechens. During the mop -up we can even get the third battalion to
support us. Also, if it is possible to have one of the divisions selfpropelled artillery machines approach I think that we can fulfil the
objective within the required timeframe...That is...if our friendly
neighbours from Severny dont shoot us up again as they have several
times now. I couldnt help but let that one out to stir up the reviser.

The pros and cons of my plan were scrutinised at length, until the
commander largely approved it. He decided to lead the column himself,
choosing myself and Rhyzhov to accompany him as well as the chief of

reconnaissance, the medics commander, the third battalion commander and

the deputy quartermaster. After a headcount it turned out that we had one
hundred and twenty wounded, including those in the battalions and that
many are refusing evacuation. One would think that the war having thus
ended for them, having not given in to cowardice, having not shot
themselves and with many being recommended for decoration...Many of the
wounded fighters could well count on a speedy dismissal from military
service. But no. Even some of the heavily wounded were refusing to be
evacuated to the rear. Their commanders had to shout, order, try to
convince them.
Honestly, some fighters openly wept, as if they were treated unjustly,
offended, punished. Some did not want to leave the soldiers brotherhood,
not a fake brotherhood, but a real one, many confessed that they have not
yet satisfied their lust for revenge of their fallen comrades. Looking at
these faces lit up with a mad inner fire, yet also their eyes,
illuminated somehow, one understood that these people were ready to give
up their lives for those around them. To die without thought or haggle
with the reaper or the enemy, to stand between a bullet and their
comrade, undemanding of any privilege, decoration or indulgence. I was
asking myself the question to which to this day I find no answer: maybe
this is that very might of spirit possessing of the Russian soldier, that
no world army was capable of breaking? This is regardless of the fact
that not one Russian ruler loved his army, they feared it, constantly
trying to break its back, to achieve that which the enemy had failed to
do. And all the while, the Russian Makhor, disregarding the intrigues of
its rulers and the frenzied resistance of all its enemies, tears at their
throats, avenging fallen comrades, destroying the foe as he himself
perishes. The demise of one will give birth to desire for revenge in the
brothers in arms who surround him and the power that be, aware of this
paradox will keep supplying them with new enemies, when there are no more
real ones, because they know that for one who has tasted blood, it is
practically impossible to stop and that if they do, they might look back.
And, my reader, when one looks back they will see that while they were
fighting out someones incomprehensible orders, the whole country lived
peacefully and prospered. Somebody made a fortune in war, amassing a
healthy fortune, brought their money overseas, meanwhile ones soldier,
whom they are dragging under fire, with both their legs missing is
receiving a government pension of 300 roubles for both those legs.
And he will grab one after the third toast, look hauntingly into their
eyes and ask Why, why did you drag me out?. And one will feel bitter,
despondent, ashamed that they saved him. And that deed, that one felt so
proud of, that they may have been decorated for will feel low and
grievous, for the rest of their lives.
That is because ones state sent them to slaughter upon its whim and then
abandoned them. Both the living and dead. And nothing else. Ones
paranoid fantasies ushered in by post-traumatic stress and numerous
concussions are nothingtheyll fix you up in a madhouse, give them five
years or so, come on in. As for the remaining soldiers, theyll scatter

and retrench them, lest they wag their tongues, and discuss their
superiors conduct. As the witnesses of a crime are removed, so are the
military men of each liberation campaign are dismissed and exiled. This
happened after Afghanistan as it did after the withdrawal from East
Germany. Because they knew: the army may turn around and perceive that
its real enemy is so nearin Moskva.
And when one is dismissed from active service, or ousted into civilian
life, or exiled to a peripheral garrison, they will realise that the
brightest, the most un-retouched memories they had, that the very taste
of life they tasted out there in some wretched war. And that their life
henceforth will always be divided into BEFORE and AFTER.
It is here that one is forced to choose, the eternal Russian question
What is to be done?
One could try to live like everyone else, but they know that they will
not get far in life. One can get recruited into law enforcement, where
they are by the way very welcome, and thought of as madmen. One could
become an assassinfamiliar work and they say decent pay. However, to
kill not for ideals or revenge and not in such a quantity, but for
money...will one cope?
An then there is the third surrogate waymercenary. Though, there one
will need to fight alongside those at whom they were shooting at not so
long ago, but money doesnt judge and if they get a taste for it, they
can wield ruthless vengeance on the aborigines with ones friend, their
recent enemy.
And the wounded knew all this. Some understood it, some felt it
intuitively, with their skin. They knew that this was that very thing for
which every real man lives and if they were to now leave, they will never
experience it in their life again. Because of that they clung onto every
opportunity to remain. The commanders deceived some of them, saying that
they are to accompany the column and will return into the brigade upon
its delivery. Some believed, others wanted to believe, hoping that maybe
the column would not break through and would have to turn back, some
believed that before being shipped to hospital they can fight one last
time and dispatch many faithful to their Allah.
They like to shriek Allah akhbar, Allah akhbar, - we are guessing that
hes akhbar without their aid, but for some reason they are not in much
of a hurry to meet him. Considering especially that they are promised
heaven in return for war against the unfaithful. So, that means that
were doing good works for the true faithful, dispatching them to heaven
but they, like blind puppies, dare resist.
It was a sleepless night at the command post. I, Yurka, the chief of
staff and the chief of recon, along with a large number of other officers
were working out the various possible routes, conferred with neighbouring
formations regarding passage through their territory and joint action in
case of Chechen ambush. There was enough work for all; the mechanics
prepared their vehicles for the journey, the armorers were trying to tune
the BMP-3s.

Once the matters of evacuation and the taking of medical stores were
sorted out, only the staff officers remained behind. This council was led
by the chief of the operations department and we spent a long time
discussing various ways of storming the complex of buildings at the
Minutka square. Firstly a lot was said in regards to the unified command
and the moskovite smartasses but gradually people calmed down and the
debate proceeded along peacefully.
Unanimously we concluded that a frontal assault was suicide. Moreover
that it meant the taking of the bridge across Sunzha first, the bridge
that led to the square and that lay directly in our path. That would mean
that we would have to rally the troops across it, under razor-sharp fire
and could have simply laid them all down right there on that little
bridge. But we could not avoid it either, as that would mean going around
through half the city.
At this point the sentry chief of the commanding post burst in.
-Comrade colonel, - he began excitedly, addressing the chief of staff, the moskovite left.
-What, how did he leave? - San Sanych asked, having not understood him.
-He said that he was summoned to the headquarters, got into his BRDM and
left.
-How long ago?
-Maybe fifteen minutes has now passed. I spoke to him on the radio and he
said that he has to arrive at Severny before sunrise.
-Lunatic, idiot and a dumbass, hell die himself and get his people
killed. He was supposed to depart with the column. Foolish cretin, - the
operations chief continued to make noise.
We all realised very clearly what it meant to travel alone in a lightlyarmoured car in the darkness in the war-torn city. The result is almost
always the same either Chechen capture or a shoot-up by friendly fire.
Every soldier knew this, not to speak of the officers and this moron is
counting on his status as a staff officer to save him from the bullets!
There was a curfew in Grozny and because of it we sometimes could not
evacuate the badly wounded to Severny, to their better hospital.
And this pimple, this upstart out of the blue decides to leave into the
night endangering the soldiers that accompany him.
We radioed Severny immediately and told them about their retard. He
probably did this impulsively in order to arrive ahead of us and report
that we deigned to openly debate higher orders. Its a pity that this
careerist took the long suffering remains of Semyonov with him. There is
no peace for the fallen lad. Forgive us private Semnyonov.
A panic spread at the staff of Severny. To think of itan officer is
missing, who is if partially but is still privy to the plans of the
command and an officer of the General Staff on top of that. It seems that
he knew enough for there to have been a night search mission organised to

find him. Crazy things were happening on the air. All formations were
reporting that the moskovites BRDM had not passed through their
checkpoints. We were preparing ourselves for lengthy dialogue at the
staff where we would be tried and tested if it was us perchance that sent
him into the darkness. So instead of sleeping soundly the rest of the
night, we spent it composing reports to the effect that that we did not,
were not a part of and other similar nonsense. God forbid, they decide to
implicate you in sabotage action against the higher bosses. You can craft
pocket souvenirs from the enemy, but not dare as to look at the command
sideways. OK, one will encounter plenty more fools in their life, but
its a pity, after all hes Russian and his fighters, the escort, will
suffer needlessly. For some reason we were all convinced that he was
taken by the Chechens as the formations along his path did not report him
passing. God willing he was taken dead rather than alive, as in the
latter case a lot will have to be changed in our plans.
At approximately eight in the morning, we learned that Karpovs BRDM
ended up at an OMON checkpoint that was put up just before nightfall. As
we suspected, at first he pompously bragged about his influence, but the
guys in OMON severely did not give a **** about some General Staff and
some major Karpov. At first they simply thought he was a real spy and
together with his fighters mercilessly beat him the remainder of the
night. Towards the morning, they led him out to several mock executions,
in order to extract a confession that he really is a spy. It was said
that they even shot above his head. But everything cleared up in the
morning, the paratroopers that arrived to pick him up, thoroughly beat in
the militias mugs and departed, having collected Karpov in an
unconscious state, along with Semyonovs remains. After this, Karpor was
flown out on the first flight to Mozdok and from there probably to
Moskva. Hell probably be decorated and will be seen on television or
read in his memoirs recalling how he fought though half of Chechnya, or
something to that effect. Good luck to him.

----------CHAPTER 4---------Loading of the wounded began sometime around eight in the morning. By
this time vehicles from the first and second battalion bearing their dead
and wounded broke thought to us under enemy fire. Due to the fact that
there was no room in the kindergarten yard, only the most serious
casualties were loaded there. Those who were conscious, could be carried
in anothers arms, on stretchers, or could move on crutches were packed
into the vehicles. Those who could participate in a fire-fight placed
themselves on top of the armour. They all knew very well that if there is
a grenade hit or a mine blast, the wounded inside the BM will perish and
the responsibility of vigilance weighed down heavily upon the shoulders
of those on top. The column turned out to be bigger than was counted on.
Fifteen BMPs. We had to forego wheeled vehicles as even a rifle bullet
punches a kung all the way through, no to speak of a grenade or a mine.

To our fortune, or not, the city became immersed in fog. In general, the
winter weather here is pretty shitty. Its cold, but there is no snow and
the mud beneath us is not even mud, more like slop, which bogs our feet,
that we have to tear out with great effort, our shoes weighed down with
large clumps of mud. The same happens to the vehicles. What will it be
like here in the springtime? The ground froze over slightly overnight, so
we hoped to skip through under the cover of fog over the frozen dirt. The
comms troops once again announced to all neighbouring formations as well
as Severny that the convoy bearing the wounded was departing.
There was this paradoxall formations, regardless of their specialty were
broadcasting using the same bandwidth and the same call-signs. Meaning
that if one was to scan the 330 MHz range for a day, they could easily
learn which troop was stationed where, what it was doing, the name of the
commander, the radioman and a lot of other useful and useless
information.
The enemy by the way did not shine with intelligence of inventiveness
either, broadcasting on the same frequencies and using the same callsigns weeks on end. We were as dumb as each another, in other words.
Radio interception and disinformation services performed fabulously on
both sides of the front, but the Chechens had one major advantage. They
knew Russian and were capable of misinforming us in our native tongue,
whilst we could not do the same in their Chechen language.
The aborigines often established a radio link with our forces, both
during battle and otherwise and fed them their propaganda, including
threats. They christened us dogs from the first days of war. During the
liberation of the rail terminal, they successfully disoriented a
neighbouring artillery battery, who thoroughly pounded us for half an
hour thinking all the while that they were talking to us. And sadly these
were not isolated incidents. It took time to counter this menace through
a system of codes and passwords and eventually we stopped falling for
Chechen ploys, but a lot of people were killed and wounded because of it
in the meantime. Regardless, our brigade continued to work on the same
frequencies until the time we were led out of the theatre. Army stupidity
remains and there is naught to do and unfortunately this is not its only
manifestation. Any initiative from below was greeted with derision from
above.
And so, upon our convoys departure we knew full well that this fact was
known not only to the leadership at Severny but also to half the
insurgents in the city of Grozny. Regardless, we went ahead with our
potentially suicidal plan, because we knew that in lieu of proper medical
care, the people will simply die and the rest will tie down the healthy
troops, serve as additional targets and take up room that will have to be
made for the future wounded, as the assaults date drew near. And so we
departed after only a moments hesitation, having placed ourselves in the
hands of fate. The road ahead of us stretched for fifteen kilometres
though the streets of a devastated city, whose ruins were reminiscent of
those seen in the footage made in Stalingrad over half a century ago.
Each window, each basement were a source of mortal danger for us. There
could be an RPG trooper there, or a sniper, and to think of it, we may

have graduated from the same military academies, learned to fight

together in Afghanistan, Angola and a multitude of hot spots of the
former Union.

The prevalent, long-standing tactic is to destroy the heading and the

tailing vehicle, after which the vehicle column is methodically shot up.
This tactic is fool-proof. Very few survivors.
-To your vehicles! - ordered the brigade commander. He got into the
second BMP himself.
The recon troops were leading in the first two vehicles and
for ten minutes without incident. A few days after entry to
army group command ordered that all vehicles be marked with
signage. For example, the sides of our machines were marked
letter S, meaning Siberian Military District.

we progressed
Grozny, the
identifying
with the

A bitter taste appeared in ones mouth, but there was no feeling of

nervous excitement yet, that will come later. I as well as others knew
this, having experienced similar things before. An infectious tune Oh,
how I want burst into this town, appeared in my head. Truly, it would
have been good to burst into the town, Mozdok best of all, the town where
the command that supervised the unified command of our army group was
located. Nobody properly knew why the hell this command was required
They, who tried to direct the actions of specific formations in the
theatre over the heads of local command, resulting in primarily tragic
outcomes for the latter. The most interesting thing was that those
located in Mozdok, received the same benefits as us. Modest as our
benefits are, they are well-earned. Concretely these are one days extra
pay for each three days served, double pay during leave. And thats it.
Did the reader suppose that war veterans will receive fitting benefits,
as becoming of war veterans? Get stuffed. There was no war in Chechnya,
its all mass media fabrications, nothing more.
My thoughts thus occupied, I remained vigilant, attentively watching over
the ruins as we passed them. There was a lot that we destroyed here and
will continue to destroy even more. To demolish is nothing like to build.
I looked attentively into the fighters faces, who were sitting beside me
on the armour. They were all dusty, burned by the local winds and frosts,
covered in soot of numerous shots and explosions of mines, grenades and
shells. I noticed a soldier wearing a burned-through tanker uniform,
sitting on the stern; he had a bandage on his head. Yes, theres somebody
living a charmed life - a driver-mechanic, I think he had either a German
or Jewish nameGoldstein.
A multitude of ethnicities were represented in our brigade, including
even Uzbeks and Tadjiks. So this tank driver was driving his tank during
our entrance to Grozny, whilst the infantry was hiding behind him. None
of the fighters then knew that they should have been walking in front of
the tank, and only then can it cover them, save them. They know this now,
but not back then. We paid dearly for such education. And because we were

advancing at night, he was riding tour style, i.e. with his head
sticking out of his hatch. How a sniper didnt spot him, nobody still
knows, others were taken out just like that, but he got lucky. He got
lucky a second time when an RPG trooper smashed a grenade into his
starboard. Goldstein was projected out of the vehicle, like a candle
about five meters into the air and landed in the canopy of a tree. I
thought that he lad didnt live, but was I wrong. There he was, only his
head bandaged, meaning that everything else was in one piece. A severe
concussion by the looks of it, but hell be all-right. Theyll fix him up
in the historical homeland. I remember that when they brought in newbies,
half a year a go, he kept asking to not be assigned to anything
classified. If not for the army, he would have long departed to live with
his relatives. His parents have already left, but he remained to finish
his diploma and did not leave in time. In any case he will now be
decommissioned and will be treated by good doctors and in civilised
conditions.
Yurij Shevchuk, the leader or soloist in the group DDT (who knows which
is which) was riding in the fifth vehicle in our column. He was brought
together with the wounded chief of staff and three more injured fighters.
This Shevchuk turned out to be a great guy. Everyone expected that hed
feign a rock-start untouchable. Nothing of the sortthe guy was simple
like three kopeks. According to witnesses, having spent three days in a
basement under fire and enduring counter-attacks, he did not hide. He
conducted himself like a real man, assisted the wounded. They did not
give him a gun, as he is blind like a mole anyway and God forbid he got
hit. Apparently, when the Chechens offered them to surrender, they were
told over the radio that Shevchuk was there with them. The Chechens did
not believe them, so Shevchuk sang, then spoke to them. They offered to
get him out, guaranteed his safety. He refused. Also Shevchuk promised
(and as it later turned out delivered on his promise) to send the wounded
from our brigade and elsewhere for treatment using his own funds and
those of his friends, to Germany. He bought them prosthetics, wheelchairs
and all of it without showing off. There were no reporters or pressconferences, everything was done quietly and modestly. In other wordsa
Real Man.
The reconnaissance detail in the avant-garde reportecoming under fire
from a group of up to twelve insurgents and that they have taken up the
fight. Hand-held grenade launchers have not been employed yet, they are
pounding them out of underbarrelers and assault rifles.
We decide to proceed forward towards a break-out. Because of the fog we
cannot see the enemy and they cant see us properly either, firing at
guesswork. The comm-brig ordered to let out the smokes and the fog began
to darken as if somebody poured tar into a barrel of milk.
Upon approach, our vehicles fired at the coordinates supplied by the
recon troopers. First the cannons of the BMP fired along with the machine
guns of the BMP-3, then, as if in a well-rehearsed orchestra, we joined
in with underbarrelers and assault rifles. The picture was something to
behold. Streams of fire and dark grenade trails were issuing out of a
kilometre-length cloud of black smoke that concealed all other detail.
This picture was worthy of an artists brush. And what a rush! We did not

know if the road ahead was clear or not. A wall could have collapsed
during the night or was deliberately collapsed. Could there be an antitank mine under the heaps of debris? But there was no fear in my eyes or
of others, a part of this expedition. We all knew that if we were not to
break through, that our wounded friends would die. It was decided to
continue until the end. Towards victory or death.
We were definitely in luck. Our engines revved at full power, roaring,
adding clouds of diesel exhaust to the smokescreen. And although the
convoy stretched over a large distance, the commander decided not to
break it up into smaller, more manoeuvrable groups , but to continue on
as one long formation.
We traversed this sector at speed, squeezing our dear BMPs for everything
that they had. What is surprising, we did not nick any of ours and got
through OK. Maybe the Chechens retreated or for some other reason, no-one
shot or pursued us, but it was too early to rest and everyone understood
this. Forward and survive.
The recon guys ahead reported that they have reached our neighbours
first checkpoint. Thats more like it. Well be lead through friendly
territory by the Uliyanovites, a para-troop. Decent lads, but lacking in
resolve and they put on a bit too much swank. They are incapable of
fighting long and hard for an objective. Their assault is fierce at
first, but it peters out to nothing. They are good as support for
somebody, but lack the guts to act independently. They were only taught
to take over a target, destroy it and then disappear and go and blow up
something else. They are simply unprepared for such protracted, heavy
fighting. Makra is another story entirely. Well fight in heat, rain,
blizzard and anywhere else. Well fulfil our objective in the North, in a
desert or in a swamp. Well lay our bones there, but fulfil it.
As we passed the checkpoint, the paratroopers waved to us, baring the
teeth on their sooty mugs, sooty as our own. It was good to see that we
were not alone here in this hostile country.
The battalions commander through whose territory we were passing,
promised to direct a mop-up detail towards the spot where we were
attached.
If Chechen corpses are located there, he will write them up as his own
kills and if we manage to return to our brigades positions, we will
naturally record the approximate number of enemy forces destroyed. One
comic at Severny once counted the enemy numbers destroyed by our army
group. It turned out that in ten days of battle, we have killed the
entire population of Chechnya twice over. Its scary that only ten days
have passed, but it feels like no less than six months. During the Great
Patriotic War, the Wehrmacht was destroyed one hundred times over,
according to army command briefs. We dont have to liberate half of
Europe, but according to the reports were ahead of all world armies. So
when the reader hears front-line briefs, let them divide the number of

enemy killed by two and multiply our own losses by three. Only then will
they get a more or less realistic picture of whats happening.
The paratroopers tried to put up their wounded up with us, but didnt get
anywhere. We barely fit our own asses on the armour and down below, the
wounded were stacked like firewood. Want to ride with our column? God
willing, but using your own vehicles and your own escort. We wont wait,
every minute counts. What did you say? Louder please, the engine is
drowning you out. Were swine? OK, let it be, were swine, but you have
to haul your own people yourself. There is no time or desire to argue
with you. We understand how you feelafter discussing it, youll either
convince us or prepare your own transport. You had all night to get
ready. Bye-bye, good luck and dont try to talk us into it. Where did you
send us? Well be coming back, so stand right there and wait and well
sort it out then.
We watched as out brigade commander was talking to the paratroopers
commander. Of course nothing was audible, but their gesticulation plainly
illustrated who was sent where and what the reply was. We laughed merrily
when this dialogue was over, but nobody dared to flip off the
paratroopers or to say something disparaging. Everyone understood that
they too have their wounded, but that they must take care of them
themselves. We are all of us slightly sly on the inside, like Jews, who
like to solve their problems at somebody elses expense. But not life-and
death matters such as these.
The paratroopers sector ended and we had to traverse approximately ten
city blocks that were for the time being under Chechen control. OK,
bitches, well haul out the wounded and then well sort you out. No
distractions. I raise my hand into the air and the soldiers begin to
carefully observe the surrounding ruins. There is no desire or any sense
to speak or shout whilst on top of a moving vehicle. The noise and the
dust and soot from the leading BMPs is so thick that to open ones mouth
would be to inhale such disgusting crap that you would have to hark it
out for a long time afterwards. And another thing. The moving BMP rocks
and jolts and if one was to open their mouth, they might end up
shattering their teeth or biting off their own tongue. There is a story
going around that some soldier from a neighbouring formation, not ours
naturallybit off the end of his tongue in just such a manner. The
doctors sew it back on and he was decommissioned. I have heard so many of
these stories in my time in the army that I could write a book. The
funniest thing is that according to the stories, this always happen in
other formations, not ours, where there are no such debils, of course. If
one was to believe the tales, complete chaos reigns there. But I think
our neighbours are of the same opinion in regards to us.
The fighter to the right of me shouts something, pointing his finger to
an upper floor window of an intact building and shoots in that direction.
My reflexes are instantaneous. The assault rifle lets out a few volleys
even before I consciously stop and look carefully in the direction of
fire. There is a set of binoculars lying on the windowsill, which
immediately shatter from the ammunitions impact and fall inside. If one
wants to live, one has to shoot first. We all learned this after their
first engagement. I yell to cease fire and the shooting gradually dies

down. Im not blaming the soldier. In our work, over-vigilance is better

than under-vigilance.
The vehicles continue to race forward without reducing speed.
Reconnaissance report that they are under fire again, this time on three
sides and that they will not manage on their own. The commander calls for
backup from the neighbours, so as to supply firepower from the rear and
races over to rescue the recon guys.
The trailing vehicles fell back slightly so as not to fall into a tight
trap in case of an attack from behind. Upon approach to the intersection
where the recon guys turned, it emerged that the street is blocked with
broken brick. They have already checked the two adjacent streets, which
are likewise blocked. There were no assurances that we would not be
blocked if we were to now retreat. The commander decides: break out. I
was in complete agreement and so was Ryzhov.
Those that could bear arms leapt off the vehicles, which rolled back,
supporting us with their fire. We decided to first push the enemy back
into the depths of the housing complex, then, under fire to attempt to
pick apart the blocking debris. We began returning fire after taking
cover behind piles of rubble. There was an explosion near-by and pieces
of a soldier rose up into the air and landed back down with dull thuds,
about five meters away from me. A few seconds later another soldier met
the same terrible fate. There was no time to determine who it was in the
heat of battle. Next to the second casualty, three more soldiers were
rolling around on the asphalt shouting in pain and holding on to their
wounds. Stains of blood spread on their uniforms right there in front of
ones eyes. At first we thought that they were killed and wounded using
an underbarreler, but when a third soldier noticed an F-1 grenade,
missing its pin, as he moved a brick, the situation became clear.
The bastards are competent, one has to give it to them, they have talent.
They smartly picked the ambush spot, knew that well dig in in a place
dictated to us by them and mined it with grenades. During such fighting,
you have to move all the time, roll around, hide behind piles of rubble
and these pretty things are waiting there for usF-1 grenades, without
the ring. Move a brick, the protecting lever flies off and there is an
explosion after six seconds. The fragments disperse over two hundred
meters, providing a better result than any mine.

And so we were facing a dilemmaeither to retreat or to counter-attack

and try to knock the Chechens out of the surrounding buildings. A happy
perspective. The neighbours reported that they are hurrying to our aid
and that they have summoned the aviation. If there is something that we
dont need here, its air support. The soldier has many enemies and his
own air support is one of the primary ones. If it hits the enemy or not,
thats another question, but to bomb its own positionsthats for sure.
So we asked the reinforcements to recall the air support. Theyll succeed
in only one thingspoiling everything. We communicated down the chain to

prepare for attack. Our boxes were to open up maximum fire for ten
minutes, then to cease and wait for further instructions.
Each soldier and officer carries a medi-pack in combat. Ordinarily it
contains a range of basic medicines. These are painkillers, which double
as anti-shock medicine, Omnopon, Trimeperedin. Tablets for nausea,
radiation and chemical poisoning are also included. Also there are water
purifierschuck them into any puddle, except for sea water, it will
bubble for a bit, producing a sediment and you can drink the water
safely, though it stinks of chlorine, but its now cleanno trace of
contagion in it.
Each detachment carries the so called combat stimulators. When the
soldiers are tired, and there is no desire not only to go into combat,
but to even move and when fear has paralysed all will, then the commander
orders the troops to take these tablets in order to save lives and fulfil
the objective. Having taken them, they sit around for a bit and suddenly
zing, forward, their energy comes back from somewhere and the fear
disappears without a trace.
We didnt have these tablets now and neither did we need them. After the
first two or three engagements, where the Chechens bettered us in every
regard and the smallest victory cost the most tremendous effort and
losses, the people now believed in themselves. The Chechens started being
repelled and no longer advanced wantonly, stinking of marijuana and
shrieking something about their Allah. When one sees this for the first
time, its a little eerie. They would come at us as if bewitched,
unafraid of the bullet or death.
And now our BMPs opened up in full force. The barking of the BMP-3
cannons could not be heard at first over the din of BMP-2s guns, but
they eventually lined up with the good old twos. We also kept up our
fire, pounding the buildings with our assault rifles and underbarrelers.
The BMPs finished their ten minute assault and fell silent. The ears rang
from the shooting and explosions, but we had to move forward. The enemy
would be in a worse state now, having to endure detonations within
enclosed spaces, they would be stunned and frightened, remaining in a
temporary state of shock and that is why we had to move forward, forward,
forward.
Nobody had to raise up the soldiers this time, leading them forward by
example as it happened in the first days of war. No, they rose up
themselves, some with the ancient battle call Ura!, others just
shrieking in fright and from an excess of adrenaline in their blood, ran
forward. Something primordial awakens in you, when you attack in this
manner. You see yourself as if from outside your body and perceive almost
all corners of the battlefield. It is as if the rage and fright of the
collective generates a collective consciousness.

Shouting madly, as we traversed the one hundred

ahead of us, we were met with a shallow aimless
were hit. They sprayed the broken windows above
source of death-bringing metal hurtling towards

or so meter-long stretch
fire. None of our guys
us from the stomachthe
us.

We burst into the stairwell of a former apartment block. The other groups
are storming the remaining four of this Kruschevka block.
The human brain works in such
their right, then their left.
up position on the left of an
right, they had a few seconds
started throwing grenades in,
looked left of the entrance.

a way as to first notice that which is to

The Chechens exploited this trait by taking
entrance. And as we instinctively looked
to shoot us in the back. Later on we
before we entered and then, upon entry

The sun began to break through the fog, but the interior of the building
was immersed in twilight due to the dust from the shoot-out, mixed with
burned explosives and some other chemicals, obscuring our view.
I had about fifteen people with me in this stairwell. As we ran to the
front door, I looked them over with my peripheral vision, as to remember
them. I didnt see any cowards thereall good, shot-up lads. There were
three apartments on the first floor, meaning that its the same above.
Three fighters on the next landing to cover us from possible attack from
above. The rest, craftily prepare their grenades, tearing off the rings
and clutching them in their hands shout to the others Ready. They kick
in the doors, which are barely hanging on after the explosions. The doors
fly off their hinges under the blows of soldiers boots. I shout: Hide,
go!
We fall back away from the door apertures, behind protruding concrete
walls. About eight grenades explode almost simultaneously in the three
apartments. Our heads ring from the concussions and smoke and dust billow
from the mutilated doors. Forward, forward, not letting up our pace.
Left, right. The dust, cant see a damn thing, two long volleys from the
stomach. No prisoners, we have nothing to eat ourselves. Forward,
forward. Kitchenno-one, bathroom, the door is ajar, two volleys off to
the side from the stomach, the carbon steel bath can conceal one from the
shrapnel and the grenades. I nod to the fighter standing next to me, who
is covering my back, he jerks open the door and I pull the trigger,
sweeping the barrel of the assault gun, it jitters as if alive and hoses
down the bathtub with a deadly stream, as the shards scatter in every
direction. The other fighters are meanwhile shooting up the dust and
smoke-choked rooms. Wardrobes and shelves, nothing escapes our attention.
Thats it, the three-bedroom flat is secured. Onwards, upwards.
The fighters standing in the landing indicate that there is some sort of
movement in the flat on the second floor. The other soldiers also leap

out of the other flats to join us. Those that were covering us on the
landing move higher. No-one has to be told where to go and what to do,
everyone knows their moves. No need to shout at anyone. We work as a
well-oiled machine. Every man covers the other.
Everything repeats on the second floor. When we burst into the apartment,
we stumble over a corpse torn apart by a grenade. Baked one. Checking
further we find no-one. Three more levels lie ahead of us, then the
attic, roof and the dark basement. Forward, forward.
The fighters report that there are two more corpses in the adjacent flat.
**** them. Forward. I look at the watch. We have spent seven minutes on
the first and second floor. We have to hurry up.
On the third floor, after we kick in the doors, we hear Dont shoot,
dont shoot!. No accent. I raise my hand. The fighters wait, not
throwing their grenades. I shout: Come out with your hands behind your
head.
He emerges, weeping, dirty, grenades dangling and a Chechen knife (this
thinga dagger welded onto a knuckleduster) on his belt, but by the looks
of it one of ours. Rubbing the tears across his face, he shouts that he
is an ordinary prisoner, who was mobilised and who above all did not kill
any of our own. I notice that around his neck dangle about five dog tags.
Dog tags were issued only to officers and NCOs in the past and during
insertion into Chechnyato all personnel. It is an oval piece of metal
five centimetres in length and three in width. The plate is divided into
two halves lengthwise, the top of which is stamped AF USSR and below
bears a letter and a six-digit number. It is made from non-oxidising,
heat-resistant alloy. It first came into use when a new rocket fell onto
the inspecting commission, burning them all. Everyone perished. In war
everyone carries their dog-tag bearing their identification number on
their neck, just like the Americans, except they have a second tag with
the soldiers surname and their blood group on it.

So here I noticed that this ordinary prisoner had dog-tags hanging off
his neck. There was a lot of rabble hanging floating around in Chechnya,
who would have long been in jail back in Russia. But here they were
amongst banditstheir own. As the local Russians reported, to prove their
loyalty they treated their blood brothers with even greater cruelly.
I grabbed the dog-tag stings with my left hand, they were strong as no
soldier wanted to loose them and winding them up on my palm yanked the
prisoner, who was trembling with fear. The fighters immediately
understood everything. Some Chechens collected dog-tags of the soldiers
they have killed.
-What is this then, bitch? - I asked, pulling on the strings.
-I found them, I swear, I found them. I didnt shoot. I was forcibly
placed here, he howled and cried.

With my right hand, I pressed the gun against his chest and squeezed the
trigger. The bullets tore up his chest, marring my trousers with blood.
The body jerked backwards from the shots, but held on by the dog-tag
strings. The vertebrae in the neck cracked. It seemed as if the souls of
the dead soldiers held on, refusing to let the killers soul go free. I
continued to hold the barrel against the dead body and asked the soldier
beside me:
-Cut off the strings.
He took the Chechen knife cut the string with a single swish, The corpse
fell to the ground with a dull thud. The fighter handed me the knife, but
I shook my head and he hid it in his boot. I straightened out, placed the
dog-tags into my pocket and ordered:
-Ready the grenades, lets go.
Grenade explosions rang out again and
There were five corpses here. Without
whats what, we fired off a couple of
to life at this point, raising up his
nearly chopped him to pieces.

again we burst into the flats.

looking around or sorting out
volleys. One of the corpses came
gun, but assault-rifle crossfire

Suddenly there was an explosion in the square outside and a crackling of

assault rifles. We quickly finished off the apartment and leapt out onto
the landing. The battle raged in full force there. The Chechens in the
upper floors were trying to break through to the bottom. Three fighters
were holding them off from below and two more soldiers who were guarding
from an attack out of the basement entrance joined them. We joined in on
this lively exchange of fire, though we interfered with one another on
the narrow landing. Because of that there was no cover on that platform,
thank God these morons threw their grenades right after they tore off the
pins, so there was time to pick them up and lob them downwards onto the
lower floors.
We did not remain in debt to them. Two of us fired the underbarrelers
from the knee, whilst four more fired their machine guns over their heads
not letting the Chechens raise their heads. Meanwhile something exploded
over there, there was a terrible racket and the ceiling collapsed in a
kitchen on the third floor. Five fighters quickly leapt into the hole and
the battle started up on the fourth floor. Having ascended, we started
shooting up the Chechens from the rear at point-blank range. We were
afraid to hit our own, but it turned out OK. After the mop-up, twelve
bodies remained on the fourth floor, which was not bad, considering the
Combat Charter, which stipulates no less than three or four attackers
against one defender.
Nobody greeted us on the fifth floor, except for a pair of corpses. We
carefully ascended the roof. Nobody. That means were the first and we
have to go help our boys in the neighbouring stairwells. I consign the
people. Myself, I picked the one where Ryzhkov went. We could hear the
thunder of battle in each stairwell as we walked on the roof.
We carefully lift up the hatch. By the sounds of it, the battle is
between the first and second floors. We begin the mop up on the fifth
floor. We can hear voices in the two-room flat as well as shooting

directed at the street. OK, bitches, lets go. Grenades at the ready, a
nod of the head, a kick in the door, the grenades thrown, we take cover.
Explosion, forward, forward. One soldier guards the stairwell, turn left,
volley into an empty corner, another volley forward. The fighter beside
me, checks the right hand side, shoots, we are shooting up two wounded
next to the window. There is an RPG-7 lying next to them, a nice toy,
which we collect along with five or so remaining shots.
The Chechens below seemingly understood what happened above intensify
their assault. They are longing to break out of the trap, but are held
back by our guys who having realised that help is near also intensify
their fire. We descent to the fourth level, shoot up the doors and lob
the grenades. We find two more dushman corpses, no idea if they are ours
or from before. It doesnt matter now, forward, forward, lower, tempo,
tempo, hold on guys, were coming to help.
The insurgents tried to break through to the top, hoping to mow us down.
Not a chance. Im shouting:
-Yurka, dont come up, Im going to take them on here!
As we hear the footsteps on the stairwell, we lob the grenades and
immediately take cover behind the walls so as to not get cut up by the
fragmentation. One soldier cries outa ricocheting fragment hit his arm.
Two of us remain to administer first aid, I and another two soldiers
shoot into the unsightly, smoky, dusty darkness that is lingering after
the explosion. There is no answer.
-Slava! Were coming up. Dont Shoot!
-Go ahead, lads, but watch out, some bitch may be holed up somewhere, I
shout to my fighters.
We descend slowly, ready to open fire at the smallest suspicion of any
noise or movement. We stumble upon the torn-up corpses of our recent
enemies lying on the landing between the third and fourth floors. The
clothes are burning on some of them. Our nostrils are assaulted with the
smell of burned meat, wool, cloth and something else, terribly pungent
and nauseating. I am barely containing bouts of vomit. Suddenly the
ascending soldiers mugs leap out of the darkness. We embrace happily.
Yurka is here also. We embrace.
-Youre alive, you devil, - we cant take our eyes off one another like
lovers after a long time apart.
-We smashed those ****ers to ****. Smashed their souls right out! - Yurka
is excited. Steam is rising from everyone despite the cold.
-I caught one shithead here, he was shouting that he is a prisoner,
meanwhile he has these dangling around his neck, here, - I retrieve the
handful of dog-tags, then put them away, - I sent him to meet his
victims.
-Good on you. They were well-dug in here, had a machine gun and
everything, we could not approach them. Thank you for helping us out.
-Anywaylets go, you owe me a bottle, - I retrieved the cigarette pack
that I brought from home TU-134, the snipers quickly ran out. - Have a
smoke, you NATO menace.

Chatting merrily, having not yet recovered from the excitement of battle,
we emerge into the street. My casualty is being led behind us, tourniquet
on his hand. Hes walking on his own, meaning hell live.
The fighting died down in the street also, it looks like the insurgents
have retreated from their other positions, fearing that well get to them
too. Our neighbour soldiers were approaching from the direction of the
roadblock.
-Slava, lookwhats that they have there? - the approaching soldiers wore
large cisterns on their backs, like a backpack, which had rubber tubing
connected to them.
-I think they are flamethrowers. Ive never seen them in action, but Ive
heard that some formation took them out of emergency stores and brought
them with.
Meanwhile all of our guys emerged from the building. The newly arrived
soldiers, joking, approached the basement windows, threw in a few
grenades and then started spraying them out of their flamethrowers. Cool
stuff. Streams the thickness of a hand and the length of about five
meters, widening as they travelled away hosed down the basement
enclosures. It immediately stank of choking burned petrol and something
else.
-Cool toy, wish we had some of these ourselves to quickly smoke the
creeps out. We should hint to the commander to ask for some of these at
Severny, theyll come in handy at Minutka, - I said with envy, watching
as the flame throwers having finished with mopping up our building, were
preparing to roast some other target.
-Ive heard that a flame thrower tank was being deployed in Afghanistan,
but turned out to not be effective in the mountains, so they stopped
producing it.Yurka said, as he climbed back onto our BMP.
-Well, they are ****tards, they could have thought of having to take
cities. Not all fighting will be in the fields and mountains. Moskovites
whats to be had from them, other than stool samples and even those will
be shitty, - I spat and started to nudge around for a more comfortable
spot on the armour.
-Attention! Everybody ready? - the command rang out over the column:
Forward! March!
We set off and the BMP under me jerked abruptly, trying to throw us off,
but we held on by clutching onto each-other and any available
protrusions. The internal forces are lucky. They have BTR-80s,
beautifully soft-going speedy vehicle, and we have these tractors.
As we passed the flamethrower troopers checkpoint, we again began
shouting greeting to one another.
The rest of the journey was unadventurous, although we were ready for
more surprises. We passed the first checkpoint of the Severny airport,
which was guarded by a whole regiment following rumours that the Chechens
were planning a raid to take it over. They even added in a marine
battalion.
-One battle is over, but another one will soon begin, much heavier and
more important.I said to Yurka.

The mood began to shift from elation of a safe arrival to something more
sombre and serious. Ahead of us was a conference with the representatives
of the command, who were anxious to send us to our deaths.

----------CHAPTER 5---------My good mood was completely spoilt. No matter what happens today I will
definitely get drunk. I glared angrily at the Severny guards. Those
guys had already managed to wash up and fix their uniforms. Some were
strutting around in fresh new, clothes.
I looked down on my trousers, marred with the dead prisoners blood. My
coat was covered in dirt, grease, burn marks and punctured in two places
by shrapnel. Hmm, if I was to appear like this in normal public, militia
would be quick to arrest me.
-We shall positively get drunk, Slavyan, after all I owe you, - Yurka,
unlike myself was in great spirits.
-Where are you going to get the vodka? From under the bunk? - Ryzhov and
I have pitched in for three cases of vodka before we entered Grozny and
as an old favour, I also traded a full camouflage suit for some spirits,
with the comms men. I would have been surprised if my partner were to
find another source of vodka.
-And where else would I get it form? The Chechens closed down all the
street kiosks, and our trading division doesnt go any further than
Severny.
-Listen, they should have an outlet near the hospital, lets try and get
some beer from under the counter? - Suddenly I craved beer, right there,
that very moment. I imagined it streaming down my throat, firm, chilled,
bubbling and pounding against the walls of my stomach. To drink it
straight out of the bottle, no glasses. Maybe this is a lack of culture,
but I cannot help myself, I love drinking beer straight out of the
bottle.
-That is an idea. Might as wellthey are going to upload the wounded for
about twenty minutes anyway. Only, will there be beer and do we have
enough cash? - he said, scooping out the cash, that was almost useless
here, from his pockets and counting it.
-Ive got some too, - I said, and retrieved a clump of notes, - and we
should get some cigarettes, preferably something classy.
-Want to live the good life, hmm? - Ryzhov laughed.
-Youd want to, seeing how people live just fifteen kilometres away from
youI said gazing around at the courtier regiments positions.
-What are you going to say when we get to the hospital and see the
women.Yurka was teasing now.
I decided to continue the subject:
-Either Ill rape a dozen or so or shoot myself.

We were approaching the hospital. It was located on the former premises

of a large restaurant. Rumour had it that it was owned by one of Dudaevs
relatives. We started coming across medical nurses and doctors and there
were women amongst their number. On the frontany woman is a goddess. And
this is not only due to sexual famine. Simply to look on and talk to a
woman, allows one to retain that thin thread connecting them to the real
world, not to toughen so quickly. We had no women in our brigade, which
is probably why we were so especially drawn to them. Naturally the
primary desire is sexual. Why arent there mobile bordellos any more? The
wars were better back in the daypositional, unhurried. We respected the
adversary. A wonderful kitchen, mobile brothels, champagne, white shirts.
The times have changed and in my opinion, did not change for the better.
On the other hand, medical services are at an all-time high now. None of
the wounded brought here have yet died.
-We have arrived! - the brigade commander was the first to jump off his
BMP.
Everyone followed his example, stretching their stiff joints and rubbing
their frozen asses. The orderlies ran up and started unloading the dead
and wounded. The former will be laid into wooden coffins, here or in
Mozdok, the coffins then welded into zinc boxes, with handles, so that
they are easier to carry and one can tell top from bottom and this
cargo-200 will be forwarded to the parents accompanied by notices of
death and gratitude for outstanding parenting of their son. And thats
about it. A blanks salute will sound over their grave, fired by young
cadets or soldiers. Both, potential candidates for the same grande
send-off in the not so distant future. The god of war demands fresh
sacrifices and the belligerents deliver them in abundance.
Next, the parents will be awarded money for the dead soldierten-years
salary, a whole five million Rubles. They will receive visits from social
workers for six months, after which they will be forgotten. And when the
mother or widow approaches the powers that be (it doesnt matter if its
the regional administration or the conscription board), at first she will
hear excuses and will then be informed that no means to help her are
available. If she insists, she would be told that they did not send her
son or husband to war, to go and bother those that have sent him to die,
because it is they that failed to provide a pension for the loss of a
breadwinner, as well as repairs to the roof, telephone connection, etc.
And the reader can complain all they like, believe me, to no avail. The
powers that be will say: O, thats that woman/man, whose husband/son
died? And this will be uttered with such contempt that regardless of age
and health, you the reader would weep and run to the door and never come
back here, even when you will be granted a laughable sum for a New Years
or February 23 gift. So have a think about it, is it worth it to send
your son to bloody slaughter for some sick Supreme Commander. Have a good
think about it. When the Chechen war rolled around, he had a grandson who
was of conscription age. But for some reason, I have never seen him
there, not even at inspections.
The wounded were being unloaded meanwhile and we walked behind them,
unnoticed by anyone. We gawked at the women and even tried to chat them
up, although we knew that they are all long taken and divided up with no

need for our contribution. Also our outward appearance probably did not
inspire a lot of interest. We were searching for the semi-official
trading post of the supplies division or in the very least for a local
swindler, that would be quietly trading in alcohol and cigarettes. The
history of warfare shows that there will always be petty swindlers
willing to make an easy buck, from selling small items of popular demand.
Nothing particularly unlawful and on the other hand, beneficial, as they
bring small pleasures of normal living to those who are deprived of them.
For someits war and for some its their own mother. Maybe this is
normal? I would not be able to do this sort of thing. My upbringing and
limited life experience would stand in the way.
To that end as we stalked through the hospital, we asked the soldiers
there, where we could find beer and cigarettes. This being an evacuationtype hospital, nobody normally stayed here for more than a day and so
nobody could help us. And then we spotted a soldier, whose mug was wider
than both of ours. He was dressed in new camouflage and was standing by
the window leaf, blissfully blowing smoke in the upwards direction. He
looked well-fed and the surroundings appeared to be none of his concern.
He didnt look like a wounding casualty.
I prodded Yuka in the side. He was busy staring at a medical nurse, who
had the misfortune upon the dispatch of her business, to hurry by us.
Judging by Yurkas famished face he has, in his imagination raped her at
least ten times by now and was planning to carry on in this fashion.
-Stop spoiling the women, were here on a peace-keeping mission. Take a
gander at this here little picture instead, - I pointed out the brave
warrior, - you could cover ten embrasures with that body. Its as if he
embodies the entirety of the armed forces of the Russian Federation, what
do you think, Yura?
I was speaking deliberately loudly, so that the fighter would hear us.
Yurka understood this and picked up the game.
-Yeah, man, youre right. Hed do well in reconnaissance as a human
shield or in a rapid assault group, to carry out the wounded.
The fighter glanced sideways, but didnt even turn towards us. Like many
officers here, we did not carry any signs of distinction on our uniforms.
This was due to the snipers nasty habit to take out the officers first.
It was as if they totally hated us for some reason. Oh well, everyone has
their complexes and this complex is a professional and a well renumerated
one to boot.
-Sonny, - Yurka began quietly and politely, - what do you think, should
we take you on an excursion to our brigades positions? Otherwise you
faggot will come home with a medal, having not seen the war properly.
All this he said in a lowered tone, so that the passing medical staff
would not notice. As if we were standing there and conversing peacefully,
no noise or shouting.
-Why dont you go **** yourself, - the fighter muttered lazily, not even
turning his head and his voice was filled with such disdain that one
began to feel awkward. My rage awakened immediately. I knew from
experience that in such instances I do not control myself well and can

commit various stupidities, the nature of which I would comprehend only

later.
-Why dont you about face, you louse, when addressed by a combat officer
and apologise immediately, - I also tried to speak calmly, but the words
were boiling up in my throat. No soldier has ever dared to insult me, no
matter what state they were in. When I was a snotty lieutenant, I had to
pacify a drunken sentry detail. And here a shithead from the rear deigned
to talk down to two officers.
The tabby swine turned around and once again looked at us mockingly, not
uttering a word. He wanted to flaunt his complete lack of respect fir us.
We knew that it was useless to reason with this animal, we had to act.
There was a closet near-by that contained utility inventory. Not saying a
word ourselves, we grabbed the youth under his arms and manhandled him
into that dark, stuffy closet. I grabbed his throat immediately, lest he
scream, Yurka, pressed the barrel of his gun against his groin and pushed
hard. Our subject turned white, one could see it, even in that gloom. His
eyes were ready to pop out of his orbits, the scream ready to issue from
his throat, but held back by my hand, which only allowed him to breathe.
I leaned to his ear and whispered:
-Im going to let go of your throat now, so that you, miscreant can
quietly offer us an apology. You will also offer us beer and cigarettes,
which I am sure you have. If you agree, blink and if you do not, I will
suffocate you, whilst my partner shoots off your balls. Nobody will care,
theyll write you off as a casualty of combat. If you scream or pull
something, the story will repeat: crushed throat and amputated balls,
also we can load you into the vehicle and trade for with the Chechens for
a crate of beer and a carton of cigarettes. Got it, ****er? - I squeezed
a little harder and Yurka pressed onto the machine gun.
The soldiers eyelids fluttered like a moth to a flame:
-Please excuse me comrade officers, I made a mistake, wont happen again,
I promise, - tears rolled from his eyes, but I was not letting go of his
throat.
-And the second act? - Yurka asked, referring to the beer and cigarettes.
-Yes yes, here, - the fighter scrambled, feeling in the dark and finally
retrieving a pack of Holstein beer and a carton of LM cigarettes, or as
we called them Militiamans Love.
We released the little **** and I patted him on the cheek conciliatorily.
Producing a crumpled five thousand rubles from my pocket I placed it in
his.
-Dont ever speak rudely to people, youll live longer. And this is the
money for the goods, so that you dont take us for bandits. By the way,
lend us a couple of bags, so that we can carry our shopping.
Again he started fumbling around in the buckets down there. A nice little
hidy-hole hes got here. Suddenly something clinked against the metal,
possibly a pistol. Surely the lads not going to be silly? I raised my
assault rifle and pressed the barrel into the base of his skullthere is
a pressure point there, if you hit it hard enough the guy falls down
unconscious. Yurka immediately pressed his gun against his spine in the
region of the kidneys.

-Dont be silly, sonny, - again I was speaking softly, - unless you

decided to die a hero, you miscreant, in which case, go right ahead.
With my hand, I retrieved a narrow stiletto knife (a trophy) and pressed
it against his throat. The cold steel against his larynx for some reason
worked better than the guns. I wonder why that is? Again we heard a
clinking, looks like he dropped the pistol back into the bucket. Removing
the stiletto knife, I spun the soldier around to face me and pressed my
barrel under his chin. He raised his hands into the air, clutching the
holster with his left hand. With my left hand again, I felt around behind
him and retrieved the pistol. **** me! A silencer was fitted to this gun.
Nice. He must have nicked it from some wounded recon or spetsnaz man.
With the handle of that gun, I hit him on the nose, the spot where it
connects to the skull and he sank to the floor soundlessly. We helped him
down to the floor and having packed the beer and cigarettes departed.
Back outside, the unloading of the wounded was drawing to conclusion and
the brigade commander was gathering his officers in order to go meet the
army groups command. We threw our bags into our BMP and instructed the
mechanic to watch them closely lest they be stolen and we would then
castrate him and leave him here. The man nodded understandingly and
returned to visually undressing the passing women. As we followed the
commander, we leisurely dragged on our good cigarettes and discussed the
argument we were going to present against the taking of that ****ing
Minutka head-on.
Lets do it like this: the aviation, then artillery, tanks and selfpropelled artillery, and then after they knock everything out, the
makhra enters, huh? - Yurka asked, dragging on his cigarette with great
pleasure, looking over the almost peaceful surroundings.
-And even better, napalm munitions, so that everything around would burn
and merry music, the louder the better, so that the Chechens give up
their souls to Allah more happily. I was feeling at peaceand an almost
sexual pleasure from the cigarette and the calm around me. Its amazing
how little a man needsa good cigarette, a peaceful atmosphere, women all
around him.
We noticed a familiar officerwe took Severny together and his regiment
was retained here for sentry duty afterwardslucky people.
-Yura, Slavayoure alive, thats great! Your fame precedes you. And
Karpovs fame also. We thought at first that you wacked him, but then it
emerged that he himself is an idiot. He has been recommended for the
Order of Bravery.
-So you jus thought that me and Slavka just killed that moskovite ****er?
-No no, we all know here, that hes a massive shithead.
We laughed, me and Yurka:
-Sasha, we saw him for the first time and gave him the exact same
nickname: massive shithead. Tell us instead what our prospects are
regarding Minutka.
-Guys, the marines and the paratroopers tried to take that ****ing square
head-on, lost about thirty people and rolled back. So now they want you
to try.
-Let them go **** themselves!

-That shitty rights activist is there also. He keeps appealing to us over

the radio. Ive got an anecdote about him, listen. So this rights
activist is sitting there in Dudaevs bunker with his delegation,
forgotten by everybody, unfed, no water. They are considering their
options. Suddenly he proposes: Lets convert to Islam! The others ask:
Do you think itll help?, No but we can make a soup from the
foreskins!. Sashka cackled merrily.
Gagging from hearing such news as well as his anecdote, we too laughed.
-Guys, I got myself up as a commandant here, come by sometime. But youll
have to excuse me right now, somebody caved in a soldiers skull at the
hospital.
We whistled from surprise at Sashkas ascension to such a role and
departed to catch up with our guys. We were not worried about that
soldier. His head was in one piece and the fact hes got a bloody nose
must mean he stumbled over in the dark. Who in our armed forces would
dare punch such a fine lad? Naturally as he was lying there dazed, he
dreamt up two officers. Thats the least he could have hallucinated with
his excessive weight and the heightened blood pressure. He needs to diet,
comrade doctor. Or better still, lend him to us for a week or so. You
wont recognise the boy. An officer emerged to greet us and declared that
General Rolin was busy at the moment and will be available in ten or
fifteen minutes. Apparently he was in conversation with the Minister of
Defence. Let them talk. Same shitnothing will come of it. The brigade
commander went off to call the brigade for the latest news.
We noticed Sashka hurrying back and called him over:
-Sashka, hows the fighter?
-Hes babbling some nonsense about how two officers beat him up. His
trousers are wethe must have pissed himself as he was lying unconscious.
And the assailants identifying characteristics - he looked us over
suspiciously, - well, basically they match you two, more or less.
-Sashok, do you really think that were capable of assaulting a soldier?
Personally I just grab by the throat.
-And I shoot off the balls, straight up. You know us well, - Yurka picked
up.
Feigning offence, we stared at Sashka Kholin, as if to demand the removal
of all suspicion from our persons.
-I know you very well, you punks, dont worry. Ive seen enough. No pity
for yourselves or others. So it was you who roughed up the soldier?
-Sasha, - I began again in velvet tones, hugging him gently around the
shoulder, - tell us, punks, you kind man, why on earth would we be doing
in the hospital? You have never been known for your mercifulness and
compassion. Even when we brought our wounded to you, you must have been
so busy as to neglect greeting your friends.
-Your friends, who by the way came to your rescue when the Chechens
backed you and you fighters into the corner of the airport, - Yurka
continues, - its awkward to remind you that you wowed by the name of all
saints that you will never forget your saviours.
-And now, dear father, you want to turn your benefactors in as if they
were recycling, - I again continued.After all were not telling anyone
that your subordinate is selling your stolen, pardon, spare goods at

speculative prices and on top of it all threatened us with a pistol. So,

what will it be Alexander? Im thinking your fighter must have just
knocked his head somewhere.
-Why did you do that to him?
-He sent me to hell, very earnestly, imagine it, and didnt even
apologise.
-Ill kick the little shits ass for that.
-Since we found a common language, Sasha, we propose that you supply us
with humanitarian aid.
-Youve already grabbed enough.
-Lies, slander and insinuation, - Yurij proclaimed with pomp, - we did
not steal it, we bought it for five dollars, or five thousand rubles, Im
not sure which. It was dark and the dollars were in the same pocket as
the rubles. Right, Slava?
-The whole truth, I reimbursed him personally. But Im thinking that your
crappy subordinate is trying to conceal a portion of the taking from you.
And all we bought from him was a tiny pack of beer, cans this small, a
carton of Militiaman's Love and you are refusing to supply us properly
for the road ahead?
-Imagine if were killed, knock on wood of course, you will feel guilty
that you neglected to give us three sticks of good sausage, vodka, from
the Moskva factory Kristall, a pair of bottles of good cognac, and say
some cheese and change. Wed appear to you at night like vampires, - we
stretched out our arms like vampires, - You greedy ****!
Yes, Sasha, I will definitely cark it without a couple of packs of beer,
good cigarettes and some dried fish to go with the beer, and also Enough, you retards. Give us some water to drink, kind lady, as we are
hungry and have nowhere to sleep tonight, - Sasha mocked us.Had you not
saved my life, youd be in the brig by now, chewing standard issue
rations.
-Well, as I said to Slava during that battle: Look Slava, a good captain
is dying, lets save him so that when hes in charge, he can feed us til
the end of the war. Right Slava?
-I swear on my life. Although, Yura it would have been good to spend a
week or two in the brig catching lice? Three meals a day, clean sheets,
you can undress, go to a sauna! - I closed my eyes dreamily.Good times!
Sasha, maybe youll turn us in, meanwhile your butt-licker will change
his testimony after two weeks and maybe the war will be over by then?
Think about it, Sasha. Well shout you cognac.
-You two are positively insane. No wonder the Chechens call your brigade
dogs. Youll maul anyone to death or failing that, send them insane.
-Were going to go hear the command rouse us to go take Minutka. So, Im
thinking Slava, well propose that this regiment should go and take it
and well come here to replace it. And after you take Minutka, well
continue fighting. What do you think, Sasha? By the way, have you tried
out all the girls here yet?
-No theyre all taken here, so dont stick your nose into another mans
backyard.
-Why dont you share her for a day or two. Well bring her back
afterwards, dont be greedy!
-Idiots, crazy idiots.

A messenger emerged, he called our group of staff officers to go to the

commander.
-Sasha, well be about forty minutes, dont forget the humanitarian aid,
or well appear to you at night. And tell you your shithead not to say
anything about us and to be polite henceforth, or hell get more than a
mild fright next time. Wait and well return, but wait well, I
paraphrased the famous poem. Dont forge the beer and everything else,
naturally.
Jesting, Yurka blew Sashka a kiss.
-Farewell, my dear! Expect guests!
Sashka spat off the side, demonstrating his disposition to our
foolishness. The passing soldiers observed the scene of our parting with
a look of surprise on their faces.
We followed our regiments officers, hurriedly finishing off our
cigarettes and casting off the butts. In war, the cigarette is normally
held inside a fist as to hide it from snipers view. This habit held
during the day. If one had one set of habits for daytime and another for
night, it would be easier to mix hem up and make a fatal mistake.
We all entered the room, the army group commander Rolin was already
seated there along with our generalZakharin. In the past, this man bore
an Armenian surname, but it was suggested to him that he change it
following the Unions collapse. So instead of Avakyan, he became
Zakharinhis wifes surname.
The chambers windows were covered with sandbags. The lighting was not
bright enough to illuminate the corners of the room, where a whole range
of people were seatedcomms men, orderlies, assistants and various other
assistants and sycophants of the general.
-Comrade officers, please be seated. Rolin rose to shake Bakhels hand.
He nodded to the others.
-I just spoke to the Minister of DefenceGrachin. The decision to storm
the Minutka complex has been made at the highest level, - he paused as if
to underscore the words highest level. I am ordered to supervise this
operation and for your brigade to carry out this difficult and important
mission.
The end of this address as spoken in exalted tones. I wondered if he and
Karpov had the same tutor. **** knows who is who at this Stavka.
-Our operational group has developed the plan, which has been confirmed
with the General staff and approved by the minister of defence. General
Zkharin has just finished familiarising himself with the plan and I want
you to listen carefully so that you can do the same. Its correct
execution will allow us to liquidate enemy forces in the shortest period
of time, eliminating the insurgents and their leader Dudaev, who have
taken positions at the state bank building and the so-called Dudaevs
palace. - He began to point at the map laid out on the table in front of
him with his finger (Judging by the expression on Zakharins face, he was

not too fond of this plan), - the other structures here are of little
interest to us.
It was amazing that a military man, whilst planning such a bloody
engagement would so flippantly dismiss the insurgents sure to be in
position in the neighbouring buildings. Not to speak of the fact that he
failed to say a single word about the two bridges on approach to the
square. It was a safe bet that they were heavily guarded probably mined.
In the army, there is the immediate objective, the next objective and the
main objective. Everything begins with the immediate objective, then
expanding on the theme towards the main goal. So if one begins at the
primary objective, especially when such personages as Dudaev are
mentioned, and the intermediate objective are not, thats pure politics.
For the soldier, politics are sure death, because idiot politicians do
not think about lives lost or consequences following, only the result and
as quickly as possible. The ends justify the means. An old Jesuit axiom.
We all stared at the maps. It turned out that we had to skip over the
bridges at full speed. So what if that doesnt work and only some of our
forces get through, and then the Chechens blow up the bridges? And the
ones that got ahead, the most energetic ones get slaughtered like lambs
right in front of our eyes? Nobody likes this adventure. We are
professional soldiers and from our very academy days have been taught to
risk livesboth our own and of those around us, but to die this absurdly
no way. Everyones face turned grim. We knew that if we do not defend our
point of view on this now, the destruction of the Maikop Brigade will
seem like a childs babble in a summer glade. This is the residence of
their president, no less. The symbol of national pride. Here one has to
either chuck an atom bomb and finish them all off once and for all, or
work long and hard with artillery and aviation.
The so-called chief of army group staff emerged from the shadowsColonel
Sedov. Very few people knew anything about this man. The war often
elevates great military leaders to the military Olympus, just as it
propels there great imposters. I could say nothing about Sedov other than
that if this was his plan lying here before our eyes, that made him not
just an imposter, but a war criminalor more precisely a criminal with
epaulettes. Sedov began to speak. He had a well-trained speaking voice.
One could sense that he was not showing off in front of Rolin and that he
had to speak like this many times. Judging by the way he bore himself and
his weathered face, this was a field rather than a staff officer. Allright, well listen.
-Comrade general, comrade officers, - Sedov began, - the enemy has
concentrated his main forces in the region of Minutka square.
Tell us something we dont know, - I thought.
-Consequenly and as to finally break down their resistance, demoralise
them and knock them out of the city, you are offered to fulfil the plan
that has been approved by the Minister of Defence and agreed upon by the
Supreme Commander. - It now seemed that Sedov was admiring himself,
bursting at the seams with pride that his own planthere was no doubt now
that it was his has been approved by Him.
-You are required to march in force and take the bridges over Sunja,
rapidly enter the Minutka square and destroy the enemy forces in the

State Bank building as well as Dudaevs government residence known as

Dudaevs Palace, - Sedov continued to sing.
-Hello ass-crack, its New Years, - rang out in my head.
-To aid the taking of this complex of buildings, formations of parachute
troops, marines and the Leningrad regiment are to join you. You will also
receive air support and artillery cover.
Most interestingly, practically none of the formations meant to
participate in the siege were specifically identified. Neither the
numbers of aircraft nor artillery were stated. Was it going to be a
squadron and an artillery division? In other words, the plan was not
thought-through and its failure was sure to be blamed on us. What a happy
prospect!
-The siege will begin in two days. During these two days, you are to take
over the hotel Kavkaz, hand it over (to whom?) and move out to the
Minutka square, - it would seem that everything is perfectly clear to
Sedov and therefore to us also and we were to sett off immediately on a
black horse and take Minutka. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
-Comrade general, comrade officers, thats all form me. Any questions? his tone indicated that he expected only degenerates and cretins to have
questions. What else was one to expect from this Siberian makhra?
-What data do you have on the garrison numbers at the Minutka square,
their armaments and whether or not the bridges are mined? - the comm-brig
asked softly, but firmly, having stepped forward from the shadows.
-Their numbers do not exceed three or four thousand (a nice
approximation, who would think another thousand or so is important?),
their armaments are the usual small arms, plus the underbarrelers, RPG-7s
and infantry mortars (whos up for a dash across the square under mortar
fire?) -What about the bridges?
-We do not possess accurate data regarding the mining of those bridges.
The enemy is conducting dense fire upon the approaches to them, there are
ambushes and enemy secrets everywhere, preventing us from establishing
this for certain. But we are constantly working on this and comrades from
the local opposition are assisting us too.
We all grinned widely. A Chechen wont poke another Chechens eye out.
But to turn in an unfaithful infidelthats for sure.
-You laugh, - Sedov seemed nervous now, - meanwhile in Moskva, thanks to
the opposition, the question is raised of whether our incursion is
pointless and cruel and has irreparably damaged the republics economy,
angered its people. The partisan movement is gaining more an more
popularity (the blind finally see). So there is an opinion that the
insurgents should not be killed, but disarmed and let go to their homes,
that they are for the most part simple, frightened peasants and that
spring is near, they need to sow. Otherwise there will be famine here.
-To hell with them! - I yelled out in the dead silence. Everyone burst
out laughing and Rolin and Sedov turned their attention to me. Yurka
prodded me in the side, but it was too late.
-Maybe you do not understand, comrade- Sedov looked at my epaulettes and
seeing no stars there, continued: - And by the waywhy are you not
wearing your stars?
-Im scared of the snipers, comrade colonel, - I answered as modestly as
I could, as much as I was tempted to instigate a scandal.

-Nonsense, what do you think that the sniper is looking out for your
stars? Nothing of the sort. How are you capable of leading the personnel
without your insignia?
I was ready to launch into a long and unflattering tirade regarding
insignia stars and his wretched plan. Im no hero, but at the front, one
knows that you are not going to do any worse unless maybe they are
wounded. So all these smartasses can go to hell. If you want my
dismissalgo ahead!
Bakhel, seemingly sensing the pending scandal pre-empted anything that I
was about to say by beginning to speak:
-Comrade general, well establish why captain Mironovs stars are missing
later. It was I, who authorised the officers to remove their insignia.
Right now I am more concerned with the upcoming operation. Such tight
deadlines will not allow our brigade, which is constantly engaged in
heavy fighting to commence executing your plan (Bakhel made an emphasis
on the word your) without appropriate preparations. Also I propose to
immediately issue the order for a massed air and artillery bombardment of
the complex. These are to be carried out without pause until the
commencement of operations aimed at taking the square. Two hours
beforehand, saboteur-reconnaissance forces from the parachute troops are
to take the bridges and to prevent them being detonated. By the way, what
formations exactly are we to co-operate with? I think that to attempt to
take the square head on would be unwise and suicidal. I will not carry
out such orders that are equivalent to placing my people in front of a
firing squad.
-Do you, colonel understand what youre saying! - Rolin began to rage.
Ill call Grachin right now and youll be court-marshalled! Ill simply
take you under arrest on the spot and fly you to Moskva on the nearest
flight! How many people do you think want your position?
-If that can prevent the execution of my people, Im prepared to submit
my resignation immediately! - Bakhel shouted in return.Youre scared of
blowing apart that ****ing square, but are not afraid of laying down a
few thousand lads, to drown in their own blood?! Why dont you think
about that instead, or is your tough guy image more important to you than
the soldiers lives
-Silence, you traitor! - Rolin shouted. - You colonel have gone insane,
you coward. Id get the Hero of Russia for you idiot in five seconds.
What are you looking at, get out of here!
Get ****ed, general, well rip peoples throats out for our commander, he
only has to say a wordwell tear everyone apart here.
-We support our commander, to go without preliminary air and artillery
preparation is suicide. - One of ours spoke out of the darkness.
-So all of you think this way? - Rolin squinted as he looked us over with
a heavy gaze. - Oooout! Guards! Lead them out, disarm and detain these
traitors!
In place of an answer, we stood closer, shoulder to shoulder. Silence.
Death-like silence. The door swings open and two soldiers accompanied by
an officer run inside, ready to carry out the commanders orders.
Everyone readied themselves for the worst. And then that good lad, the
Armenian, general Zakharin broke the silence.

-Lets not do anything foolish. Well dismiss the officers now and
amongst ourselves here, resolve the situation. Calmly and quietly. It is
obvious that a frontal assault is dangerous, but together well be able
to find the optimal solution, - and addressing us now: - Go comrade
officers, wait outside, nothing will happen, I promise you.
-Go and wait, - the comm-brig ordered. His voice was dry.
We filed out. Everyone was rattled, neurotic. The guards followed us out.
Somebody grabbed their chief by the collar and started whispering:
-If you bitches decide to arrest our commander, Im going to kill you,
you understand?
-What about my orders? - The frightened soldier asked.
-Want to live?
-Yes!
-If you are going to arrest the commander, we are going to assault you
and you will hand him over without any unnecessary noise. Understand? In
return you and your soldiers will remain alive. Do you understand?
-Yes!
-Well bring the vehicles closer now, so dont raise an alarm. When our
commander and general emerge, well calmly load in and drive off.
Remember that we dont want your blood, but if you get in the way - well
kill you. Understand? You know who we are?
-I know. You are the dogs. Ive got it.
-**** off, you got none of it. Were not dogs, were makhra and well
tear you apart for our commander. Thats allgo. If you or your fighters
squeal anything, were going to war. Do you want that?
-No I dont.
-Correct answer. We and you have to fight the Chechens, not each-other.
They want to send us to storm Minutka head-on. They are sending us to our
deaths. But we dont want to go. Thats why Rolin is raging. Dont make
any unnecessary noise.
-I get it. Ive heard that you are real thugs. But that youd go against
Rolinno-one expected that from you. You lads are something! - the guards
chief has recovered from his initial shock and was walking towards the
exist beside us. His face expressed both admiration mistrust.
Steam was rising from everybody, as we emerged into the street. We
smoked, greedily digesting the information we just acquired. The acting
chief of reconnaissance being the youngest, was sent to fetch the
vehicles and bring them closer to the airport. The guards chief was told
to order the vehicles closer to the terminal building.
-What is this, guys, Ill get arrested! This is sabotage!
-Do you want us to tie you up or something!
-Tie me up, kill me, I cannot issue such an order.
-All-right lad, cool it, well bring them up to your posts and leave them
there. Happy?
-All-right, but let them stay there, otherwise well shoot.
-All-right, deal.
We were perfectly aware of the gravity of our actions, that a failure to
follow orders, especially in combat conditions can precipitate almost
anything, up to and including the firing squad on the spot with no trial
or investigation. The Charter - the armys law - proclaims: The order
must be carried to the letter, exactly and in a timely manner. The order

may be appealed after its fulfilment. And who will be left to appeal it
after the entire brigade lays its bones on that shitty square? Those that
would remain alive will be permanent clients of a mental institution.
Yes, an armed mutiny. That is the only way an open refusal to follow
orders can be interpreted.
-Slava, maybe we should nick off somewhere, like the battleship Potemkin?
- Yurka asked, dragging greedily. - To Turkey or something.
-On a BMP on the Black Sea bottom - not a bad plan. Dont be stupid and
hysterical. We are yet to commit anything unlawful. Theres a chapter in
the Charter that says that you have the right to ignore an order you feel
is unconstitutional (after the first Chechen conflict, the Charter of
the armed forces was re-written and this clause was missing from the new
version). And to lead people to their perilis death. Look at
Czechoslovakianot much bigger than Chechnya, yet they prepared for that
incursion for six months, whilst hereBecause its another country there,
whilst here they are free to kill a million on either side. Mongrels. I
threw away the cigarette butt and took another out immediately. I cant
smoke enough of these lighter once after Prima.Look, Sashka, theyre
hauling our aid to us!
Our old acquaintance - the sergeant major from the hospital with a
plaster over his nose and two black eyes forming like spectacles on his
face, was dragging two boxes as he walked along the solemn commandant.
-Didnt we tell you not to be rude, sonny! - Yurka and I were smiling
widely. - You didnt want to level with us and so you go it.
-If youre going to be rude to strangers, you may not live to
demobilisation, - I picked up, - Had I hit slightly higher, I could have
cracked open your skull. Youre lucky kid, had we waited for you to turn
around armed with that pistol, we could have given you an autopsy without
anaesthesia.
Sashaka arrived just in time to distract us from such grim thoughts with
his hapless assistant. Nobody wants to be a criminal, in their soul being
really a patriot. Nobody wanted to lay down their men on a square and
then have to shoot themselves. Ones consciousness, ones officers
honour would not allow them to continue living with such a burden. A wild
desire to get drunk prevailed - there was booze in those boxes. It will
help escape the frightening choices ahead, for some time. And then they
definitely will accuse one of drunkenness. All the officers present knew
this very well.
-Did you guys decide to mutiny or something? - Sahska sounded worried. Everyones frantic, talking about taking you out.
-No, we just said that the airports commandant offered to lead the
garrison company ahead of ours onto the enemy machine gun fire, but he,
get this, doesnt want to let you go. He stubbornly insists that he wont
let his favourite captain go towards certain death. Personally, I would
not spare you shitheads. You can die, he says, your whole brigade if
necessary, together with your commander and valiant general and Ill lay
a Hero into each of your coffins, - I was getting angry again. I knew
that Sashaka and this fighter had nothing to do with it, but I wanted to
let off some steam at someones expense.
-Sasha, why dont you lend us this slink, well write up a report
regarding his transfer, hell sign anything we want under the barrel of

his own gun. No-one will hear the shot and well dump the body somewhere
far away in the ruins. What say you, you jerk?
I waited for response on Sashkas part or that of his fighter, but none
followed, not even a gesture. They were silent. I was moody, ferocious,
all my feelings, thoughts at a standstill, wound up into a tight spring,
ready to explode and release a tremendous burst of energy. Sashka and his
fighter remained silent.
-Sasha, have you loaded up the provisions you promised? - I was calmer
now, having composed myself, but the spring continued to wind up
sharpening the already keen perceptions.Lets go and load them up.
-We walked over to our BMP. I went ahead, then the fighter, and then
Sashka at the rear. Impassable mud was all around us. The sun was
beginning to set. I opened the personnel hatch and the fighter started
placing Sashkas gifts inside. Sashka approached. With a kick, I sent the
soldier into the dark recesses of the vehicle and slammed the hatch
closed. I grabbed Sashka by the collar, pressed him against the BMP and
drew my pistol out of my coat. He turned pale and looked at me, then the
barrel with widened eyes.
-So, who gave the order to have us surrounded? Well, chop chop, or as you
know either our guys will finish you off or the Chechens later on.
Quickly you bitch.
Yurka came up behind.
-They are surrounding us. It will be difficult to break into the
terminal, they must have brought in a whole company into there by now, no
less. And the mortar-men are there too, theyll fire point blank.Yurka
was absolutely composed and ready for action.
He spoke calmly, addressing Sashka:
-Tell us who said what and what the orders are.
-Sedov emerged after you did and said that you are not to be let out of
Severny. The passwords have been changed already and no-one is to be
admitted to the terminal. If you attempt to drive off without permission
or penetrate the airport building there is an order to open fire without
warning. He said that you are planning to cross over to Dudaev with your
brigade. I am commanded to distract you, to try to get you drunk. Thats
all. Let me go, youll choke me. You are thugs after all. What will you
do to my fighter? - Sashka was rubbing his neck.
-You can have him, he must have pissed himself from fright by now. Whats
the password?
-I dont know. I was only told to get you drunk and leave quickly. What
should I say to Sedov?
-Tell it as it happened, you fighter will confirm. They told you to leave
quickly, it means that they will start killing us soon. Well, you should
go Sasha. So long.
-Slava, Yura, everything will be fine, theyll talk it out over there. If
you want, Ill go to Sedov and Rolin and ask that you be left here. Or
come with me and Ill lead you out when its all finished. Lets go,
lads.
Sashka said when its all over and the only thing that will be over is
the execution. Because I then understood that I cannot shoot at my own
troops, whereas in their eyes wereinsurgent accomplices.

-Thank you Sasha. Go. Tell them only that we are not traitors, even if we
fall here, were not traitors. So long.
I opened the personnel
-Dont be afraid, come
-Yeah.
-If they ask you, tell
for a bit, I could not
be rude to strangers!

hatch. The fighter inside sprung back.

out. Did you hear it all?
them what you heard, - and when they walked off
contain myself and as a farewell shouted: - Dont

The fighter drew in his head as if he was hit.

-So, Slava, shall we go?
We tracked back without speaking a word. My soul was empty, dark. There
was no desire to speak. Absolutely nothing depended on us any more. All
that remained was to wait await ones slaughter, like sheep.
All the officers were bunched together, discussing something. Our
fighters were seated upon the BMPs, whose engines were running, and many
of whose cannons were turned towards the airport terminals building. We
approached them. It seemed that everybody was speaking at the same time,
paying no heed to one another:
-I dont believe that they will shoot.
-What would you do?
-We took this airport together. Bitches, abominable ******!
-They sold the whole Russian out and now they are ****ing us!
-Oh how I would turn to Moskva now!
-My veteran father was right when he said that the primary adversary sits
in Moskva - he desires your death most of all, your aviation is second in
line and only third in line is the German!
-Yura, Slava, have you thought of anything? - everyone stared at us.
-I, - I began, accentuating this pronoun, - I refuse to shoot at our
guys. The commandant told us that Sedov ordered us to be kept here. Not
to let us into the building. He changed the password. Troops have been
pulled into the building. About a companys strength. Maybe more now. In
other wordsshit.
-So what do you propose, to simply wait until we get shot up like quail?
What can I say, a fine goose you are!
-Had I wanted to leave, I would have by now, look its a hundred meters
to the airport. Sedov is saying that our whole brigade has decided to
cross over to Dudaev and is therefore refusing to storm Minutka.
There was a lot of noise. Everyone was speaking loudly and offendedly.
Its impossible to describe these dialogues because the narrative would
have to consist of triple dots and particles such as and,or,
followed by let them go/do, they themselves are/should and so forth.
If the reader was to tune themselves onto the same wavelength, they would
independently find twenty or so variants. But believe me, all the
prominent political and military leaders both current and past from home
as well as from abroad were mentioned along with their parents and other
close relatives.
A similarly dense crowd of officers and NCOs from Severnys guarding
regiment were standing on the porch of the airport. Our probable

adversary. Recently our former colleagues, allies, companions, brothers

in arms. Our lives depended on them very much right now. If they believe
Sedovs crap, were finished. Whatever they decide over yonder, I will
not shoot at you, lads. I felt dreary. I did not want to be wounded. To
be killed outright would be best. Maybe I should shoot myself? No, too
early, nothing is decided yet, Ill always have time, there is always
time to do that.
Behind those closed doors, the fate of our brigade, everyone single one
of us here is being decided. A lot depends on the decision to be made.
Chechnyas fate, the fate of Russia is in the hands of those four men,
that are now arguing, with foam at their mouths trying to prove that they
are right. Our commander and our general may well already be under
arrest. Although it would be foolish to execute a field commander and a
general without trial or jury. Our little gang can be felled out of a
pair of machine gunsno problem, with all questions asked afterwards.
Hmm. If you want to come home, shoot first then ask question. I have
always followed this rule in my meetings with the Chechens, but being an
live target myself now, I felt very uncomfortable. Occupied with such
wretched thoughts, I didnt notice how my cigarettes I smoked until they
dwindled down to a single one. There was a bitter taste in the mouth from
the tobacco smoked and the stupid situation we were in. I took the last
cigarette. It struck me, Is this my last cigarette? I smoked it with
relish, dragging slowly, unhurriedly. Well, boys Im ready for anything.
With every drag I became calmer, more sure of myself. Im not a lamb
awaiting my slaughter. I am a man, who has made my choice consciously. I
began to study the group of officers by the terminal building, who must
not had had it easy at this point either. It was possible that they were
in council right now, trying to make a decision. To shoot us or not to
shoot us. To kills or not to kill, that was the question.

----------CHAPTER 6---------Sashka stood at the centre of the group of probably adversaries - our
firing squad. He was gesticulating livelily, trying to explain something.
Go Sashka, put in the word with your guys. Our friendthe soldier was
standing near, listening attentively to what the officers were saying.
Many of them were interrupting Sashka, asking questions, but it was
impossible to hear what was being said. One thing was clearit was
serious talk. Sashka called over his soldierthe one with the plaster
over his nose, placed something in his hand and pointed in our direction.
He set off running. As he passed us, he looked intently at me and then
shoved something into the hand of the officer nearest to him. He
accelerated, continuing towards the hospital. Logicalthe commandant sent
his soldier to the hospital to fetch a bottle of spirits. From the
outside, everything is kosher. We can now find out what our verdict is.
To live or not to live.

Our officers gathered around, unfolding the crumpled paper:

Were shooting over your heads. Makhra.
What a reaction that produced! Exultation, glee. As if a stay of
execution was delivered to you at the last minute.
-Great work, Sashka! - I said, addressing Yurka.
-Its a great thing we saved his hide, now he saved us in return. Now
well have to feed that freeloader vodka until he chokes on it and falls
under the table. Yurka was also happily excited.
-No Sedov can turn makhra against one another.
-We fought alongside these guys. Seen each-other in action.
-Shat ourselves together under mortar fire.
-Dived into sewers together to avoid snipers.
-Let them all go to hell.
-They wanted to set makhra on makhra.
-Eat ****, you rabble, it wont work.
-We wont shoot one another.
Those were the sorts of replicas that poured from the lips of our
officers. Somebody wanted to go over to our former probable adversaries
and drink to this matter immediately, but he was held back:
-Are you an idiot?
-Whats the matter?
-They, like us, have plenty of informants, do you want to set the guys
up?
-God willing, well drive off, meanwhile theyll start having sort-outs.
-Were standing here, blowing smoke. Thats it.
-Correct. Were waiting for our commanders. We know nothing. Nobody is
planning to shoot at anyone, or disobey orders.
-Dying for a drink!
-Shut up, dont torment the soul.
-Well take the medical supply dump, slam down some medical spirits.
-**** me, we have to take that dump today too. Forgot about it
completely.
-Thats going to be a two-hour job. Main thing to watch out for is our
fighters getting drugs there.
-Ill show them drugs. Last thing I need is people fooling around with
that **** in my battalion. Ill crush them.
-They have been arguing for a long time in there. Time to wrap it up. We
still have to get home and take the medical stores. -Hope the neighbours
dont get there before us.
-They wont dare. The dump is on our territory.
-Theyll take them quietly and lap up all the spirits.
-Ill crush them. Drink my spirits? Not going to happen.
Everyone has already set their former fears aside and were discussing how
the republican medical supplies are to be taken. Everyone agreed that
they should be taken quietly, with no unnecessary noise and with minimal
shooting, or the medicines and SPIRITS could be damaged. Spirits and
specifically rectified spiritsmeaning the purest ethanol is a great
thing. It is liquid currency, which can buy deficit spare parts for the
BMP, a new uniform and one can also drink it in the evening. This isnt
left vodka, you can dilute rectified spirits as you like. You wont

poison yourself, and your head will not ache in the morning from drinking
it. Rectified spirits are not manufactured from crude oil, but from grain
and high-grade grain at that.
The officers calmed down and issued orders for their soldiers to turn the
cannons away from the airport, to remain in the BMP, no matter what is
happening outside, even if the BMP is hit and not to return fire. In
other words we ensured that all measures were taken to prevent one of our
guys opening fire, lest the unthinkable happens. If it does there will be
vengeance. Vengeance for ones comrade. All we do here in Chechnya is
avengerevenge for our dead friends, for the Russians, who were being
killed and tormented here, thrown out of their own apartments. Its a
terrible thing this vengeance. How can one manage not to drag it into
ordinary life, so that it does not become the objective for the rest of
their days? It very well can. I wonder how I will look at these Chechen
mugs in my own city? Here, the more I kill of themthe better. I will be
deprived of such luxury back home. One would have to prove their guilt
back home. Here everything is much simpler: a Chechen is an enemy. Black
and White. Were whitethe good guys, the Chechens are blackmeaning they
are the bad guys. Its utterly absurd. It was we that came onto their
land to kill them. Do they want independence? They can choke on it. Bring
out all the Russians. Deport all Chechens out of Russia back to their
historical homeland. What do we need a firth column for? Fence them in
and let them live in their sovereign and independent country. No need for
casualties and it would be a million times cheaper.
If one was to kill somebody in civilian lifethey become a criminal, a
murderer. If they were to kill thirtythat makes them a warrior and if
they were to kill millionsa conqueror. Their name will be arduously
recorded in the annals of history. Their grateful successors will compose
odes and construct monuments in their honour.
More than an hour has passed and there is still no word from our
commanders. Hopefully nothing has happened. The airport guards were also
calm, no movement or rushing, meaning that we too can remain calm. But
what if one of them takes aim a little lower? Fate. Nothing to do about
it.

In their boredom, the officers started spinning yarns. Its engaging and
the time passes quicker. From a psychological point of view, this is
better than sanding there guessing what might happen to you in ten
minutes. It distracts one from grim thoughts. Its important to speak
out. It doesnt matter what the subject isjust to speak. I have heard
enough of these tales in my time in the forces, I have a few of my own
and so I was called upon:
-Slava, tell us how you became a millionaire.
-Ive told this one like a hundred times already.
-Tell it again, dont fuss.
-Alright. The story goes like this. After I finished the academy, I
arrived in Kishenyov, went to the barracks, reported as it were,
introduced myself to my fellow officers and the collective and took up
command in four platoons instead of one. There was a shortage of

lieutenants even then. I found myself in the headquarters of the SouthWestern front. After the lean Siberian days, Kishenyov was like paradise.
Salami sausage, fresh meat, wine, fashionable clothesand plenty of it!
And this is during the prohibition years. I was thinking to myself,
Ill die a senior lieutenant, but I refuse to leave here.
The company commander has graduated from the same academy three years
earlier than me. I arrived with no family or accommodation, I lived at
the barracks until I found a flat. So the company commander comes up to
me one evening and says:
-Slava, my wife and son have gone on holiday. Why dont you come over for
supper and well grab a drink?
Nobody drank vodka in Moldavia as there was enough wine there to bathe
in. Dry, not fortified wine, mind you; and only tourists drunk the wine
from the shops. The locals drank home-made wine, which could be purchased
anywhere. The Moldovans made there types of wine: for ourselves, for
weddings and for sale.
For ourselves was the besthand-picked grapes, not a gram of sugar. It
was made in small quantities, consumed in-house and reserved for
distinguished guests. The company commander made friends with a Moldovan
he would sometimes consign the soldiers to do work for him or helped him
out in some other wayin return, the Moldovan gave us wine that he made
for himself.
For the wedding is next on the local wine grade chart. It is made from
whatever is left over from making wine for yourself and additional,
ordinary grapes are added. It is made for large-scale family
celebrations. This grade makes for a tolerable drink
Finally, For Sale features dregs and squeezing, with added sugar and a
bit of spirit, purely for commercial distribution.
Whats said is donewe grabbed two three-lire jars of for yourself and
went to have supper.
There were big manoeuvres going at that timeAutumn-88 on the
territories of the Kiev and Odessa military districts. The Black Sea
Fleet also participated. Our regiment was to join in in ten days. We were
discussing these upcoming manoeuvres as we rode the trolleybus. There was
a colonel beside us, whom, being new, I didnt know. He turned out to be
the chief of the commands office. There used to be such a post. He lived
on the same stairwell as the company commander. They greeted one another,
chatted about this and that. Then his slaps his forehead:
-Guys, - he says, - Im departing for the manoeuvres tomorrow, I got so
caught up in it, that I forgot my daughters birthday tomorrow. I bought
her a doll and left it in my office, forgot to take it with me. Do a good
deed, guys, go see the commands legal council, say youre from me, Ill
call ahead. Get the doll and take it to my daughter. Tell her its from
papa. She was asking for it for a long time and was a good girl.
Otherwise it will look like I lied to the child. Can you do that?
-Of course well do it! - the company commander assured him.

Meanwhile we arrived at our destination, went up to his apartment and

spent the time merrily, as it were, eating, drinking discussing
everything.
-Slava, youll get the doll from the jurist and Ill take it to the girl.
-Where is this councils office?
-**** knows. Ask the communications orderly.
I have only been at that regiment for a few weeks at that point and
wasnt acquainted with any comms men, except my own. So I turn up with a
sly grin on my face and ask the comms orderly:
-Wheres the legal council of he command? Where is his office and how do
I find it?
-Why do you need him?
I assumed that like any normal officer, he had a sense of humour and will
react normally, so I told him:
-He called me. Invited me over. He says that I had some aunty who lived
in Canada. She died and bequeathed all her inheritance to me.
-Youre joking!
-No, not joking. I was surprised myself. They say its half a million
dollars. Maybe there is a mistake, so Im going to find out now, - I say
in a completely serious tone of voice, thinking he gets my gag. I said it
and forgot about it.
He explained precisely where to find this jurist. I went there. He was
waiting for me. Handed over the doll. There was a largish box and inside
it the doll was likewiseremember there were these East German-made ones
that walked and talked? Yeah like that. The box was pretty. About meter
twenty in height. Im walking back. I have forgotten the gag with the
dollars already. At the exit a mob of officers has gathered with this
comms orderly in the centre is telling them something. They fell silent
when I approached, meaning that they were talking about me. I said hello.
-So, Yura, how did your talk go with the jurist? - the orderly asks.
-It went all-right, - I answer seriously, meanwhile bursting from
laughter on the inside, they could not have fallen for such a childish
joke, - we sorted it out. It turned out that I really did inherit money.
They handed it over on the spot, although they took twenty five thousand
as capital gains tax, but the restis mine. There was no bag to carry the
cash, so I put it into this doll box. So now I have to haul it home like
this.
-Youre kidding!
-Show me the dollarsIve never seen them!
-You lucked out!
-Youre making all this up probably.
-Im making this up am I? Ask the jurist, I just left there. I wont show
you the dollars as I probably wont make it to the barracks, Ill get
killed and robbed on the way. Youll probably kill and rob me and divide
up the money. I know what youre like you scoundrels, Im just like that
myself.
I arrived at the barracks, handed the doll over to the company commander,
told him my story. We laughed it up and then forgot it. After a while a
rumour spread that I was a millionaire. Every time the story was told, it

changed. Each time my inheritance became bigger and bigger. The women at
the communications office were pissing boiling water that I was already
married, but made cute faces and flirted anyway. Officers completely
unknown to me would approach and ask questions like:
-Are you Mironov?
-Yes. Whats the matter?
-Is it true?
-Its true, - I answer, barely containing laughter, - so whats the
matter?
-Is it true about the inheritance, though?
-Why do you want to know? Are you planning to rob me?!
In short, I would not say yes or no, but would respond to a question
with a question, confusing my enquirers. I was being approached and
offered to enter a partnerships. I deflected by saying that there are
many offers and that I am considering them all. In other wordsan idiot
house.
It all came to an end, when they calculated how much foreign currency I
owed in Komsomol contributions at the political office of the stavka.
They went to Beryozka, remember those foreign currency shops, - and
picked out furniture to buy for their office.
And so I and the garrison commander were summoned to the
counterintelligence department. And they start to grill me. I explain
that it was a joke and that that dummy, the comms orderly has no sense of
humour. In addition he spreads rumours.
And were freaking out here, say the counterintelligence guys, checking
you out. We checked all your relatives. You have first-level clearance,
access to key documentation. And then suddenly some Canadian aunt. We had
a right jolly time here because of you. And the guys out of the political
office are idiots toothey already picked out the furniture, haha.
Long story short, after everyone was done laughing, they made me sing off
right there and then, that I was not affiliated with, did not receive, am
not aware, having not seen or heard anything and will not publicise to
anyone. For a long time afterwards, I was variously nicknamed as
millionaire, millionist and Koreiko.
-Dumbasses.
-You got them good, Slava.
-Listen, Ive heard his story and thought that it was idle chatter. Turns
out it really happened. Thats great!
-Slava, while theres still time, tell us about the posthumous money.
-What money?
-Have you not heard this one?
-Well, I was commandeered.
-Well then, listen. Slava, tell us about the funerary money.
-Not funerary but posthumous money. Ok, here goes. A couple of years
have passed since I had become a millionaire. I was made senior
lieutenant by then. So, picture this: July or August in Kishinyov. The
heat is unbearable, the asphalt is melting. So, I and another guy form
the company are supervising two hours worth of drill exercise under this
scorching sun. Were dressed in tunics, caps, boots and sashes. It was

pretty awful in other words. First one hour with one troop, then one hour
with another. The drilling ground was large. He and his troop in one
corner, I in the other.
I became severely bored, so I decided to play a joke on him. As one group
of soldiers was handing in their weapons and the other was receiving
theirs, we sat in the shade, smoking. So I ask him:
-Have you received the money?
-What moneyits two weeks until payday. You must have overheated in the
sun.
-Look whos talking. Were you present at the briefing on Friday?
-No, I was preparing for assignment.
-There you go, youve got no idea and you say I have heatstroke. There is
an order from the minister of defence. It says there, that if an officer
was to die, his family receives a posthumous grant of three thousand
roubles. However this sum can be awarded whilst he is still alive after a
report from the officer stating their motivations and their commanders
approval. So I went and got it. I reckoned that youll bury me anyway, so
that I dont stink up the place. Youll put in a rouble each, buy me a
wreath. You dont have a choice anyway.
-Youre probably making this up. How much did you receive?
-Three thousand, to the copeik. So me an my wife are thinking we should
get a used car, or buy some furniture for the flat. I dont know. Maybe
we should just put it in the bank to earn interest.
-You should get the car. So how does one receive this money?
-Very simple. Write a report to the comm-batt. This and that, please
issue me the posthumous grant, the sum of three thousand roubles. And
make sure to spell out three thousand, otherwise theyll tell you to
re-submit it as they initially told me.
-Listen, why aren't the others receiving theirs?
-Hell knows. Maybe they dont need the cash, maybe there is too much
paperwork. There is an inspection soon, so the clerks have no time for
it.
We conducted another hour of drill
to the comm-batt. This and that. A
a second, sign his report, comrade
reading.
-Why would I sign anything without
-Sign it, its a joke, youll see,

exercise. I finished earlier and ran

senior lieutenant will come to you in
lieutenant-colonel. Sign it without
reading it first?
well laugh together.

I ran off to my company quarters. Changed my clothes and went to the

office. Im sitting there, awaiting the finale. The phone rings. The
comm-batt says to me:
-Mironov, report to me immediately.
I quickly descended to the battalion commanders office. He was sitting
there, looking like a new, shiny copper and was smiling with all thirty
two teeth.
-Well Mironov. How did you dream up this death money? And Kryukov bought
it! Hahaha! Why did you decide to trick him like this?
-Its very simple, comrade lieutenant colonel. He drilled the whole two
hours so loudly that my ears were ringing. I think that he wanted you to
notice him.

-I heard him and thought the same, - the comm-batt remarked.

-In other words, he annoyed me, meanwhile its so hot, Im drenched in
sweat. Im bored to death. And Kruykov, here continues to shout. Heres
all the way across the yard, yet hes annoying me. So I thought Id play
a joke on him and the idea about death money came to me as I was
smoking. And it so happened that he missed the last briefing.
-The finances chief is going to call now, hell **** himself for certain
having read Kryukovs report. - The comm-batt lit up and nodded
permission for me to do the same. Together, we waited for the call.
It came, after a couple minutes pause. The comm-batt removed the
handset:
-Klyonov, speaking.
-Good day to you Valerij Pavlovich, - the finances chiefs voice sounded
in the speaker. The comm-batt shifted the handset so that I could hear
everything, - this is the finances chief, captain Golovanov.
-Go ahead, - the comm-batt started to twitch from suppressed laughter.
-Kryukov has come to me with some report about posthumous money. Has he
gotten heatstroke over there? Who sent you, do you say? - one could hear
the chief speaking to Kryukov. - Mironov told you? Theres a person you
should listen to! Dont you remember his tall tales from a few years ago
and how the whole command was standing upside-down as a result? Hes
tricked you too, you dummy. To listen to Mironov is to loose selfrespect. Comrade lieutenant-colonel, Mironov must have fooled Kryukov.
Told him that theres some order from the minister of defence that an
officer is able to receive the death premium meant for his family while
hes still alive. Its absurd. Go, go, Kryukov and take your report with
you. Tell Mironov, that if hes going to tangle me up in his pranks,
hell be the last one to get paid. Begging your forgiveness, comrade
lieutenant colonel, this is all Mironov stirring things up and Kryukov
believed him.
And for as long as Kryukov served at that garrison, the officers there
made sure to constantly remind him of this incident. Meanwhile, no matter
what I said, in seriousness or in jest, nobody believed me, thinking Im
trying to trick them and make a public spectacle out of them.
I finished the story and everyone around me cackled with laughter.
-You got that Kryukov, good, Slava!
-Did you come up with it yourself?
-YeahI was bored.
-Its good that you told us this story, now I know there is no believing
you now.
-Here we go again. The same thing happens anywhere I tell this, the
people stop trusting me. ShitI spat at my feet in mock indignation.
-Dont worry Slava, were joking.
-Look, the brigade commander and the general are coming out!

And we all saw that they were finally emerging from the airport. Sedov
was farewelling them, smiling widely, straight off the Welcome poster.

He was saying something, pointing in our direction, possibly something

about how we were earlier preparing our defence. Laugh it up, you
scoundrel, laugh it up. You might answer for it later, you shitty
strategist.
The general said something to Bakhel and returned to the building, the
comm-brig meanwhile walked over to us. His face, which was normally grim,
rarely smiling, now had a completely deranged, it bore worn-out look on
it.
-What, were you planning to fight it out over us? - he asked as he lit
up.
-There was an opinion like that, comrade lieutenant-colonel. - They
brought in a whole company, more even, changed the sentries and
passwords. They were not letting us out of the airport or into the
building and in the case of us attempting those things, were going to
react with deadly force.
-Hmm, were they accusing us of desertion?
-Worse that that, they spread a rumour that the whole brigade was
planning to cross over to Dudaev.
-How absurd. And did the airport garrison believe that? We stormed this
citadel together after all.
-They didnt, thank God. They talked it over and then sent us a note that
they wont shoot at us.
-Its a good thing that somebody still believes us. I was being accused
of all these things myself over there. Also in cowardice, betrayal and
high treason. They wanted to arrest me already, but it looks like your
efforts over here changed their minds. Otherwise it would have ended up
with our guys shooting eachother up! They telephoned Moskva. I spoke to
the deputy of the chief of General Staff, tried to convince them of the
futility of what we were ordered to do. They refuse to accept
responsibility and are instructing us to sort it out on the spot.
Shitheads. Oh well, lets go home.
To your vehicles, to your vehicles! - the command sounded, repeated by
each vehicles commander.
Gradually, the convoy formed up and we embarked upon the return journey.
Our officers who remained at the command post informed us that our
passage has been cleared and that our neighbours have also cleared
the road and adjacent buildings. But they are not wagering anything
regarding mines. The Chechens attempted to cut off the route, they had to
be knocked out and no resources were left to check for mines. Things were
not getting easier by the hour.
We were, however in luck and arrived without incident. Our hands were now
untied. All that remained was to work out the Minutka assault plan as noone doubted any longer that well now have to take it. From a few
disconnected replicas on the part of the commander, it became clear that
we were granted an extension of four or five days. Guided by some sort of
higher motives, Moskva categorically prohibited airborne attacks. We will
not get far with only our own artillery and tank firepower. So yes, our
prospects did not seem very happy.

I was entrusted with leading the medical supplies requisitioning

operation. In our absence, the recon troop established that the medical
dump was not guarded. It was unknown if it was mined, so sappers will
have to be involved.
We were greeted like heroes. The entire command post went out to meet us.
Whilst still in the airport, the radiomen have painted an approximate
picture of the situation, so everyone was eagerly awaiting our return.
-Look, they are alive!
-Weve heard how you were holding a defence line by the airport.
-Why did you have to frighten Rolin and Sedov like that? They are
probably on the phone right now, complaining to Moskva, hahaha!
-Sweaty legs in their mouths, let the ass-lickers squeal.
Those were the sorts of things uttered by those greeting us. The people
were worn out from moral strain. I shouted:
-Those who have been assigned to the medical mop-up yesterdaymuster in
thirty minutes at the exit checkpoint from the command post.
Me and Yurka walked to our kung, the bags and boxes containing our
humanitarian aid in our hands. We have not yet had dinner and felt
especially hungry having lived through all that excitement. Our mouths
salivated and stomachs rumbled, anticipating a tasty meal. Smoke poured
from the stack over the stove in our kung.
-What a good lad, that Sashka, he procured firewood from somewhere.
-Well wash up in warm water now, smash down a hundred. Ill have some
time before the briefing and although I should prepare, Im going to
sleep for about an hour anyway. Yurka closed his eyes dreamily. I envied
him. Good-naturedly.
-Right now it would be good to nap for about three hours, hmm, Yura?
-That would be great. You take those stores quickly, you hear, otherwise
youll miss the briefing.
-No, I think well get it over with quickly.
-Get me some tablets against alcoholic inebriation. Theyll be useful
back home.
-Ill get them if the doctors point them out. Otherwise I can take you a
whole bunch at randomyou can sit there and try them outsee which ones
you like. Anythingfor a friend.
-Listen, why do they keep throwing you into various actions? Youre not a
boy any more, but a senior staff officer.
-Im a senior staff officer for collaboration and nobody properly
understands what that means. Collaboration with whom? With our
neighbours? I have already arranged that. For collaboration between
battalions? Thats not my problem. So it turns out that this post has
been invented, but for what bloody reasonnobody knows. And by the way,
this post exists only in combat. In peace, Im just a senior staff
officer. Also I dont like to idle. I get crazy.
-We, sinners, suspected you were an informant from the special
department. You were commandeered at the last moment. You had no specific
responsibilities. But having checked you out we saw that you were our
man. Same as everyonemakhra.
-Thats a good thing. Hey Pashka, open the door, our hands are full, - I
rapped on the door with my elbow.

The door swung open. We stumbled into the kung. Pashka has prepared
dinner and brewed the tea. There was warm water on the stove. We piled
our gifts onto the bunk.
-Sort it out, will you. We dont know what it all is ourselves yet. Were
going to go wash up. - Yurka said.
Meanwhile, I threw off the gun, flak jacket and coat and stretched my
muscles:
-So good! Imaginein peaceful life, people somehow do without all this
metal. That must be so good. Oh well, lets go wash up. Soon I have to
lead the vitamin procurement convoy.
We climbed outside. Yurka also cast off his harness. Steam rose up from
our backs. We thoroughly washed up, taking turns to pour water over one
another. In war one experiences great satisfaction from small things that
they take for granted in peaceful life. One remembers it only when they
experience it. When one returns home, everything will probably be the
same as always and they would not feel such pleasure during an ordinary
shower or a drag on a good cigarette. One can simply open up a tap there,
or better still climb into a hot bath. Ohthe bathtub. I can compose an
ode to you. Because when you spend more than two weeks covered in dirt
like swine, the bath begins to come to you in your dreams. You dream of
it like you dream of a woman and you desire it no less like woman. Im
not going to even mention the sauna. Thats simply an ephemeral hope. You
get fed up of rubbing yourself in cheap cologne or cheap vodka. You want
to wash off the sweat and grease, to again feel like a civilized man. Or
at least a man not far removed from civilization. If one stops looking
after themselves, its very easy to degrade. One becomes dense and
completely apathetic, uncaring of their fate and that of their comrades.
One can even break down psychologically. This is why the commanders grill
their charges over their appearance. They somehow try to remind them of
their humanity and the values stemming from itthe values of humanity
such as compassion and comradeship. Its the same with cigarettes. At
home you can buy any brand of cigarettes in any kiosk, provided you have
the money. Here, its a cult.
When we, having returned to the kung, saw what Sashka placed into our
humanitarian aid, our spirits improved considerably. An open bottle of
Dagestan cognac stood on the table. There were three types of smoked
salami, imported canned fish in oil, cheese and, oh the miraclea lemon!
Thinly sliced and sprinkled with sugar, the fragrant lemon seeped out
pale yellow nectar. Its aroma killed the smell of unwashed bodies, dirty
socks, cheap cologne, onion, leather and a lot of other filth. The
lemons fragrance reigned over all other aromas.
We began to eat. Our stomachs churned from hunger. First of all, we
uncorked the Dagestani cognac. We poured, sniffed. Mmm, an unearthly
fragrance.
-Lets roll, - Yurka said, clinking with me and Pashka.
Everyone drank, drank the cognac out of habit for vodka on the breatheout, sensing no flavour. But the taste of it remained on the palate, the
taste of cognac, its aroma. Nobody hurried to snack. We sat and savoured

that which we were each sensing. We then each took a slice of lemon and
placed it unhurriedly in our mouths. How good it was!
-Allright, guys, you can continue to relax here for a long time still,
but I have ten minutes until departure. So Im going to be quick, - I
said pouring myself half a glass of cognac and sliding the snacks over
closer.
-Yes, yes, of course Slava, go for it, - Yurka poured some cognac for
himself and Pashka and we again raised our crunchy Aeroflot glasses.
-What are we drinking to?
-Whats the difference! To good fortune! How about it? - I had no time
for sentiments. I wanted to fill up on the food a bit more, but the
medics say its not good to eat before battle. So let them fast. To
forego such cognac and such snacks for another fightno way!
-That will do! - we raised our goblets and brought them together.
And the healing liquid once again streamed down my throat, gently warming
everything upon its path. Yurka started to pour the third. My mouth
stuffed with snack I pointed and moaned to pour me only a little. Yurka
splashed some purely symbolic quantity into my cup and we rose, drinking
silently, without clinking. The third toast remains the third toast. We
snacked. I shovelled everything into my mouthcheese, all sorts of
salami, topped off with lemon. All good. I looked at my watch.
-Thats it guys, Im off, - I stood up and began to dress. Yura and Pavel
helped me into the flak jacket.
-Thats it, bye, bye. Dont supper without me, maybe Ill procure
something.
-Good luck, try not to be late for the briefing, - Yurka slapped me on
the shoulder.
-Memorise what they decide about Minutka.
-I feel it in my heart, well be spitting blood at this Minutka.
-Well see how we go. Bye.
-Good luck.
I almost ran to the checkpoint at the exit from the brigades command
post. In peaceful life, as far as I remember, I always walked quickly. My
friends joked that I was in a hurry to live and experience. Here,
everyone walks slowly, tiredly. And nobody hurries anyone without need.
There were three BMPs there already as well as a medics MT-LBa lightly
armoured towing vehicle with the characteristic crosses on the sides and
top. Although if our convoy gets shot up, it was unlikely to be spared. A
wounded enemyis still an enemy and the Chechens did not sign the Geneva
Convention regarding POWs. They hold their own views regarding what is
happening here and weour won. We are in agreement on some things, but
mostly not.
There were officers standing next to the BMPs and the tower. The
composite team. There were three doctors, two platoon commanders from the
third battalion and one from the reconnaissance company. I approached. It
sounded like the officers were exchanging anecdotes and tales. Under
different circumstances I would have joined in with my own or listened to
theirs, but not now. It will start getting dark in an hour, hour and a
half maximum and well have to postpone everything until tomorrow then,

having returned with nothing. I greeted those that I have not yet seen
today.
-All right. Intelligence reports, - I nodded at the recon trooper that
the stores are practically unguarded. So I believe there will not be any
particular problems.
-Thats correct, I was there myself today. There is no garrison, only
some shady characters hanging about, most likely marauders. We grabbed
one, but he passed away. He had no time to explain anything properly. We
confiscated vials of morphine and some other vile stuff. Maybe he was a
junkie, maybe just a speculator.
-Passed away? Again? - the officers exclaimed ironically. You must be in
collusion with Nikolayevich (that would be me), or something. Yesterday
he failed to deliver the sniper, claiming that he passed away from a bad
heart. Vyacheslav Nikolaevich, you must have performed the autopsy
yourself, huh? And here you have an unknown person pass away without
saying a word.
-Enough with the bazaar! - I cut off the talk.I and lieutenant Golovin
in the leading vehicle. The rest follow at a distance of a hundred
meters. The medics in the middle. To your vehicles.
The officers scattered and started scrambling aboard their APCs. I looked
them over. Everyone seemed in place. I checked the radio link with them
all as well as the command post. Everything seemed in order.
-Forward! - I commanded to my driver and the convoy. At least the
internal comms link is functioning on this BMP. Once I had to ride on a
vehicle from the first battalion and I say what a farce that was. You sit
on the armour, the mechanic-driver is tied with a piece of rope under his
armpits and you pull on it to direct him. You pull righthe turns right,
you pull left, he turns left. Pull them bothand whoa - stop. Just like
horse-riding. I suggested that the platoon commander, who allowed the
equipment to degrade to such a state be put in the drivers seat, with
ropes tied to his ears, but it turned out that he went missing in action.
We drove off. Again this greyness, mud and cold. In order to avoid
prostatitis or frostbite of some other body part, one has to put a pillow
under their ass. At this point I had the seat of some imported car.
Lieutenant Voronin perched himself up front, near the cannon.
Nicknames are often given, based on the surname. Voronins had nothing to
do with crows. His nickname was Toothy. He was a fanatic of his work and
in love with weapons. Knives were his thing. He was a virtuoso with the
blade. Many in our brigade, including myself could cut up a man in two
minutes. But Toothy held the absolute record. The blade flashed like
lightning in his hand. To slice through the main veins in the bodythe
wrists, in the elbow bend, under the arms, the arteries on either side of
the neck and in the groin, - Toothy required less than a minute. He was
excellent at throwing the knives also. He was about a meter seventy tall,
on the slender side, wiry. Thick, un-gaining, wire-like, black hair grew
on his head. His knuckles were smashed up and callused. He was a man of
few words, and those who have seen him in action respected him and would
never dream of calling him a crow. Not because one could cop a turn kick
of a boot into their teeth, but because the mans work inspired respect

for him in the people. He was never needlessly harsh in words, never
showed off or feigned a tough guy or a hero. The man simply did his job.
I like these quiet, well balanced, silent men. Maybe it is you, Toothy,
that will have to take the bridges over Sunja. And your knife-throwing
and throat-cutting skills will come in handy. Not a sound or death-yell.
And the guard is already gone. The guys from spetsnaz have already made
overtures to have Toothy cross over to them. We spent a few days together
sheltering in a basement which is where they spotted him. No way! We need
such cadres ourselves. The lad got the handle of a shovel from twenty
paces in twilight on top of it all! Imagine if that was a sentry's neck.
Thats right. And this is not the movies, this is real combat. The
spetsnazovites threatened to petition the general staff, the GRU. When
the war is over, we will petition for this cut-throat s promotion
ourselves, dont they worry.

Meanwhile, we approached the ruins of some school. Voronin summoned his

fighters over the radio and waving his arm called me over. We descended
into the schools basement and then ascended to the second floor using
the remains of a staircase. The reconnaissance men were stationed there
in relative comfort. One of them was an UzbekBadalov, but I dont
remember the others surname, only his nicknamePliers. Fates irony
granted him a notable appearance. He had an enormous mouthear to ear and
throughout his life, the lad had to defend his dignity in fights. He was
not tall and he was stocky. Good in a fight. Asked to be transferred into
reconnaissance of his own accord. And when he was brought over with the
other recruits, the whole brigade went over to see him eat. To sip soup
out of a spoon, he brought it over to somewhere in the vicinity of his
cheek. It was comedic at first, but eventually everyone got used to it.
On the other hand the lad fought well, defending his right for a
dignified life. At first he was sent to the tankers and only afterwards
did he ask for a transfer to intelligence. He withstood a sparring
contest with one of the most experienced recon troopers. The most
important thing here is not besting your opponent, but the will to win.
There are no rules, other thanno hits to the groin. When an inspecting
committee visits, they spar wearing helmets and gloves. But in their
absencethere is no protection of any sort. There are three rounds,
lasting three minutes each. At the end of the second round, Pliers sent
the old-timer recon man into a deep knock-out, despite the latters
advantage in height, weight and experience over the first-year lad.
Pliers conduct in battle was exemplary. It seemed that all that anger
that he pent up from his childhood days onwards and that had no escape
found an outlet here. The recon man liked to work with his hands. He
liked to snap necks. Hed sneak up to a Chechen sentry from behind and
pull on his legs. The sentry would fall, his hands naturally outstretched
to prevent hitting the ground with his face. In general male psychology
is different from that of women. A woman screams when in danger, louder
than a jet taking off, whilst a man is silent, he is focused, he wants to
overcome his adversary. We are aware of this and so is the enemy. It
would seem to be perfectly common-senseyell out and somebody will come

to your aid, but nothe fighting spirit and psychology prevent them from
screaming. And so when a Chechen falls to the ground silently, Pliers
leaps up onto their back, presses his knee into the spot where the neck
meets the back and grabbing the head by the forehead, sharply yanks it
towards himself. There is a crack, the spine is broken, there is no
blood. Some including your humble servant, to avoid unnecessary risks
(and the former method is really for connoisseurs only) simply cut the
throat. Its soundless and the adversary simply chokes in their blood.
Simple, cheap and effective. The Chechens treat our sentries likewise and
that is why the sentries shoot up their sector, lob grenades, set up
mine-traps, surprises - ordinary electrical wire with empty tin cans.
There are many tricks and one would think of many more themselves if they
want to survive standing at their post.
Badalov is also a good intelligence man. Everyone was apprehensive at
firsthe is Muslim after all, but he replied calmly that the Russians
kill one another too. Meanwhile he grew up in Russian and was used to
local customs. And as it turned out he recommended himself as a true
warrior in the first days f war. Good lad.
And so they are standing before me, Toothy, Badalov and Pliers and are
reporting:
-Alls quiet, comrade captain, the stores are not guarded, only the
marauders came but when one of them perished, the others left.
-And how did he perish? - I ask, expecting to hear another sweet fairytale.
-Well, we hog-tied him and laid him down in the corner to rest. He cut
the binds with a piece of window glass and tried to run away, so I took
him down with a knife. He was warmly dressed, I wanted to get him in the
leg, but due to a sleight of hand got him in the throat, - Toothy excused
himself as if he was a schoolboy.
-All- right, lets roll, - I waved my arm in resignation, - did you check
his pockets?
-We did and did not find anything other than the medicines I have already
mentioned.
-Just look at those sly mugs, - I pointed at the fighters, - Id say they
did find something else.
Toothy gazed at his soldiers angrily.
-What are you hiding?
-Here, we found this in his boots, - from his pocket, Badalov produced a
stack of crumpled roubles and dollars.
-Here you go, - Pliers handed us a similar clump of foreign and domestic
currency.

Me and toothy both instinctively pulled away from the money being handed
to us.
-You earned it, you sort it out now, - I lit up and treated Voronin and
we left to meet our vehicles that have arrived now and were revving their
engines in the schoolyard.

-Whats going to happen to those morons? - Toothy asked, looking into my

eyes, worried. I could see that he pitied those soldiers.
-Nothings going to happen, if they hold their tongues. Yes they were
obliged to report the cash and hand it in and then somebody at Severny
or in Mozdok would appropriate it. Teach those morons not to be so weak
at the knees. Intellegence, my ass, - I remarked ironically, wounding his
self-esteem. - Send them with the sappers to go check for mines now, if
the building is booby trapped or not. Then they will lug the cartons to
the vehicles and then unload them for the medics ate the command post.
Off you go, well catch up in a moment.
-Affirmative! - Toothy replied and having turned disappeared soundlessly
behind me.
I knew perfectly well that the platoon commander is now going to smash up
his subordinates mugs. And I did not pity them. And he will be
educating them so, not because they tried to appropriate the money
instead of turning them into the states possession but because they did
not report it to the commander and turn it into the companys communal
funds. That they concealed it quietly, ratted it up and also because
they cracked so quickly in front of a staff boss, me that is. I will
not be surprised one bit to see Badalov and Pliers with bloody noses,
when I return.
The usual hustle and bustle by the vehicles saw the fighters, having
leapt off the armour take up circular defence. The officers entered the
former schools building, the sappers walked ahead of them.
-Hows the situation, Slavka?
-Alls quiet by the looks of it. No sight of any guards. The recon guys
spent a whole day here, didnt spot anybody.
-And are there mines? Or any other gifts from this brotherly people?
-**** knows, intelligence didnt check themselves, they left this
honoured mission to the sappers.
-Should we leave a guard at the APCs?
-The mechanics will be enough. The rest need to come with ussomebody has
to haul the crates after all.
Everyone was calm: if no mines or booby traps turn up, the operation
should not present much trouble. Meanwhile, we ascended to the second
floor, where we were met by the recon men, who were busy wiping up bloody
snot and Toothy, who was rubbing his knuckles. Judging by the identical
boot-prints on the soldiers stomachs the platoon commanders special
move was employed herethe patented turn kick. The fighters internal
organs were not in danger from these deadly blows as they were wearing
flak jackets. This was a purely educational exercise. The fighters
understood that they were at fault and did not dare look at me. Maybe
they blamed me, but most likely not, they were simply ashamed of their
actions. Or more precisely for getting caught so easily.

----------CHAPTER 7----------

-Anyone in need of medical attention? - a doctor, captain of the medical

services Zhenya Ivanov approached the fighters. A highly intellectual
guy, tall, slender. Bespectacled, he wore a moustache and had a shaven
head, very reminiscent of the well-known singer Rosenbaum. The fighters
lurched away from the doctor.
-I dont want anything! - Pliers backed away, but the doctor grabbed him
and turned him towards him in that familiar doctors manner.
-Be quiet, patient, or I might maim you myself accidentally somehow.
Right, right, the bones and cartilage are intact, youll live and if not,
the autopsy will reveal the cause of death of such a youthful and
wonderful creature.
-Shall we go? - Toothy asked of the officers surrounding him.
-Off you go.
I commanded and pointed with my finger to Badalov and Pliers as well as
the sappers:
-Forward. Well cover you, dont linger too much and if there are a lot
of mines, well do with just a passagein and out, thats all. Master
physicians, are you ready?
-Yes Sir! - Zhenya answered for all the medics.
We set forth in a line, one after another, looking about us and covering
each-others backs, ready to scatter and take up a circular defence.
There was no other sound coming from the direction of the BMPs other than
that of their engines. -Zhenya, - I caught up with doctor Ivanov, - Yurka
was asking for these tablets, against getting drunk.
-There is one radical remedy against alcoholic stupor, you know what it
is?
-Not to drink at all?
-Thats right! How did you know?
-I just guessed.
-Amazing. Usually they buy it. No way they would guess it.
-Zhenya, you see, Im a cynic, just like you, and I try not to treat this
life seriously likewise, otherwise Ill go funny in the head and after
all what happens, happens. Its Gods will.
-Amazinghow do you manage to maintain a sense of humour?
-Its simple. The Turks have a wonderful expressionkismet, which means
fate and I adhere to it. Fate is and no matter what you do, you will
not escape it. It is written in your fates that you are to live this long
and are to die then and there from a grenade explosion, then no matter
what you do, no matter how tough you might be, no matter what security
detail you hire, you will spill out your guts due to a grenade blast.
Naturally, the same applies to other life events.
-And you really believe that this is how it really is?
-Yes, Zhenya, I believe it. Have you not ever come across a patient who
according to all your canons should have died, yet despite all your
efforts lives on? And no matter how you deny it, it is by the laws of
being that he remains alive? Has this ever happened to you, Zhenya? And
dont tell me that he had a singularly resilient organism or any other
such nonsense. Youll have to agree that there is something unexplained
in a lot of medical cases.

-I agree that a particularly large number of such cases occurs right here
in shall we say extreme conditions.
-And a lot of cases, where everyone around him is dying, whilst he
continues onwards, like he is possessed and nothing harms him.
-I had a case like that. Remember how a platoon from the first battalion
got lost and separated from our forces and ended up in an ambush?
-Yeah I remember that. Whats not to rememberthey were shot up pointblank.
-There were three survivors. Two of them wounded whilst the thirdnot a
single scratch. Everyone thought that hed cowered behind others backs
and they were about to kill him. But the wounded confirmed that they
survived only because he drove a burning BMP out of the fire-fight and
when he confirmed that the others have been killed threw in the wounded
and drove them out. So you are right in many respects. Are you not afraid
of death yourself?
-Of course Im afraid, Zhenya, of course. Maybe Im just ready for it.
But, more than death, Im afraid to become crippled. Promise me Zhenya,
that if I end up on your operating table missing a limb or some other
body part that would make me a crippleyou will give me a chance to die
in peace. I understand that you yourself wont go through with something
like that, but at least give me that chance.
-Firstly, Slava, I think that youre suffering from a mental breakdown
and are simply in shock. I know what you had to endure at Severny and
how you refused to shoot at our guys. You were the first to refuse to do
it this and thanks to a commandant acquainted to you, our former allies
had also collectively decided not to shoot you up. So now you should get
drunk or alternatively, come see me and I will give you some tablets.
Well getting some of them soon, by the way. As for death, everyone has
the right to carry on with living as they see fit. There are no hopeless
situationsthere is always a choice and an exit opportunity. This
particular outcome may not always suit you but it is always available.
Problems are created by people and only people can solve problems.
-You didnt understand a bloody thing, Zhenya, - I waved at him wearily,
- Im not a neurotic school girl and am not suffering from any breakdown.
The men at the frontline have it a lot harder. Im afraid of becoming an
invalid. I respect men such as Maresyev, that fight for their lives
despite their limitations, but I cant do that. Its better to lay down
on a grenade with my gut than to be a cripple. Enough, well caw in bad
luck. ****!
-Look, Slava, the sappers are waving to us, everything must be ready.
Lets be off. Our discussion of morality can continue over a game of
cards, or a bottle of good cognac.
-All right, but, you scoundrel still have not given me your word.
Remember my request, alright?
-Alright, alright, just leave me alone. I can listen to any request but
am under no obligation to fulfil it. You understand?
-I understand. Alright, lets go.
-Found anything? - I asked the sappers, having come nearer.
-Its nothing, comrade captain. A limonka was tied to the door with a
piece of wire and thats allnothing else, - reported the sappers, happy
that there was no more work for them to do.
-Go and carefully study the entire premises and when youre done, come
back and help load the crates.

As soon as the fighters heard that they were to carry crates, they were
gone with the wind. Go find an idiot volunteering to carry heavy crates,
especially at the front, even though it is for the common good.
I looked around me. The Republican medical repository was located in a
series of large warehouses, reminiscent of aircraft hangers and there
were two, single-storey office buildings. I turned to the medics:
-So, my dear anatomists, where are we to begin? Just as is the case with
the mudthere is no shortage of buildings. I propose breaking up into
smaller groups so that you can pick out what you need, drag it out into
the courtyard and then out to the vehicles. Questions? Objections? In
writing please, and in three copies.
There were some sniggers as we dispersed over the premises.
-Zhenya, do you a least know what you are looking for?
-Yeah, I know, - he unfolded a sheet of paper with a long list, I looked
at it, but for the most part, it was in Latin, - dont look you wont
understand anything anyway.
-Will you make it out yourself, doesnt look like your writing
-Ill be fine. We need to look for tranquilisers, anti-shock medicine,
neuro-stimulants, treatment for burns, ventilators, cardio and a few
others.
We walked up to the gates of the nearest hangar. They were locked. I
nodded to a fighter:
-Go ahead! But make sure nobodys hurt with the ricochets.
Everyone stood behind the fighter, as he shot off the ordinary barn
padlock and then the door-lock nut with a short volley from his gun. We
walked inside the dark hangar. Long shelves stacked with boxes ran off
into the distance.
-Go, doctor, search out the drugs will you be saving us with in the
future. Hopefully they are still under the use-by date.
-Point the lights so that I can see properly, its dark like a negros
asshole in here.
-You have been all around, Zhenya, seen everything, know everything, - I
replied sarcastically egging on the doctor.
Everyone laughed approvingly.
-Zhenya, is it really dark in there? - somebody asked out of the
darkness. Again, everyone laughed.
-As soon as I catch my first one, Ill shove you in there one by one so
that you can personally elucidate the lighting situation there and then
you can tell me about it, - the doctor parried un-maliciously.
-And if we score a little negress, well conduct a thorough examination
ourselves.
-No it would be better if it was a little mulattothey are cuter.
-They say, Korean girls are also not bad at all.
-A Ryazan woman would do just fine right about now.
-No guys, the women in Europe are ugly, there is no-one better other than
our own Siberian ones.
And so we slowly moved along the shelves of medicines whilst discussing
women and negroes.

-Help me climb, - Zhenya scrambled onto the shelving as he was boosted

from below. At the top he opened a box and started poking through its
contents.Take these, but be careful, they are glass vials.
-Did you find something?
-Yeah, Cerebrolysin.
-What kind of a tongue-twisting illness is that?
-Its not an illness, you ignoramus, its a medicine, it helps with
concussions and contusions.
-Only young guys need something against contusions. Us officersthere are
no brains any moreonly bone, - Im in a lyrical mood. After the shake up
at Severny and the briefing that preceded it, I especially did not want
to think about what was coming. I simply wanted to relax.
-When I was in the final year at the academy, there was a funny incident
in our company, - I continued.In the final year, we were quartered at a
dormitory. The rules there were a bit more lax compared to the first
year, as one might imagine. And so, sometime in April, were roused, sent
to the toilet block and the sergeants start running us out for exercise.
Its cold outside. We rarely went out for exercise, but here for some
reason they wanted us to go out into the cold. For exercise. Maybe there
was some commission visiting, or some other reason, I really dont
remember now. Anyway, one cadet whose surname was Popov didnt want to
go. I wont go, he said even if you kill me. The detachment commander
naturally took this personally, he turns Popov about and shouts for him
to go. Popov sends him far, far away. The commander as the one who issued
the order, according to the Charter is obliged to ensure its fulfilment
by any means necessary, so he hits Popov in the face. Popov meanwhile was
walking from the toilet block and in his hands, he carried a carafe full
of water. If you remember in the army there were these large carafes with
carved edges and very thick glass. So Popov hits his own commander in the
head right behind the eye socket. The carafe breaks, the commander is
bleeding, the blood mixed with water streams over his face and into his
eyes. In short, he falls over and were thinking, hes dead. Popov just
as surprised, throws down the carafes mangled neck and starts running
down the hallway. We all run to the commander, who meanwhile throws us
back and like a lion rushes after Popov, catches up with him, knocks him
off his feet and starts kicking him. We barely managed to drag him off.
We thought the lad was in shock so hes lost the sense of pain, meanwhile
the blood is streaming and his skull is probably cracked. We called a
nurse, she looked him over and he was taken to the hospital for a checkup and x-rays. The result: the skull is intact, not a single crack, only
the skin is split. No sign of concussion was detected. And you reckon we
have brains. Bone! If this was a civilian, he would have died, a junior
cadet would probably have been severely wounded. A graduateno problems.
-Yeah, thats rightthe military mans scull doesnt crack first go.
-Doctor, youve seen many skulls, which do you think are stronger?
-The paratroopers. They constantly hit their head on the side of the
aircraft, or land on their heads, - a burst of laughter again shook the
hangar, - Im joking of course. Everyone has their own skull and
unfortunately military service does not make them thicker. Otherwise
imagine how thick they must be for the colonels and generals? Definitely, guys, imagine what a skull Rolin must have? Hed take a
direct hit from a tank.
-You could go into attack without a helmet.

-Help me up, there are some other goodies up there. Zhenka scrambled up
again and we boosted and held him up. - Ooo, just what the doctor
ordered. Take it, just be careful.
We took a small box of Cardioamidum and some other poison.
-For supporting heart function. - Zhenka clarified, jumping down and
shaking off the dust.
In this manner, he climbed up and fetched boxes for us to take another
five or so times. We then carried them out into the courtyard and left
them in the sentries care. We then visited another pair of hangars, a
little smaller in size than the first. When we emerged from the last one,
everyones pockets were stuffed with vitamins. The soldiers carried large
tin cans of the stuff. We happily gobbled them down, chewed Hematogen,
somebody found nicotine gum and was working their jaws vigorously hoping
to quit smoking. I took vitamins, Hematogen, nicotine patches, ginseng
salve, tablets for Yurka, mints and some other crap.
Everyone was in excellent spirits. I looked at the watch. By all counts I
was still making it to the briefing. I grimaced from thinking about it
the time for relaxation was over, I had to return.
-Hurry it up! The sun is setting.
It really began to get dark.
-Take the crates, quickly. We dont want to sleep in this place.
Sporadic gunfire rang out in the direction of the BMPs.
-Your mother! I was hoping that at least this one excursion would go
quietly, lets go quickly! - I walked, carrying a small box of medicines
that Yurka handed me, saying that it contained narcotics.
In order to get everything we needed, we had to blow off a small metal
door. Why nobody got to the drugs earlier, I do not know. Maybe we just
got lucky. Medicine is in deficit with us and I feel it in my ass, that
soon it will well and truly come in handy.
After some time passed, the shooting died down. What could that mean?
Either the drivers mixed something up, or the fight did not end in our
favour.
-Forward!
-Come on!
-Hold on, lads!
-Hold on, bitches!
-Well fry them mongrels!
-Hopefully they havent burned the BMP!
We bolted over the schools ruins, shouting mat and other cries and
replicas. The top levels of this school have collapsed on the back of the
building, forming a gentle slope all the way to the medical base. It was
easy to descend it, but not so easy to run back up, stumbling constantly
over chunks of brick and concrete. Its funny, but at this point a line
from a childrens rhyme came to mind: Oh its not easy workdo drag a
hippo out of a bog. Panting, falling over, getting back up again,
cutting up our arms and faces and breaking the vials of medicine we

ascended to the second floor of the school and ran to the bottom. As my
carton was the smallest, I ended up ahead and was the first to see the
following scene: about fifteen soldiers unknown to us were standing by
our BMPs and chatting merrily with our drivers. I stopped and observed
the landscape from the shadows.
It seemed quiet. I could not see that anybody has taken cover near-by or
was trying to sneak up on us. A complete idyll. I restored my breathing
and spat. Yellow-green slime again. I have to quit smoking. The others
caught up. They began to descent, slinging their guns. Maybe they are
deserters or escaped prisoners again. Well see. Well sort it out.
When we came up closer, we could see that by all signs, these were our
fightersliberators like us, participants in the southern
expedition. My BMPs driver ran up to me when he saw our group, brought
his hand to his helmet, in a salute and began to report:
-Comrade captain, in the course of your absence, there were no incidents
with the exception ofwe took a group of neighbours soldiers for
Chechens and opened fire.
-Are there any three hundreds, two hundreds?
-No, we quickly clarified the situation.
-Thats good. Otherwise and if you were better shots, you would have
killed one another.
-Comrade captain, platoon commander of the 125th artillery regiment,
lieutenant Krikov reporting!
KrikovKryukov, I rhymed in my head. StrangeI remembered Kryukov today
and here, several hours later is Krikov. Its funny.
-When did you graduate from the academy?
-This year, the lieutenant replied with an air of pride.
-Riiight, - I dragged, - its fortunate that you havent mowed each-other
down. What the hell are you doing loitering on our territory?
-We were fetching water for our artillery division. When we went you were
not here so we came upon you when we were returning. We have only a few
men, the containers are heavy and no reconnaissance was deployed.
Everyone was carrying the water.
The lieutenant spoke in the second person, as though the decision was
made collectively, and that was probably how it happened. He was still
completely green. There was a desire to chew him out, but I contained
it. He wont understand anything until he knocks some lumps on his
stubborn head. Only, these lumps can turn out to be the first and last
here. I spat from having such thoughts. The moron will cark it himself
and lay others down too. I could not hold myself from saying:
-Next time, lieutenant, either take more men, or less canisters,
otherwise youll get caught in an ambush.I lowered my tone as I said
this, but looking him over grimly.
He shivered and wanted to say something back, but thought better of it.
You greenie, all your thoughts are written on your face. He hesitated,
then asked beggarly:
-Comrade captain, please allow us to drive with you for a couple of
blocks. Our guys are there and it would be great not to have to walk as
well as encounter the Chechens.

-Get on. Your water is from Sunzha, yes? - I asked the stupid questing,
where else would it be from.
-Yes from Sunzha. We were shot at twice, whilst we were drawing, - the
lieutenant boasted.
-If they wanted to finish you off, they would have set a single sniper
against you and you would have remained on that shore with your
canisters. Where did you draw? - as we were walking to the BMP, I
unfolded the map.
-Here, - Krikov pointed out a spot not far from the school, five blocks
down. - And the fire came form here.
-All-right. We wont get water from there tomorrow, theyll be waiting
for us again. Did you at least shoot back?
-Of course.
-Allright, get on.
We climbed onto the armour. Forward. The lieutenant asked to be let off
after two blocks.
I ordered the vehicles to stop. Lieutenant Krikov and his fighters
dismounted and waved to us. They departed for their own positions,
weighed down with canisters and buckets. We arrived at our command post
in another thirty minutes. The medics ran off to sort out the trophies.
I went to my kung, where Pashka was sitting in front of the stove,
feeding it with firewood.
-Tell me whats new?, - I asked, taking off the flak jacket.
-Nothing new. Everyones at the briefing. Is it true that well be taking
Minutka?
-Its true, - I answered drily, - how long has the briefing been?
-About an hour and a half already. They have asked for you several times.
-Im going, - I lit up on the go as I went outside.
I waded through the mud up to the staff office, where a mob of soldiers
and officers were engaged in a heated discussion. I did not want to throw
away such a good cigarette and there was no desire to once again sit down
and mull over these suicidal plans. The question was simply, how many
hundreds of us will die. The devils children at Severny and in Moskva,
did not want to pound Minutka with artillery and aviation and they were
tightening the deadlines. We now had to discuss, which battalion was to
be shot up first. How to emerge in one piece ourselves. The officers
tried to tell me something, but I wasnt listening. In my head, I was
formulating the phrasing and argumentation of my plan, it was not
completely formed, but I had something. It seemed that there was an
opportunity to reduce the number of dead and wounded. Those around me
seemed to have understood the state I was in left me alone. I nodded
silently and threw out the cigarette butt which traversed a curved
trajectory before hitting the mud. I though to myself that it was just
like that in life, as soon as it reaches a peak, it will go into decline.
How many lives will be snuffed out in the next few days, having not
reached their peak? Old men thought up the war. They are old enough
already to be impotent, but have not become wisened, and are just as
ambitious as if they were young. They do not want to let go of their
power, so they set things up in such a way that the young die for the old
ideals. They meanwhile, and having satisfied their meaningless ambitions

will embezzle the money set aside for reconstruction. And well be
ostracised, marginalised as witnesses of their temporary madness. This is
how it was with the Afghans. At first, they were made out to be heroes,
idols, then they were made into junkies and drunkards. It was said of
them that they were only capable of massacring the civilian population.
The peaceful populationthe only foe they were capable of fighting, not
any powerful enemy. They were marginalised, accused of every mortal sin
and diagnosed with the Afghan Syndrome. They forgot about all the other
syndromes from the old Soviet though. Any new hot-spot generated a
syndrome. A bit much for a single country, even as big as Russia.
I was winding myself up. It was better to come to the briefing wound
rather than get wound up there. Everybody was already tired of endless
talk and the dead-end situation. So you enter. Aggressive, angry, ready
to take down anyone who disagrees with your point of view. And you bring
in a fresh stream, a new outlook. My idea began to emerge from my
subconsciousness. The main thing was that there should be none of our
guys at Dudaevs palace, otherwise we risked taking them out. The sappers
have this de-mining deviceI dont know what its called, but it woks
wonderfully. It is a small rocket with three engines, one for cruising
and two for start-up. This thing takes off and behind it drags a thick
hose filled with TNT. It flies strictly in one direction. When the hose
(we call it intestine) is unwound, the rocket falls to the ground and a
second and a half after the fall, the TNT in the intestine detonates
creating a path about four meters wide. This fire dragon is employed for
clearing paths in minefields. Those mines that do not detonate are blown
out of the ground and onto its surface.
And if one was to sneak closer to this ****ing palace and launch a few of
these dragons, little will be left of their stronghold. The main task
would be to destroy the lower levels. The palace is tall and flimsyit
will collapse together with its contents and the Chechens inside it. But
this is only good if none of our guys are inside, only the Chechens. I
went to the entrance, hung my gun on my shoulder and pushed the door
open.
-Permission to be present, comrade colonel? - I distracted Bakhel from
what he was explaining.
All the battalion commanders and their chiefs of staff, deputies and
brigade staff officers were bent over the map. About four people were
smoking by the crack in the sandbags over the window.
-You can enter, Mironov, how was the trip?
-All is well, comrade colonel.
-Come on through, but dont interfere, if something is unclear, ask
someone, but do that later.
He bent over the map again, pointing at it with a pen. I could see that
the storming of the State Bank building was under discussion. That meant
that the brigade has already crossed the bridges on that map, as well as
the two hundred meters of open ground under hurricane fire and I will
need to find out how this was possible. But this had to wait for later as
to not interfere with the commanders work. My time will come and my plan
will come out then, same as with anyone present. The most junior rank
will speak first. It is done like that with the purpose of allowing them

to speak for themselves and with no influence from the higher ranks. The
higher ranks will speak up next and the commander will approve the
result. The task of assessing the situation, making a decision, issuing
an order and controlling its fulfilment is placed upon the shoulders of
just one manthe commander. The chief of staff might play a role, but it
is the commander who is ultimately responsible. Why did a battalion, a
regiment, a platoon fail to fulfil the objective? The commander of the
formation which failed is at fault. They will be made short and strict
work of, their epaulettes torn off followed by dismissal, off to raise up
the peoples agriculture in the best case scenario. All good and well if
they served enough to be eligible for a pension, but what if they have
not?
There could be court proceedings, their decorations can be taken away and
they could be imprisoned in shame. The worst possible title to bear in
our country is former. They disrespect and beguile the former
president, and as deserved as that may be, think of the former
commanders fate. And if they find out him to have been a field commander
on top of that, he becomes to them a person marred with blood, who
probably massacred civilians. Hes a war criminalget him, get him! We
are responsible citizens, who have murdered no-one and if our countrymen
are being murdered in some far-away corner of our country, that means
that its necessary. What else do you wish, o ruler? To send our children
to another slaughter? God willing! After all, we have elected you, you
cannot falter or be deceitful to us? Not in our lives! Is this how you
reckoned, reader? Is this how you continue to reason?
Chekov said that one must squeeze the slave out of themselves, each day
drop by drop. One can add that our rulers must continue to squeeze out
the master on a daily basis.
One only has to look at the map and a question emerges. How can a
republic too small to be seen on the map threaten Russias sovereignty?
It cant, unless this operetta general with his fiery speeches is being
fed with support. He is just a petty frher with a Caucasian accent. When
the need arose to remove Leo Trotsky, they got him all the way in Mexico,
and not even with a grenade but with an ice-pick, like a rabid dog. And
this former pilot? I will not accept that there was no opportunity or the
desire to destroy him, so its the same here.
Declare a bounty and they themselves will deliver his head on a plate
decorated with greens. Each man has a price and if he cannot be bought,
he can be ordered for half the money. With the condition that no
compromising material exists for your person and that you do not share an
account in a Zurich bank with the target.
Meanwhile, well go to the polling booths like sheep and will vote for
those who will continue to encourage bloody sort-outs, set them up,
execute our children, and all the while force veterans of the Great
Patriotic War to dig around in dumps for empty bottles.
And Im not speaking of communists, democrats, socialists and other
mongers of empty words. No. They all want to earn their bread and butter

at your and mine expense, dear reader. And so as to distract us from this
highway robbery, they instigate wars and cataclysms.
The meeting continued meanwhile, the attack plan was outlined and
presented. It was time to express ones opinion and reckoning of the
issue. A comms man approached and called San Sanych to the telephone.
Everyone went quiet. Maybe we are yet to be delivered from this
slaughter. He returned looking more grim than before. He sat on his chair
and looked us over helplessly. We remained silent and only the brigade
commander could not contain himself.
-Dont torment us, say it.
-We have received information from our intelligence that all out wounded
and captured are being brought to the palace. They asked that we proceed
with maximum care as we storm it. Air support is denied and we are to use
only our own artillery. There will not be any Uragans or Grads.
In the dead silence that followed one could hear heavy breathing and
shuffling of feet, the shifting of chairs and the resounding crack of
comm-brigs broken pencil. It seemed that he didnt realise he broke that
pencil in two, continuing to fumble with the fragments as he stared in
one spot. It was as if everyone became paralysed.
-We cant attack without artillery or air support, well lay our people
down, - the first battalions commander began. -And we cant attack when
our POWs are there, they will all be killed. We all understand perfectly
well that during an assault with or without artillery support they will
for the most part be killed, - the tank battalions commander continued
his thought.
-Either the Chechens will kill them, or a stray volley, a grenade, a mine
will end their suffering. But nobody, nobody, wants to become the
murderer of their countrymen. Its a catch twenty two, - the third
battalions commander was reasoning aloud.
-Its unlikely that it will be possible to save the captured men,
meanwhile, well loose more of our subordinates. The possibility of
counterattack on the part of the adversary has to also be considered, the comm-brigs deputy picked up. He was also the artillery chief.
The pause in the proceedings dragged on. The brigade commander threw away
the remnants of the pencil. -Recess for ten minutes. Not a word to your
subordinates! After the break, be ready to talk business, everyone gets
three minutes.
The people poured out into the street to gulp down some fresh air, go to
the toilet, smoke and discuss what was happening without the commander
present.
-What a complete ****-up!
-What have the mongrels thought up now?
-Well be climbing the walls with a dagger in our teeth.
-We have to think, not shout, - it seemed that all this noise did not
concern the tank commander. He was addressing the artillery chief and
commanders, who were standing near-by:
-Could you bring your self-propelled guns closer?
-I doubt it. The bridges wont take us. How much does your tank weigh?
Thats right. Our SPGs are much heavier, their munitions stores are of a
lesser capacity and have to be constantly replenished and their speedyou

know what thats like yourselfthree times slower. We should be placed

somewhere near-by, in concealed positions and well lay over your heads
and buildings as you like.
It seemed that the tank comm-bat was no longer hearing him, as he was
muttering under his nose:
-Small ordinance load, resupply speed, revolver. We need to make a
revolver, a carousel. Thats right a carousel.
First the infantry, then hurricane tank fire. The BMP is no goodthe
calibre is too small.
He then summoned his chief of staff and together they began to discuss
and sketch something. The recess was drawing to an end and everyone went
back to the briefing. They sat down at their previous places. The
commander began:
-Comrade officers, we are all aware of the situation. We cannot attack
and we cannot not attack. During the recess, we phoned Rolin as well as
our neighbours, with whose cooperation we are to take Minutka. Everyone
is offering us a carte-blanche. We have to take it and at what cost is up
to us. Your opinions please.
There was a silence. The chief tanker spoke:
-As I understand, artillery and aviation cannot be employed due to the
presence of our POWs in the government building, is that right?
-Thats right, - the brigade commander affirmed.
-A shrewd observation, - somebody sniggered from behind.
-The BMPs guns are too small in calibre and its armour is too tin to be
able to conduct effective fire from a large distance, correct?
-Correct, - the comm-brig confirmed, still not sure where the comm-bat
was going with this.
-The tanks have larger calibre guns and thicker armour, but less
ammunition, meaning that their fire will also be ineffective due to the
rapid rate at which their stores deplete. The whole issue then is that of
the speed of ammunition re-supply. But to re-supply the tanks under fire
is suicide, so I propose that the tanks go fetch ammunition themselves.
And so that their fire is constant, I propose that we set up a tank
carousel.
-A what carousel?
-I think weve got something!
-Thats good thinking! Good lad.
Most present understood the gist of the plan being offered by the tanker.
He approached the map and started to point and explain.
-At first, here at the bridge two tanks roll onto the opposite bank. One
of them conducts intensive fire, the other supports him a little, but is
mainly silent. The third tank is on the bridge awaiting its turn. On our
bank, at the approach to the bridge is the fourth tank, the fifth is
being loaded. The first after conducting intensive fire at the target and
having exhausted its stores returns to our shore to replenish its stores.
The tank in the middle of the bridge takes its place and opens fire. The
third, which is at the approach rolls onto the bridge. During all this
shuffling the tank that was standing there not shooting, conducts
suppressive fire, preventing the enemy from destroying the moving tanks.
In this manner we ensure a density of fire, its accuracy and cover of the

infantry. We substitute for artillery. Artillery can fire at town

squares, whilst we can fire at window leafs, - he concluded as approving
laughter rang out.
-Thats so great!
-Good lads!
-Thank you for sharing your idea, - the comm-brig shook the tankers
hand.
-I also have an idea, - the third battalions commander stepped forward.
I propose that we make use of the sewerage collector to gain access to
the building.
-Wise words.
-Well save our men and maybe even that of those captured.
-What if theres an ambush. Theyll shoot us up like quail.
-Its a great idea, but very risky business.
-Its a good idea, but we dont know where the sewer might lead us.
Thats the first thing. The secondthe Chechens are already making widespread use of the sewers as a means of approach and retreat during
harassing missions against us. So we may well encounter an ambush down
there. So thank you for the idea, but I think the collector should be
detonated instead, caved in so that the Chechens cant pop up in our
rear. Do you agree?
-Yes, agreed, - the comm-batt said with a sigh of disappointment and sat
back down.
-Other proposals?
There were many proposals offered, but no-one thought up anything as
radical as the tankers idea. The hotel Kavkaz was not taken today and
so and with approval from Severny, it was handed over for siege to the
marine infantry. The people were brought back closer to the command post.
It was decided to let them rest as much as possible and prepare
themselves and their vehicles for the pending engagements. At the
conclusion of the meeting, the chair was taken by the brigades deputy
for educational matters, or the zampolit by the old reckoning,
lieutenant-colonel Kazartsev Sergej Nikolaevich.
He was about a meter sixty in height, not thin, rather like a lot of
infantrymenwiry. Hes been through Afghanistan. What set him apart from
many of his colleagues was that he did not treat the people nastily, did
not run to the commanders over trifles but simply did his job. He knew
how to seek out a common language with the people, how to get along with
them. He was an authority among both the soldiers and the officers. He
was respected for his Afghanistan service and for his ability to calmly
work with those surrounding him.
-Comrade officers, Severny called, two Moskva banks are preparing to
celebrate their jubilees and have decided to direct the bucks set aside
for that towards humanitarian aid for the armed forces serving in
Chechnya. So, transports will need to be commandeered tomorrow for
Severny to deliver the parcels. Each contains a sports track suit,
sneakers, toiletries, a block of cigarettes. For the officerstwo cans of
beer and for the fighterstwo cans of cola plus some other things.
-Good!
-Beer!
-Freebies!
-Those in charge of distributing the aid lucked out!

-Get as much as you canfor the wounded and the dead as well!
-Yes, yes, get as much as you can.
-Want help?
-Which banks by the way?
-Menatep and Inkom, - Kazartsev answered over the noise.
-So these would be menatapian and incoman rations?
-Menatapian has a better ring to it, almost like NATO.
-Cigarettes!
-Whoever doesnt smoke, Im buying their cigarettes.
-Wait, maybe it will be Astra or Pauper in the Mountains.
-True, they might get swapped out at Severny.
-Yep, those guys could well nick them.
-They wont nick them, were off to Minutka after all.
-What do they care? The would rather hand the aid out after the assault
less to hand out, more left for them.
-Quiet! - the comm-brigs baritone rang out over the clamour.
The noise died down almost immediately, the people were simply glad to be
distracted from thinking of whats ahead of them.
-Quiet! - the commander repeated. We all have a lot of work, so dont
waste time. Questions?
There were many questions, rhetorical ones for the most part. For this
reason and knowing that one would receive no response other than ****
off and dont be a smart-ass, nobody volunteered. Everyone departed
the meeting discussing the upcoming freebies. What a sweet word, it is,
freebie!
Me and Yurka approached Kazartsev:
-Seryoga, dont forget us when dividing up the parcels. The most
important thing is cigarettes. Maybe somebody wont be smoking.
-Guys, youre not the first already. And there will be many more. Dont
you have a conscience?
-Yura! Whats he on about?
-Conscience.
-Whats that?
-I dont know. I know about kidneys, liver, stomach, but conscience? I
havent heard of it. What about you, Slava?
-Me neither.
-Seryoga, we possess an almost absolute monopoly on spirits. I cant
fathom you rejecting your neighbours. Bad business.
-Can you imagine how in revenge we will urinate on the tyres of your
vehicle and that well have to also poo under your door. Can you imagine
this?
-And this will continue for the rest of this war.
-And this nasty habit might migrate into peaceful life too. Well
defecate in front of your apartment.
-Just you picture it, you emerge in the morning with the intention of
reporting for duty and fall over having slipped over in ****. All dressed
up and now covered in ****. Annoying, yes?
-And all because of some cigarettes.
-Retards.
-Slava, I think we have heard that today already.

-Speaking of the devil, when youre at Severny, say hello to the

commandant Sashka, tell him to give us more cigarettes and something else
of his choice.
-He wouldnt even remember you.
-He will, trust me.
-So what will it be?
-Either youll be sliding in **** until retirement or youll get us
cigarettes. We dont go to war with pensioners. -Why dont you get lost
-Yura, he chose ****.
-Clearly. Well begin this evening. Pashka will help.
-Did they seek you guys out all over the Siberian Military District and
purposefully plant you in the same kung? -And not only from the Siberian
one. Im from the South-West Front and Yurkas from the North Caucasus
Military District. So this is fate, Sergej Nikolaevich. You will have to
constantly bear this cross.
-Slipping over in ****. But that can be avoided
-By chucking some cigarettes our way.
-Well always be happy to see you then.
-And well tell our children about you, what a wonderful and heart-felt
person you are. And if not, well tell them also. That youre ****.
-Idiots.
-The client is not ripe yet.
-Not to worry. Once he slips over a few times, hell ripen up.
-So?
-Well talk tomorrow.
-Why didnt you say so first? Thank you.
-The client has ripened. Good night.
We went to sleep in our kung. The fatigue came over us gradually, we
wanted to sleep so badly. Having arrived home we were greeted by
Pashka, who has laid the table and was shining like a piece of
gingerbread wrapped in foil on a New Years tree. Having cleaned off the
mud that stuck to our boots making them look like huge clogs, we stepped
into the kung.
-What are you so happy abut, did you win the lottery? - Yurka asked
Pashka. I was silent. A thought spun around in my head, an important one
it seemed, but I had difficulty expressing it.
-Well, I have heard what you did at Severny
-Be silent. Be silent and never speak of it to anyone. Nothing happened.
You understand? - I interrupted him abruptly. There was no desire to
remember and more so to discuss it.Take out what we have in the stash.
Well go wash our hands.
Leaving our weapons behind, me and Yurka emerged with a kettle of warm
water. We snorted as we poured the water over us, washing ourselves
thoroughly and for a long time. The skin began again to breathe. We wiped
with rigid army towels. We sat on the ladder, smoking, facing up to the
not so chilly winter breeze. There was a desire to sit like this for a
long time. Simply sit there and not have to think. Sit there and smoke.
The cigarette lights up in ones fist as they draw on it. Bliss. Yurka
interrupted my positive mood:
-Why did you set upon Pashka like that?
-Hes got no business wagging his tongue like that. What happened,
happened and there is no use discussing it, pouring from the empty to the

dry, especially for a soldier. Hell be all over the command post,
blabbering about what we tell him now. Let him be offended, just as long
as he stays quiet. Im thinking that even if we get out alive, we might
still have to answer for it on the rackwhat were you bitches planning?
To simply avoid combat or to actually mutiny? So I would suggest to you
also to shut it and forget about it.
-Cant frighten a hedgehog with a bare ass.
-You and I my dear are not fighting in the Great Patriotic War, this war
is for someones private property. So the owner of this property will be
the one to enquire if we were planning to turn the arms entrusted to us
against him. To set the people and the vehicles against them. We are
participating in such a hilarious vaudeville that if it was not so
terrifying, we could have laughed it up heartily. Do you even know what
ALL THIS is about?
-Dont Slava, youll go nuts thinking about it.
-I must already be nuts asking questions like that, - I took out another
cigarette and lit it up from the butt of the old one, throwing it under
my feet and stamping it our with my heel.
-Well be thrown out just like so, the time will come and it will come
sooner that were expecting, well be thrown away. Just like you light
up, spit off, so will they spit after us. Remember my words. If we were
not afraid to show our commander our teeth as we did just then, then we
wont be afraid to rip out his throat toothe chief, the commander. Were
used to blood and death. I cant sleep when its quiet at night. If
theres artillery, I sleep like a baby, even better if there is aviation.
-Me too, - Yurka remarked quietly.
-Answer me a simple and stupid question. What is nationality?
-What do you mean? - Yura did not understand. You were born with it. If
you will, God gave it to you.
-So suppose you take a Chechen and bring him out as an infant to live in
France. Give him a French name, raise him up in that environment. Educate
him in a normal French school, then their university, make him take in
their culture. What is HE? Or if its easier for you to imagine, not a
Chechen, take a Russian to France. So, Yura, WHAT IS HE?
-It turns out hes a Frenchman, - Yura pronounced tentatively.
-So it turns out that nationality is not a biological trait, but a social
one. Meaning that this problem was created by the people themselves. They
thought up ethnicity and using it as cover are setting one against
another. The ancients had this axiom: Divide and conquer. Remember that
even in Soviet times, when all nations and people were supposedly equal,
the Russians served on the national borders, whilst the niggers in the
Baltic and in Russia and the Balts in Ukraine and Moldavia. When theres
a riot, its harder to shoot, at your own countrymen and much easier at
the aborigines. And the zampolit daddies stoked up artificial
nationalism.
-So what about patriotism? Love for the Motherland?
-Motherland?
-Thats right, the Motherland, - Yurka was exalted. This was a difficult
question.
-What is this Motherland, Yura? - I asked quietly. - Im no gypsy, Jew or
some nomad. So you tell me what is this Motherland? What meaning do YOU
attach to this word? In the past, the soldiers shouted For God, the Tzar
and Fatherland!, then For Motherland and Stalin! And now? For
Motherland and the President!, For Motherland and Grachin!.I spat

off. Maybe in twenty years or so, there will be movies showing troops
march onto machine gun fire with such an idiotic war-cry. And as Grachin
was saying, that the boys were dying with a smile on their lips, I would
love to plant thirty grams of lead in his gut and watch how he dies with
a smile on his lips. So what is motherland? A president who broke apart
the Union and then threw us into one hell, then another, then a third
one. And they didnt even bother making a note about it in our file.
Would a Motherland that loves its sons send them to their deaths? Was it
not possible to surgically destroy the cancerDudaev? Youre silent. Its
possible, everythings possible. And we would applaud with the rest of
the world the fact that we arranged everything so neatly. Everythings
possible, as long as youre not conspiring with Dudaev. Patriotism? Oskar
Wildethere was once such a clever Englishman, once said that patriotism
is the last refuge of scoundrels. The main paradox is that I love Russia,
I love this territory, but I do not like the government. And this paradox
gives birth to hatred of the notion of Motherland. Its difficult to
live in a country that you hate.
-So why do you fight? And you fight fairly well, in my opinion.
-Dont suck up. I dont know myself. Im defending the Motherland. A
paradox. A madhouse. Everythings simple here. Black and white. Indians
and pale-faces. Were defending our motherland, which they threaten to
tear apart. You go crazy from such thoughts. Theres this anecdote: A
general comes to inspect a barracks. Walks around, checks everything.
Then he says to the commander: Its gloomy in here. Paint the fence in
all the colours of the rainbow. The commander salutes: Sir, yes, sir!
They continue the inspection. The general then says: Place the bunks in
a checkerboard patternit will be less gloomy. The commander responds
again: Yes comrade general! The general then says Do you not have your
own opinion on this, that you answer yes to all sorts of nonsense? So
the commander responds: I have an opinion, what I dont have is enough
service for a retirement yet, otherwise I would have told you long ago to
go **** yourself. I dont have long service leave, Yura. Otherwise I
would not be suffering from split personality.
-Well, maybe you should go see a psychiatrist then.
-So he can explain to me what a motherland is and whose interest Im
defending. And why we cant blow up the refinery? And Im really itching
to do that by the way, imagine what an inconvenience that would be for
somebody. Only if they were to then restore it from their own pocket,
rather than the state budget, that would just be ideal. Surely, youre
aware, Yura that the first thing the aviation blew apart was the local
ministry of finance?
-Yes, I know, so what of it?
-Lets have a wager that right now in the dark, the aviation is not
pounding Dudaevs palace, nor the munitions dumps or the Chechen
barracks, but the Chechen State Bank.
-Well, thats hardly possible, - Yurka dragged, - however if these morons
destroyed the finance ministry and then by that logic and on the eve of
the assaultThey might well be. Thus warning the enemy of the pending
assault. What a bunch of morons!
-And thats what Im on about. So what is Motherland, Yura?
-Go to hell, you shitty mystic. You should become a zampolit.

-My papa was a military man and I have inherited a firm dislike of
political officers from him, although there are some decent people
amongst their number. Its rare but it happens.
-Lets go eat, or well cark it. Shall we get drunk?
-Gladly, but I doubt it. Especially as it was a difficult day. As you
might recall, between the two of us we have consumed a litre of vodka and
snacked only with chicken meat and that did nothing.
-Indeed, - Yurka spat off. - what a ****ing life. You want to get drunk
you cant. When I get home, Ill drink until I pass out in my own green
snot. Face in the salad.
-Exactly. Face in the salad. Winter salad. Over the ears. Just dont
drown in the dressing.
We laughed. When you ask stupid questions, that you do not have answers
for and can change nothing, the only thing that remains is to swim with
the flow, holding on to your partner. We entered the kung. Pashka has set
the table and placed an open bottle of vodka at the centre.
-Any more cognac?
-Yes.
-Well then put it on the table. Enjoy life. Yurka looked at me
disparagingly. It was clearwe may not have a chance to drink that cognac
later, but his gaze expressed the questionmust I air such rotten
thoughts in front of the fighter. Pashka put up the cognac without
removing the vodka. I took it up, opened it and filled our glasses almost
to the full. There was a wild desire to get drunk.
-Lets go! - I raised up my plastic glass.
The others followed my example. We brought our goblets together, they
rustled and the dark liquid inside them stirred as we clinked. Down the
hatch. The heavy viscous liquid streamed downwards. I winced in delight.
It reached the stomach and began to spread its warmth around in there. We
began to snack. Silently, not talking. There is nothing to say.
Everything is already set in motion, decided for us. One could submit
their report and go home. But such thoughts did not even arise.
We were chewing quickly and as soon as the warmth in my stomach began to
dissipate, I poured the remainder of the cognac. Yurka took his quickly:
-Are we just getting drunk? No toasts?
-No, were just having supper. But if you wan to speak then speak up, but
make it short as the cognac is hot and Im not drinking the vodka.
-I propose we drink for, - Yura began, - that God has helped us before. I
would like to express out collective hope that fortune does not abandon
us and that we make it out of this hell
-So that we can end up in another hell in a few years time.
-And maybe we shall, but for now, in a days time we have to go to
Minutka and that is why, send us fortune o Lord . To good fortune!
-Yura, do you serve in the army!
-Yeah, so?
-Well, there is the string of command in the army and you are appealing
to God, bypassing your direct superior. You might get a talking to for
that.
-Go to hell, you idiot! - Yurka sighed and slammed down the cognac.

I and Pashka drank also. There was a bit of noise in my head. Hopefully
this was a buzz. Thats great. I was afraid to loose that feeling and was
sitting very still. There was a feeling of mild intoxication and it was
intensifying more and more.
-Slava, what is it? - Yura asked in a frightened voice.
-Im OK, - I opened my eyes reluctantly.bastard, you scared off my buzz.
My head became absolutely clean and clear.
-Curse you. Curse you three times.
-Scared off what? - my partner asked confusedly.
-What, what, - I mocked him, - Im sitting there beginning to get drunk
and youre interfering with your questions. -Im watching you sit there
like a cat taking a ****, staring into one spot. They your eyes closed
completely. Im thinking you choked. Sorry that I broke your buzz. Maybe
youll catch up with it?
-Tough chance, - I was getting annoyed, - but I can always try, lets
pour.
I took the bottle of vodka that Pashka initially placed on the table and
filled the glasses. Me and Yura were not snacking. Maybe I can get drunk
after mixing vodka and cognac. I rose, the cup in my hand.
-The third toast.
-The third, Yurka picked up.
-The third, - echoed Pashka.
Having stood for a while in silence, we drank almost simultaneously and
sat back down not snacking or chasing. Still silent, we began to eat
unhurriedly.
-Is it true that we are to take Minutka head on? - Pashka asked with his
mouth full.
-Thats right, sonny, thats right.I knew that he could not stand being
called sonny. He got angry:
-Im not your sonny! Im going to have a sonny of my own.
Then he added:
-Or maybe a daughter. And youre telling me sonny, sonny.
-Well, Pashka, to make a sonny doesnt require a lot of smarts. Its a
ten-minute affair. Then you have to deal with it for the rest of your
lie. For example, they didnt make a decent person out of you, no matter
how they tried.
-Why not? - Pashka was getting angrier.
-You drink a lot, and are rude to us. And meanwhile, we treat you like
family. Well have to educate you. What do you think, Slava?
-Yeah, - I continued, - its time to resort to radical measures. Why the
**** did you get the sentry drunk on the train? A drunk sentry with a gun
is a criminal. And you are his accomplice.
-What accomplice?
-An ordinary accomplice. Back in thirty seven, they would have charged
you with sabotage and put you up against the wall according to the laws
of wartime. And put a lead slug in the back of your head, - I touched the
back of his head with my finger where one ordinarily gets shot at an
execution. He twitched.
-Bad joke, Vyacheslav Nikolaevich.

I lit up. Yurka and Pashka followed my example.

-Alright, Pasha, - I began, - whilst were away
-Where are you going to go? - Pavel interrupted me.
-Well be hiding in a basement, - I growled. -Dont interrupt your
seniors. Well mostly go with the troops. You, son of a bitch are
responsible for the vehicle with your head. And for everything in it. If
something happens, then-I gestured to stop Pashka, who was trying to
interrupt me, - If something happens, youll pass our things onto our
families, you understand? And Ill take your head off for the vehicle and
say how it was. Did you get it all?
-Yes, yes. Youre telling me for a hundredth time. You dont even have
anything, other than dirty socks.
-So youll wash them then.
-Tough chance, - Pashka snorted.
-Youll wash them, youll wash them. Youll remember us and will shed
tears for us.
-If Ill shed tears for anything, it would be for the stench of your
socks eating our my eyes.
-Pasha, - Yura interjected, - we have a particular ritual: when there is
serious business ahead, we instruct you on what to do with our smelly
laundry. But as you have no desire to stuff around with it, you pray for
us thoroughly, so that God upon hearing your prayers protects us, thus
absolving you of such thankless workto wash our socks. By the way, do
you still remember how our socks smell?
-Whatever you recon! I didnt even wash dembel socks when I was young,
and I wont be washing yours, - Pasha was practically boiling at this
point.
His anger egged us on.
-Pasha, as you know, a dying mans wish is law. Have you heard of that?
-So?
-So then, - my voice became solemn, - my and Yurij Nikolaevichs last
will is that you wash our dirty socks, iron them and pass them onto our
families. You can keep a pair from each of us for yourself. In loving
memory. You can hang them on the carpet above your bed.
-Well, youre not dying yet.
-What if suddenly
-Im not washing anything for you! - Pashka became grim and moody.
-Alright, Pasha, we were joking. Dont get offended. Instead pour the
rest, - Yura said.
Pashka complied and poured the remaining vodka into the three glasses.
Everyone waited for him to finish dripping the remnants of the vodka into
his glass. Everyone was counting in their heads.
-Twenty two, - Yura pronounced, breaking the silence.
-Ive heard that you can squeeze thirty three drops out of any bottle, I added.
We took up our plastic receptacles.
-What does the coming day have in store for us? - Yura asked, addressing
us.
-**** knows, - Pashka answered for everyone.
-Be what may. Lets drink to that. To Fate and to His Majesty Chance! - I
said.

-Correct! - Yura acknowledged my toast.To Destiny and Chance.

Then he quietly added, as if to himself, but we could hear him clearly:
-One has to be ready for death. May this cup be taken away from me, - and
he drank.
-You put that the right way, Yura, that one has to be prepared for death.
That it does not take you unawares. One has to finish their business and
not take up any loans, otherwise their family has to pay for your
frivolity. May this cup be taken away from me, - I repeated the
evangelists words and drank also.
Pashka drank his. We snacked in silence. We cleaned out what was on our
plates and in the open tins. Sated and satisfied now, we lit up. The day
ahead no longer seemed so grim.
-What cup were you talking about? - Pashka asked as he drew on his
cigarette in delight.
-That, Pavel, is what Jesus said on the eve of his death, addressing his
God-Father. He knew that he will be executed, he was frightened and so,
he though hed he ask his daddy not to do that, - I explained. - Read the
Gospels, when you have time, Pashka. A very engaging and instructive
book. Youll discover a lot of useful things in it.
-Ah books - Pashka dragged.
It became presently clear that Pashka was not a fan of reading.
-Have a read of it, Pashka, have a read. Books contain the centuries of
generational wisdom. You wont make it on personal experience alone. How
will you raise up your child? What examples will you set based on life?
From whose life? Your own? You havent seen anything other than
drunkenness. So you'll teach your child how to drink. Or how you got the
sentry detail drunk on the train? - Yurka was apparently in a
philosophical mood.
-Dont confuse the lads brain, Yura, - I interjected. In the very least,
hes in no danger of developing schizophrenia.
-Why is that?
-When I was a cadet, I had a girlfriend who was a medical student. So,
she told me that in her psychiatry classes, they were told that a person
who does not read books is not predisposed to schizophrenia. This is
because, when reading a book, the person engages with its characters
having filtered its contents through themselves. The personality of the
reader then becomes imprinted with that of the books character and the
splitting of personality occurs. And something else happens. But it was
packed with so many medical terms that this is the only thing that I
remembered.
-Hm, yeah schizophrenia is no threat to Pashka. White fever on the other
handvery definitely is! - Yura diagnosed. -If in our absence, they start
handing out the humanitarian aid, go see the zampolit, lieutenant-colonel
Kazartsev and tell him we sent you. Collect the aid for yourself and us
from him. If you, creature, drink our beer, youd better hang yourself.
You know the sizes of our clothes and shoes. Well write it down just in
case. Most importantly, he has to give us extra cigarettes. If he
forgets, you will remind him, that he said he promised more cigarettes.
Understand? -I get it. Will there be a lot of cigarettes?
-We dont know. But we hope so. Have we ever ripped you off?

-No. Hasnt happened. Other staff officers hide their stuff, but you
dont.
-See. Were thinking how to feed you, supply you with smokes, get you
drunk and you refuse to wash our socks, you shithead! - Yurka began
again.
-I wont wash your socks! - Shashka exploded.
-Dont shout at ranking officers, otherwise you might cop it in the eye,
- Yurka said. - Were going out for a leak and meanwhile you can clean up
and have a think regarding the socks. Air out the kung, or we wont be
able to sleep. One could hang an axe in here.
-I wont laundry your socks! - Pashka issued through his teeth, quietly
and stubbornly.
-Why the hell are you winding him up? - I asked, lighting up and taking
my spot next to Yurka. We had walked some distance away from the vehicle.
-Im bored, - Yura answered simply.
-Im getting a feeling that something is nagging you.
-Nothings nagging me, I was just thinking over your stupid dilemmas all
night. What is Motherland?
-Ah did it get to you too? So what is Motherland?
-Go to hell. -No, no, dont you send me to hell. Answer me about
Motherland.
-Are you going to ask me about the meaning of life next?
-The meaning of life is definitely unknown, but you should tell me about
motherland instead.
-Youre right about one thing, Slava. Motherland and government are two
distinct, incompatible concepts.
-Motherland and state are, - I corrected Yura.
-Its a good thing when the country you live in has a single culture,
such as Israel.
-Well, the States have as many cultures as in Babylon. And they
understand one another. And the state of Texas does not contemplate
seceding USA. Why? Because there is enough work there. If youre not
lazy, you live well.
-Thats right, everything is upside-down here.
-Anyway, enough philosophy. Same ****, we wont understand or achieve
anything. Meanwhile, with our socks we spoiled Pashkas mood for a long
time.
-Thats right. Shall we fire a few off? - from his pocket, Yura produced
some captured lighting rockets.
-Lets go! - I took a few from him.
We walked a little way away from one another, raised up the rocket
launchers holding them in our outstretched hands and pulled the ignition
cords. Two loud pops rang out almost simultaneously and the rockets
hissed off into the dark sky. Up there, with a crackling sound, they lit
up their fires and proceeded towards the ground. The sentries also
periodically launched these rockets, so the surroundings were almost
constantly bathed in an unnatural, dead light. The objects on the ground
cast whimsical, fractured shadows. Launching rockets, makes one feel like
its New Years at home. For New Years, I always brought lighting rockets
from the barracks and our whole family went out onto the street after
midnight to launch them. Me and my son were delighted. I felt the same
now. I threw away the spent shell and taking another one, launched it

without waiting for my partner. A sour smell of burned powder hung in the
air. Yura was right behind me with launching his.
-Lets go to sleep? - I asked when the last of our rockets went out.
-Lets smoke the last one and well go, - my partner replied.
We lit up. We were silent for a bit.
-Will they send us together, what do you think?
-No idea. Maybe together, maybe not.
-They may shove one of us into the second battalion, until the new
commander is appointed.
-There are plenty of decent platoon commanders there. Is there a shortage
of those willing to become a chief of staff in our brigade?
-There are plenty who are willing, but few with the necessary staff
experience.
-You think theyll assign you to command the staff for a while?
-Maybe. They wont send you, you are an officer for co-ordination.
-Well live, well see.
-Imagine it, the guys in the battalions are preparing their vehicles
right now, their people, confirming their place in the column.
Ammunition, men. What fortune it is to get away from commanding posts.
There is no worse place in the army than that of the company commander.
You run around like a dog.
-Yeah thats right. There is a good anecdote about that, but with a navy
slant. An old submarine commander is summoned to the headquarters. They
tell him: We want to introduce new benefits for sailors on active sea
duty. The cadres man: We want to raise their salaries, give them
apartments ahead of their turn, give them resort trips. We are thinking
that when they find out about this on the shore, theyll burst from envy.
What do you think? The commander: Theyll definitely burst. So when the
first one goes off, please make me his replacement! Its the same here.
No matter what perks they offer to the platoon and company commanders, no
matter what songs they sing, same ****, you have to keep away from these
command posts.
-Lets go sleep. We have a hard day ahead of us.
-Yeah. Who knows when well sleep properly again. Slava, you know, youre
a massive parasite.
-What? Why?
-With you questions. Motherland or no Motherland. Country, state. ****.
My head is splitting.
-I feel good on the other hand. I spoke out and its better now. Let
others torment themselves now.
-And thats what I meanparasite.
-Dont torture yourself. The search for inner meaning, never did any good
for anybody. Forget it for now. If we make it out alivewell talk more.
We wont have time to talk in the coming days. Let the reflexes do the
work.
-True, that. Let the central nervous system do some work. Its a pity
about the lads though. A lot of them will remain here.
-Like in Baklanovs Forever Nineteen.
-Enough with you. Lets go sleep.
We walked to our vehicle and entered after throwing out our cigarette
buts. Sashka had cleaned up while we were away and has gone to bed.
-Are you on sentry duty today?

-No. My turn comes tomorrow and even then, during the day.
-You slacker. Whos going to guard my sleep?
-Its your sleep, so you guard it.
-Hes rode again. Well have to make you dig a foxhole, standing up from
a horse.
-A foxhole, standing up from a horse?
-Exactly. Or youll get too mouthy.
-And the horses elevation?
-Three meters.
-There are no such horses.
-There are. In Moskva, there is a monument to Yuri Dolgoruki, have you
seen it? Well, youll be digging for him and his horse, if you dare talk
back again. Get it, you dumb-ass?
-I get it, I get it, - Pashka grumbled. He knew that when we get annoyed,
we could pull off anything.
Once again, we took off only our boots and socks. We loosened the belts
on our trousers. My assault rifleat the foot of my bunk. Yurkason a
nail above his head. A pair of grenades into the head of the bedunder
the matrass. A captured PBunder the matrass at hip-level, a round in its
chamber, with safety on. One can now loose themselves in a short sleep. I
regret not getting drunk. That bastard, Yurka spoilt it. Ill remind him
tomorrow. The light bulb that lit up our premises hung over my bed. I
half-unscrewed it and everything became immersed in darkness. For goodnight, I declared:
-Bed-time in the comms troop.
Thus finished another long day of another war. God, Fate, Chance willed
that I remain alive. Carry me on further. My whole life meant very
little. Ahead of me lay the suicidal assault on Minutka. Lord help me!
After this silent address to God, I fell asleep.

----------CHAPTER 8---------The alarm clock rang at seven. The night was quiet. Nobody attacked us. I
slept like a baby. No dreams. My mouth tasted like a hundred or two
pioneers just relieved themselves in there. My throat was dry. The
alcohol had had its effect on my body after all, its a pity my head
remained clear. It would be good to drink some pickle brine right now.
Oh, the dreams, the dreams. I got up and got dressed. Went outside with
Yurka. It was foggy again. That means fine weather ahead. I raised up my
hands a few times and the blood ran quicker through my veins. We washed
up and smoked a cigarette. Pashka, meanwhile having risen ahead of us,
prepared breakfast.
-What have you prepared for your fathers, sonny? - Yura enquired as we
entered the kung.
-Cofee, cheese sandwiches and the mass grave - sprats in tomato sauce,
garlic, onion, - Pashaka answered.

-Should we sink down a shot? - Yura asked.

-Lets do fifty grams or so, - I wasnt against the idea, although rarely
drank in the mornings.
-Vodka, cognac?
-How about cognac? Its vulgar to drink vodka in the mornings.
-Pashka, bring out the cognac. Preferably a French brand, a twenty year
vintage, from the south of France. Do we have any?
-We have some from Dagestan, sir, - Pashka mimicked Yuras tone.
-Its ****, naturally, but in the absence of letterhead, one writes on
plain paper. Well have to choke on Dagestani cognac, which is fermented
from bed bugs. Pashka, if you procure French cognac, Ill forgive
everything. You can even sell out the Motherland. Ill forgive! - Yurka
was in an uplifted mood.
Pashka meanwhile reached into the box where we kept food and booze, took
out a bottle of cognac, opened it and poured into the glasses. Just as we
were about to drink up, there was a knock on the door. Our neighbourthe
zampolit Kazartsev was at the threshold. He started shouting (in jest):
-Are you devils ****ed in the head? To swill cognac in the morning by the
glassful. And to booze up this juvenile criminal! Shove over! Oh look at
your huge ass, you must be eating better than a colonel. You need to be
chased around more. Or better still sent into some battalion, there is a
shortage of people there. Youll slim up immediately, - Seryoga perched
up next to Pashka and took his cup. He sniffed it.
-Bastards are drinking without bothering to invite the zampolit. Swine.
Thisll have to be reported to the comm-brig, that staff officers are
drinking in the mornings. And what are they drinking? Cognac. And you
were extorting cigarettes from me yesterday.
-Will you drink, or what? Are you hoping to spoil our mood this early in
the day? - I wanted to sink my shot, but the zampolit was producing
distracting noise.
-What a nose you have, Seryoga! - Yurka did not conceal his admiration. Not too soon, not too late, just as we poured and bang, youre here.
-He was probably standing at the door eavesdropping.
-Are you going to drink?
-Naturally! - Sereyoga once again looked into the glass he took from
Pashka. - Youre too young still, you alcoholic. What are we drinking to,
men?
-To luck. We shall all need it in the shortness of time, - Yurka was
solemn.
-Its to luck then, - Seryoga also became solemn.
We drank. Everyone had only a little in their glass. Pashka was deprived
of his portion and was staring at us in envy. We began to snack.
-It was decided overnight that some of the staff officers are to be sent
to the battalions, - Seryoga said as he chewed on a sandwich.
-Why the hell? - my reaction was instant and genuine.Well only
interfere with their work. The company and platoon commander will not be
able to properly function as a leader and a commander. Well be
unnecessary ballast at their commanding post. Like a sleeve on the head.
-Really, Sergejwhat are we needed there for? - Yurka was also surprised.
-Hell knows what they are planning. This order came from Severny. By
the way, our troops took Khankala overnight and consequently the staff is
moving there.

-And the point being? No planes will land there anyway, only spinners.
Plough everything up at Severny, transfer the planes remaining there to
the Mainland, or destroy them and there will be less headache. A whole
regiment will be guarding that airport and another regiment is taken away
from the frontline and sent to defend Khankala! Its retarded! - I
genuinely did not understand the point of all these reshuffles.
-What is this Khankala? - Pashka joined in the conversation.Ive heard a
lot about it, but what is it?
-Khankala, - Seryoga began out of a zampolits habit of answering all the
soldiers questions, - is a former DOSAAF airfield. Czech-made training
aircraft are concentrated there. Dudaev was trying to re-configure them
into combat aircraft, but ran out of time. According to rumours and
intelligence
-Which is one and the same, - Yurka interjected.
-Thats right, - Seryoga continued, - they managed to convert a few after
all and then fly them off to somewhere. There are ballistic rocket
launchers located not far from Khankala. Ballistic missiles were
stationed there previously. When they kicked us out of here, we may have
left a few warheads behind. Nothing surprises me any more. Plus, there
are structures at Khankala. Soon well go to fetch the humanitarian aid,
so well get a look at the commanders new post. -Seryoga, to hell with
this Khankala, tell us instead why the **** were being thrown into the
battalions. We have zero effectiveness as combat units. We are not given
a company or a platoon. And we have outgrown such a role anyway. The
point?
-I dont know. Its Rolins command. A maximum of command personnelto
the frontline.
-Alright, at least we can do some good there still. But what about the
deputy quartermaster? - Yurka was also boiling over with indignation.
-Dont **** on my brain, guys. An order is an order. Were going to the
second battalion, together.
-Together? Thats good.
-Did you ask to be transferred with us yourself?
-Yes.
-And what for?
-You dont want to give us the smokes?
-Its better to go with you thugs, rather than with some poonce.
-So, Seryoga, you have recognised us for our achievements!
-You might be retards, - Pashka, cover your ears, - but you wont run,
wont leave me and the men. And you wont get into harms way needlessly.
-Thats right. Well send you into harms way needlessly instead. A
second?
-Lets do it. And then well go to the staff for briefing. The assault is
to begin today at midday.
-****!
-Are they all ****ed in the head over there at Severny? - Yurka went
red from anger.
-Thats it, the brigades ****ed! - Pashka expressed the collectives
opinion.
-Shut up, you dumbass, dont jinx it! Pour it instead and while were at
the briefing, fill our hipflasks with cognac and vodka. Put spirits into
one of them. You know where the bottle is hidden. And not a word to
anyone about what you have heard here. You understand? - Yurka was no

longer just talking, he was shouting. Anger, fear, helplessnessall these

things were written on his face.
-I get it, I get it. No need to shout, - Pashka mumbled in return.
We lit up. There was no desire to say anything. We needed to think it
over, digest the situation. Pashka meanwhile poured cognac for everyone
and after a nod from Seryoga, for himself also.
-Shall we?
-Lets go.
We drank. We began to chew on the contents of the mass grave. Again,
nobody said a word. I looked at the watch. It was 7:40.
-Lets go?
-Lets go. With God! - Yurka crossed himself.
And so, we took our coats and weapons and having emerged into the street
went to the staff. Staff officers were already standing there, waiting
for everyone to gather, before entering the meeting room. The news that
almost all staff officers are to be assigned to battalions or companies
had already done the rounds. Judging by the few conversations that could
be heard, nobody understood what their position was in the emerging
situation. It was not a matter of cowardice, but that of subordination. A
battalion officer was at a lower level of responsibility than any staff
officer and therefore our position had been made duplicitous. On the one
hand, a battalion commander and his chief of staff had to submit to us as
agents and observers for the brigade staff. But under no circumstance did
we want to undermine their authority and standing with their
subordinates. On the other hand we cold not submit to their command from
our position, and so it was turning out that we were as needed in these
formations as a hare needs a stop-signal.
I searched out the second battalions commander. This was a legendary
character. It was said that once, under fire, he carried out the wounded
mechanic and commander of a knocked-out BMP, on his arms. He was riding
on their armour. That once, he challenged the Chechens to a duel over the
air. When they accepted, the choice of weapon was assault rifles after
which the Chechens began to respect him. His first shot went through his
opponents shoulder from fifty meters and he didnt finish him off. The
Chechen missed.
He fought for his soldiers like they were his own children. He negotiated
bringing out the wounded over the radio with the Chechens. They let him
do it the first time, the second time, they shot up his MT-LBu, which was
transporting the wounded. Six soldiers and one officer perished. After
this, he no longer radioed with duelling proposals. Instead he sent his
fighters under the cover of darkness to knife out the stoned Chechens.
Not fearing the bullet, sometimes on his belly, sometimes on his knees,
he went around his fighters positions for inspection, visiting each one.
He did not see it above himself to talk to his soldiers, joke with them,
drink a hundred grams. He was never buddy-buddy with them, but everyone
knew that he takes everyones death in a hard way and doesnt want to
build his officers career on soldiers bones. He was not afraid to
express his own opinion. An opinion based not on personal ambitions or
grudges, but the current situation, life itself. This was probably why,

being forty two years of age and having graduated from the academy, he
remained at the level of a battalion commander. A most colourful
character. About a meter eighty five in height, about a hundred fifty
kilograms in weight, but not of fat, of meat, muscle. He could hide an
edged glass in his hand. Full of force and energy for work and for war.
It was with him and his people that through fate and the commanders
decisions I was to storm Minutka. The only thing was that he became
thoroughly bogged down at this hotel Kavkaz. It drained a lot of his
blood.
I spotted the man and approached him:
-Good health, Aleksandr Petrovich.
-Good health, Vyacheslav Nikolaevich.
-Have you heard about the thing with the staff personnel.
-Yes, Ive heard. ****! - he spat and very illustratively expressed his
treatment of what was happening and this initiative.It turns out that I
am not to be trusted. Right?
-**** knows, Petrovich, what games they are playing. Its not to my
liking either. You probably know already that Im being sent to you.
-Ive heard. Yurka also as well as the zampolit. Why him though? Its
like in thirty sevea special council of the three! Whos going to be
carrying out the sentence?
-Dont talk nonsense.
-Slava, how can I not talk nonsense, when Im short of a chief of staff .
I cant assign any of the company commandersthere are no replacements
for them either. Some of the platoon commanders are gone. I spent the
whole night handing that ****ing hotel to the neighbour, the comm-batt
was no longer speaking, he was growling.And now you with your fantasies.
Dont get me wrong, I have nothing against you and Yuri and the zampolit
is also a decent guy, but what is this whole spectacle for? Am I not to
be trusted?
-Go to hell, Petrovich. Not to be trusted. I was sleeping like a baby
and meanwhile this crap. Im of the same opinion myself. I wont put
sticks in your wheels. Command as your experience guides you. If you need
anythingIll help. When you drive off to the battalion, and if they
dont think up something new, take us with. -Alright. But dont disappear
anywhere. Dont take a lot of vodka, I have plenty of that merchandise.
As for smokestake a bit morewere short. Theres enough to eat as well.
At this point all present started to move into the staff premises. San
Sanych together with the brigade commander as well as our general were
already waiting. By all appearances, the general was assigned the same
fate at our brigade as usto sit there and observe.
-Comrade officers, - the commander began, -the order was received to
begin the operation today at 12:00. There is also the order for securing
officers of the brigades command behind every battalion and individual
company as my deputies. Thus ensuring uninterrupted cooperation.
There was a noise in the room.
-Stay calm, comrade officers, I understand your indignation. Nobody is
trying to substitute anyone and most importantly this is not a case of
mistrust. The chief of staff will now announce who will be attached to
which battalion.

Bilich rose and quickly read out the list. As Kazartsev said earlier, the
three of us ended up in the second battalion. -Whats the plan of attack?
- asked Mazurthe tank battalions commander.
-When we entered the city, did we have a plan?
-No.
-And we dont have one now. The first objective is the state bank. The
secondDudaevs palace. The rest - according to circumstances.
There was again a noise in the room. Everyone expletively discussed this
turn of events.
-The tankers are going first, together with the second battalion. They
are being covered and supported with fire from the first and third
battalions. Questions?
No-one started asking any questions, knowing that they wont hear
anything intelligible in reply. They gradually began to disperse. It was
no use for me to stay here, so I went outside. Yurka followed. The
brigades zampolit and the second battalions commander remained with the
comm-brig. We lit up.
-So, what do you think of all this?
-Nothing. Its best not to think about it. Lets go pack.
The next hour was spent gathering our things and finishing off the cognac
left over from breakfast. Then the second battalions commander came by
and we set off. We arrived after about twenty minutes and from there
drove with the column towards Minutka. The neighbours, who were already
informed of the nature of our glorious mission farewelled us, shouting
something encouraging. Amazingly, nobody stopped us, or shot at us upon
approach to Minutka.
We stopped four blocks away from the cursed square and the comm-batt
called his officers to a briefing. He quickly laid out what was already
known. Introduced us as officers for coordination with the brigade staff
and added that the brigades zampolit will join us later, to also offer
his assistance. We knew many of these officers already. Three of the four
company commanders were cadre officers, with the fourth having been
recently appointed in place of Seryoga Maksimenko, who has been killed.
But he was already carrying himself with confidence, he was amongst his
own. The rumble of artillery fire and the air raid could be heard from
the direction of Minutka. Meanwhile, the sound of clanging metal came
from our rear. A few minutes passed and the tank battalions column could
be seen to approach. Seryoga Mazur was perched on top of the third
vehicle, the whites of his eyes and teeth shining.
-Good health!
-Good health, we havent seen one another a while, not an hour has
passed. Ready?
-Ready for what?
-For your carousel? Ive heard already. Good thinking, hopefully it
will work.
-Well see. When do we begin?
-In fifteen minutes or so, the artillery will go silent and the aviation
will fly away, and well begin.
-Well have to wait an extra five minutes or so, to be sure.

-Of course. They may miss the Chechens, but to hit their ownits a
guaranteed bulls eye.
-For sure. Its happened many times. Who goes first?
-Go send your tankers.
-Why dont send yourself to hell, hmm? When we entered the city, the
infantry pissed itself and I had to send my guys under grenade fire.
-Well go together then.
-But, my tanks will not go onto the bridge. There will definitely be a
heap of grenadiers there. Ill help you to mount the bridge and get on
the other side, Ill provide fire support when youre there and youll
have to rely on your infantry luck from there on in.
-Its always like this.
-Dont grumble, gramps. Pour, or Ill go.
-Hell come, be rude to us and now we have to pour for him. Dont you
have any yourself, you free-loader?
-I do, but its too far to walk.
-Alright, Sashka, - the infantry battalion called his mechanic-driver, go fetch some snacks and a bottle of krislallovka.
-O, youre living well - drinking moskovite vodka, - we were sincerely
amazed.
-Thats from my private stash, which I keep for special occasions.
The vodka was poured for all the officers present, including those from
the companies. We drank. We snacked straight out of a can of frozen spam.
As we drank, the artillery ceased and after a few more minutes the din of
aviation ceased. Silence descended on the scene, broken only by the
sporadic crackling of machine guns and rifles.
-Comrade lieutenant-colonel! - A fighter stuck his head out of a BMP. Twenty second (brigade commanders call-sign) commands 555.
-Transmit that the order is understood and that we are carrying it out, and the battalion commander ran off toward his own vehicle.
We went after him. The tankers and second battalions company commanders
also ran to their vehicles, which then set off. A block before Minutka we
were halted by our recon troops, who told us that they managed to push
the Chechens back from our side, but that they dug in on the bridge
itself and on the other side. It didnt look like the bridge was mined,
but they could not guarantee it. The infantry troopers have leapt off the
vehicles and using their sides and the surrounding ruins for cover
awaited orders. It was decided that makhra will go first and the
boxes fifty meters behind them.
In breach of every canon of field operations of the entire world, the
comm-batt went with the company in the avant-garde, rather than behind
his troops. There was nothing left for me and Yura to do than to go with
the commander. In short runs, hiding behind the ruins, we reached the
bridge. The reconnaissance men were holding off frenzied fire from the
Chechens, who were trying to take it back. Beginning somewhere in the
middle of the bridge there were improvised fortifications made from
chunks of concrete, where the Chechens took cover and whence forth they
sprayed our shore with lead. Nobody could stick their heads out. The
Chechen mortars started pounding us with mines. They were conducting
ranging fire for the time being and the mortars were exploding in the
river, but closer to us each time. After a few minutes the first mines

exploded on our
barrel mortars.
getting louder,
concrete blocks
appeared.

shore. In addition they began shooting from their underThe noise was unbearable. The howling of mines was
bullets and shrapnel were constantly knocking on the
behind which we were hiding. The first casualties

A mine exploded near the first companys positions, the same one with
whom we were located. One of the big fragments tore half the head off of
one soldier. His body lay on its stomach, half the neck was torn out and
the other half was bent to the right under the weight of the head. Blood
was gushing like a fountain out of the mangled throat, painting the wall
in a brown colour. A fighter crawled to the body, not to deliver first
aid, but to get the dog-tag from the mutilated neck and retrieve the
documents from the inner pocket. When the fighter was turning the dead
man over, his hands jerked forward and grasped the assault rifle that a
second ago belonged to him. It was as if he did not want to part with it.
Having observed this scene out of the corner of our eyes, we turned our
attention to the Chechens again. They were reinforcing their positions on
their shore. From behind came the already familiar clang and clamour. Our
guys. The tankers. They could have come sooner.
The leading tank fired, but the shot was not aimed. It flew over the
Chechens heads and exploded somewhere far behind their backs. The second
shot was closer. It chased away a group of Chechens with shrapnel. A few
bodies remained motionless on the pavement, a few were screaming and
thrashing about there also. Wounded. The mortar fire ceased and assault
rifle fire became quieter. The comm-batt ordered:
-Second company! Ready the underbarrelers for battle! Fire! First and
third companyforward! He himself leapt up first, drawing the people
after him and ran, bending down almost to the ground.
The people followed his example. Some shouting, some swearing, and we
also joined in the collective motion. Underbarreler mortar grenades
rustled over our heads. The pop and clink of fragments from their
explosions could be heard up ahead on the bridge and the opposite shore.
The thumping noise of tank cannons sounded from behind us. Explosions
from their shells scattered the infantry on the opposite bank. Those on
the bridge crawled back and hid behind a burned-out tank. Mortar fire
began again. The screaming sound of approaching mines was more unnerving
than the explosions themselves. It seemed like the air around you was
vibrating, compressing, assaulting your eardrums which are already rough
from the sound of explosions. The will is practically paralysed. The
sound is such, the feeling is such, that it seems that this particular
mine is coming straight for you. Upon hitting your body, it will tear it
into a hundred pieces and fling them all around. But gradually through
the force of will, you make yourself open your eyes and look at the
world.
The second company pulled up to our positions. It was announced over the
radio that the first and third battalions have approached and are ready
to provide fire support as the bridge is being taken. After a minute, the
BMP of the two incoming battalions joined the quire of tank cannons and
assault gun rattle. The dog-like yelping of the guns in the first

battalion together with the more solid sound of the thirds bigger
calibre could be heard.
The Chechens almost shut up. The opposite shore was veiled in explosions
from shells and grenades. The air was touchable by hand, the dust cracked
on ones teeth and the throat was raw from TNT and some other crap. The
eyes began to water, the shock, the fright of the first minutes of battle
was passing. The blood began to thump in the sides of the head, sweat
poured from under the helmet guard. It immediately became hot. I
unbuttoned my coat and loosened the clasp on the flak jacket. I turned
over onto my back. I retrieved the cigarettes and matches. I lit up.
Yurka, who was lying near-by extended his hand and gestured that he also
wanted a smoke. I gave him a cigarette. It was utterly futile to attempt
to speak in this hellish pandemonium.
I drew, with almost no perception of the cigarettes taste. Only
bitterness. Bitterness, mixed with burned powder and nicotine. I knew
from experience that this cacophony will end in five or ten minutes and I
will have to run and crawl over this bridge. I do not want to! I want to
lie here and look into the sky. The fragments of some prayer emerged in
my head. I could not recall it properly. The main thing isforward and
survive. At our comm-brigs order, the fire was shifted deeper into enemy
positions. The BMP fell silent. They could nick us. The comm-batt,
shouted out: -Forward! Ur-r-r-r-a!
The people began to leap out of their shelters and ran forward, some on
their hands and knees, some fully upright. I was also running. The
Chechens, seeing our assault begin, opened fire. Somebody to the right of
me cried out somehow shrilly. The fighter ahead of me, as if coming upon
an invisible obstacle was flung back, spreading out his arms. His gun
fell at my feet, I stepped on it and nearly slipped over.
I glanced at the body momentarily, as I ran past. The groin was torn
open. The trousers swelled with blood, his wide-open eyes stared into the
sky. The got him - passed through my brain. I became frightened. I
again felt the taste of blood in my mouth. I was frightened, very
frightened. My feet began to feel as if they were stuffed with cotton
wool. I shouted. Shouted something incomprehensible. I yelled and
bellowed from fright. Lord, help me, let me live.
Only a short distance remained to the bridge now. There it waslittered
with chunks of concrete and brick, enveloped in barbed wire. Ahead of me,
about thirty people ran onto the bridge. They opened up in hurricane fire
from the other side. The first ten or so fell down, two were still
moving, trying to crawl back. The rest fell back and took cover in the
ruins of a former Chechen checkpoint.
I flopped down beside them, then crawled behind some concrete rubble. I
stuck out my gun and let off a volley in the direction of the Chechen
side. I looked around. The other officers remained slightly behind. That
meant that I was in charge here.
Straining to shout over the noise of battle, I yelled that somebody try
to pull the wounded off the bridge. The fighters lying next to me nodded

in understanding. Two started crawling forward, whilst the rest opened

fire trying to cover their guys. The wounded, seeing that help was
approaching tried to crawl towards it, but were not doing too well. The
comm-batt crawled up from behind and shouted into my very ear:
-Youre a fast runner, Slava.
-I run even faster in the opposite direction, - I answered.
-Its tougher than Severny, huh?
-Thats right. If only we can prevent them from blowing up the bridge.
-And for this reason, Slavyan, we should take it sooner, - and he shouted
again: - Forward! Forward, lads!
And the people stirred again and streamed forward out of
towards flying death. The comm-batt himself emerged from
slab and ran forward and I followed. And again the first
the bridge. Those that were crawling to get the wounded,
feet and joined the others.

their holes,
the concrete
of us were on
rose to their

And so Im on the bridge. Whistling and clamour. The Chechens shift the
mortar fire here. A concussion. I fall. I sit up. I feel myself over. All
is seemingly well, except I cant hear anything. I slap over one ear with
an open palm, then the other as if knocking out some water. Nothing. A
soundless veil separates me from the surrounding world. Then I get it
contusion. The shockwave whipped at my eardrums, bending them inwards.
Its nothing dire. It will pass in time. I looked there, where the mine
exploded. I remembered that there were four fighters ahead of me. Where
are they? There they are. The mangled bodies of four fighters lay across
the bridge. It looked like they took all the fragments, leaving none for
me. For the time being. Either from the contusion or from the sight of
intestines or from fright, my stomach churned and I began to vomit. I was
turning inside-out for a long time, until only bile was cominng. I spat
it off. It was amazing but some of the deafness passed away together with
the vomit.
People were running all around me. Some were falling and no longer
moving. I sat like an idiot next to a puddle of my vomit and was happy.
Alive! Alive! There was a bitter taste in my mouth. I was thirsty. I felt
for my hipflask and took a large gulp. And I had to immediately spit
almost all of it out. Pashka filled this one with cognac. I pushed the
air out of my lungs and drank. A concussion was gradually settling in in
my head. Right, I have to get out of here. But to walk off the
battlefield with a simple concussion is not serious business. I looked at
the remains of the fighters that took my shrapnel.
Forward, forward. My thought were still tangled. They were straining
through a cotton-wool stupor. I began to get up. Wobbling, I stood on my
feet with some difficulty. All is well. This will pass in an hour or so.
Not my first contusion. Just need to drink vodka and not be shy about it.
And everything will be wonderful. Forward! I made a few stubborn steps. I
stopped and looked around. Ahead of me, approximately in the middle of
the bridge our soldiers have taken cover. And I was standing behind them,
swaying like a pendulum. Its amazing that nobody picked me off yet,
was the thought in my head. I somehow managed to quickly locate that spot
that permitted me to stay consistently upright and I ran to our positions
with my still foreign-feeling legs half-bent at the knee.

I didnt make the full distance and flopped onto my belly ten meters
short, crawling the rest of the way. Having reached my guys, I leant
against some chunk of concrete. The fighters who lay slightly ahead of me
turned around and shouted something, but my thoughts were still tangled
and I did not make out what it was exactly. Judging by their encouraging
gestures, it was something good. They worked out that there is something
wrong with my hearing and raised up their thumbs. I nodded my head in
agreement.
-Im not wounded, simply contused, - I shouted.
The tankers started firing over our heads again. The enemy fire died down
a little and we again moved forward. I now dragged my feet somewhere in
the middle of them. I did not fire for fear of hitting my own. Behind us
the soldiers of the first battalion have already entered the bridge. It
was finally possible to traverse the bridge. The main task was now to
hold it. Using mortar fire, the Chechens forced the first battalion to
fall back. Only our, second battalion remained on the enemy shore now.
The bridge was littered with corpses, about fifty from a cursory glance.
A hundred fifty meters of bridge and fifty dead. A grim arithmetic. The
wounded were taken away by the men in the first battalion.
Not ceasing to fire at the bridge, the Chechens started shooting at us as
well. And now they were putting up a smoke screena sure sign of a
pending counter-attack. The comm-batts order passed down the chain.
Ready the underbarrelers. Fire! We began to shoot up the growing smoke
cloud. There was enough smoke even without this screen, but this smoke
was black in colour. Those fighters that did not have underbarrel mortars
let off long volleys from their assault rifles into this cloud. The
screams of the wounded could be heard coming both from the cloud and from
our side. There was a clanging of caterpillars in there. Was it a tank or
a BMP? And the decimation of our flimsy positions began. The odd stone
and chunk of concrete walls are a crappy hiding place from the shells.
The sound of our jets could be heard from above and bombs started falling
from the sky. Has the reader ever been under an airstrike? No? And thank
God.
A bomb is five hundred kilos of metal and explosive that hurtles towards
the ground with a terrifying sound. The sound of mortars now seems a
sweet serenade in comparison. The howl of a bomb paralyses the body with
terror and compels its every cell to vibrate in unison with that sound.
All thought is lost and you simply lie there, a piece of meat awaiting
its death. Everything human leaves you. I have heard it said that a lot
of our guys have been taken out by our own aviation, but I have never had
to lie under our own bombs myself. And now I have experienced that too.
The first bomb exploded far ahead and it seems that that it sent the
enemy into a panic. Their fire in our direction ceased. There explosion
released an airborne shockwave. It bathed us in a terrible thunder and a
rush of hot air. It felt like this thundering air means to tear off your
uniform, break your rib-cage and tear up your mouth, your cheeks. The
ear-drums will burst and blood will stream from the ears. A hail of
gravel and small stones fell on us. Somebody began to scream off to the

side. I looked in that direction. A fighter was rolling on the ground

pressing down on his eye with his hand. The blood streamed from under his
fingers. The company medical nurse was already crawling towards him. The
soldiers around the wounded man grabbed him and pressed him down into the
ground. One was retrieving a water flask, another was tearing up his coat
to expose his hand. He then produced a Trimeperidine syringe-tube and
injected the man. I didnt watch what happened next. By the sound of it,
the pilots were preparing to make another pass. And again, that terrible
sound. That paralysing howling. One could hear it rise, as the bomb
hurtles towards the ground. You instinctively press into the ground and
all around become quiet. Everyone waits to see who and when will taste of
this death. Madame Death.
The concussion sounded unexpectedly close. On the left flank of our
battalion. And again, there was a hail of gravel. Strangely, after all
these explosions, my hearing was almost completely restored and I felt a
lot better. The world of sounds has returned. The post-contusion ringing
in my head has not yet ceased, but that was something hardly deserving of
any attention now. I looked in the direction of the exploded bomb. There
was a gaping crater there, tens meters or so in diameterAnd around it
lay parts of those soldiers that were next to the explosion. Smoke poured
out of the crater and it stank of sour burned explosive as well as burned
meat and wool. These aromas made one want to vomit. It lapped at you in
waveson and off. I tried to recall how many people were located there.
About a platoon and a half. Approximately fifty people. Oh God! We have
already lost a hundred people, but have still not gained a decent
foothold on this shore! The wounded screamed and moaned loudly from the
left flank. One could hear how the comm-batt was swearing into the radio.
He was not adhering to any protocol or using call-signs. He was simply
bellowing into the radio apparatus:
-Call back the aviation! Call the ****ing aviation back! These assholes
have killed half my battalion! Call them back immediately! I wont hold
on with my own forces! Why?! Ask the scoundrels, who dont give a ****
where they throw their bombs! Tell them thank you. Call back those
faggots. Send reinforcements. Im beginning to dig in. The Chechens are
about to attack. Is that it, have you recalled the planes? Good boy. I
dont have the exact numbers, but I have more than a hundred two
hundreds and about sixty men who are three hundred. What am I going to
do with them?! Bring help! Medics as well as stretcher-bearers. Some are
not transportable. Thats it, I think the Chechens are attacking. If
there is no support, Im falling back. Give me support. Not from the air,
you ****head, send our guys. They promised that the marines and the oh-so
brave airborne troops will support! Where are those ****ers? Ask
Severny where they are! Ask at Khankala! Thats all from me, you can go
get ****ed! No time. Come over here and youll know why there is no time.
**** you!!!
The Chechens again opened massed, dense fire at us and our shore. They
again opened up from mortars and BMP cannons. Their underbarrelers,
machine guns and assault rifles were also busy. The bullets and shrapnel
continued to pierce the asphalt in front of our flimsy shelter. Then,
with a ringing sound, they began to shatter the piles of brick and
concrete behind which we were sheltered. With a foul squeal, the
ricochets bounced away and off to the side somewhere. It seemed that the

air became heated from the radiant metal that constantly hung upon it.
Again, the screams and moans of the wounded could be heard.
The scraping and creaking sound of caterpillars came from behind us. We
all looked back. Two tanks rolled onto the other side of the bridge and
opened fire. The Chechens quieted down and transferred all their fire
onto the tanks. Our turn has come. The comm-batt ordered Forward!
Leaving our wounded behind, we again leapt forward. The smoke was thick
over the square and we could not see a thing.
We stretched out into a chain. Shooting form the gut, not sparing the
bullets. No matter how you strain your eyes, nothing can be seen ten
meters ahead. The eyes water from the powder fumes hanging in the air.
Forward!!!, Only forward!!! I yell with the others. Some are shouting
Ura!, some, Bitches! Death to the bitches!, Im simply shouting A-aa-a, with my mouth wide open. It helps dull the terror. And again, the
adrenaline is raging in my veins. I can beat the world sprinting record.
Dagger-sharp automatic fire greets us from the veil of smoke. Like us,
they are also shooting from the belly, with long volleys. They probably
waited for us to get closer. We fall. We take cover. You should not lie
in the same spot, on the open ground. I roll over. I roll over once
again. Aha, heres a piece of concrete that is so dear to my heart. I
strike it very painfully with my shoulder. Its alright, a hit is not a
wound, the bruise will go away in time. I take position behind this
boulder and begin firing.
The shock from the initial Chechen assault passes and we take up the
fight. The range is no more than fifteen meters, but they have an
undisputed advantage. They are concealed by walls, whilst we are ass-up
in a square.
The machine gun emitted a dry click and ceased firing. Right, out of
ammo. Bad timing, as usual. The paired-up magazines have run out. As I
lay down, I raise up the barrel and load a grenade into the
underbarreler. Its more comfortable to shoot from the knee, but there is
no choice now. I press the trigger with my left hand. The detonator
capsule fires and the grenade flies off towards the enemy. Overshot. Its
alright, well correct that now. Again the grenade is fed into the
underbarreler and again I press on the trigger. As the grenade makes its
way towards the enemy, I quickly take out the spent magazine and insert
another into my rifle.
There is a loud bang behind us. I turn around. **** your mother! The
Chechens managed to hit both our tanks. They are burning with a greasy
flame. One can hear the crackle of the burning ammunition. The shells
will go off next. And sure enough, a second later a deafening explosion
rings out, then a second, and the tank turrets fly off. Together, almost
synchronously, they slowly rise up into the air and tumble off into
different directions. The turret from the first tank, falls into the
water, with a loud noise. The secondfalls onto our side. The tanks
themselves continue to burn. The first ones hull is split down the
middle. Ammunition is bursting inside it.

The Chechens, spurred on by this victory switch their attention and also
their fire onto us. The mines again begin to reap their harvest. Pinned
down under this hurricane fire, the fighters start to dig in. Those who
got a section of asphalt destroyed by tank or BMP tracks were in luck.
The mud was exposed there, but underneath it was dirt, into which the
makhra burrowed up to his ears. Our numbers however, were shrinking
before ones very eyes. Many were wounded. The sun no longer broke
through the thick smoke. I listened in hope that the firing would begin
on the other side of the square. It is there that the marines and the
airborne troops were to begin their assault. Bu the music of battle was
not to be heard coming from there. A pitiful band of no more than a
hundred fifty people were fighting against a well-concealed enemy from
open ground.
There was shouting and automatic fire behind us again and as we looked,
we saw that the first battalion was trying to cross the bridge. With
redoubled force, we hosed the enemy positions down from our guns and
mortars. But, once more something was not going right for them and the
first battalion fell back.
And here, our ranks faltered. The feeling of helplessness and futility
came upon us and pressed us down. Terror, black terror, crushed
everything that was human in us. The instinct of self-preservation was
triggered and we began to retreat, no orders issued, we did not run, we
retreated. We snarled with assault-gun volleys and the odd pot-shots from
the underbarrelers. We took away our wounded. We left the fallen behind.
We left them behind, knowing that the Chechens will desecrate their
corpses, will cut them up. They will slice off their noses, their ears,
their genitals and throw them into Sunzha to feast the fishes. Forgive
us, lads!
We retreated to our former positions, where we were hit by our aviation.
Suddenly there was a cry: Dads wounded! Everyone turned around and saw
that the comm-batt is running for cover and his left arm is dangling like
a piece of cable tied to the petty-coat. He stumbled and fell over to his
side, his left leg faltering. The fighters ran up and dragged him out of
the line of fire. They dragged him into a temporary shelter. The
battalion officers immediately began to roll over, crawl and to scramble
to the spot. I hurried over also. I saw Yura along the way. He was alive!
I lost sight of him during the recent skirmish. The comm-batts deputy
had run over also, major Kugel Ivan Genrikhoich. A medic was bustling
around the injured commander. He tourniqueted and dressed the wounds. The
commander intermittently regained and lost consciousness. His breathing
was heavy, there was something hoarse in his chest, it interfered with
his breathing. He was pale and large droplets of unhealthy sweat were
pouring over his face leaving grey trails over that dusty mug.
-Why are you here? - Petrovich asked, having opened his eyes again. - Go
do your jobs, dont leave your people. Dig in. Go **** off. As Im lying
about in here, my deputy, Kugel is in command. Forward! Off you go! To
work, you stomachs, to work!
He closed his eyes again and lost consciousness. We asked the orderly:
-How is he? Is he going to make it?

-The arteries in his legs are damaged, he lost a lot of blood. I cant
tell. He needs to be evacuated to the mainland. -Save him! You hear? Save
the comm-batt, or Ill poke you full of holes! - Ivan Kugel shouted at
the orderly.
-Ivan, dont yell at him! - the first companys commander also shouted at
the new comm-batt.
-So you take him and go break out! Bring him out. Well try to cover you,
- Ivan shouted again,try to carry Dad out.
And he yelled loudly, trying to cover the noise of battle:
-Listen to my command! Im in charge of the battalion, whilst the
commander is wounded! First company is going for breakout and is carrying
out the commander and we need to cover them! Dig in and hold out to the
last! Radioman! Radioman, where are you, you bitch?!
-Theres no radioman, hes dead, - one of the soldiers shouted.
-Tune the company radios to the brigade frequency and announce that in
five minutes, we going to try to carry out the comm-batt and that they
are to cover us with fire. Did everyone get that?! Go! Go!
And the first company ran, ran under fire, the devastating fire, over the
naked, shot-through bridge. With them, they carried away the comm-batt,
who was no longer conscious and three other wounded men. They could not
take any more. Only thirty three men remained in the company, a little
more than a full platoon.
We were firing. Firing and reloading, when our magazines ran empty. We
glanced over our shoulders. Five people from the first company remained
motionless on the bridge, adding their bodies to the many already lying
there. But those that remained alive and in one piece have already
traversed half of the distance. A little more, guys, a little more, hurry
it up! The Chechens conducted fierce fire at us and the first company.
Dont worry, bitches. As long as there is enough ammo, well get to you,
you ****ing mongrels!
I became calm, my soul was peaceful. This happens when a decision is
already made and you understand that this is it. THIS IS IT!!! After this
is only the finish line and unfortunately not a bloody thing depends on
you any longer. All that remains is to get a better price for your body
and soul. One does not want to die, but there is no more fear either. All
that remains is a sense of absolute calm and a sober, clear mind, clear,
precise thoughts. Sharpened reflexes. An acute perception of ones
surroundings. So, you niggers, shall we fight?! There was even a sense of
excitement, adventure emerging. Who bests whom. Were the good guys and
youre the bad guys. Everything is crystal clear, pity this is not how it
is in real life. A good Indianis a dead Indian! A line from a song came
to mind: In our reserves, weve still got chicks and preserves, and out
dear AKMS in our hands. Were going to war, you mongrels!

----------CHAPTER 9----------

I looked around. Little by little, everyone was digging in. The right
thing to do. Makhra will chew on asphalt if they have to, but will
retain the bridgehead. I didnt have a spade with methe small sappers
spade or the MSL as it was known in the army. About three meters away
from me on the right lay a dead fighter and he had the spade in a holster
strapped to his back. I rolled over to him and tried to unfasten the
holster. It did not budge. A bullet whistled past and I bent down
instinctively Even when you hear that the bullet is not for you, still
you duck. With a lurch, I turned the body over and undid the buckle on
his stomach, taking off the belt. A soon as I again took cover behind the
protective remnants of a brick wall, a bullet hit the dead body of the
fighter, making it shudder. The ****ing Chechens could have hit me then.
I looked at the spot where I was lying. The asphalt was broken in many
places. I began plucking pieces of it out with the spade and laying them
down in front of me. Soon there was dirt, mixed with gravel. I continued
to dig, ignoring the fact that my fingers were torn to blood. The earth
was cold and there were patches of mud. Everything that I dug up, I
placed in front of me, fortifying the fox hole. My stomach and chest were
already concealed in a small trench. Only my head and feet protruded over
the surface. I was dirty all over. I tore off my helmet guard and steam
pored from my head. It was hot, very hot.
There was a metallic clamour behind me again. I turned around. Back
there, the tankers were attempting to tow away the burned-out vehicles.
They have attached cables to them and were dragging them off to the side.
The Chechens again opened grenade and mortar fire at our tanks. We all
stopped digging and returned fire at their fortifications. To my horror,
I again heard the dry click of the spent magazine. Im ****ed, completely
****ed, there is no more ammo! I have no more than seven grenades left
for the underbarreler. And thats it. Kaputt! There was a hipflask and a
magazine bag dangling off the belt that I took off the dead fighter. I
lifted up the bag. Oho! Heavy. That means well live! And well fight. I
took out three magazines and examined them. They are full. Three
magazines with thirty rounds eachninety rounds all up. Its not much but
in famine, even radish is meat. I loaded the assault gun and took aim. I
let off a short volley at a dashing shadow. The shadow disappeared. Maybe
I even got him. Just in case I switched to single-round fire and resumed
digging.
Suddenly the Chechens began to shout up ahead. They cant talk quietly in
normal life and in war they shout so that you ears burst. There was a
familiar clanging. I peeked out. A tank and a BMP were rolling out. Fun
times. Its impossible to retreatyoull get shot in the back and for
now, we cant counterattack either. To fight a tank in a square is a very
bad idea. Two different weight categories. Ivan Kugel shouted something
out, but what it was, was impossible to tell due to the distance and the
noise. The only thing that could be heard were the underbarrelers
reporting. If only it was possible to take on a tank out of those
underbarrelers. And this one was dressed in active armour.
This active armour is a godsend for the tankers. Small square boxes are
placed over the ordinary tank hull, flush against one another. There are

explosives inside these boxes. They detonate at high temperatures, so

when the stream of plasma from a cumulative round or from a Mukha
reaches the tanks armour, it encounters these explosives. They blow,
deflecting the plasma stream. The tank is unharmed.
And so this tank that was rolling towards us now was laden with these
small boxes. They hung like toys on a new years tree. The bastards were
prepared for us. An RPG reported from our left flank, I could tell by the
sound that a Mukha was being fired. The cumulative round hit the exact
spot where the turret meets the hull. There was an explosion. Smoke, then
fire poured out of the tank and there was a deafening explosion after
half a minute and the turret was torn off and flung backwards. It landed
on top of Chechen positions. A wall collapsed kicking up a large cloud of
dust. There were screams. The tank was burning with a greasy fire.
Ammunition continued to burst inside of its belly.
We burst out with cries of triumph. We showed you bitches! That shot!
What a shot! Good lad! A Heroes star is not enough for a shot like that!
Well done!
The BMP rolled back and opened fire at us. Its shells were bursting in
front of our positions first, then behind us. A couple of fighters got
hit by the shrapnel, but they were not killed, only wounded. It was our
luck that they had a shitty gunner. The anti-aircraft gun on that BMP
could have torn our fortifications to shreds.
And again, there was that clang and clamour behind us. When we looked
around, we saw that two of our tanks are standing at the bottom of the
bridge, on our side and are preparing to open fire at the Chechens. The
third is coming towards usonto the Chechen shore and is conducting
sporadic fire. There was infantry hiding behind this tank, firing at the
Chechens from their underbarrelers and over our heads. Great!
The Chechen BMP continued to roll back until it disappeared from view. We
tried to assist as best we could, hosing down the retreating infantry.
Our lads came just in time, just in time.
The tank approached and having stopped began to fire at the Chechen
positions in front of the State Bank at almost point-blank range. The
infantry ran out from behind the tankit turned out to be the returning
first company of the second battalion and a part of the first battalion.
More infantry was running over the bridge and according to the guys that
have come to our aid, these were the first and third battalions. They
also told us that the comm-batt had died, without regaining
consciousness. He swore profusely whilst he was out, continued to issue
orders, he tossed about and then settled down and died. This news shocked
not only the soldier but also the officers. Aleksandr Petrovich was a
colossus, something eternal and unshakable. It was as if he was the core
of the battalion and now he was no more. It was inconceivable that this
has happened. One has no choice in war but to get used to loosing people
close to you, but himIt was unbelievable. One did not want to believe
it.

Everyones jaw muscles were dancing. To his officers and men, Petrovich
was not just a commander, he was something of a tutor, a big brother, in
other words, Dad, Papa. It was a pity, a real pity.
The new arrivals brought ammunition. It was quickly collected and
inserted into the half-empty magazines and grenade bags. The newbies
meanwhile had the opportunity to shoot up the Chechen positions and dig
foxholes for themselves.
The tank finished shooting and without turning the turret around began to
back away. Meanwhile a second tank started from our shore and
approached us whilst conducting fire from its cannon. The tank carousel
was open for business! The fun was about to begin.
And once again the adrenaline was raging in my veins and the ardour of
battle seized me. I look at the fighters near-bythe exact same effect.
If half an hour ago, we were thinking how to sell our lives more dearly,
now we were beset by a hunters instinct. Out of frightened, trapped
animals, we have turned into wolves. No! Not wolves. The Chechens are the
wolves, they have a wolf under a moon depicted on their flag. They call
us dogs. We are mad dogs. Just you wait you wretched wolves. Were
coming! Well tear you bitches up! Well tear you up for all the fallen.
For the comm-batt! For those lads that remained on the bridge and for
those that are lying on this shitty square. For our terror during the air
raid. For EVERYTHING!
The first battalions commander took lead. He spoke on the radio for a
long time and then began to loudly issue orders. But the noise of battle
did not allow everything to be properly heard, so his orders were passed
down the chain. They stated that well attack after another two tanks
expend their stores. Were going to attack the State Bank. He also
announced that on the opposite side, marines and paratroopers as well as
the makhra from St Petersburg are preparing for attack. Well show the
Chechens what Stalingrad was like!
Everyones spirits were up. To mob the enemy, especially when hes
attacked from the rear alsothis we can do! We intensified small arms
fire. The Chechens continue to snarl back. They knew that there will be
an attack soon. We burned their tank, the BMP is a toy against ours. They
are shaking with fear now!
One tank finished shooting and another rolled out in its place. We saw
that the word catch! was written on its barrel in fresh white paint. We
laughed at the tankers joke heartily. We waited, counting the shots.
Nobody knew for sure how many rounds the tank brought, but everyone
counted anyway.
Finally there is the order: Get ready!. We gathered ourselves up, our
guns at the ready, our pockets full of loaded magazines. A heavy bag
filled with grenades is bouncing off the thigh. The command Forward!
Attack! sounded out like a song and with the tanks last shot, we leapt
out of our foxholes and ran forward. There was a noise behind us, the
bridge was enveloped in clouds of smoke from the cannons and exhaust
fumes. Our tanks and BMP began to cross the bridge, meaning that the

staff was being transferred to be nearer to its troops, whose positions

are now all mixed up. There is no telling who is where as they sprint,
yelling towards the enemy.
We were not greeted with flowers. Long machine gun volleys were once
again hurtling towards us. Again there was mortar fire, but either
because their aim was wrong, or we were running too quickly, the mines
fell far behind our backs and did no harm. The BMP, which was concealed
behind a wall was firing its machine gun at us. The fighters began to
fall and the leading rows started to back down. But they were prodded on
from behind, forward onto the bullets. And so we are at our first
objectivea barricade made from blocks of concrete and brick walls about
five meters tall and fifty meters in length. I looked like construction
rubble was brought here over a long period of time. It was a solid
obstacle. A direct hit from a tank would not destroy it first go. But
were infantry! We began to climb over these blocks, to come around its
sides. The fighting was at such close quarters in some places that our
guys and the Chechens were shooting each other up in long volleys that
broke off only because the magazine ran empty or because the gunner was
killed.
I was running and again the sweat was streaming down my face. Directly
ahead of me a Chechen appeared out of an improvised embrasure. His face
was contorted with fear and rage and he was hosing us down out of his
gun. I raised up my gun and fired at him whilst still running.
Recognising the danger, he switched fire in my direction. I crouched
abruptly and toppled to the right side under the force of inertia. I
fired at the Chechen from this very uncomfortable position. It looked
like I hit him, as he disappeared not to be seen again. It is rare to
make out the face of the enemy in such a fight, but I saw his. If I hit
him, hes deadand to hell with him. Thats not the main thing. The main
this is to survive and take this ****ing square!
The Chechens again began to shoot at us from behind their shitty
barricade. They used mortars and underbarrelers. Our assault slowed down
as the grenades and mines began to explode amongst us. Using their
radios, everyone began to demand fire support from the tanks. And again,
the tanks began to fire over our heads, using fougasse rounds, straight
at the Chechen erection as well as into their rear.
Fougasse rounds have one very useful characteristic in comparison to
ordinary fragmentation rounds, which explode upon contact with a hard
surface. A fougasse-fragmentation round, virtue of its weight, first
buries itself in the ground and then explodes. Pieces of ground, rocks as
well as its own metal parts and stuffing become like shrapnel. They
pierce the body just as well as any metal fragment. Fougasse rounds are
also very effective against dugouts, enemy trenches and barricades mowing
down everything living inside.
I became necessary to fall back. Shrapnel, pieces of brick and gravel
were flying in our direction, collecting some of the harvest for the god
of death. The orderlies were dragging the dead and wounded from the
square. Those that happened to be near also helped to evacuate their
comrades.

The Chechens concealed behind the ruined walls did not cease to fire
back. Mukha rounds we hurtling towards the tanks and infantry, trailing
whitish, almost invisible smoke. They sensed that we were faltering and
decided to counter-attack. Under the covering fire from their mortars and
grenade launchers, the Chechens ran out from behind their barricade,
squeezing through the fissures and holes made by our tank fire. They
leapt on top of us, shrieking Allah Akhbar! Many were wearing green
bandannas on their heads. They said that that meant they were suicide
troops or something of that sort. I had never had a chance to ask. If I
get a hold of one, Ill be sure to ask, provided I have time to do so of
course.
With these thought in mind, I rolled to the left and climbed into a small
crater excavated by an explosion from a tank round. The ground was still
warm and it reeked of sour burned explosive. I popped out and gave off a
volley in the direction of the enemy. Marked myself off, so to speak. I
looked around quickly. The others were also seeking shelter, preparing to
repel the counter-attack. I examined the advancing Chechens. Two hundred
or so have already climbed out and were trying to advance. Approximately
two companies. Not much, kids, not much. Well sort you ****** out soon
enough.
The Chechens were running at us, shrieking from fear and rage. They were
shooting their guns and throwing grenades. We were not letting them get
nearer by returning small-arms fire. A machine gun reported to my right
and another after a second, then a couple more. They have a very
distinctive sound. The fighters were not silent either. They yelled
frenziedly, trying to drown out their own fear and terror. They shouted
various things in a fit of ragemostly mat. Nothing creative, but short
and to the point, like a machine gun volley. Somebody was shouting on the
left flank and after each shout, firing his gun. I sounded like he was
mentioning his dead friends.
-For Fyodor! - volley.
-For Vaska! - volley.
-For Pashka! - volley.
-For Senya! - volley.
That man, must have had a special grudge with the Chechens. Unknowingly I
aligned my actions with his. When he fired a short, aimed volley using
two or three rounds, I also fired. When he was silent, my gun went silent
also. I waited for him to shout out another name and whispered it after
him. I fire. For Mishka - I fire. I select a dark silhouette of a
Chechen hurrying towards his death. I pull the trigger. The Chechen is
cut downhe falls. I look to seeis he moving? No. Hes done for. Got
him. Again the voice shouts: For Sashka! I repeat the name in a
whisper. I select another Chechen. The green bandanna can be seen on his
head. He has put up his gun, hes firing. The bitch is conducting aimed
fire! A fighter screams out to the left.
I breathe in and out, in mid breath, I line up the gun-sight and the
Chechen. The bastard is not standing still, hes shifting around. The
wounded fighter to the left is moaning. Hold on little bro, Ill just
knock down this faggot and then come help you. Hold on for a little more!

Aha! Theres the scumbag. No longer taking care to line up the shot, I
fire a short volley. The Chechen falls and is screaming. I wounded him.
Oh well. Ill finish him off later.
I start rolling over and trying to overcome my fear, I fire off a few
short volleys. And heres the fighter. His face is pale and large
droplets of sweat are rolling over it from underneath his cap. His left
shoulder is wrecked. The fabric around the wound is wet and swollen with
blood. With his right hand, hes trying to affix a tourniquet to slow the
bleeding, but its not working out. I begin to unbutton his coat to free
the injured shoulder from the heavy garment. The fighter winces from pain
and screams into my ear. Instinctively I pull back. -Dont shout, little
bro! - again I begin to take the coat off of him.
His face contorts. Hes queasy. In pain. A lot of pain. With his right
hand, the fighter produces a personal medikit from his breast pocket. He
hands it to me. I open it. I find the syringe-tube containing
anaesthetic. Thats a good start. I put it aside. I retrieve the trophy
stiletto knife from its holster and begin to carefully cut the coat on
his shoulder. The fabric and insulation is swollen with blood and is not
yielding too well. At this point little fountains of dirt from impacting
rounds rise up around accompanied by the annoying whistle of ricocheting
bullets. You ****ing mongrels! Cant you see that Im bandaging a wounded
man!
I let go of the fighter and picked up my gun, stood up on one knee and
began to hose down the approaching Chechens. They fell and took cover and
began to return fire. I yelled to the fighters who were lying nearbly:
-Hey guys! Cover me. Ill take care of the wounded guy. Youll help
evacuate him afterwards.
-Well take care of it.
-Well kill the pigs!
The sound of shooting rang out all around me. I looked in the enemys
direction. At first they snarled back, but soon would not dare raise
their heads. Thats right, keep the bastards down!
I laid down next to the wounded soldier and resumed sawing at his coat.
It seeped blood with each push, the blood ran down the blade, my fingers
and into my sleeve. It seemed like I was not cutting a piece of cloth,
but a living being and it was gushing blood. A lot of blood. I have to
hurry. There is quite a lot of blood. I hope I wont loose the fighter.
He valiantly endured the procedure.
I cut off the collar, the sleeve and a portion of the coat over the
wounded shoulder. Then, without rising from the ground we took off the
rest of the coat, which was a collective effort. I sliced the uniform
sleeve lengthwise to expose the skin. I grabbed the syringe-tube from the
first aid kit and having screwed off its cap, pierced the tiny plastic
tube. I then stuck the needle into the fighters arm.
-Hold on, man, hold on! I dont like needles myself. Youll feel better
now, - I squeezed the tube expelling the liquid inside. I pulled out the
needle without releasing my fingers grip on it. I massaged the arm.
Whats your name?

-Sasha, - the fighter forced out the answer.

-All will be well, Sasha! All will be well! Im going to take care of
your arm now.
The fighter nodded in agreement. He must be very unwell, so as to be in
too much pain to talk.
-Hold on bro, only a bit to go, - I unwound the tourniquet and began to
examine the wound. I could see shattered bones. - Take a deep breath, Im
going to apply the tourniquet now.
The injured soldier breathed in obediently and held his breath. I quickly
lashed the tourniquet at the base of the neck, wound around the shoulder
and tightened it over the chest. The lads pupils dilated from pain, but
he only moaned, fearing to let out the air from his lungs. I patted him
on the cheek.
-Thats it sonny. Breathe now. As often and as deeply as you can, but not
so much as to give yourself a head spin, you understand?
-Yes, - he hissed.
-Be quiet, man. Save your energy. All will be well. Im going to apply
the bandage and then well drag you off to the medical detachment and
theyll patch you up there. Dont you fear! Well break through! - I
yelled all of that into his face and winked reassuringly.
Although my grimacea dirty face covered in somebody elses bloodcould
have horrified a normal person. But the fighter understood me correctly
and smiled weakly in response.
Meanwhile, I took his gun and retrieved the pack of bandages from the
folding stock. I tore open the rubbery cover, the yellow wrapping paper
and took out the bobby-pin laying it aside. I unfolded the dressing pads
that were inside and trying to avoid touching their inner surfaces
applied them to the wound. One pad on the entry side and one on the exit.
I then craftlessly started to bandage the injured shoulder, still lying
on the ground on my side. I glanced at the soldiers face from time to
timeis he still alive? Hes alive. With his good hand, he started to go
through his pockets. Does he want to shoot himself?
-What are you doing? - I asked him, concerned.
-I want a smoke, but cant find mine. Do you have any? - he whisperrustled.
-****! Great time for a smoke! - I was glad. - If youre craving a smoke,
youll certainly live!
I produced a cigarette and placed it in his mouth. Lighting up a match I
let him light up.
-Dont drag too hard, or youll get a head spin! - I warned him.
I then resumed bandaging him. It did not turn out very elegantly, but the
dressing pads were secured well and covered the wounds. Steam was pouring
from my body. I yelled to the fighters that were near me.
-Thats it, guys! Take the casualty away. Ill cover!
I laid on my back, took out the cigarettes and lit up. I was lying in my
back, staring At the sky, smoking. I felt good. I committed few good
deeds in my life and now I took the opportunity to probably save a mans

life. Its great! Astounding! I glanced sideways and saw that three
soldiers were crawling towards us. I glanced at my casualty. I was
almost in love with him. I saved his life. He will live! Thats great. I
felt that I was such a good person, I was proud of myself. Youre a good
lad, Slava! I turned over onto my stomach, pulled up my gun and without
spitting out the cigarette, started to look around.
The Chechen attack faltered as I was saving the fighter and they took
cover, returning fire at us. No matter! Well break though! I re-joined
the cacophony of battle with three short volleys aimed at the spots where
I noticed Chechen movement.
The fighters reached us and dragged and carried the wounded man off, off
towards the bridge. Good luck to you, Sashka, fare you well!
I fired a long volley. The gun issued a dry click. No problem, with my
foot, I pulled up the belt, left over from Sashka. It contained a bag, a
bayonet knife, hip flask and a sappers shovel. I took out a magazine. I
loaded it into the gun, placing the rest into the pockets of my trousers
and coat. I opened fire again.
The Chechens stirred again and began to retreat. Aha, you mongrels, so
you pissed yourself! We rose up and began pursuing the enemy. Who would
want to spend the night here?!
Forward! Forward! A bears growl issued from my chest. A bears guttural
snarl, the growling of a lion. Forward, you dogs! Only forward! Trap the
wolves! Well tear them up, like the dog pack tears up a wolf! Well
chase them down! U-r-r-a! Snuff out the mongrels! Theyre puppies, not
wolves! Well give the bastards hell. I leapt to my feet and rushed
forward along with the rest. There was no order to attack. Everyone ran
forward upon collective impulse. Nobody had to be spurred on, to be
prodded on with kicks and expletives, dragged out of their fox holes by
the collar. U-r-r-r-a!!! A-a-a-a!!!
The blood is boiling again, reason is lost, leaving behind only the
reflexes. Let them do the work. There is an objective, there is a mad
will to live and reason is of no help here. Only forward! The zig-zag,
the corkscrew, rolling forward, as long as its forward! Hesitation
means death. Only forward! U-r-r-r-ra! Snuff out the slinks! A-a-a-a-a!!!
The gun at my shoulder, I let off short volleys as I run. A dash to the
left, a roll, I shoot at the barricade from the knee. A roll to the
right, then another, I shoot as Im lying down. I leap up and run forward
ten paces, shooting on the move. As we get nearer, the volleys become
longer. Were now shooting at anythinga sound, a shadow, a flash. We
shoot without thinking.
Away with reason! The blood rages. A taste of blood in the mouth. I want
to smell the Chechens blood with my nostrils, to see it gushing from his
wounds and feel the warmth leave his body. Away with reason! Go! You will
not bear all of this. Let the Neanderthal enter the body completely, take
over the brain, let him direct and command so that reason can survive and

stay intact! Let the Neanderthal deliver us from this! U-r-r-ra! A-a-a-aa! And reason disappeared
I felt powerful. The veins in my entire body bulged from the blood raging
inside of them. My mouth gaping for air, there is not enough oxygen. I
observe the scene as if from outside my body. As if part of the same
organism, the officers and soldiers ran up to the barricade. Some
scramble up, throwing off the dead and wounded Chechens. Some climb into
the holes and niches in the wall. The enemy is on the run. The wolves of
Islam are on the run! Get them! Well choke them, tear them up! Get them!
Get them, go!
My gun jerked in my hands from a short volley, the bolt issued another
short, dry click, my right hand drew out the empty magazine, cast it
aside and began retrieving a new one. And at this point a Chechen rose
out of a pile of debris and grinning, raised his gun to hip level. There
was no point to wrestle in the magazine and try to cock the rifle. No
time. Thats the only thought that passed through my head. And the
Neanderthal spoke again, or maybe some other ancient human ancestor, that
was dormant in my brain. A step forward with my right foot. Then, not a
step, but a leap forward with the barrel of the gun piercing the mans
soft stomach under the force of inertia. My mouth is open, I yell with an
inhuman voice. Its is not a yell, its the bellow of a victor. It seemed
that my own eardrums would burst, not being able to withstand this sound.
The Chechen tried to fire off a shot from his gun. Ha-ha-ha! Not going to
work! With my left hand I easily tear the gun away from him and fling it
far away. His pupils are dilated with horror and pain and I tear out the
barrel of my gun. The Chechen falls, grasping his torn stomach with his
left hand. With his right, he is fumbling for something on his belt. I
dont know how, but I know that that something is a grenade. The bitch
knows that hes not going to live and wants to take me with him as he
departs this world. Not going to work, you bastard. I grinned like an
animal, showing him my teeth. Jumping as far up as I could, I come down
onto his chest, directing maximum force into the heels of my boots. I
hear clearly and feel his ribs crack. Again I jump up and land on his
chest, this time on my knees. Again his ribs crack and I look into his
eyes, as Im still sitting on his broken body. Blood comes out of his
mouth like a fountain and trickles out of his ears. His body jitters ,
bulks and goes still. His open eyes stared at the sky, reflecting the
unhurrying winter clouds.
Are you feeling a bit ill, reader? Unfortunately Im not showing off,
simply describing what really happened. Im not a tough guy, not
insane, its simply that if one wants to return home in one piece, they
have no choice but to become an animal in the worst sense of that word.
In part, you reader are guilty also, unwilling to prevent the beginning
of this war. For you its happening somewhere far away. Far away, on
another planet somewhere. I dont know how, upon my return home, will I
be able to suppress these instincts. The brain is not an appendix. It can
pull out such a trick on you at any point that youll be left wondering,
how you were capable of doing such a thing. And so, reader, do not be
surprised to read how a victims intestines were wound up on somebodys
fist in the chronicles of by-gone days. You are partially complicit in

it. You as well as your wife, your child or simply people you know or
that are close to you could have ended up being that victim. People whom
you love, respect and who are dear to you. And all of it because you were
frightened or feigned indifference, did not join in on the feeble quire
of voices that tried to stop the madness. Madness begets madness. The
monster of war will continue to beget monsters in the minds of those who
participated in this slaughter and these monsters will spill out into the
street and take that which they think belongs only to them. That which
belongs to them according to the laws of war.
We know not another law. Our country, our people have betrayed us and
turned away. They cursed us. The so called Afghan Syndrome will seem
like a childs fairy-tale, when in five-seven years or so well
understand that there is no place for us under the sun. That place is
taken by you, reader. And we will shove you over then. It will hurt, so
dont be offended, when we drop you mug-first into the rough asphalt. And
maybe you will die without grasping what had actually happened to you. We
are not insane. And we deserve more dignified treatment for our persons.
If it is not forthcoming, well take it in the same way that we have
taken it in Grozny in January of 95.
Forward, forward, get them! Look, reasonyou have no business here. You
wont be able to take it, youll depart from reality. The truth of what
is happening. And because of you, Ill loose my mind. No! U-r-r-r-ra!!!
Forward!!! Only Forward!!! Shred, tear, gnaw!!! Why? For the sake of my
and my friends lives!!!
I didnt notice how I ended up on the other side of the barricade. Fifty
meters ahead of us was the cursed, blackened building of the State Bank
of the Republic of Ichkeria. We were rushing towards it with wild screams
and yelps. The tanks and BMP, flowing around the former barricade
obstacle were taking initial fire positions. Enveloped in exhaust fumes,
they were being covered by our advance. The Chechens opened up at us from
the state bank building. It was small arms fire and although we were
concealed by smoke and soot, they were firing long volleys as if in a
close-quarters fight.
When firing like that, it doesnt matter if its from the shoulder, waist
or hip, the dispersal of ammo is significant. That must have meant that
the wolf cubs have lost their nerve. Alright, you slinks, well take
you on. Blood. Only blood and nothing else. I liked the results of the
experiment of opening up the Chechens gut with no anaesthesia. I was
drunk with battle. Drunk without wine. Ur-r-r-r-ra!!! Forward you
Neanderthal! Blood, only blood and survival!!! A-a-a-a-a!!!
Regardless, the first rows started laying low. Some no longer moved, some
were howling, holding onto their wounds, rolling on the asphalt peppered
with fragments of construction materials. Their own comrades, fellow
servicemen, their blood-brothers were hastening to their aid. Well tear
you up for each three hundredth, each two hundredth. No fear, lads,
lets tear the Chechens up!
But no matter what kinds of genes were raging inside of me, I thought it
best to flop down onto the dirty asphalt and not try to be a hero. It was

almost dark now. Our Guarantor of the Constitution and his minister of
defence are fools to start a war in the winter time. If this was summer,
it would be a whole different story. Warm, dry. Lots of daylight. No need
to carry a heavy, sweaty coat, or to worry about firewood for warmth. One
could sleep on the ground not fearing the chill. And now? The winter
twilight descends. Its getting cold. The winter breeze chases away the
sparse clouds and the moon illuminates us like a bright stage light. The
absence of clouds also indicated that the warmth from the ground and from
our bodies will not linger, but will escape into the eternal cold of the
Universe. Thank you, comrade Rolin for the air support and for support
from the other side of the square. They had not joined the fight during
the day and during the night, they are sure to leave us here on this
shitty square, to die like dogs. And for what? **** knows for what!!! In
the Kremlin, the Government House, The State Duma, the Federal Assembly
and the Ministry of Defence, it is warm now. And I think that master
bankers for whom we are now crawling on the ground and earning good bucks
are not shaking from the cold.
If we do not move forward now, were going to cark it from the cold in a
few hours. Many fighters will suffer cardiac arrest from the sharp drop
in temperature. Spirits, cognac, vodka, hot food and hot tea are
urgently, very urgently required. Otherwise well have no success here.
Were all Siberians and were all acutely aware of this. We understood
also that were not going to get any hot food tonight or take Dudaevs
Palace. Alright, Ive got cognac, but what about the rest? And by the
way, I really do have cognac! It wont be enough for the whole brigade of
course, but I can share it with one or two soldiers, thats for sure.
The enemy fire was unrelenting. And I could see that two fighters who
were ahead of me and lying beside each-other jittered one after another
and were still. Their arms and legs twisted in unnatural poses, their
heads tipped backwards. The wounded do not lie like that. One of the guys
lying next to me leapt forward, but the others held him back.
-Where are you going, you idiot? Theyll pick you off and wont even ask
your surname. Lie down.
-What! Why are you bastards abandoning your own!
-Thats it, they are long gone. A sniper got them.
-Go to hell you cowards. My countryman is there. Were from the same
apartment bock. It cant be, let go! - the soldier shouted trying to
break free from his comrades.
And at this point, one of the guys holding onto him could not any more
and let him go. Exploiting this opportunity, the fighter wanted to run to
the dead men, but the guy that let him go struck him hard on the nose.
The soldier switched off. Two comrades picked him up under his hands and
whilst crawling, carefully dragged him to the rear. Voices could be heard
to comment:
-What did you lay into him like that for?
-He was eager to get under a sniper, so we calmed him down. Its alright,
hell come to and thank us.
-Yeah. He should be grateful!
-Hell be taken to the medics now. Its warm there. Theyll bandage his
nose. Hell get to lie about for a few days. Great stuff!

-Why dont you crawl over here, Ill smash up your mug also and then drag
you off to the medics. How about it?
-**** off, mate.
-Guys! Itd be great to down half a bottle of vodka each now, hey?
-Shut it, you ****! Dont torment the soul.
-If there is not going to be any spirits now, well have to go and
attack.
-Exactlylook the moon is rising.
-We have to either roll back and drink some spirits, or go forward. That
moons going to illuminate us like a platform at a train terminal.
-What are we going to do?
-**** knows. The commanders are here. So its their headache.
-I could do with some some shahlyk now - somebody pronounced dreamily
out of the darkness and let out a volley towards the Chechens.
The tanks began to fire form behind us. After a few aiming shots, their
shells began to fall with some accuracy. Each successful hit was greeted
with loud cheers on our part. It was getting colder and colder lying on
that ground. I withdrew my cognac flask again and after unscrewing the
cap took a big mouthful. Immediately, I felt warmer, more comfortable and
happy. At this point the twentieth century man was perfectly at peace
with the grim caveman from the frozen catacombs, who was ready to take
the lead and tear up the enemy with his teeth. It seemed that the cognac
came to the liking of both. I made another big gulp. And the blood
streamed more readily through my veins.
The tanks were firing non-stop. Our eardrums, deafened by the sound of
explosions almost no longer registered this terrible noise. Only the hot
air from the explosions periodically rolled over our bodies, ruffling our
clothes. It was good! At least a little, but it warmed us. The State Bank
building caught fire. We greeted this with victorious cries as we lay
there in our places. The snow and mud beneath us defrosted a little and
we were now lying in dirty puddles. The twilight was thickening, night
was upon us. The moon rose to our left and illuminated us. This was bad!
The order was passed down the chain: Get ready for attack! Now you tell
us. To tell the truth, based on my experience from previous wars, I
highly doubted the effectiveness, practicality and necessity of such
night-time attacks. One could argue the point in the headquarters, but
here on this square, I was following orders. The command to commence the
attack came after two minutes. The tanks have not yet ceased fire and at
such short range, they were firing in a straight line. It seemed that
their shells were rushing just over the tops of our heads. Having
advanced ten meters underneath our own fire, we slowed down. We feared
coming under friendly fire, as well as the fragments flying off from the
buildings facade.
Reason has gone away once again. I was running without perceiving
anything properly. And here was the bank buildingright in front of me.
Bomb craters gape all around me. The building is semi-destroyed, but
still standing. It was of an older-style construction and strong! The
Chechens are spraying us with intense fire and it looked like they had
snipers holed in there as well.

Our first chainApproximately twenty people have been killed and wounded.
The second chain was attempting to drag away the dead and wounded out of
the line of fire. Many of them were also falling. Some stirred, some were
rolling around, screaming on the asphalt that was marred with mud and
blood, clasping the wounds on their bodies. Some were trying to crawl out
of harms way on their own. But many of themMany of them remained there,
their heads tilted back and their limbs twisted in unnatural poses.
The light from the burning State Bank and the illumination rockets that
constantly hung upon the air lit this scene. The indifferent moon shone
down on it all. The night that descended was being pierced by tracer
rounds from the machine guns on the tanks. The pandemonium of battle, the
screech of flying shrapnel and the squeal of ricocheting bullets, the
disgusting smacking sound of them hitting dead bodies combined into a
nightmarish sound collage that paralysed the brain. It was important not
to think, otherwise insanity was guaranteed. Work, work, work! Only
forward, only forward! Another ten minutes trudging in this place and
thats it
Dear spouse, parents and kin, please find enclosed the tin coffin
containing the remains of your dearly beloved warrior-liberator and
restorer of Constitutional Order. Dont forget to sign. Here, then here
and here. No use throwing yourself at us. We were not the ones to send
your dearly beloved there. How would I know who did? Thats all from us.
Please accept our sincerest condolences. Good bye. No. We cannot stay. We
have another three such deliveries to make. After the funeral, please
come to the recruitment office and the social security office where you
are registered for residency to fill in the application for the grant and
pension. Dont forget to collect and bring the twenty five forms
required. And all originals, mind you, otherwise we wont give you
anything. Thats it, so long.
**** you! Not a chance! They wont be bringing me back in that damn box,
unless I end it myself after being wounded! ****, ****, ****! Forward,
only forward! Come on makhra, pick up your asses. Make a move on, you
stomachs. There may be money in the bank. Ura! The cash, the bucks, the
dough! And since this is the State Bank, maybe there are even dollars
there? Maybe, but I doubt theyll be waiting for us. Go! Forward! Giddy
up! Dont prod my back with your rifle, you idiot, it might shoot!
And again, our brigades dirty grey mass lurched forwards. And forwards,
forwards they went. The tanks ceased fire, lest they hit us. And the bank
is near now, but what is this?
Out of the darkness on our flanks the creaking of tank tracks could be
heard. Is this makhra coming to our aid? Ura! Our guys! Come on, get
them, well bury the Chechens now!
As expected, tanks emerged from the darkness. T-64s. We had T-72s. And
these older-design tanks started shooting us up from almost point-blank
range. There was infantry hiding behind the tanks. Not our infantry. At
first we supposed that aid was on its way, but the Chechens exploited
that precise moment, when we, consumed by the heat of battle attacked.
They hit us from behind and, from the flanks. Nobody understood clearly,

how many tanks the enemy actually had. They crashed into our formations,
crushing the bodies of OUR fighters with their tracks, arms, legs,
innards, clothes winding up on their leading sprockets. Simultaneously,
they were shooting up the tanks standing in our rear. Again, these were
OUR tanks. They could not answer in kind because in doing so, they could
have killed off their own infantry. So they just stood there. The Chechen
tanks were shooting them up as if they were long-familiar targets at the
training range. They have herded us into a small portion of the
battlefield, in front of the bank, like we were cattle and were shooting
us up from three sides. They were not affording us the smallest
opportunity of escape from this trap. We could not escape from it
allowing our tanks the freedom to shoot and the tanks could not shoot so
as not to kill us. And so there we were, dashing about like sheep.
Somebody managed to kill a Chechen tank. It lit up and we began to break
out underneath the flying fragments of its bursting stores. Our tanks
were all burning already, their light contributing to the blinding images
from that square.
No feelings, except for one remained. It was FEAR. Massive fear. It
purged the body and mind of all else. There was no captain, no citizen
Mironov. Only a shivering lump of **** remained, who wanted only one
thingto SURVIVE. That was all. Simply to survive. No long-forgotten
prayers are remembered now. You are simply hurtling into the darkness,
stumbling, falling over, not feeling the pain of impact. There is nothing
other than the fear that freezes the soul.
Volleys of ammo are hurtling to catch up with us. Everywhere screams can
be heardscreams of rage, pain, screams of the wounded. Its panic, sheer
panic and fear. The fear spreads you over the asphalt, it makes you run
at a mad speed and only in a straight line. And it seems to you that you
are standing in one spot. In the darkness, you are running across the
square that only hours ago you took centimetre by centimetre. It is still
strewn with the bodies of both our own as well as Chechen fighters. You
stumble over them, fall, get up and continue forward. The corpses of your
friends no longer stimulate any emotion, any desire or thirst for
revenge. The only thing you feel is irritation that you have so little
strength left for running and here they are lying about in your way.
I feel that my strength is coming to an end. I slow down. A lot of our
guys are running beside me. Their eyes are bulging, just like mine, with
very little left in them that is human. Their mouths are gaping in a
silent scream. But nobody is screaming. Nobody is cursing. Everyone is
saving their energy for the run. The Chechens are not approaching us. It
looks like they are afraid to encounter resistance. There is no need to
chase a mouse into a corner. It becomes more aggressive and dangerous
than a cat.
We have lost our bearings in the dark and are no longer running towards
the bridge, but towards Dudaevs palace instead. Lighting rockets leap up
into the sky and illuminate our stampeding herd. Thats us. There is
nothing human in these faces, eyes, their breathing or their countenance.

Machine and assault rifle fire breaks out. The rows up ahead are mowed
down, the rest without pausing try to turn back in the opposite
direction. The ones behind them crash into them knocking everyone over to
the ground. They rise. And again they run. Run in the darkness. Sparks of
light are dancing in ones eyes, from the exhaustion. Nobody is helping
anybody. The wounded are shooting themselves, some are trying to crawl
off into the darkness, away from the light of the ever-present rockets.
That strumpet, ****ing *****, the betraying moon is shining upon us no
worse than a floodlight, breaking through the smoke of the fires. My
strength has almost left me. God! Anything but capture! Death is better.
Not capture! Help me. God! Save me and keep me!
I switch to a power-walk. There is not enough oxygen. I feel like tearing
off the flack jacket and the coat off my chest and flop down onto the
asphalt, wet with blood and stay there, gulping for air, trying to catch
my breath. No! I cant! If the Chechens come up on me, I will be
captured! No, not capture! Ill try to escape.
The blood is pounding inside my cranium, like a Siberian river cataract.
It bubbles and foams, tries to turn over the stones lying in its path. It
churns them over. It seems that my skull is about to explode from the
pressure. I have no strength left to run. I am almost deaf from
overexertion. All I can hear is the rushing of my own blood. I am walking
now. I hang my gun over my neck and rest my hand on top of it. My whole
body is swollen with blood. I can barely shuffle my feet, much less run.
A soldier runs up to me from the right, grabs me and without a word
begins to drag me with him. Having run a few meters, I realise that I
have no strength to continue and I will only succeed in dragging him
down. My voice, struggling through my torn lungs and nicotine stop-gaps
can barely be heard:
-Go, go. Im no help to you.
-What about you?! - the soldiers almost screaming into my ear.
-Go. Ill manage - I have difficulty speaking, much less running.
-I wont leave you! - the soldier despairs.
-Go to hell. Get yourself out. Ill follow you, - with the last of my
strength, I push the soldier away. We bounce off in opposite directions.
The soldier runs off. That last push sapped the rest of my strength. I
sit down on the ground. I breathe heavily. My saliva is viscous, I spit
it off onto the asphalt. My heart is pounding wildly. I know from
instruction at the military academy that one should not sit down after
running, the valves in the heart may close and fail to open. But I have
no strength for walking. Once the sparks dancing in my eyes subside, I
rise up my gaze and look an looked around me. The gun remained dangling
on my neck, there was no energy to take it off. I simply could not move.
There were figures beside me. Some were sitting, some were lying down.
These were predominantly officers. Naturally they are no spring chickens
any more and their physical form was not what it once was. And the
civilians are indignant of how soon military men go into retirement. If
there were any men over forty five amongst us then, I guarantee it, that
they were not to be found amongst the living later. Some were sitting on
corpses. Maybe that was comfortable, but I have not yet crossed that
line, that stupor, where nothing matters. Everyone was simply sitting

there, looking in the direction of the enemy. Some were ready to continue
flight, having thus rested, but for the most part the people, myself
including were prepared to make their last stand. There was no desire to
run around. The mind was waking, fear receding. Anger was rising. Its a
good that one could feel anger. It means that they have retained a
semblance of humanity and are not quite like cattle. It was time to think
about how we were getting out of this inferno, how to save ones own
hide, ones own behind. Somehow there was no consideration for the soul
at this point. But there was a consideration for a Godthat all-powerful
patron who, one hoped would deliver ones mortal flesh.
I broke out in a coughing fit. A lump of nicotine sludge took a long,
painful and torturous time to come up. ****, I have to give up the
smokes. One day they wont let me reach the sanctuary of some boulder,
ravine or hill. I spat out the lump of phlegm I could feel the taste of
blood on my tongue, meaning that a part of my lungs came out also. I
breathed in deeply and again felt the stinging in my chest. I broke out
in a choking cough spasm and stopped only with some difficulty. My chest
ached and I wanted to tear it apart to let the fresh air inside. I was
tired of running long distances. I wanted something simpler, shorter and
calmer. My mother had always told me: Learn English.

----------CHAPTER 10---------Meanwhile the resting men began to gather together. There were
approximately fifty soldiers here, mostly officers, but there was a good
deal of petty officers and privates also. Many have already cast off
their flak jackets to allow themselves easier movement. The looks on
their faces were of those lost to and at mercy of their circumstances.
Everyone began to quietly discuss what had happened. They wanted to talk
it out after such a massive shock, shame and stress. They mainly blamed
the army groups leadership. Everyone felt that the brigade has done all
that was necessary.
-They got us good.
-The ****ers have lost the whole brigade!
-**** off, they lost it. Many were able to escape from under the fire.
-****, no! They didnt escape. Did you see the tanks burning?
-We saw it. We saw it all. About seven or eight tanks got killed for
sure!
-Why didnt our guys shoot?
-What do you mean why? They would have buried us there!
-Better that, than to run away like cowards.
-So why did you run then? You could have stayed there and they would have
given you a Hero. Posthumously.
-They would have caught up with you and given you some more.
-There wont be any gratitude form these bastards in Moskva and Khankala.

-If not for those ****ers and their retarded plan of attack head on of
that ****ing square, we would not have had to run like the Swedes in
Poltava!
-Retards!
-****ing faggots!
Rolin probably didnt bring in the other troops on purpose, so that our
brigade got shredded like cabbage!
-Exactly, he cant forgive us for the mutiny at Severny!
-Where is that bastard!
-It would have been good to see him here.
-Same ****. They are going to blame the attacks failure on us.
-Go to hell, you
Youll see. Theyll say that the plan was excellent, but we were against
it from the beginning and for that reason refused to fulfill it.
-They may even accuse us of sympathising with Dudaev.
-Go to hell with your Dudaev.
-Hes as yours as he is mine.
-Ive seen him in the grave in white slippers!
-For now, its him whos trying to put us into the grave.
-Like hell he will.
-Hes already succeeded with half the brigade.
-Thats right and he might get to us soon.
-We have to leg it out of here! -How?
-Onto our own shore. The brigades vehicles drove off in that direction.
-Could it be that the Chechens are waiting in ambush there?
-Everythings possible, but we cant stay here forever.
-Thats right! We have to go.
-And the faster, the better.
-What if we get arrested?
-For what?
-For not following orders!
-They wont arrest the whole brigade.
-Its not nineteen thirty seven!
-Neither is it nineteen forty one, when thy put up firing squads in the
rear.
-Thats right!
-There were no orders such as Stalins Not a step back!
-There was only one order!
-Which one was that!
-Not to touch the oil refinery.
-Those bastard slinks, ****ing cattle, retarded faggot condoms! They set
us up!
-Dont yell! The Chechens will hear.
-**** them. Let them hear.
-You want to be a two hundred? Go ahead. But leave us out of it. Go.
The Chechens are waiting.
-Enough banter. We have to go.
-Thats right.
-We have to go quickly.
-What if there is an ambush.
-Well have to fight.
-Anyone got a radio?
-I do, - I fighter emerged from the darkness, wearing a large radio
backpack. Who knows, why he didnt leave it behind during our race.

-Call our guys, - judging by the voice that was the first battalion
commander.
The radioman began to mumble into the handset. There was an answer after
about five minutes. The radio man handed somebody the handset and he
began to speak. Everyone stirred and listened.
-Sopka-25, ImUran-5! Can you hear me? I can hear you well. Where
are we? - and he asked us out of the darkness:
-Where are we, guys?
-In the south-eastern end of the square. About three hundred meters from
the bridge. Ask them if they are prepared to support us with fire, if we
get shot up by the Chechens as we break out.
-Hello, Sopka! Were on the south-eastern side of the square,
approximately three hundred meters away from the bridge! You need to
provide fire support if we attempt to cross? What do you mean youre not
there? Where are you then? What about us? I understand. Break out to
brigades old command post. Is that all? What? Whos been wounded? And
where is he? What about San Sanych? - the comm-batt was breaking all
conceivable rules of radio exchange, but nobody gave a damn. They can
come and arrest us if they dont like it. Everyone listened closely.
-So what do we do? I can suggest that to you myself. Where are you
driving to? Youre being pursued? Were many of our boxes destroyed? How
many? **** me! So what are we going to do? Yes I understand that we need
to go to the old command post. Have you reported to that retard Rolin? So
what did he have to say about reinforcements? Nothing? The swine! Thats
all. Im signing off.
-So?
-Say it, dont pull the cat by the tail.
-Quiet guys, let the man talk.
-Allright, guys, - it was apparent that it was not easy for him to speak,
- firstly, Bakhel is wounded
-What how!
-Is he alive?
-Where is he wounded?
-Where is he? - the men were frantic.
-Dont interrupt, let me finish, then you can ask questions.
-Talk then, dont torment us.
-Bekhel is wounded in the leg, his thigh. The wound is serious.
-Is he going to live though!
-Shut up, retard! - somebody shouted, annoyed.
-No, youre a retard, dont yell.
-Ill go over there and crack open your stupid head in a second. Shut up,
you pig!
-Youre a pig yourself! - It was impossible to see the arguing men in the
dark. The moon and illumination rockets that were going up in the
distance cast off only broken, uneven shadows.
-For ****s sake, you going to shut it, or not?
-Dont make me go over there and calm you both down! - That was the voice
of the first company commander from the second battalion. - Hes alive,
so hell live.
-I repeat for the extra dense: the brigade commander has been wounded in
the leg. In the thigh. The injury is serious. He was taken to Severny
in an unconscious state. That is all. Thats the first thing.
-What else did they say about the commander?

-Why the **** are you so dumb?

-Let him finish, then ask your stupid question!
-Go on.
-Nothing else about the commander. All I know is that he was taken to
Severny, but they didnt make it therethe Chechens blocked the way.
They made it to Khankala and after the first operation they took him to
Severny on a spinner.
-Oh thank you Lord
-Are you going to shut it, you mongrel, or not!
-Then what?
-Bilich is in command for now.
-San Sanych?
-Who else? How many Biliches do we have?
-Bilich is in command of the brigade, - the comm-batt repeated. - they
left and broke through to the south. Some of the vehicles went over the
bridge, but they are not there now.
-Thats the end of the brigade!
-Yep. Knocked out, pulled apart - the man's voice attained a hysterical
tinge.
-Shut up, you!
-Whats next?
-Five of our tanks and three BMP were killed.
-Five tanks?
-Thats it, the brigade is done for!
-Are you going to be silent or not!
-They suggested that we break through to the location of the old command
post and wait for the rest to pull up. Thats all from me.
-Where did they go off to?
-They had the Chechens tailing them. Got ambushed several times. Lost
another five or so people, and now they broke up into smaller groups and
will be regrouping at the old command post.
-Fun times!
-We were destroyed, just like the Germans at Kursk during the Great
Patriotic.
-Why dont you shut up, you lousy bastard!
-Do you have to hero, do you?
-We have to surrender to the Chechens. After all they returned the guys
that survived from the first tank column in November!
-Like hell theyll hand you back!
-Have you forgotten what they do with the guys they capture?
-Were no better
-Yes, theres blood on our hands all the way up to the neck.
-There will be no mercy.
-Thats a fact.
-So what are we going to do?
-What do you mean what? Were going to break out towards our guys.
-We need to reach any friendly formation we can and then to the command
post.
-And how do we get there?
-Hell knows.
-Lets look on the map.
-The map is from the year nineteen forty seven. Its the same as trying
to navigate using a Belomor pack.
-Hmm, we have to get to our positions.

-Lets get off this ****ing square first.

-Lets. Its easy to say lets. And where are we going to go? Which
direction?
-Lets try to use the bridge. Some fighters went that way and there
didnt seem to be a lot of shooting.
-If you were the Chechens, would you have left the bridge unprotected,
when you knocked us out?
-Pro-o-obably not.
-Thats right. We went to the same military academies as them, so we
think alike.
-They dont think. Theyre niggers!
-If they were niggers, we would not be sitting here, shaking with fear!
-Exactly!
-We should proceed as we were, due south east and then cross over to the
other shore somehow.
-****ing mongrels!
-Who do you mean?
-Everyone! The moskovites, as well as the retards from Khankala and
Mozdok. The Guarantor of our Constitution also, as well as the minister
of defense and the ****ing Chechens also! What do they need this Chechnya
for?
-Dont whine.
-Im whining? I want to live! Understand! I want to live!
-So live, were not stopping you.
-Youre not stopping me, but these moskovite slinks are.
-Theyre stopping the whole of Russia from living. So what of it?
-What do you mean what? Lets go to Moskva!
-Right from here?
-You should first get off this square, then you can gather the troops to
go to Moskva.
-What we need is a leader, a chief.
-Only Indians and tribesmen have chiefs.
-Enough chit-chat. Lets go.
-Which way?
-South East. There is no other way.
-Should we risk the bridge maybe?
-You go risk it then.
-Any volunteers to check the bridge?
Silence, broken only by gunfire near the State Bank and the shrill
yelling of the Chechens off in the distance.
-No volunteers. That means were going south east. Well look around
during the day, rest, talk to our guys. Lets go.
-Lets go.
-Maybe over the bridge after all?
-Go. Nobodys holding you back. Go.
We set off. Stretching out over thirty meters in length as well as in
breadth. We walked unhurriedly, looking carefully under our feet,
listening to every sound. The moon was in the zenith and lit up our way
as well as ourselves.
The Chechens didnt think to pursue us. Either they were afraid, or
didnt want to bother with chasing after us. During sea battles in the

times of Catherine the Second, the retreating enemy was not pursued. This
was called building of the golden bridge. An honourable undertaking.
Ushakov, who later became an admiral was the first to break this
tradition and kicked the then Turks in the face as well as in the ass.
A mouse should not be chased into a corner and deprived of hope of
escape. We were like these mice. Maybe we were frightened, trapped, but
if we were to be forced into a mouse-trap, we would fight like we were
condemned. Nobody was hurrying to our aid. Nobody was organising rescue
missions. I would not be surprised that if we were to make it out of this
sack, it will emerge that our brigade is no more. Dissolved under the
guise of personnel cut-backs.
Hmm, this is not America. There, a whole fleet was sent after some pilot
downed over Yugoslavia. And they rescued him after all! Found him in some
impassable forest and got him out. And what about us? As a classic writer
once said: Cursed and forgotten!
Oh Motherlad, Motherland. Youre no mother to us, but some evil aunt. I
dont want my son to serve in your Armed Forces. So that like me, he can
shoot at his own people on the craft-less whim and political impotence of
senile Kremlin alcoholics.
When youre up to your ears in ****, not knowing if youll ever get out
of it, you will curse everything and everyone. The whole wide world is at
fault, except yourself. But upon closer examination of the situation, it
turns out that I am not at fault here. And neither are the people walking
beside me are at fault. The only thing at fault here are somebodys
unsatisfiable political ambitions. When cannons speak, the diplomats are
ought to be silent.
These thoughts were swarming in my head as we carefully left the square,
trying not to make any sound. We gingerly walked around and over the
corpses. It was a mix of our officers and soldiers with Chechen
insurgents. Everyone knew, that nobody will be burying our lads, nobody
will be sending their bodies back home. The Ministry of Defense will save
some serious money on funerals for their own soldiers. They can hold back
the benefits, pensions and life insurances for five years. Why? Hes
simply missing in action, and thats all. Yes, were looking for him, but
understand that there are no resources, there was heavy fighting, mass
graves and other such ****. God forbid to be lying there like this. Im
no good Christian, no! I simply do not want to deprive my family of the
means of survival even after I perish. So it turns out that in our
country you must die in such a way that your mortal remains are
identified, flown back to your relatives and interred to the sound of
saluting guns. A madhouse, sheer madhouse. And there is no bringing back
those boys that I am now stepping over, not feeling the usual bouts of
sickness. No bringing them back, no sending them home. Not living or
dead. No amount of sharp words from parliamentarians and politicians will
help here. Neither will church sermons help the matter. And by the way,
why doesnt the Orthodox Church oppose such madness as is this war? A
very interesting question. I havent seen any priests here. There is only
one, they say, a pastor of a local church. I have never seen anyone in a
clerical robe near the troops. Meanwhile the local Russians, whom the

Chechens were slaughtering like rams, and whom we then bombed from the
air and shot in their own homes, not knowing that our people were there,
meanwhile, they need not only medical aid psychological support, they
also need the word of God. Where are these servants of the Lord, the
devil take them?
None are to be found. The
its own people continues.
still condones a criminal
of the spiral. Why, Lord,
You yourself cursed?

centuries-old war the government wages against

The Church is as usual not involved. And worse
war. History repeats, but on yet another twist
why was I fated to be born in the country that

The paradox is that I love and hate it equally much. I can forfeit my
life for my loved-loathed Motherland. But only for my Motherland, not its
rulers.
The term sobornost is popular nowadays. It took me a long time to
understand its meaning. And it represents the Russian peoples eternal
belief in a wise, kind tzar. The Master will come and sort us out. Bah!
None of Russias tzars or rulers, including the current ones have ever
cared for its people. Its people are the rulers enemy, worse than any
enemy any foreign agents or other foreign foe. Nobody ever thought of the
peoples welfare. NEVER! A dead people is a good people. Its very
convenient to set two tribes in your country against one another. As they
fight one another, nobody will be thinking why it is exactly that their
life is so bad. Why their wages are not being paid? Where are the
pensions? Where are the benefits? Stipends? What do you mean, where? The
evil Chechens are at fault for everything. Everything went towards war
with the foe. So as soon as we are victorious is as soon as youll get
what you earned. And the inflation? What does inflation have to do with
it all? Its war and as you might imagine we raised the prices a little
because of it, printed a little bit more money. Not to worry. Were not
saying youll never get it. Youll get it, youll get it! Just be
patient. They say that during the Great Patriotic no money was issued at
all. Everything For The Front, Everything For Victory! So how is it
different to now? So what if we attacked Chechnya and not the other way
around? Shut up and endure it. Weve got a lot of various republics, we
can go to war with them too, in which case youll never see your money or
your children!
I didnt see any of Zhirkovskijs eagles in today's battle. Nor did I see
the black-shirts that are so fond of throwing up their hand in a fascist
salute. And it was them, in ninety three, that shouted the loudest about
patriotism, sovereignty, Orthodoxy and other such nonsense.
The Russian People - Chosen By God! ****! How absurd! Paranoia! Only a
hundred years ago, one Orthodox Christian could exchange another for a
pedigree puppy dog, flog them to death as they please, shoot them.
Torture on the rack, they say is our native invention. Other peoples had
similar things naturally, but they quickly went out of fashion. The
Spanish boot for instance. Torture and prisons are customary with us
from ancient times. Thats how we end up with a third of the people in
prison, another third at work, where conditions are not too dissimilar

from prison and another third guarding the prisons and searching for
candidates for prison in the workforce.
There has been a change of guard, but the system, the habits are the
same. The nomenclature rules over us as before. Although many deigned to
think that its acceptable to discuss the decisions of the Klan, the
Family, so they decided to create a distraction. And by the buy to rob
the people a little, cull the population a bit. No need to feed and
educate them. They disappeared somewhere and to hell with them. This is
no Rio de Janeiro, this is much worse. Here, the only people who wear
white pants are the soldiers, before lights out. Theres not enough for
all
We were getting further and further away from the shooting and
explosions, the throaty victorious yelling of the local aborigines, who
deployed a classic tank trap move. The lads studied tactics well at the
academy. With small numbers, they destroyed a numerically superior
opponent, and on top of that from almost a convoy formation. Alright, you
bastards, well be back. Were sure to be back. And well make you
answer, with interest, for the shame and panic we endured. Well just
sort out the goats from Khankala regarding the reinforcements they
promised and well come back. Hopefully well return, prodding the fatass colonels from Khankala and Severny in front of us with bayonets. Or
better stillshielding ourselves with their bodies. It's a shame only
that the real men that are lying beneath our feet, whom we are stepping
over, having no strength left to go around them, will not see it. There
will be victory, thats for sure. Even if it is a Pyrrhic victory. But it
will come. Paid in a lot of blood. We wont leave here. Not because we
dont want to, but because we are dangerous. There will be many more
assaults and the more of us remain here on this filthy, bloodied asphalt,
the better it will be for the geriatric Muscovite alcoholics from the old
CC of the CPSU.
Perhaps one of the soldiers lying here had parents working at the factory
that produces the ammo, shells and grenades. And whos to know, maybe
that same bullet, shrapnel, shell killed their son. And the parents have
not yet been paid their wages for the work they did. Nightmarish! No,
Slava, youre definitely going nuts, really nuts. Such fantasies and
association cannot be a product of a normal mind.
I fumbled at my belt. There was something swishing about in my hip flask.
Maybe half a mouthful of cognac. Im thirsty for some water. I quickened
my pace and touched the one walking ahead of me. I couldnt tell in the
dark if he was a soldier or an officer. Everything was mixed up in the
Oblonski house
-Man, do you have any water?
He turned around. It was a soldier from the second battalion. He was next
to me when we were running over the bridge. He must have also recognised
me and smiled, pointing at his ears. In the moonlight I immediately
noticed that blood was thickly caked up around his ears. Contusion. A
very bad onethe burst eardrums. Compared to his, my contusion is childs
babble in a glade. I gestured my desire to drink. The fighter nodded in
agreement and took his hip flask off his belt. I swallowed a few

mouthfuls then handed the flask to him. Accepting it, he finished it off,
then put the empty flask back onto his belt.
I took mine out and flicked my neck, indicating that it was alcohol, then
handed it to him. He took one gulp and passed it to me. I indicated that
he can finish it off. He accepted with gratitude. He needs it more than
me. When contused and despite all warnings from the doctors, military men
drink alcohol numbing down the pain and thus ensuring a speedier
recovery.
I badly wanted to smoke, but no-one risked lighting up. Everyone trudged
on in silence. Only the sound of gravel under somebodys boot could be
heard. Nobody wanted to talk and it was pointless. Everyone was crushed
by what has transpired.
Firstly with their shameful retreat and the loss of their people. Look
how many were left lying there, unclaimed, behind our backs. With nobody
to take them away and bury them.
Secondlythe brigade's destruction, practical dissolution and loss.
Thirdlythe commander's wounding. He will not be returning to us. San
Sanych is a good chief of staff of course, but what kind of a commander
is he? They are liable to send some dodgy guy to replace him. Who doesnt
give a damn about our brigade. Hell come for the sake of promotion,
medals and will treat us no better than our President treats his people.
Well live, well see. If we live for course.
And fourthlythe complete state of uncertainty we were in. What will
happen to me personally, in this mincer, what will happen to the people
walking next to me? Nobody could tell or even think about it.
Out of the two objectives placed before me earlier, namely to fulfil the
objective and to make it our of here, remained just onemake it out of
here! And having done that, we can establish who is responsible for your
triumphant shame. The President is far away, but the Chechens are nearer.
For now, were running away form them, but it will not always be like
that.
Still, its a shame, a real shame that its impossible to get to comrade
Guarantor of The Constitution. A real shame. Oh well. The elections are
coming soon. This time we wont vote for prostitute-communists or the
hysterical Zhirkovskij, no!. Lets hope that somebody clever will emerge,
who will not conduct a barbaric war against its own people.
Oh the dreams, the dreams. Dreams of an idiot Russian, who hopes for a
good Tsar. A Tsar, who will not rob his people, will not sell national
treasures abroad and keep the money in their foreign accounts. The dreams
of an idiot! You cant perceive Russia with the mind. You can only
believe in her. Meaning that shes so hysterically schizophrenic that it
is impossible to converse with it using the language of ordinary logic.
Thats how it is. Whos to blame? The rulers reckon its the people. The
people, think its the talentless rulers. And when there is no agreement

between friends, no good can ever come of it. Its absurd, absurdFor
what sins, oh God did you birth me in this country?
And here a funny though came into my head. Maybe there is no hell or
heaven in the sense in which the holy church fathers would have us
believe? If one was to suppose that we all lived in another dimension at
some stage, and hell is really here. And so the sinners living on that
planet are sent here for re-education. If you endure the test that fate
assigns you with honour, not breaking the ten commandments of Christ and
however many Muhammads got as well as other true believers, then
youll be taken to heaven or returned to normal life. But since there are
always more bastards in life than there are good people, the worst scum
is sent to Russia. Its territory is appropriately huge. Those that sinned
less get sent to more civilized countries. That means that I must have
sinned a lot in previous life and even more in this one.
I could not help but smile at this heresy. If only it was that simple! As
I was discoursing thusly, the time passed and a lot of ground was quickly
covered. We were fairly far away from the square now. Ahead of us and to
on our flanks stood wrecked buildings. Not buildings, more like ruins.
They changed hands many times and now a lot of them were completely
destroyed, others had no roofs or upper levels. They were cratered by
bullets and shrapnel and stood there abandoned. Sheer Stalingrad! In the
transparent lunar light it all looked a little unreal. The head was
humming, the body craved rest, coloured shapes crossed ones vision from
the exhaustion. Not a single thought remained any longer. My feet simply
carried me somewhere by the force of inertia. Not a human in the proper
sense of the word, but speechless cattle. Even if the Chechens were to
attack now, it was doubtful that anyone could have resisted them
effectively.
Our leading ranks approached some building, which must have been
prestigious in the past. It was almost in the center of town and the
flats here would have been amongst the most expensive. Now it was
worthless.
Another small group went to inspect a building standing next to it.
Despite our exhaustion, we knew very well that it was unwise to hide in a
single rat hole. That was dangerous. For that reason two rat holes were
occupied. Rats of steel, we'll become and gnaw through concrete walls.
The first group returned first and waved, inviting everyone for sleep and
rest in the basement of the nearest house. Nobody issued any orders.
Those that wanted to go to that buildingsimply went. I went with the
second group. Why? I dont know. I simply went. About thirty people
occupied that building, or more precisely its basement. They did not all
stay in a single room, but spread out however they liked. Thankfully it
was a large basement. Six people remained with me. The room was dark.
They began burning matches, lighters, to light up the enclosure. It was a
square room, five meters by five. There were two windows out onto the
street. The exit from the basement was about ten meters away.

When the matches were lit, rats scuttled out of the corners and in all
different directions. Im not averse to various animals, as long as they
dont bite or try to eat me.
We deployed sentries and leaning close to one another for warmth sunk
into restless sleep. We wanted to eat and drink very much, but neither
food nor water were available. The only thing that remained was to sink
into heavy delirium, waking up from every sound and burst of gunfire.
Waking up constantly, tossing and turning, folding up our damp, cold feet
and brushing away the rats which were sniffing us, hugging one another,
we slept no more than three hours. This sleep did not bring relief. The
feeling of helplessness intensified due to the even greater hunger and
thirst. The radio station remained in the adjacent building and so we
were in complete ignorance of what was happening around us. Slowly,
heavily the people came to. They smoked cigarettes, visited the
fighters and officers in the adjacent enclosure. It was still dark
outside. The scent of smoke and roasted meat began to issue form a faroff corner of the basement. Yes, roasted meat. This unearthly scent,
there is no mistaking it for anything! But where is the meat coming from?
The whole mob pored out towards the source of the smell. It tickled the
nostrils and intoxicated slightly, provoking painful spasms in the
stomach, inspiring hopes for the best, awakening memories of home, of
picnics and shaslyk. God what a scent this was! I have never sensed such
an unearthly aroma in my life.
When the hungry mob rushed to the hearth, Improvised from pieces of
furniture and newspaper, they saw that two soldiers were roasting small
pieces of fresh meat using improvised skewers. The meat oozed and bubbled
with juices and droplets of blood were falling into the fire. An
unforgettable sight! Naturally everyone had one question:
-Wheres the meat from?
-Where did you get it?
-Is there more?
-Its not human is it?
-No, its not human! - the soldiers laughed, proceeding to roast their
shashlyk.
-So, wheres the meat from?
The people were overcome with impatience and hunger. The fighters
continued to roast and were shuffling about shyly, obviously unwilling to
share their culinary art secrets. The pause dragged on. The tension rose.
A mob of armed and wound up men could have chopped the chefs themselves
into shashlyk. Finally, one of them mumbled:
-Rat.
-Rat?!
-Yes, its a rat, - the fighters confirmed.
-What, are you mad? - many were shocked.
The stomach contorted from a spasm, not of hunger now, but of sickness.
If it contained anything, it would have surely come up as vomit. Many
reacted in the same manner. But about half of the men did not show any
emotion. They came nearer and began to interrogate the chefs regarding

their hunting and preparatory secrets. I walked out into the fresh air,
as quickly as I could. Behind me, the various replicas of the gourmets
and fanciers of exotica could be heard:
-Have you tried it?
-No but look how fat it is!
-Yeah and how juicy and oily it is, mmm! Very nice!
-Is this one rat or two?
-One.
-Look how big it is.
-Lots of them here, enough for everybody!
-I have read and they taught me in school, that rats are carriers of
various diseases, including the plague.
-They taught a lot to us in school and what good is it?
-Dont like it, dont have any! - somebody replied with steel logic.
-Nothing will happen.
-Thats right. Just need to cook it through thoroughly.
-Cook it through well, but not too well, otherwise the meat will be dry,
brittle and un-tasty.
-Look, theres a crust forming already.
-Yes! What a nice crust!
-Guys, can I try a little piece, hmm?
-Yes, we dont need a lot.
-If we like it, well catch some rats ourselves.
-Its a pity that there are no dogs around. Theres more meat there.
-Theres even more in a human. Why dont you eat that?
-Go to hell with your jokes. You can eat that yourself.
I could not stand hearing this talk, so I went into the hall in order to
examine the flats. The smell and the smoke streamed from the basement,
went up the stairs and pursued me closely. I lit up a cigarette in order
to chase away the persistent aroma. The stomach churned from hunger and
then from the thought that Im sniffing roasted rat. Br-r-r-r!
From previous experience, I knew that the sensation of hunger will
disappear sometime around day four of the famine. Only an obtuse sense of
exhaustion will remain, but the hunger will disappear. All thoughts will
pass slower and not to the point but all around food.
When in nineteen ninety we were sent to Baku, at first they threw us onto
the Salyan barracks and only later transferred us to the fourth microdistrict as a commandant detachment. We were responsible for the keeping
of order and adherence to curfew in that residential district. Our commbatt was no fool and organised the command post on the premises of a
large supermarket. When we descended into the basement, there was a ton
of food there. Except there was a shortage of bread, so we had to spread
butter over salami, just like in that anecdote. But Im repeating myself.
My thought are already getting stuck on food. Instead of food, I was
gulping down bitter smoke. There was a disturbance downstairs. I stopped
and listened. Chechens? No. Excited yells were issuing out of the
basement:
-Get it, get it!
-Chase them towards me!
-Where are you chasing them, you idiot!
-Lets start all over.

-They ran to that corner over there.

-Go around, around.
-Pity we cant shoot.
-Dont you dare shoot. The Chechens will hear.
-Pound them! Pound them!
-Not with the barrel, you moron!
-Hit them with the stock!
-Its not a club! Hit them with the bottom of the stock.
-But itll get blood all over it!
-Dont worry, youll wash it off!
-Dont you want to eat?
-Got them!
-How many?
-Three.
-Not enough. Well need more. Look how many of us are there.
-They can get their own.
-Dont babble. There are enough rats for everyone.
-They are fat ones!
-They are normal.
-Get the fat ones.
-I cant see if they are fat or not.
-Go around, well start chasing them again.
Trying to restrain bouts of vomit, I went out into the street so as not
to hear the rats death screams. It was almost light now. I paused. I
observer the street for a long time. No movement by the loos of it. The
odd gunshot came from the direction of Minutka. It didnt sound like a
battle was in progress. It was more likely to be the sentries shooting
through their sectors. I crossed the street diagonally at a run, bent
over double and entered the stairwell hall of the house where the first
group took cover. At the entrance, I was greeted nervously by two
sentries.
-Greetings, men! - I said to them.
Seeing that Im one of their own, they relaxed and smiled.
-Good health to you comrade captain, - one of them smiled widely. All
thirty two teeth.
-Whats new?
-Nothing. What's all the noise over there?
-Chechens? - the other one asked.
-No. Our wise guys have opened the hunting season on rats.
-On rats? - one was genuinely astounded.
-On rats? - the other, however was thoughtful. It looked like he was
mulling over the though of a roasted rat. His eyes glazed over dreamily.
-Yes, rats. The fighters breakfasted on rat this morning, inspiring
others to want to do the same.
-And did you try it? - the second fighter asked. The first was already
visibly ill from the very thought of a rat.
-No. I havent tried it. And I have no desire to do so, - I answered
honestly.Where are our Father-commanders?
-Over there, - the first soldier waved at the stairwell leading into the
basement, vaguely.

Dragging, as I went, I unhurried descended into the basement using the

gravel and debris-checked stairs. There were about ten people sitting
there. Another ten or fifteen were lying in the adjacent room. I noticed
Yurka amongst them. He was dosing. I approached. Kicked him in the side
lightly.
-Get up. Youll sleep through the coming of Gods Kingdom.
Yurka quickly opened his eyes, and leapt to his feet, seeing that it was
me.
-Alive? - he was sincerely glad.
-Im alive. Where am I to go.
-And I thought you might have been, you know
-Go to hell!
-Go on then, tell me something good, - Yurka was restless.
-What do you expect to hear? - I was surprised, - Everythings the same
with me as it is with you. Come visit my basement, if you like and youll
see how the fighters there just slaughtered a few rats and are making
breakfast.
In short, I described the rat epic. He was astounded and did not deny
that his stomach churned from a single thought of eating rat.
-Did you yourself try it at least? - he asked repressing a bout of
vomiting with some effort.
-No. Havent gotten to that state yet.
-But rats!
-Why are you surprised? The Chinese say that absolutely everything that
grows and moves can be eaten. One simply must know how to prepare it
properly. Dont worry Yura, if we get hungry enough, well eat anything,
not to mention rats.
-We have to get out of here as soon as possible, or well completely
loose our minds.
-Youre right there, brother. If we stay here any longer, it will be the
****ing end of us.
Those sitting near us were listening to our exchange. They began
discussing the issues of procuring nourishment by any means available. We
did not interfere and stepped off to the side.
-Whats the news from the staff?
-We radioed them. ****! - Yurka spat off. - Nothing good. The remnants of
the brigade are trying to break through to the old command post. The
staff, or more precisely whatevers left of it are surrounded and are
fighting.
Airborne troops were sent to their aid. Dont know if theyll reach them.
Its all ****.
-I know its ****, myself. What are we going to do after all?
-Theres a plan already, right?
-Theres no plan. Were sitting here, guessing.
-We have to leg it, before theres a mop-up. Theyre not idiots either.
-Ive told them already - Yurka waved in resignation. They say we have
to sit it out, clarify the situation. Which is why I say, its all ****.
-Lets go and try to talk to them. Were staff officers after all.
-Lets go, but its going to be pointless.

As soon as we entered the first battalion commanders shelter, one of the

sentries from the entrance into the stairwell hall ran in. He halfwhispered, half-yelled:
-The Chechens are coming!
-Are they far away?
-A few houses from here. Theyre conducting a mop-up.

----------CHAPTER 11---------We could now hear grenade explosions and the rattle of gunfire. There
were shouts:
-To battle!
-How many are there?
-I dont know exactly, approximately fifteen men! - the sentry man was
almost shouting now.
-To your places!
-Maybe itll blow over?
-Maybe they wont notice us?
-High hopes!
-Lets go guys!
Everyone scattered. Some took cover at the exit, some next to the little
windows into the basement, whilst me and Yurka, along with a group of
soldiers ascended to the second floor and sat near the broken windows.
And there they were; a group of twenty or so insurgents, proceeding
unhurriedly along the street. They moved according to all the usual rules
of conduct in an urban warfare environment. Short, running advances,
covering one another as they ran, carefully inspecting the smashed-up
stairwell halls and windows of the buildings around them. Having
approached the house nearest to us, they paused. Five people ran up to
the basement windows and threw grenades in there. They rolled back. The
others waited, their guns at the ready. As soon as the grenade explosions
rang out, they let off a volley each.
Dividing into small groups of three-four people, they then entered the
stairwells. Short volleys could be heard coming from there. Three of them
remained in the street. Soon all those who went to mop up the house
emerged outside.
I counted. It turned out there were eighteen of them all-up. We have more
men, but we need to quickly, very quickly eliminate these guys, before
the enemys main force arrives. Otherwise well have no success here.
Everyone present clearly understood this.
The Chechens were getting nearer. They talked amongst themselves in
short, throaty replicas. Everyone went still. The distance to our
building shortened; ten, eight, five meters remained. And this is when

storm of fire broke out. We were firing from the top, the bottom and the
straight. They were shooting the Chechens up out of my house also. The
enemy tried to take up defence. It was pointless! Fear, hunger have
disappeared. The confidence in ones own strength had made a comeback. If
we are to fight, then well fight. We need a victory right now, even if a
small one, but a victory nonetheless. So that we could again perceive
ourselves as humans, as fighters, a monolithic collective. Everyone
understood this and were mercilessly shooting up the little band of
insurgents.
The Chechens that survived the initial assault, tried to escape, but were
falling to the ground, their arms outstretched. Soon, our fighters were
running after them. They tore the hip flasks off their belts, took away
their grenades and ammo. They tuned their corpses over and ran their
pockets in search of edibles. They were stuffing something into their own
pockets and under their flak jackets.
Those that remained in the buildings were frantically preparing to
evacuate. We had to move on. Break out to our positions.
Another two days. For two days that seemed like an eternity did we press
onwards. Everything became mixed upday and night, sleep and wakefulness.
We sat it out in the basements during the day and proceeded at night. A
couple of times we encountered ambushes, but not taking up the fight,
retreated whilst returning fire. Some people fell back, disappeared.
Somedeliberately so as not to drag us down. Not to be a burden on us.
Exhausted, they quietly, so that nobody would notice, broke off and fell
back. Some stayed back to cover everyone elses movement onwards. When we
shouted angrily that they are ordered to come with, they turned their
guns on us and chased us away with expletives. Before covering us over
with mat, some, silently handed us their dog-tags, documents, personal
effects and letters. They asked us to inform their relatives. They did
not want to become missing in action. And we walked and crawled
onwards. We took away our dead and wounded. When we had no strength for
that any more, we left our casualties and those who died from their
wounds in the basement of a house, wowing to come back for them. We
buried them in the corner of a basement enclosure, lest they be gnawed
over by animals.
We continued forwards and only forwards. Movement is life. Nobody argued
or discoursed any more. There was no strength left for that. Only
forward. Only the dumb desperation forced us to continue. Animated only
by the blind survival instinct. The fighters extracted shrapnel, that was
not lodged too deep, themselves now, without any narcosis. We could not
wash the wounds much less treat them with antiseptic. So, to avoid
contamination and to stem the flow of blood as there were no bandages
either, the contents of the medikits having been eaten out of an acute
hunger, open wounds were covered in gunpowder, which was then set on
fire. The powder flashed, stinking sourly and of burned flesh. The flow
of blood ceased, the wound became sealed.
Some wounded shot themselves, or blew themselves up with grenades. We
tore the dog-tags off the stings around their necks, retrieved the
documents from their pockets and crawled, walked onwards.

One night we came upon a group of airborne troops, who have also become
separated from their own and, like us, were wondering about like blind
kittens abandoned by their mother. When we first met, we nearly opened
fire. But because everyone was afraid of attracting Chechen attention, it
was decided to fight with knives. Then we learned that they were ours.
The skirmish ended with two small cuts and one broken rib. One of our
fighters jumped on top of one of theirs and when he fell to the side
kicked him in the ribs. In short, nothing serious.
Our radio station had long ago been broken and thrown out. But the one
the airborne guys had was in perfect working order. Having tuned to our
frequency, we went on the air. Maybe its a good thing that frequencies
and call-signs do not change? There is some good in it after all. We
managed to talk to our brigade after all this wandering. It turned out,
that almost everyone had already gathered at the old command post. They
were waiting for us. Theyll help us traverse Sunzha. We have a new commbrig. One Butalov Alexej Mikhajlovich, rankcolonel. Prior to this, in
command of a medical cadre regiment. By the order of the Minister of
Defence Grachin, he is now assigned to head our brigade. The old commbrig is alive, they saved his leg. Hes at the Central Burdenko Hospital
of the Ministry of Defence in Moskva. Good luck to you, Commander!.
Everyone was shocked by the news that well now be under the auspices of
a former cadre and on top of that medical regiment commander. And a
colonel, on top of that!
Does the reader know what a cadre regiment is? Not simply a cut-back, but
a cadre one? Your ordinary infantry cadre regiment consists of a
commander, chief of staff and his deputy. Ordinarily, there will also be
a deputy for armament. No more than ten-fifteen officers in the whole
brigade. About twenty warrant officers. Approximately fifteen soldiers.
And that is all! That is all!!!
Their primary function is the servicing of vehicles. In other words
scheduled maintenance, the swap-out of all rubber parts once every five
years and other such busywork. During Soviet rule, reservists were often
called up for this workpartisans as they were called. They would back
the vehicles out of the garage, drive them around a little and put them
back into conservation. Thats what a cadre infantry regiment is.
What a medical cadre regiment might have been exactlyI didnt know. The
officers and warrant officers that were with me have not heard of it
either. Lieutenant-colonels were ordinarily placed in command of an
infantry cadre regiment, very rarelymajors. And here it was a colonel!
It was hard to imagine all this. Most likely, this regiment was meant for
the Third World War, where weapons of mass destruction would be employed.
Apart from that, we were informed that the new comm-brig is from the
North Caucasus Military District, whilst we were from the Siberian
Military District. Only people with connections served in the North
Caucasus Military District. Either those, or replacement transfers from
the Far East or Transbaikal Military Districts (the latter, colloquially
known as the God-forsaken Military District).

Alright, when we get out, well sort it outwho is who. The mere fact
that the brigade survived, even if it was not up to its former numbers,
but it survived, was encouraging. And the most important thing was that
we were not forgotten and this warmed the soul. The airborne troopers
were also glad. They could now come out to our detachment and from there
proceed onto theirs. The sense of dumb exhaustion and indifference
towards your fate and that of those around you disappeared. Everyones
mood was lifted. Despite the intense exhaustion, we wanted to live.
The operation for our rescue and evacuation was set for five oclock in
the morning. We had to traverse about ten city blocks and improvise some
sort of a bridge before it began. Our guys could only offer fire support.
We set off as soon as it was twilight, not waiting for the dark. Of our
initial number, twenty two men remained, including the wounded. The
airborne troopers had sixteen men, with wounded. So our troop was quite a
heterogeneous one. We did not have a lot of ammo, but enough anger and
determination to survive for an entire battalion!
After five blocks, reconnaissance reported, that they have discovered a
group of insurgents, numbering up to fifteen men. One cannot suppose that
all insurgents are subordinate to a central command. Not at all. They
were all divided into mini-groups, mini-bands. Some formations had up to
a thousand people. Othersfive or six. Naturally, the bosses of the
larger formations maintained communications with Dudaevs staff and their
operations were somewhat centrally co-ordinated. But the chaos that
reigned in Grozny in those days did not allow them or us for that matter
to act in an organised manner.
That is why, we and the airborne troopers determined, that this must be
some feral band or just ordinary marauders , masquerading as
insurgents. We have come across such things before, although to be
honest, I dont see a big difference. One has to know the mentality of
the Chechen people to understand this. From the times of Caucasus
conquest, these people were noted for their unbridled greed and avarice.
From the very beginning, they were prone to kidnapping people for ransom.
Re-read Tolstoi, Lermontov, Ermolov.
This is why we made the decision to attack this insurgent brigade. At
first there was the desire to go around them, but reconnaissance reported
that the neighbouring streets are obstructed with rubble and it is
impossible to traverse them whilst carrying the wounded. Well have to
constantly climb up and down piles of construction rubble. No way to
avoid making a noise and theres a big risk of collapsing rubble and more
injuries. The desire to reach our guys was strong. Another issue to
consider was that, and judging from a captured tongue, the Chechens
thought us to be a recon-sabotage group, which they wanted to destroy.
Destroy at any cost, as they thought that we had captured one of their
field commanders and were trying to transport him over to our side. Our
brigade partially confirmed this when they asked us over the radio, if we
were dragging some Chechen along. To this, we said that Siberians do not
take prisoners or surrender. In sum, all of this meant that we had to
hurry. If we have to fight, we have to fight. Forward, forward!

When it gets quiet in warquiet by wartime standards that is, one tries
to make the best of it using the smallest of opportunities to get a
little sleep. Everyone also goes to sleep as early as possible. The
Chechens were no exception. Like all warriors, they went to sleep early,
after deploying sentries.
Their sentries were not much different from ours. To chase off the sleep,
as well as for entertainment, they shot through the ground in front of
them. Each had their own zone of responsibility. There were two of them.
Also, they periodically fired off illumination rockets, taking delight in
picking off the scuttling rats (the night was moonless and dark) in the
resulting light. According to our observations, neither succeeded in this
task.
After about an hour, they came together, which is strictly forbidden in
all armies of the world, and lit up their cigarettes, which is also
extremely dangerous for the sentries health. Firstly, its distracting
and secondly that light blinds the vision. These were the last cigarettes
of their lives. After all it was right there on the packetthe Ministry
of Health warns that smoking is dangerous to your health. They must have
been illiterate.
We took this pair out quickly and painlessly. They went to meet their
Allah and prophet, having not properly understood what had happened. It
was risky to try to crawl up to them. Too much crackly, loose gravel
underfoot. And as soon as they lit up, they were hit out of two pistols
with silencer attached, a bullet each. We got them first go, thank god.
Nice and quiet. Only two distant pops, as through somebody clapped their
hands trying to shoo away the rats. There was no need to finish them off.
We then all descended into the basement and began to cut out the sleeping
Chechens. The main thing in this business is that the man doesnt start
screaming as he wakes. So, you give him a whack on the cheek with your
left and slice his throat with your right hand.
Felling ill, reader? Whats there to do, when you want to live? Youll
pull even worse things off and eat even fouler food than rat. I had to
try it after all. Nothing to eat. Its cold. Im swaying from hunger and
exhaustion. My vision is blurred, not even blurred, but blackened. You
sleep an hour, hour and a half at a time. You sleep on rocks, without
undressing. You cant start a big fire to warm yourselfyoull be
spotted. So we pounded the rats quietly, built little firesjust enough
to roast small pieces. All the best pieces would go to the wounded. We
did not draw the water from Sunzha. It was too open there and we could
have been spotted. Instead we drew from pits and craters. After that
Sunzha water seemed like the issue of a mineral spring in some
prestigious resort. And so, when you have already turned into cattle, and
a light of hope appeared before you, hope for deliverance out of this
situation suddenly there appeared a band of armed robbers in your path,
who had unimaginatively gone to sleep. What would YOU have done?
I would imagine that when the borders between illusion, a hungry delirium
and reality dissolve for you, you would do the same. Im speaking of
strength, not valour. In an extreme situation, it will not be a question

of valour. The reflexes of destruction and self-preservation, which will

emerge out of your subconsciousness as the ancient man awakens. And it is
here that you will need strength. If you are too tired, too out of shape
or simply too old, you will not survive. And it will be difficult chase
these reflexes back inside later. After being dormant for so many years,
much too much do they like developing out in the open again.
Its flattering to a human to perceive themselves as some sort of a
super-human. Better still, when the complexes acquired in ones
upbringing and education, such as conscience, empathy for the enemy,
those near to youdisappear. And this makes one a bit stronger. Is this
not a confirmation of Hitlers Nietzschean theory regarding the fairhaired beast? One begins to feel better toothe pain reflexes are
deadened, the tiredness almost disappears. Youre Hercules himself!
Probably a release of endorphins. They are produced by the body as a
result of taking drugs. Here you get a high without the drugs.
You, the reader should not have participated, even indirectly in sending
young strong boys, here. For now Im successfully keeping this beast
caged, which is a fairly difficult business. Its appearance at the
storming of the barricade on the square and the slaughter of the Chechen
gang is enough for me. But the young soldiers may not cope and the beast
may one day leap out in civilian life. So watch out, reader. I am not
dramatizing or romanticising the situation one bit. Im, warning you.
Beware!
Having killed off the sleeping insurgents quickly and without kicking up
the dust, we moved on. We went, taking every precaution. The casing on my
flak jacket had long worn through. The plates inside had fallen out, so I
took it off and threw it out. It was easier to walk and crawl, but the
coat was not as warm any more. Its outer fabric was torn from me
constantly crawling through basements, over piles of gravel and
construction debris. Clumps of dirty cotton wool stuck out. My trousers
were torn in many places. Even the double padding on the knees did not
save them. This was not only me. Everyone looked no better. Their mugs
have grown over with, not stubble, but some sort of feral hair. We looked
terrible. Untidy, frightening and repulsive and at the same time somehow
pitiful.
There is a pile-up ahead, it blocks the street. It looks like a building
had collapsed after a bomb hit. On its way down, it took another pair of
buildings with it. There is not enough time to go around it. Well have
to climb over this pile-up. The sky is cloudy. Its dark, except for the
illumination rockets in the distance, but they no longer shine the way
for us. Neither do they illuminate us.
Were crawling. Were crawling, two three people at a time. The building
debris, gravel, sand and broken glass are scratching, tearing up the
skin. The breathing is uneven from the constant stress and lack of
energy. You want to stop and rest, but its not going to happen. There
are people also crawling behind you and they spur you on with the barrel
of their gun into your buttocks. Neither do you want to rise up and
proceed onwards in short running dashes. This a very convenient pileup
and it is bound to be in use by somebody for an ambush. It is the highest

point in this area and you wont take it just like that from a running
start. And so we are crawling.
Dust and sand are pouring into your face, into the wide-open mouth, into
the ears, behind the collar, into the sleeves. You periodically spit it
off. And again you move forward, forward. I want to live, I want to
survive! And so were at the crest of that hill. Were still. Those
behind us have crawled up and are also still, listening, looking into the
sightless darkness. Its quiet, it seems. Carefully, we descend from this
pile, trying not to fall over. The meeting place is at an arms length
nowno more than a block away. Well also need to find some means of
crossing the river.
Sunzha is not very wide in this spotmaybe ten, fifteen meters. But try
crossing it in the dark. To my shame I cannot swim even to this day. To
floatyes, thats one thing, to confidently cross a river whose source is
in the mountains which makes it fairly cold and rapid and to do so at
night and in wintertimethats a whole other matter. Not to forget also
that the wounded need to be transported across somehow. This uneasy task
lay ahead of us.
Having walked up to the supposed crossing spot, I looked around. Fun
times! Its night, cant see ****, Sunzha is rushing below. The shore is
silty, slipperyvery easy to fall in. We left the wounded behind to keep
an eye on the surroundings and walked off in different directions. The
task seemed so simpleto find something sturdy and light, that can be
thrown over the stinky river to act as a bridge and then cross.
To search for a black cat in a dark room, especially when it is not there
is an extremely difficult task. There are few trees in the Caucasus.
Those that stood in Grozny had long been chopped down for firewood by us,
the locals and the insurgents. Were equal in that respect. Should we
bring a concrete slab? Whos going to lift it? Thats what I was
thinking, wandering around in the dark, stumbling and swearing softly.
Its pointless to search inside the houses either. Everything valuable
has already been taken. The first to rise gets the slippers, so to speak.
And here some dickheads have rocked up and are trying to find something.
With such foul thoughts on my mind, I reached the opposite side of the
street and stubbed my foot very painfully. With some difficulty, I
remained upright and had to sit down on a pile of some crap, rubbing my
ankle. I then realised that I hit a street light post. Hold on, thats an
idea. We could make an effort and throw it over the river and attempt to
cross.
I trudged back where I came from. When I met our guys, I told them about
my discovery. We went to gather the others. When we got back, we saw the
paratroopers tying a rope they found to the second floor of a building.
-Are you guys planning to hang yourselves? - I asked.
-No, were preparing a crossing.
-How are you going to fix it on the other shore?
-When our guys arrive, well throw it to them and they can tie it to a
BMP or something and well cross using this bridge.
-Well see. How are we going to get the wounded across?

-Well try. Do you have any ideas?

-To bring over a lighting post, throw it over and use that.
-We can try that also and if it doesnt work we can cross this way.
-Well be alright to cross, but what about the wounded? Some are
seriously wounded.
-Those wont be able walk over the post either. There needs to be some
sort of support.
Everyone thought it over and arrived at a compromise. We were going to
need the rope for the railing and the pole for the bridge.
-Alright, lets go drag your pole over, - the paratrooper sighed and
waving to his guys followed me.
-Dont be sad, - I consoled the paratrooper, - naturally, I understand
you. Its not the first time for you to take a head-first plunge, but for
myself and the others, its a new thing.
-Go to hell, you, - the trooper grumbled.
-What, are you upset over this pole?
-No. I just dont like carrying heavy things. Will there be enough of it,
to bridge it from shore to shore?
-There will, there will, - I consoled him.
-Its dark, - he complained again, - you walk here empty handed and
stumble over and now with that thing
-Quit complaining, - I cut him off.
-Get this, I was going to prepare for acceptance into the academy and go
do the exams in June, but got into trouble and they sent me - he sighed.
-Did you punch someones face in? - I was curious.
-No, worse. We went hunting at the end of October. All the officers in
our regiment. We went for hog. As is customary, we brought vodka. So its
the first evening out, we got drunk like piglets. Three sheets to the
wind in other words. There was a lot of hog this year. So we camped on
the edge of a reaped field. The locals told us that the hogs come out at
night, a whole herd of them and dig for various roots. The bears also
mess around a bit, before they hibernate. Although when we went, it was a
bit late for bear. Anyway, were sitting in the tent. Drinking vodka as
it were. Telling stories. And here nature called me. And the guys tell
me: Take the rifle. You might come upon a hog. Or a staggerer-bear. Take
it. The Lord keeps his own. And unfortunately for me I took it, - the
paratrooper sighed.Im standing next to a tree, relieving myself. The
rifle is hanging off my shoulder and then I hear a rustling in the bush
three meters away, and as if somebody is oinking. I raise up the rifle
and ba-a-a-ng! out of both barrels. The guys ran out with torches and
over to me. I told them. They went there. The regiments gym instructor
is there. It turns out he came out earlier than me to relieve himself.
Why it came into his head to make oinking soundsI dont know. In short,
I wrecked his skull. The barrels were loaded with buckshot as it turned
out. So yeah. The military tribunal investigated for a long time
afterwards trying to determine what happeneda murder, an accident or
criminal negligence. I lost a lot of heath back then. Naturally no
academy for me. The criminal case was closed. They wrote it off as an
accident. And they offered me to go here as a volunteer. And I could have
been preparing for the academy now
-Must have been his fate, - I inserted.Also, man, had you finished a
normal military academy, you would not have been so quick to fire at a
sound. But here, your reflexes worked fine.

-Exactly. I was drunk. Wasnt thinking. Is it far to walk?

-Dont know, I think we might have passed it already. Stop guys! We need
to go back.
We turned around and after another thirty metres came upon that cursed
pole. We gathered around it.
-How are we going to carry it, huh?
-Hell knows.
-The bastards large.
-Are we going to stand here, or are we going to carry it? - I was
impatient.
-Alright, lets grab it.
-Should we drag it maybe? - somebody asked with a note of hope in their
voice.
-Its fragile. By the time we drag it over, only the metal skeleton will
remain.
-It might be fragile, but its probably heavy.
-Up it goes.
There were fifteen of us. Those who were wounded, could not move or were
too exhausted were left behind on the pileup. We also left all our
weapons there. They would only get in the way. We were huffing in the
dark, getting in each-others way, holding up that concrete pole.
-**** its heavy! - could be heard out of the darkness.
-When I get home, Ill complain that these things are not made
exclusively out of aluminium. Careful with the leg.
-Well dont stick it out then.
-Im not sticking it out, Im moving it.
-Ready to take it up?
-Ready.
-Im going to birth a small elephant in a second.
-Lets go.
-What do you mean, lets go, Im under it!
-Hold it, hold it guys, um under it!
-Get out from under there. Stop! What are you doing there! Slacking off?
-Whos slacking? I stumbled over.
-Look where youre going, you retard.
-I cant see **** in this dark!
-Look anyway.
-Quiet guys!
There was a stirring in the darkness. One could hear the squeak of gravel
under a boot heel.
-Chechens? - somebody stuttered in a whisper.
It was getting more difficult to hold that concrete thing. It seems to be
easier when youre walking, but when standing stillit becomes
unbearable. My palms became completely moist, the muscles were choked
with blood and became like stoneuncontrollable. No weapons. Maybe
somebody had a pistol. The rest, apart from grenades and knives were
armed with only naked enthusiasm. And this concrete thing in our
weakening hands.
-Guys, guys! - Somebody called to us quietly.Where are you?

-In your mothers ****, ****ing your aunt****! - could be heard in front
of me.
-Lets keep going.
-Lets go, or Ill drop it in a second! - somebody begged.
-What do you want?
-Guys! Our guys have arrived over there. We threw the rope over to them.
-The ropes good. If we were to now throw this ****er over, that would
also be good!
-Alright, lets go quickly.
-Stop!
-What now?
-I fell and this thing fell onto my head. It hurts!
-Is the skull intact?
-Nothings going to happen to it.
-Lets keep going then.
We moved forward again, swearing and cursing our heavy burden. Finally,
we could see the busy figures, illuminated by headlights on the other
shore. Our guys. Ou-u-u-urs! It was like a burst of strength. Everyone
ran forward. Thankfully it was easy to run. The ground began to slope
towards the river. Our feet spreading, sliding over the clay, hurtling
under the weight of that ****ing pole saw us nearly fall into the water.
We began to raise up one end of the pole and moving the other end,
throwing it over onto the other shore. The pole, heavy as a tank, weighed
in and fell into the water. We dragged it out somehow and began again. It
was cold, wet and dark. They began to illuminate us with headlights form
the other shore. We could see some pointers. With the last of our
strength, we retrieved that ****ing pole onto our shore and managed to
bridge to the other shore after rocking it and throwing it over. A
hellish job.
The crossing had commenced. The boots were stuck with wet clay. The feet
slid over the pole. If not for the rope railing invented in conjunctions
with the paratroopers, we would had had to take a dip in the black, icy
Sunzha.
We were greeted like family on OUR shore. Each new arrival was embraced
warmly by his friends, his brothers in arms. There were recon men there
as well as medics and comms men. In total, about fifty people came to
greet us. The recon guys went to the other shore and helped the wounded
cross the river. Each one of us was immediately wrapped in blankets and
given a full glass of vodka.
Some were crying, some were laughing. I was in a stupor. Yurka was
dancing around me like a madman, stirring me up.
-Slavka! We crossed it! We survived! Slavka! We survived!! We did it!!!
-We did it, we did it, - I was tiredly waving Yurka off. - Settle down
already. Well go to the kung now and get drunk.
-Exactly! Well get drunk until theres green snot. Mug-first into the
salad.
-Where are you going to find salad, you beast? - climbing onto the armour
of our recon BMP.

The soles of my boots were covered in river clay, my feet were sliding.
It took three attempts for me to climb onto the BMP. Perhaps the alcohol
in combination with exhaustion had its effect also. Im on top. Near the
cannon. I have never been so happy. The life ahead seemed like it was
going to be a fairy tale. I have lived through such hell, could there be
anything worse? If God delivered me out this ****, he will surely do the
same again.
And so we were on our way. The alcohol and tiredness were doing their
work. Disregarding the shaking, I dosed, grasping onto the armour when we
turned. The tension, the fear have disappeared. The fear that gnawed all
these days from within. My soul attained peace. I have not experienced
such calm in a long time now. The vehicle drove into some wide street and
I began to feel the cold wind on my face.
Nobody spoke. Everyone was silent. The rescued were recovering from their
experiences. The rescuers were filled with the sense of pride. Gradually,
I began to recognise the surroundings.
No more than fifteen minutes of riding remained. One thing was
surprisingthe absence of checkpoints. We drove by an abandoned trench. I
spoke to a recon man who was sitting near me:
-Buddy, where are the checkpoints?
-Nobody properly knows. When we got back, we discovered that our
neighbours have completely disappeared. Were alone here. The Chechens
have lost all shame. They raid us every night. In the third battalion,
two sentries were cut out last night. There will be plenty of work,
provided you all dont get sent to hospital, - the recon man shouted
back.
Is seems that the look of me made him think that I will be going to
hospital.
-Do you by any chance know, if Pashka and our kung are still there?
-The ginger one? The one that got the sentry detail drunk when we were
coming here?
-Yeah.
-Hes alive. Wheres he going to go? He did not believe that you and
Yurij Nikolaevich had bought it.
I laughed. Looks like he really didnt not want to wash our socks and
underwear. Maybe he is our talisman, guarding me and Yurka from trouble?
Who knows how the Lord sends us his signs? As for the hospitalI wont
go. My bones are intact. As for the contusionIt will pass, just need
plenty of vodka. Well break through!!!
When the convoy drove into the painfully familiar yard of the former
kindergarten, my heart began to pound, as if I was approaching my family
home.
We drove up to the staff and came to a rest. Everyone began to leap off
the armour. Those that were present at the command post came out to greet
us. The chief of staff, our San Sanych was standing on the semi-lit
porch. Next to him, stood a colonel unknown to me. Probably our new commbrig. Well work out what sort of a man he is later.

We were embraced, slapped on the back. Cigarettes and vodka were brought.
Not shying of the new or old commander, everyone was drinking fifty or
hundred grams of vodka or spirits. They began to unload the wounded. They
will now be examined by the doctors. They will operate on those that they
canthe seriously wounded. The rest will be driven off to Khankala and
Severny where they will be distributed to hospitals over the huge
territory of Russia. Thats it lads. The war is over for you.
Yurka approached from behind, patting my shoulder and said:
-Lets go introduce ourselves to San Sanych, Slava.
-Lets go.
We approached San Sanych and ignoring the new colonel, reported to our
immediate superior:
-Comrade colonel, Major Rhyzhov and Captain Mironov reporting from-we
could not decide how to correctly state where we cam from. Something
sarcastic and offensive was on the tip of the tongue.
-Alright, enough of that! - the chief of staff stepped forward and
embraced us. First one, then the other. - Congratulations on your return,
lads. Im glad to see you alive. Good work. Youll tell me of your feats
later. But right now, - he addressed the new colonel, - comrade colonel,
allow me to introduce two senior officers of the brigade staff. This is
major Rhyzhov and this is captain Mironov. And this is the new brigade
commander colonel Butalov.
-Comrade colonel, - we began introducing ourselves, but with a lazily
gesture he cut us off.
-No need, go rest and well sort it out later.
-Go, lads, go, rest. Well talk tomorrow. Come back once you sleep it
off. Good night.
-Good night.
We went to our dear, homely and comfortable kung. Pashka was standing by
the door, smoking. It was evident from the sight of his stiff figure that
he was nervously peering into the darkness. We approached him from the
side, which is why he did not notice us at first.
-Well, hello, my illegitimate son, - I began.
-Wishing good health! - Pashka threw out the cigarette and looked unsure
now. It seemed sort of inappropriate to go embrace him first.
-Good health, Pashka! - Yurka was the first to embrace him.
I then approached him and extended my hand, and after greeting one
another, we embraced. I felt that his shoulders were shivering slightly.
I patted him on the back.
-Thats it Pasha. Thats it. Were home. Welcome us in!
-Yes of course, - Pashka began fussing around, which was never a
character trait of his. It seems that we have all become slightly
sentimental after the Minutka madhouse.Everythings ready. Everythings
in the kung. Come in.
-Whoa! - we were in awe when we entered the kung.
Everything was washed, cleaned and neatly tucked in. The table-crate was
dressed with a clean bed sheet. Upon it, stood bottles of vodka, a pair

of bottles of cognac, a bottle of fruit liquor, who knows where it came

from and finally beer! Beer!!!
Me and Yurka grabbed this beer and without sitting down or undressing
opened one each and began transferring the contents into our stomachs
straight our of the can. How good it was! What bliss!
-Well, Pashka, our brother, how you pleased us! - we did not conceal our
admiration.
-Well, the beer and everything else was sent to you from Severny. And
it was brought here by zampolit Kazatsev.
-Good lad, Seryoga!
-Good lad, Sashka-commandant.
-Is there any water, Pasha?
-Yes, warm water, a whole bucket of it.
-Thats great!
We quickly cast off all that remained of our tattered uniforms. There was
the desire to throw them out, but what would we wear in the meantime?
-Why dont you throw out your rags, I procured new uniforms for you from
the quartermaster. Its not camouflage unfortunately, but its new, - and
Pashka produced two sets of new uniform.
-Good work, Pasha.
-You are our father-provider, - Yura continued.
We cast off the last of our rags, leapt out into the street naked and
using his bucket, Pasha poured warm water over us in the cold Chechen
night. This was bliss. An almost sexual bliss. We washed our short-cut
hair long and thoroughly. Thoroughly scrubbed our bodies. And we were
deeply indifferent to the fact that we were bathing at the command post
of the brigade, at night, naked. To hell with it! We were happy! Happy
that we managed to walk out of such hell. Dantes hell, with its
primitive frying pans and boiling tar were nothing to usa fairy tale. We
lived!!! I was alive!!! And to hell with convention. Its a pity only
that there are no women in our brigade.
Next, Pasha brought out the cheap Polish cologne, which we privatised
back during the storming of Severny. Not sparing it, we poured it
abundantly over our bodies. Rubbed it in. It prickled painfully our
numerous small wounds, bruises, cuts and scratches. The body was
reclaiming its former sensitivity. The warmed-up blood no longer simply
ran through our veins, it was raging. It was good! Warm! To hell with the
frost. Steam began to pour form our skin.
We returned to the kung. We dressed in everything new, fresh and clean.
It didnt matter that it was not camouflage, but the ordinary green
uniform. New, fresh underwear and uniform to match caresses the body. In
our absence, Pashka also managed to procure meat from somewhere and has
now prepared something akin to shahlyk. He produced a little cauldron
from underneath a pillow. What a divine aroma! So good!
Yura poured half a glass of vodka for everyone, including Pashka.
-So, Slava! To our return! - Yurka raised the painfully familiar, dear
white plastic cup.
-To our return! Lets go, Pasha! - we clinked and drank.

We began devouring the food, without waiting to drink the second. The
famished body demanded its nourishment. We chewed in silence, quickly
swallowing large pieces. We relaxed gradually and the alcoholic
intoxication rolled in. Not even alcoholic, but intoxication from the
warmth and the good food. We quickly poured the second.
-To good luck, men, lest it abandon us!
-Exactly. If it wasnt for luck, we would have never made it out, Pasha.
To luck! - the glasses rustled once again and we drank.
The door was opened without knocking. Seryoga Kazartsev stood at the
threshold.

----------CHAPTER 12---------****, you staff guys are drinking again. Didnt you have enough time for
this when you were surrounded?
-Come in dear Sergej, come in!
-Pashka, get another glass and fork!
-No guys, Im not drinking.
-Dont be silly. Are you not going to drink to our return?
-Alright, splash me a little.
-Were drinking the third now, and youre only on your first. Youll need
to catch up!
-No. Ill drink the third with you.
-As you wish. Pour, Pasha! A little.
-So, men, the third!
-Yes, the third!
-To those who remained.
-Be silent.
-Im silent.
We rose and after a seconds silence drank, without clicking. Again we
began devouring the food, washing it all down with beer. Perhaps due to
the greasy food, or for some other reason, the alcohol began to wear off.
My head cleared almost completely. The zampolit was the first to break
the silence.
-So my heroes, pray tell me how you managed to get yourselves so stuck.
-If youre going to speak to us in that tone, were going to immediately
smash your face in, - I warned him.You were supposed to be there with
us.
-Yes, supposed to, but the powers that be sent me to Severny to fetch
the humanitarian aid. I brought it. Your share is with me. I did not hand
it out, lest this troublemaker, - Sergej nodded at Pashka, - eat and
drink it all.
-What about cigarettes?

-I got you extra cigarettes and beer, Ill give it to you in the morning.
Your buddy Sashka the commandant is sending his regards and says hello.
Tell me what happened already.
-What can we tell you, Seryoga. You know the basic details already.
-I do, but tell me anyway.
Interrupting one another, we hurriedly explained what we had to live
through. We did not conceal gloss over anything. We still remembered
everything very vividly and our minds kept returning into the nightmare
we managed to escape only a few hours ago. We had managed to return,
whilst the others had not.
-Its not our fault, Seryoga, that we came out and the other guys did
not. It isnt.
-Dont worry. Everyone already knows it isnt. They reported to Moskva
already, to the minister, and other bigwigs. Although this was only after
Rolin reported that it was all our fault. It turns out that we were the
ones meant to storm the square and everyone else was merely to provide
fire support, or at least thats what they say at Khankala.
-There was no support whatsoever. The Chechens laid an excellent trap for
us, that we walked into it like blind kittens, - I pronounced gloomily.
-The Chechens outnumbered us, - Yurka confirmed.
-Threw us to our deaths, the muscovite bastards.
-Hows the new commander? - I asked.
-What can I say! He turned out to be a buddy of the Minister of Defence
Grachin. And so he was assigned with the help of his connections.
-You mean from a cadre medical regiment to a front-line brigade?
-Yes. To our brigade.
-****!
-We have already mulled this over here. Hes not just incapable of
drawing a map, he cant read one. Nothing other than mat at the
briefings. And when Bilich speaks and employs military terms, Bulatov
falls asleep.
-What do you mean asleep? - Yura didnt get it.
-Very ordinarily asleephe hangs his head on his chest and snores. Hes a
zero.
-Does he not want to get a Hero?
-It doesnt seem that way for now. The way he led the staff convoy
towards the old command postguys, ****! IlliterateI mean completely.
Had San Sanych not taken up command we would not have made it. When
theres transient fire at the column, some kid shooting his gun probably,
this fool orders Stop! Return fire! And when we were ambushed, he
commands Proceed without reducing speed. Meanwhile, the road ahead is
blocked with rubble. In shortan idiot.
-This is horrible! Were going to get it with him.
-Definitely. Tomorrow evening, were going to Minutka again!
-What do you mean, going?
-Orders from Moskva. Although were not going alone this time. But were
using the same route again.
-Over the bridge again?
-Yes, folks, over the bridge.
-Pour it, before I go nuts.
-Slava, exactly. There will be no clarity here without the aid of the
bottle. We didnt take it with Bakhel here, and with this medicHmm!
-Pour it, Pashka! Half a glass each.

-To luck, lest it abandon us! - we drank without clinking. These were
astounding news. We sat in silence. Nobody snacked.
-Hows Bakhel, hows the second battalion commander? - Yurka asked, as he
sniffed a bread crust.
-Bakhel is in Moskva. They kept his leg. Hes in the Burdenko hospital.
As for the comm-batt- Seryoga sighed heavily. - Hes no more. His body
was sent to Rostov and from there home to his wife.
-Yeah. He was a good man. Eternal memory and may he rest in peace!
-How many of our guys remainedthere? - there was a lump in the throat,
when I remembered the comm-batt.
-Many, too many. A lot of them missing. Maybe they are sitting it out in
basements, maybe captured. But some are returning, announcing their
whereabouts. Some are fighting in other detachments. Unable to reach us.
As for the dead, at least those that are confirmedthere are a hundred
dead. Maybe sixty-seventy missing. Quite a few tanks were killed also. In
short, were ought to be led out of here for rest and regrouping,
instead, were being sent into battle again tomorrow. A madhouse!
-Madhouse is putting it lightly, Seryoga. It seems like they want to
finish it us off. So that nothing besides the flag and designation
remain.
-Just like with the Maikop Brigade. Bastards! Lousy bastards!
-Dont steam, Slava. Nothings up to us any more. Better we drink
something!
-Lets. Not a bloody things up to us any more. Pour it. A little for me.
We drank in silence, no toast, no clinking.
-Seryoga, you bring us nothing but bad news. As before the first attack,
same here. Maybe youre the root of all evil? - Yurka stared intently at
Kazartsev, who in truth had nothing to do with anything.
-So shoot me then, see if that changes anything, - Seryoga was
unperturbed.
-Why the **** are they sending us into that **** again? - I continued to
fume.
The stupor wore off. Anger seized me once more. It was difficult to
contain myself. I was swearing profusely so as to let off some steam.
-****ing bastards, sons of ******, pus-ridden faggots, cattle, bitches
and bloody scoundrels. Its not enough to kill them. These bastards would
have been up against the wall in thirty seven, a control shot in the back
of the head each.
-You would have been the first up against the wall for such talk in
thirty seven, - Yura parried calmly.
-Youre right, but how about these degenerates?
-Calm down, Slava. All thats been, has been, all that will, will be. If
youre going continue to fume, well piss on you.
-Alright, - I calmed down. Seryoga, me and Yurkawhere are we off to?
-I dont know. There was no discussion regarding you two. But all staff
personnel are being sent into the battalions. Im being sent to the
second. Youll probably stay at the headquarters.
-The hell, Ill stay with that new commander, - I began to yell again, Ill go to the second with you. At least Ill get my kicks there.
-Exactly, Slave, well go together! - Yurka was pouring the vodka again,
only a little, a mouthful.
-When are we setting out?

-At seventeen hundred hours, according to the plan. Well be there by

nineteen. The convoy is going to be large and there may be an ambush. And
once were there, a tank carousel again and thenAnd then again, with a
bare as at the Fritz, - the zampolit concluded.
-We have time for sleep!
-Exactly. Well have the last drink now and lights out. Pashka! Do not
disturb, handle with care, in case of fire evacuate immediately! Alright,
lets go! - we drank and went outside for a smoke, leaving Pashka to tidy
up in the kung.
-I didnt want to say it in the fighters presence, - Seryoga began, but it was seriously discussed if Bakhel jeopardised the people
deliberately.
-**** off!
-What are you serious?
-Very serious. Rolin had remembered you, Slava and they thought that you
were a saboteur, and soSeryoga faltered.
-Say it, continue! That I deserted? Is that what youre saying?
-Yes. Precisely that you deserted.
I felt a wave of heat that my face was swelling red with blood. My rage
awakened. I wanted to punch somebody face in, right there and then.
Preferably that somebody would be Rolin or Sedov. The kids from military
prosecutors office would do also. Alsoa Chechen.
-Fun times. So, what, am I to be court-martialled now?
-No. San Sanych fought you off. Those fighters and officers that returned
before you, confirmed that you did now cower or shoot at your own and
fought like everyone else. That you bandaged the wounded.
-Listen, Seryoga, during the fight, somebody killed a tank first go,
using a grenade launcher. It was all covered in active armour and this
sniper got him right in the base of the turret. That sort of action
deserves a Hero, but I have no idea what that lads name is. Can you find
out?
-Thats right, Sergey, that was a classy shot and we went into attack
after that. That shot preserved a lot of lives.
-You guys are not the first to tell that story. We have already confirmed
the fighters surname. He was wounded and later died. It has been
confirmed.
-They could give him a Hero posthumously, at least. Hes earned it.
-We have recommended many men for decorations, but those bastards at
Khankala are saying that we failed to take MInutka, yet were asking for
medals. Faggots! -Thats nothing, Yura. We recommended the dead and
wounded. Those that are no more or whose war is now over. And the swine
dont want to hear a word of it. Nothing to award for, they say.
-Those ****ers.
-Yes, they are ****ers, - Seryoga agreed.A battalion of paratroopers, a
makhra regiment and a detachment of spetsnaz are guarding Khankala.
They were transferred there from the frontline. Our neighbours have been
removed. We now have to toil for ourselves as well as those guys. You
have probably seen that there are less checkpoint convoys?
-We havent seen any at all, actually.
-Thats what Im saying. The brigades numbers have shrunk, yet our zone
of responsibility has grown.
-Have they taken the hotel Kavkaz yet? - Yura enquired, lighting a new
cigarette off the but of the old one.

-Whos going to take it? A battalion of paratroopers had been recalled

from there also and sent to Khankala.
-What, are they expecting us to fight the Chechens on our own?
-Not a bad setup, they have, I like it!
-Alright guys, dont let it get to you. Go rest. Ill make sure that you
are left alone. Sleep it off. Well talk about the rest tomorrow.
-Dont nick our aid!
-What are you saying, guys, that Im a rat, is that it?
-Not yet, but who knowsGood night!
-Good night, you scoundrels!
-Youre the scoundrel, we shouted after Seryoga, into the dark.
-What do you think of all this? - Yurka asked after we re-entered the
kung.
-Nothing. As long as I dont end up court-martialled as a deserter.
Thats what I think, - I grumbled.
-And regarding tomorrows function?
-Honestly?
-Of course.
-If we are sent there alone again like puppies, Id expect only about
ten-twenty people to survive, who will be forwarded onto a mental
institution or a court-martial for desertion, lest they wag their tongues
needlessly.
-I think you mentioned this before already.
-Yes I have and I remain of the same opinion. I we manage to get out of
here we should not hope for any greater honour than not to end up in a
crazy house or a prison. And thats it. And what do you think, Yura?
-Thats whats most likely to happen.
-Yura, do you hear somebody bombing Minutka right now? What about the
State Bank, the Palace of that ****ing Dudaev?
-Nope, cant hear it.
-Thats right, just like before the first assault. Remember, we spoke
about this?
-I remember. Alright, lets go sleep.
-Lets go Yura, lets go. Tomorrow another coil in the madhouse spirals
will begin.
We entered the kung and quickly undressed. To hell with the possibility
or coming under attack. The skin, the body have wearied of these clothes.
There was a desire to relax. We quickly went to bed. I turned off the
light and sank into a deep sleep.
I had nightmares. War, war, war. Nothing but war. Although I seemed to
also have dreamt of the prosecutor, who was making some sort of
accusations, but I kept shooting him and throwing the body to the
Chechens. A sheer nightmare.
I woke because Pashka was shaking me by the shoulder.
-Comrade captain, comrade captain, wake up! Vyacheslav Nikolaevich! Time
to get up.
-Hey, what, Chechens!? - semi-awake, I grasped for my gun.
-No, there are no Chechens, its just that its three oclock and its
time to get up.
-The hell? - having just woken, I wasnt thinking clearly.
-Were moving out at five ocklock. Have you forgotten?

-I have. Wheres Rhyzhov?

-Hes up already, hes washing up.
-Is there breakfast, or more precisely dinner?
-Everythings ready. The chief of staff is expecting you in forty
minutes.
-Right.
We quickly washed up, shaved and breakfasted. After that we leisurely
strolled to the headquarters whilst puffing on our cigarettes. Other
officers greeted us merrily as we went. We replied in kind. We paused at
the entrance to the kindergarten-headquarters and finished our
cigarettes. The clamour of explosions and screaming of jets could be
heard coming from Minutka. Good, very good, I like that cacophony. If
only they would lay their bombs accurately. Otherwise there will be
craters all over the place and well have to crawl over them later. The
pilot flies high, makes a lot of money. Mama, I love pilots! - I
remembered the words from one crass childrens song. We finished our
smokes, threw down the butts and crushed them underfoot. We headed off to
see the chief of staff.
San Sanych was in the same room. His table was placed in the exact same
spot as before. It seemed as if nothing has changed. Except that Butalov
was sitting there instead of Bakhel. Where will you take us, o new
commander? Having entered, we paused at the entrance. San Sanych, having
raised his head noted our arrival and invited us:
-Come, come. Dont be shy! Youre standing there like youre not our own.
-Who knows, maybe weve already been taken off the roll-call, - I joked.
-Its not so easy to write you off, - San Sanych approved of the joke and
responded in kind. - How are you feeling? Maybe youd like to go to the
rear or the medics for the time being?
-What for? - Yurij was confused.
-Maybe youre tired. Maybe youd like to get some medical treatment?
-Everythings fine, - I answered.
-Maybe you dont trust us? - this was Yura getting prevocational.
-No, no, why would you think that?
-We just heard that we were about to become scapegoats for everyones
sins here, - Yura was getting mad.
With some difficulty I was still able to contain myself. I understood
that Sanych has nothing to do with this and I was very thankful to him
for delivering me from the tribunal. Otherwise I would be no my way there
now.
-Yura, dont get started. The chief of staff did everything in his power
to clear us of all suspicion.
-And how do you know this?
-The folks in the brigade told us, - Yura answered vaguely, as he
recovered from that burst of anger.
-We are all a bit jumpy. We should be calmer.
-There is a lot of banter in the brigade. Their tongues should be
shortened, - Butalov spoke up. -I summoned you to offer you a choice of
placement during the assault. I need bright heads in the staff here. So,
I propose that you remain here, - San Sanych watched us with tired eyes..

It was evident that it is physically difficult for him to carry on and

the lack of collusion with the new brigade commander was obvious.
-Thank you for the offer, but Id like to be sent to the second
battalion.
-Me too. There is a lack of experienced officers there and I believe,
well be of more use there than here at the headquarters. Yura was also
trying to state his case politely, but firmly.
It seemed that the chief of staff was not expecting any other answer. He
spread his hands in resignation. The comm-brig on the other hand looked
at us in surprise. It seems that he hasnt seen such thugs before. Have
a good look. Get used to itI gloated.We have a lot of such thugsa
whole brigade. What about you though, are you going to fit in with our
show? Well see.
The pause continued. Had this newbie not been here, we would have spoken
to the chief in more detail. But not with this guy here! San Sanych broke
the silence first. He sent us to get ready for the fight and the coming
move.
Everyone who was capable, was going into battle. Only the drivers
remained, as well as a few comms men, the mechanics and the supply
battalion. The medics were going with the troops as well. Only those who
will operate on the casualties remained there. If they are to be
evacuated. Save and protect us. With God.
At seventeen twenty hours, the brigades convoy had lined up and set off
in the direction of Minutka. The sound of battle could already be heard
coming from there. The third battalion and the reconnaissance men have
taken and were holding the bridge. That cursed bridge! They have already
crossed it and were defending it on the other side. Its hard work to
drag a hippo out of the bog. Hold on lads, were coming!
The column was huge by war-time standards. It stretched over about five
kilometres. This was not to anyones liking. Especially in urban
conditions. There is little thats good about it. We presented a great
target.
The Chechens were of the same opinion. They struck when the leading BMP
drove only about four kilometres. There was no blockage or mines. They
just fired out of their RPGs from above and burned the first two BMP of
the first battalion. Simultaneously, they struck at the middle and the
end of the column. And it began, not so much a fire-fight, but a firing
of the column. The single line began to break up. The driver-mechanics
dashed into the side streets, trying to take their vehicles out of the
line of fire. They drove into the little yards and squares, crushing the
flimsy ruins with their frontal armour. Some got stuck under the rubble
and were finished off by the Chechens. There was no attempt to organise
proper resistance. Those that could, left the scene. There was no single
command. The column was too huge for anyone to come to its aid. There was
no radio link with the command. It was a panic. Each man for himself. In
this fiery hell, where BMPs and tanks burned and exploded, spilled fuel
blazing on the ground figures of burning humans dashed about. These
living torches fell to the ground and rolled, trying to knock off the

flames. If somebody was near, they came to their aid. Sometimes they even
laid on top of them trying to smother the flames with their own body. But
sometimes the flames from a burning coat soaked in diesel spread onto the
rescuer, they came alight and perished also.
The commanders vehicle was fifth in the column. Everyone awaited orders.
Any sort of orders, but orders nonethelessadvance, retreat, take up the
fight on the spot. But there were no orders. The new comm-brigs BMP was
the first to break ranks and dash off into some side street, crushing the
gravel under its tracks. The radio was silent. The chief of staff tried
to assume command a little later, but it was already too late. It was
chaos in that convoy and panic in the souls of men abandoned by their own
commander. Each man for himself. Save yourselves!
The battalion, company, platoon commanders tried to conduct an organised
exit from under fire and somehow repel the Chechen attack. This was the
case with our second battalion. The new commander, who was assigned to
replace the fallen comm-batt (all deputy commanders, except the zampolit,
have fallen or went missing during the first attack on the square),
captain Bobrovykh Andrej Anatolievich quickly regained his composure and
shouted:
-Aim at the five-storey apartment block! Referencethat populous tree.
Fire! Infantrydismount and try to knock back the Chechens! To work!
Fire! Fire!
He leapt off the armour first and started hosing down the enemy out of
his gun. There was a radio man next to him and Andrej managed to somehow
co-ordinate his charges. This resulted in us being able to knock the
Chechens out of their positions. This was success, this was victory.
Albeit a small victory, but the people began to believe in their new
commander. Unfortunately the other commanders were not so quick to reorientate themselves and the second battalion, and myself and Yura with
it, had to retreat. It so turned out that Yura found himself on the
leading vehicle and he conducted the second battalions egress from under
fire. We managed to reach Minutka via some side streets and back yards.
The order for us to begin the assault was not cancelled and we had no
right to do our own thing. Although we have reached our starting
positions, we were not in a hurry to commit to battle. We took cover and
supported the third battalion with quick fire and by launching guided
anti-tank missiles.
There are fourth-generation ATGMs available now. Its a nice toy, but
there are only few of them in the army due to their price. Too few.
So, we were feeding the Chechens with these presents. At first we began
to work over that fortification that was erected using construction
rubble. Wizened by bitter experience, we did not want to loose our people
whilst taking this monument of architecture and senseless war. We stayed
in touch with the remnants of the column over the radio. The comm-brig
remained silent and we assumed that he had been killed. The chief of
staff had taken up brigade command. The tankers lost another two tanks.
The first battalionfour BMP. The comms troopsthree radio stations. We
lost a lot of peopletwenty three men. How many were missing, we didnt
know. The medics, who rushed to our aid from the command post also went

missing. It was said that they made a wrong turn somewhere. Medical
Senior Lieutenant Zonnov Zhenya was missing. He was a smart lad. A real
man. A pity, a real pity.
The remaining tankers, as well as the first battalion began to gradually
pull up to the shitty square. By about three oclock at night, the
remnants of the brigade gathered in the lanes and yards adjacent to the
square. The surroundings were immediately cleaned up, lest some Chechen
bastard interfere with us. The third battalion and the recon men were
replaces with a collected team from the rest of the brigade. The tankers
started up their carousel. But nobody wished to or longed for an attack
in the dark.
The chief of staff, also the brigade commander pulled up at five in the
morning. A briefing was called at five fifteen. The briefing was
conducted in conjunction with breakfast. There was no time. In two,
maximum two and a half hours it will start getting light and well have
to go attack. When will we eat again!
Khankala was also in no hurry to begin the assault. They were waiting for
us. Having reported the destruction of the convoy, we were not declaring
our readiness for attack yet. The ideal situation would have been where
the troops on the other side of the square would start chasing the
Chechens over to our side and we were to greet them here. But alas, we
knew that this was not going to happen and we had to point our horns
forward and lay down our bones and take the square. There were rumours
that Dudaev had long since left there but our strategists in Moskva and
Khankala seemed to be equating this Palace to the Reichstag, which is why
they wanted it taken. Maybe these grandpas thought that the war would end
after that? **** off it will end. The resistance movement will be so
strong that we wont get by without scorched earth tactics. If were
game, that is. Otherwise it will be like Afghanistan againa slow
positional war. Hmm! What will happen? Who knows!
There is but one objective before us nowthe square with its complex of
buildings. There it isbefore me. All dug up by craters from aviation
bombs, shells, tangled in barbed wire, lit up with artillery illumination
shells, mines and rockets. They hang upon their parachutes lighting
everything up with an unnatural bluish light. There are almost no
shadows.
When I
in and
effort
myself

saw that square again and remembered how I crawled on my gut, dug
then ran from it, I felt fear and a cold, cryptic draft. With an
of the will, clenching my teeth until my jaw cracked, I made
calm.

I chain-smoked my cigarettes, one after another, not feeling their

flavour. I could not take my eyes away. A thought even dashed through my
head, to approach San Sanych, now that the new comm-brig is absent and
ask to stay at the staff for the duration of the battle. But I chased it
away immediately.
Well break through! For sure! I provoked anger within myself. And
gradually anger took the place of fear. Only anger remained, anger at

myself, the Chechens, Moskva, Khankala, Severny, at peaceful life in

its entirety. Anger at everything. The only thing that I was not angry at
were the people that surrounded me. Together with them, I am about to go
to this frying pan, where, disregarding our positions and ranks,
achievement for the Motherland, disregarding our family situations the
enemy will try to fry us up. I sighed deeply. Fear disappeared. Pity for
myself and others disappeared also. I was calm. I am trying to remain
calm. It was in that state that I went to the briefing with the chief of
staff.

----------CHAPTER 13---------It was a gathering of all the commanders and ranks in charge. Each
brought a bottle - of vodka or of whatever else they may had had on hand.
The same with snacks - as the lord giveth, which was mainly Spam. Spam of
all types and calibres. And, naturally there was the officers lemon onion, garlic, as well other odds and ends.
The headquarters were temporarily located in the basement. They placed
the table there also. It was constructed from munitions crates and laden
with newspaper. We sat on whatever we could find - bits of furniture,
crates, somebody brought folding chairs.
We gathered at the tableSan Sanych at the head. We quickly opened the
cans of spam, which had been warmed up on vehicle radiators, uncapped the
vodka, sliced up the onion, garlic and salami (which materialised from
somewhere). We spoke very little. Everything was clear anyway. Our losses
both in men and vehicles were huge. We were unready, very simply and
according to all military canonsunready to storm such a well-fortified
target as was this square.
It was pointless to try to prove something to San Sanych. He was not at
fault here. The ambush on the convoy had a strong demoralising effect.
The fate of the missing was unknown. Gloom. But with the effects of
alcohol and from the near-by sounds of tank guns and the artillery
divisions reports (whom we have not seen for a long time), the mood
began to improve. We were alive and that meant that well still be around
for a bit.
We began talking. For the most part, the talk was of the ambush on our
column. We had practically no neighbours. Reconnaissance did not check
the route as they were busy with the bridges. There was no avant-garde
sent. In shortshitty business. And we are idiots ourselves for not
convincing this newbie shithead with colonels epaulettes.
Having sufficiently mulled over past disgraces, we began thinking over
the plan of attack. San Sanych spoke the most here. The snacks and booze
were pushed aside. It was decided that the tankers will work the square

over and only then will we go to take it. It was pointless to divide the
thinned-out battalions into smaller formations and therefore the
objective was being placed before everyone simultaneously.
The immediate objectiveto cross the bridge and dig in on the Minutka
side.
The subsequent
therethen the
so that, which
shoot over our
taking out the

objective - the barricade and if there are no Chechens

State Bank. The tanks and BMP are to protect our flanks,
happened the last time doesnt happen again. Also they
heads, clearing the way. The infantry covers the armour by
RPG troops.

Dudaevs palace is the major objective.

NO WAITING for reinforcements from the other side of the square. We are
to rely on our strength only. NOBODY GIVES A **** ABOUT USthat was the
main gist of our briefing. Well fight on our own! No reserves, no fresh
troops. All personnel, all vehiclesto the square. This is our final and
decisive battle! Just like in the recent hit song.
The desperados battle. The Siberians battle, the very same Siberians
who in forty one saved Moskva and therefore the whole of Russia. We were
not presented with a similar task. When everyone understood WHAT that
was, there were no words left to speak. A sense of duty loomed over us.
It is one thing to talk idly and another thing completely when you are
informed that no-one will come to our aid. It was not known when your
allies might begin their advance from the other side. And it well may
be that theyll also stay put and watch, supporting us morally.
Everyone later dispersed to start preparing the people. To explain what
laid ahead of them. We had to preserve our people. We had to preserve one
another. And we could not simply send the armour forward, our experiments
from before, when we entered Grozny were enough. So much has happened
since then, that its difficult to recall everything properly
I went to look for Yurka and found him smoking a cigarette next to a
tank. He was conversing peacefully with the tanker fighters. I treated
them with some cigarettes. Idle talk, simple chatter, designed to
distract one from their every day problems. Ordinary soldiers tales.
But then the command for the crews to mount was issued. The gun barrels
of those tanks that were spinning the karousel have heated up and it
was time to swap them out. The fully loaded tank lurched forward and took
its place at the bottom of the bridge, constantly revving its engine. It
awaited its turn. And soon his predecessor, having expended his stores,
raised his barrel into the air, as he would in peacetime and started to
roll back. The newcomer took his place and started firing madly at the
barricade. It was clear that nobody could remain alive there. All that
was left of that barricade were piles of brick dust. Good. Less work for
us. I like it when such work is done for me. I dont know why, but I like
it very much.
I looked at my watch. The assault will begin in twenty minutes. It was
futile to try to speak over the battle noise, so I pulled on Yuras

sleeve and tapped the dial-face. He nodded his head and we went to find
the second battalion. The gunfire at the square intensified. Our two
artillery divisions increased their rate of fire and shifted it deeper
into enemy positions. It was impossible to see the State Bank building
due to the cloud of smoke and dust around it. Which was also good.
We approached the remnants of the second battalion, whose people were
bustling about unhurriedly. We sat on some boulder and lit up. We agreed
to stay together and not to loose sight of one another. We remembered
Pashka and laughed at how we annoyed him with our dirty laundry. We
remembered also that we have forgotten to collect our aid from the
zampolit. Its a good thing to have unfinished business, when you go into
battle: a good omenthat you have something to come back to.
We looked at the watch. Ready in five minutes. All emotions aside!
Breathe in and out, hold your breath. You need to get wound up now. Anger
and rage are once again boiling in your veins. The adrenaline is racing
through the body astride the bloodstream. And then came the signal over
the radio. And off we went, forward, forward! Only forward! Work, work!
Get past this bloody bridge, fly over it before the Chechens notice! Ura!
A-a-a-a!
My breathing is sporadic. The grenade bag is banging painfully against my
leg, in time with each step as I run. It interferes with my running a
little. But I am now in such a state that I dont pay any attention to
such nonsense. Forward, only forward! There is nothing behind us, only
Russia, which can not help us in any way now. There are no reserves, the
armour will follow us a little later. And this will be the last of the
armour in our brigade. And this is why we have to work hard. Think hard
and move forward although the adrenaline is preventing me from thinking
straight. The ancient man is awakening within me once more.
Ahead of me, the dirty green mass of winter coats is not being shot up by
anyone. Why are THEY not being shot up and why AM I not being shot up
together with them!!!? We could not believe our luck as a dense crowd of
us crossed that ****ing bridge. The same one, where so many of our guys
remained the last time we were here. The reconnaissance men reported that
they did not see any of our corpses here when they took it. That meant
that either these parasites fed them to the fishes or that they dragged
them off somewhere. Alright, you bastards, Ill soon find out where you
put our fallen. Soon, you mongrels! ****ing slinks!!! I shoot, I think I
saw something ahead of me. There is shooting ahead of me also. The race
forward continues at the same mad tempo. The guys at the rear, seeing
that we are not being shot up, pick up their pace as well.
Those at the back are pushing those ahead of them forward. And heres the
tank, which is firing at the Chechen positions. Although it is unclear
where the Chechens might be, its still a pleasing sight. There is no
sign of the enemy. The bitches are hiding! Smash them! Hurry up, lads!
Faster!!! Tempo! Tempo! Go whilst they are not shooting!
I run silently, my mouth wide open. If not for my smoking, I would have
enough oxygen for this. Instead I can already feel the stich in my side.
Its easy to get shot like this. Its not going to work, you mongrels,

you wont throw us off the bridge, were already across it, on the
square! Tempo, men, tempo. Save your strength. Only forward. Its a shame
that there is a giant crater in our path. Well have to either run around
it or through it. Im going to loose my breath completely.
And they hit us at that very moment as if they knew what we were
thinking. It came form the State Banka long unsure machine gun volley
that raised little fountains of dust and sparks from the pavement in
front of us. But it was still far away as it seemed they have not yet
recovered from the tank barrage. Missed!
Well teach you to shoot in a second, you black mug. Forward! I shoot
from the shoulder almost without aiming. Everyone around me is shooting.
Somebodys hot shell sears my cheek. I look sideways as I rub the burnt
skin, which bastard did that? Ha! Its Yurka!. The same look of
concentration on his face. He is running a meter away from me, shooting.
I feed a grenade into the black carnivorous mouth of the underbarreler.
The Chechens seem to have come to and open fire at us. I fall and roll
away. I roll once more and once again. I fall and hit my shoulder
painfully. Im inside a small crater. Freshnot filled with water yet,
must have been from last night or this morning. No matter. The Chechen
fire is intensifying. I peek out. Fir off a volley at the Chechens then
look behind me. Three fighters are dragging a wounded man back to the
rear. All is well for the time being. No fatalities. Its incredible
luck. Knock on wood. We went over fifty meters of open ground and not a
single fatality!
I stuck my head out again and began to study the Chechen positions more
thoroughly. My rapid breathing was still interfering with my aim. The
hormones left over in my blood from the sprint were preventing me from
effectively fighting the enemy. Alright, you bastard spawn, if I cant aim
and fire yet, Ill hit you with the mortar. Having estimated the distance
and made a correction for the wind, I opened my mouth and pulled the
underbarrelers trigger. The grenade, which looked like a potato flew off
towards the Chechen positions. I watch attentively and see the explosion
of my potato-grenade marked by a small plume of smoke and dust. Something
darted to. It looked very much like a hand. A hit? Thats right. Somebody
is rolling around, there is movement, somebody is probably rushing to the
wounded mans aid. I move the iron sight to three hundred meters and the
safety to single round fire. A breath in, then out, hold and I move the
sight towards the blurred, stirring spotthe target. Gently, very gently,
I line up the target. The trigger slides smoothly. I am not breathingI
am one with the gun, and itis a continuation of me. Or, if you like, I
am its source. I continue to slowly squeeze the trigger. I am alert.
There is nothing apart from my gun and the blurry patch of my target. I
did not even feel or understand that the shot happened. As I continued to
pull the trigger, I did not even notice that it came to a rest and still
continue to pull. My eyes, no my entire being watches the spot where I
just shot. The blurry spot moved to the left and became still. Got him!
One less Chechen. Im a sniper!
Then the mortar fire began, same as before. But we will not retreat this
time. The thirst for revenge for the fallen, that you bastards made me

leave here wont let me cower. **** you, you bastards! At this rate I
could spend the entire war in this shell crater. Dont count on it
though.
I leap out of the crater and in short runs with rolls, move to the old
barricade, trying to take cover behind its debris. When less than ten
meters remain, I run straight forward towards this pile of building junk,
almost without bending. Somewhere here, I lost my temper and killed that
Chechen. And I am not one bit ashamed of that. Yes I killed him. Yes, I
killed him cruelly. But what was I to do? I had little choice. Very
little.
I understood very clearly that the Chechens will try to approach this
barricade under the cover of their mortar fire and shoot us up. It wont
work! Im here first!
I havent gotten my bearing properly, when I saw the Chechens running
towards us from the direction of the State Bank. I have been able to
outsmart them for the time being. I changed the magazine. There were
rounds remaining in the old one, but they were few. Why worry whilst
changing magazines in a firefight? There is no need for that. One must be
thoroughly prepared to meet their enemy. Closer, closer, you ******!!!
Look how many there are of you and Slava is all alone. How many of them
are there? I counted. Fifty or so, it seems. I pick a target and pull the
trigger. The gun jerks. I move the barrel from side to side. Got you, you
mongrels! I am elated, intoxicated. I have never been this happy. The is
no clamour of battle around me. The mines are not exploding behind my
back. There is only me with my gun and the Chechens. Many Chechens.
Chechens, that do not like us. Chechens that torment our captured, that
nail our lads to crosses. Get some and choke on it. Its time to change
position. Roll over and roll over again. A few meters more on my knees. I
change the magazine once more. I choose my position. I watch. Aha, you
degenerates, youre pounding my previous position. Im not there any
more! Im here, you scum! I let off a volley from the knee. A lot of
Chechens, quite a lot now are lying still on the asphalt now just like
our lads were but a few days prior. Where have you taken them, you
faggots? The other Chechens are laying low now, just like we did before,
but the tables have turned.
Gunfire began off to my side. I turned my head and saw that the guys
there have arrived and are helping me pound the Chechens. Come on men,
there is enough for everyone! Im not greedy and I dont need
decorations. This is my reward! Thank you o Lord that you granted me this
joy. My blood boils in my veins. My veins can hardly contain it. I
unbutton the coat. There is no flak jacket below itI didnt have time to
procure a new one. Not to worry. Look how many dead Chechens are lying
there in flak jackets. You can pick as if youre in a supermarket. I
switch to the underbarreler.
Although the Chechens are face down and ass up, they can still snarl
back, so there is no need to stick your head out. Let the underbarreler
do the work, for a bit. I pull the trigger and watch the grenades
trajectory. I make a correction and shoot again. ****, where are you
going! That bastard rolled away as I was loading and I miss again. Anger

and ardour have seized me. Yura flops

heavily.
-What is it Yurok, the smokes?
-Yeah, when we get out of here, lets
-Ill be without a single fault then.
such a positive fellow, - I jest as I

down beside me. He is breathing

quit smoking.
My wife might just up and leave
shoot at the Chechens.

Im fed up with their rolling. The one that Im hunting after lurched to
the side, dropping his gun and started rolling on the ground. Yura got
him first go. I looked disapprovingly at himthat was my Chechen!
-So he doesnt suffer, - Yura joked.
-I noticed that you were gone, he continued and then I saw that youre
rolling around along this barricade like a monkey, shouting something and
shooting, merry like youre a kid at a fair.
-It is merrylook how many Chechens we cut down. Isnt it great? Pound
the Chechens, save Russia! Hell known from whom though. Maybe theyll be
saving it from us soon!
-It worked out very well though. They didnt manage to take advantage of
their mortar barrage. Well done Slava!
-I know, - I answered modestly.
Our tanks meanwhile tried to suppress the mortar
working out very well for them. It seems that it
concealed position and was firing at coordinates
If only we could find that creep and step on his

battery, but this wasnt

was located in a
supplied by a spotter.
tail.

The enemy tried to retreat, but were not successful. All the Chechens
that were at the square and ended up under the hurricane of our fire
remained lying there. Thats the way!
We had to persevere. The vehicles that were behind us could not advance
because we were in the way as well as the mines. And then small groups of
our guys lurched forward. The mortar battery remained silent for the time
being and more and more fighters followed suit.
Go, go, Slava! Forward! I ran forward. Forward across the remnants of the
barricade. My feet were getting stuck in the sand and fine gravel. My
eyes were looking forward, disregarding what was under my feet. The blood
pounding in my head again. My feet sinking in even deeper. It is harder
and harder to pluck them out of the viscous sand. I fall down and roll
over on my side. I firmly press the gun to my body an roll. I can hear
the sound of ripping materialthe new coat - spoilt. But that doesnt
matter. It doesnt matter, what matters is continuing onwards as far away
from this barricade, this firing point for the mortar spotter as is
possible. My head collides painfully with some rock. Red rings in my
eyes. My poor head! Despite the incessant pain, I continue to roll over
the ground. And here is the asphalt. I leap to my feet and run forward. I
cant properly see what is ahead of me. Only forward. My head is
splitting from the pain. But it will pass. The words of an old song rang
out in my headEverything will pass and my turn will come ****! It
wont come! Im not going to submit this easily. At least not right now!
Forward! Only Forward!

My vision more or less cleared. And here are our guys, laying low. That
means I have to go forward to join them. Our brigade is taking cover in
front of me, returning fire. The Chechens are dug in next to the semidemolished State Bank and in its upper floors. Judging by the fire being
conducted from that direction, theres a lot of them there. Pity! How
well did we skip through the square! If only we cold skip through the
rest like that! Alright, you bastards, you asked for it. I fall amongst
the other fighters. Nothing could be seen due to the smoke hanging over
the State Bank. The Chechens are concealed by the smoke. But judging by
the density of fire that they are conducting, there is a lot of them
holed up in there. I trey to identify fire-points. Without thinking, I
put up my gun and send off a short volley. And another. I watch. Looks
like there are no more muzzle flashes. Maybe he rolled away and maybe I
hit him. Its pointless to pound them out of my gun. I stand on my knee
and take out an underbarreller grenade. I am waiting. Dense fire is being
conducted all around me. The guys are shooting from everything that they
have. Where are the tanks? We have advanced, what else do they want?
Surely all the guys that have laid down here, that have lost their lives
have not lost them in vain? Where are you, tankers? You ****ing mongrels!
I pull the trigger and the grenade flies towards the Chechens. I dont
look to see where it explodes. Instead I put another one in and fire once
more. No more! No more of the shame I have endured before. Its not going
to happen! Im going to remain here until the end. Where the hell are
you, tankers?
The mortar fire resumed again. The mines were exploding far behind our
backs for now. But one could fee the hand of an experienced spotter. Each
volley fell closer and closer. We cant stay here. We can not. But how
could you hide four hundred people inside the odd crater upon this frying
pan of a square? Tough chance!
The nerves are wound up to the limit. The screech of the flying mines is
imposing more and more with each new mine. Each ****ing mine vibrates the
air like a tightly-wound string and with it, each cell of the body, each
synapse shakes and quivers. It is difficult to contain the desire to
cover ones ears and fall to the earth. Each concussion is perceived with
relief. It means that its not you, its not your fate. And now another
volley compels you to curl up, squat, compress yourself, clenching your
teeth until the jaw bones crack. And you run around from place to place
trying to cheat fate and silence your fear. You shoot at the adversary
barely discernable for the clouds of smoke.
I constantly tell myself that I am not afraid. In order to spur myself
on, I re-create the image of my recent retreat and the last look that I
took at the square littered with the bodies of my comradesIt helps. A
measure of perception of what is happening. Some measure of inner
balance. If its not wise to stay here, then it is necessary to proceed.
As mad as that may seem, there is no other choice. Just as there is no
option for retreat. Just as there will be no reserves or reinforcements.
There are only two things that remain. Usthe mad dogs and the
Chechens. Who beats who. Everything is crystal clear.
This means that we have to move forward and only forward. I wait for a
gap between the screeching of the mines and leap forward. A short run

towards the nearest shallow crater. I fall into the mud. I dont care. It
will dry and peel off. I look around. The fighters are changing position
also. Out tanks begin to shoot. ****! Where were you before, you
mongrels. A hundred,, hundred-thirty meters remain to the ****ing bank.
We can see the Chechens better here, but at the same time, they can see
us better as well. But due to the clever fire from our tanks, the enemy
has quieted down. And it was with clever, not accurate fire that our
tankers made the dushmans shut up.
Their impacts fanned out, collapsing the upper floors downwards. We knew
that there are sturdy basements underneath there and that they will be a
problem. I breathed easier. Well sort the basements out as long as we
can get to them. Well mop them up then. We have to move forward while
the Chechens are more or less quiet. I was not the only one of this
opinion. The fighters around me were already raising up and running
forward.
There was a rumour in the brigade, that the cash and foreign currency was
not evacuated from the State Bank in time. For this reason there was a
victors ardour in the fighters eyes, as well as a fighting spirits
spark. Although I did not believe that the money was not evacuated, an
avaricious fire was energising my nerves. It would have been good to
amend ones financial standing using these means. A means that is almost
lawful, and therefore forward, only forward. Fear, avarice and ardour,
especially when supported by friendly tank fire is a great moving force.
Everyone wanted to be the first to break into the cash repository. I have
only seen a bank vault in movies. What if there is gold down there? I
smiled at such thoughts, despite being busy with shooting up the second
floor. Theres no gold there. The entire gold reserve of the Union,
Russia, this tiny country Ichkeria is somewhere on the Cayman Islands.
Regardless, the treasure-hunters ardour propels you onwards. And I had
to lay low once again. Despite the fire from our side, the Chechens
continued to snarl back. But your mortar wont get us now, lads. We can
now indulge in some marksmanship. I put the gun up against my cheek. Why
are you so keen to hold onto this bank? Having done some plundering, let
others do the same. Have you forgotten the laws of socialism and
organised crime? Steal the stolen This is poor form, folks! You have to
learn to share. I let off short volleys at the Chechens who occasionally
pop up above the ruins, although more often than not they would stick the
gun above their cover and just fire out into space from above, without
aiming.
Gold fever first seized me in approximately fifth grade. My family
resided in a wonderful river on the Volga river, that had an ancient name
of Kostroma. It was a largely trading city before the Soviets. A lot of
churches. Many still stood in their original state. The first Romanov was
anointed for his throne there. In the Ipatiev Monastery. And the last was
executed at the Ipatiev house in Ekaterinburg. An interesting
coincidence, don t you think? The beginning and the end. Anywayit was a
hot stuffy summertypical for those parts. And it so happened that that
particular summer stashes of gold were being found during various
earthworksgold coins, or some other interesting items. Friends of my
father apparently dug up a bottle of vodka from tsarist times, whilst

excavating a cellar. It was still sealed with wax. Incised royal eagles
on the glass. The label had long rotted away, naturally, but this did not
deter the men. They opened it and drank. They liked it. They said the
vodka was outstanding. I didnt drink yet back then, so this did not
interest me very much. But when my friends dad unearthed a crystal vase
from Peter Is times filled with golden ducats and bought a car with the
resulting government premium, was when we got the fever. We became
thoroughly ill. It was a serious case. We could not think of anything
else. All our thoughts, designs and actions were directed at one thing
searching for treasure.
Where else would treasure be hidden other than in a church? It has been
hammered into us from grade one, that the clergy were vampires. And that
whilst stupefying the people with their opium, they robbed them of their
gold and buried it in the ground in precious cups (something similar is
probably happening right now). Meanwhile, our school was located at the
old Lazarev cemetery. As was good Soviet custom, the cemetery was
destroyeddug up. The little chapel that was located there was demolished
and a school was built on its foundations. There were some additions of
course, but the school stands to this day. It is somewhat symbolic and
very much in the spirit of the Era of Stagnation. To build a school on
the spot where a cemetery chapel had been. And so our group of young
hooligans explored the schools cellar. We discovered a suspicious niche
about a meter square. The niche was bricked up. What may be located there
that had to be bricked up? Treasure, naturally, what else could it be!
We decided to go take it at night. The groundsman was elderly and taken
with the bottle. We told our parents that we were going fishing in the
evening and went treasure-hunting instead. We sawed through the grate on
the cellar window, shaking with fear at every sound. We took out the
frame. Climbed in. We began to break up the brickwork by the light of
hand torches. It was difficult work for five-graders, but taking turns,
we eventually succeeded. Naturally, there was nothing behind it. Only a
stone crucifix. It seems the builders did not have the heart to destroy
an image of Jesus and so they bricked it up, thus avoiding the burden of
sin on their souls and preserving the image intact. Disappointed, we went
home. In the morning however there were militiamen next to the school.
They were photographing something, making notes. It turned out that we
worked underneath the directors office, which contained a safe with
money in it, probably wages. Naturally, we were very frightened of being
found out.
I have not suffered from gold fever since then, but it seems like there
is a relapse currently. It was amusing to observe the course of my own
emotions. But its better that I get gold fever, rather than that fear,
the one that chills the soul and paralyses the will.
This stuffing around in one spot was exhausting. The tanks may have kept
the Chechens trapped, but could not inflict any more damage. To do that,
they would have to aim lower and there was a risk that they could hit us.
We could not move forward, meanwhile, as the Chechens were keeping us
down.

And greed, which replaced cowardice demanded its own. Money, money. Why
the hell does one need patriotism in war? What they need is money.
Whoevers up first gets the slippers. If a soldiers work is that of a
slave, then get somebody that will do this work professionally, skilfully
and with little blood, with few losses. As long as you pay them. These
kids, who learned to fight three weeks ago, the bloody fate of their
fallen and wounded comrades being their education, have nothing but
avarice in their eyes. The spark of avarice, mixed with a lot of fear.
The barrel of my gun was overheating. I switched to the underbarreler
once more, but it did little good. Either we attack head on, or we roll
back, letting our tanks destroy this building completely. Judging by the
burning gazes of my comrades, they really wanted to go forward. Its
doubtful that either a kopek will remain there after yet another tank
barrage. The tankers are simple Russian lads, just like us and they
operate on the principle, if we dont get some, no one gets any, which
is why they wanted to smash up this building down to its foundation, so
that nobody could get to the money. The ardour! What can one say? Gold
rules the world, this axiom is as old as the earth itself.
It was announced over the radio, that an assault from the other side of
the square is imminent. Also good. They promised this the last time
around but nothing materialised and things ended in a shameful retreat.
Well see. The people livened and began listening in to what was
happening. They even reduced the rate of fire. The Chechens on the other
hand took this for hesitation and intensified their fire. Fountains of
dirt began to rise near me. I heard the foul sound of ricocheting
bulletsa sound that makes you instinctively draw your head in, your
spirits to sink into your toes and your glands to flood your blood with
adrenaline. There is a constant excess of it as it is and there is no
need for any additional stimulation.
Swish, swish. Fountains of dirt are again rising up in front of me. ****!
Because of them, I cannot raise my head. I give in and crawl a little bit
back. I begin to return fire. I dont know where they are shooting from,
so I fire at random. I see a Chechen, or more precisely his head pop up
and so I let off a short volley in his direction. It seems to have
disappeared very abruptly after that shot. Thats good!
The sound of an aircraft came form above. What, are they trying to hit us
again? Oh no! Enough. A cold band of fear spreads through me. I contract
into a foetal position. My insides wind into a tight spring. Im ready to
dart off forwards or backwards, anywhere as long as I escape this
terrible thing. I no longer wish to listen to the howling of our bombs
that our own pilots drop on their own people. ****! Its better to be
running again, even if its to the Chechen positions, than to be lying
here and waiting to be torn into a thousand pieces by a direct hit from a
bomb. I dont want to. Thats it, Im ready to set off. Both we and the
Chechens are looking up into the sky. Nobody is cheering yet. Who will
get it? Everyone is still. The planea transport and maybe a bomber is
hovering lazily at a safe altitude and now, having flown off into the
distance a little, begins a sharp dive. Nobody is shooting any more. The
heart is pounding like a rabbits foot. Its hot, very hot. The whole

body is now drenched with sweat. Steam is rising from the head, the face.
Who will it be? Who?
The instinct of self-preservation decrees that I run away from this
terrible place in any direction that I can. Or bury myself in the ground.
I try to think of anything but the plane. Having finished diving, it is
pitching up: either its trying to scare us, or its conducting a
precision drop. Our forward positions were coloured with pink smokes.
Maybe these pilot-murderers will spot our signal and well be delivered
from this terrible fate? I try to distract myself.
I remembered an incident where warrant officer Nikolaev, whilst on leave
went mushroom picking near the firing range. He didnt notice how he
wondered onto the territory of the range itself. Later he described how
he heard the bullets sink into the tree trunks around him. When he
understood what was happening, he began to dig in. A fold-out pocket
knife was all that he had on him. And so, using this knife and ripping up
his nails, in five seconds, he dug a trench which was enough to conceal
him, including the head. He was sitting there and half a meter of
clearance remained on top of him, plus a breastwork of soil he threw out.
He then tied his shirt to the walking stick he was using to prod for
mushrooms, and waved it around until he was spotted. They ceased fire,
ran up to him and pulled him out. Everyone was astounded that a trench
can be dug so quickly. Youll be capable of much more, if you want to
live. Historical fact: during the Great Patriotic a torpedo was propelled
onto a ships desk. A simple sailor grabbed it and threw it overboard,
where it exploded. The ship remained intact. When they asked this sailor
how he managed it, he said that he himself didnt know.
Likewise, during that air raid, I was prepared to display feats of
sprinting and fortification up to three meters deep in case of the
latter.
It seemed, like that plane was deliberately stalling the strike as if
mocking us. One could see volleys of gunfire streaming out towards it.
Many of the bullets were tracers and it was easy to see their paths.
And so, the plane began to dive once more. A dark smudge separated form
its belly and began its descent towards the ground. It didnt look like a
bomb. A parachute deployed and the cargo slowly floated towards the
ground. Where and to whom it went, one could not see as it was behind the
State Bank building. But judging by the elated squeals coming from the
Chechens, one could presume that it went to them. It was a mystery, who
this container was originally meant for. The reconnaissance men told me
before that cargo is being airlifted to the Chechens. I did not believe
it at first but now I witnessed it myself. One mans waranothers dough.
The Chechens resumed fire and this is when we heard the cannonade coming
from the other side of the square. If only this meant that our troops
began their assault there? The Chechens stirred. The bastards didnt know
which direction to shoot in. And so we hit them. We hit them with soul,
with enthusiasm and it was good! They darted about like mice in a trap. A
little bit more and this trap will snap shut. Pound, smother the creeps!
My gun came to life in my hands once again. There was panic in Chechen

ranks. They darted about changing positions, intermittently shooting in

our direction and that of their rear.
It was passed down the chain, that the makhra and the paratroopers are
storming the bank from the opposite side. This was San Sanych over the
radio. It was our turn to yell merrily. We rose up and ran. Initially, I
thought that this would be yet another lurch forward, but somehow,
completely spontaneously, the entire brigade began the final storming of
the bank. The Chechens were too slow to note their oversight and did not
immediately react.
Forward, only forward. To battle. Ura! Im running. The practice normally
is to do this in short, careful runs, but not now! The fighters are madly
charging into harms way. The first of them have reached the building
already and its two surviving stairwells. A machine gun opened up from
there. Three or four of our soldiers were cut down. No flackjacket will
help against a machine gun at such short rangeIt wont stop a bullet of
that calibre and velocity. And here I was right in front of that
stairwell. I fell down as I ran, rolled over and fumbled hurriedly for
the grenade bag. I pulled out a grenade. My fingers are not bending as if
made of wood. I tear off my gloves and fling them to the ground. They are
getting in the way. I seems like everything is being done very slowly. I
dont need to look at my gun, Im doing this by touch alone. Doing it
terribly slowly. I peer at the darkness of the stairwell as if bewitched.
Only the muzzle flash of the enemy gun can be seen in there. I can see
how its bullets are mowing down our makhra. How our guys are racing
towards this hole, their bodies bent forward and how the stream of ammo
is crossing out their stomachs, shoulders, legs. Little fountains of red,
bright red blood are issuing out of their wounds and the lads stumble
over to the ground. Some continue forwards due to the force of inertia,
others are stopped in their tracks by the bullet and fall back. One can
see how their head smashes into the dirty asphalt. Their hands
outstretched, the gun flying far off, whilst others clutch theirs and it
fires at their own to its very last bullet. Slowly, very slowly, all of
this happens in from of me. Even slower still, my hands are sending the
grenade down the insatiable throat of the underbarreler. Got it! The
familiar click registers in my synapses indicating that the grenade is
now in place. My eyes track the machine gun volley drifting towards me.
In those places where it does not find prey, it kicks up little fountains
of dirt and dust, of earth, asphalt, metal junk and the occasional spark.
All those melted guns that remained here after the first assault. It
seemed that I could even see the individual bullets that are also slowly
flying through space. I know where they are going. I can feel the machine
gunner and his terrible weapon. I amhim. Soon, in one and a half second,
these heavy bullets will hit my body.

----------CHAPTER 14----------

The grenade is loaded! I leap up onto one knee and fire at the black
aperture in the building, using my right hand (not the left as I should)
to hold the gun. I fire. I dont watch the door, but the stream of
bullets from the machine gun. Only twenty centimetres remain until it
hits me, at which point I hear a dull concussion, the stream stops and
then disappears. I raise my head to see smoke pouring out of the
stairwell. Something is burning in there.
And the world of sounds consumes me once more. Its strange, it seems
that an eternity has passed, not just a few seconds. No point analysing
it now! Youre alive and thats just as well. It wasnt my time. Forward!
Only forward. I leap up to my feet and race towards my stairwell and
although I have to cover no more than twenty meters, I glance in the
direction of the second stairwell. The fighters were lobbing grenades
there, having approached from our side. Get them guys! No mercy to
anyone! Forward! Forward! We burst into the stairwell. The mutilated,
charred corpse of the machine gunner is lying on the floor. His clothes
are alight and stink terribly. The mangled weapon of murder is nearby. My
handywork! I leap over him as I run and which allows me to contemplate my
piece in some detail. My grenade hit right in front of his face.
Literally half a meter away. The head was missing. In is place is some
vague mess of a brownish-red colour. His arms, or more precisely what
remains of them are spread apart. The coat is burning. It reeks of singed
cotton wool.
We burst onto the first level. Its a large enclosure with columns rising
up into the dark ceiling. A mixture of dust and powder fumes is hanging
in the air. Remains of campfires are visible. There is a pile of some
rags in the corner. Where to go? We cannot see properly due to a lack of
illumination and because of all the dust. We start securing the
enclosure. There are already about fifteen of us. More are constantly
arriving.
We quickly walk around, examining the enclosure. Guns at the shoulder,
everyone is tense. Nobody has yet recovered from that sprint. Only heavy
breathing and monosyllabic replicas can be heard. It so happened that I
and three other fighters had to go look behind the counter. We look.
There is something there in the dark. A fighter approaches it carefully,
pointing his gun. He touches it with the tip of his boot. Then he bends
down and turns it over. Its dark. Its very dark. Its difficult to
breathe because of the dust, the stench and the smoke.
-What is it? - I cant contain myself any more. - But quickly, there is
no time.
-Ours, - the fighter answers as he returns.
-Who is it?
-Hes one of ours. But its dark, I cant see.
-Alive?
-Long dead. Probably from the first assault.
-Alright, lets go. Well remove him later.
More and more people are arriving. There is yelling and shouting. Outside
and above us, the shooting is getting more and more fierce. Russian mat
and shouts are mixing with the throaty Chechen yells. Its no longer
possible to tell who it is and what it is that they are shouting.
Everything simply blends into a single cry. The thick walls are muffling

the sounds of gunfire, but it is now dense enough to painfully assault

the ear. The Chechens know that the path for retreat is cut and are
therefore fighting even more fiercely. Thats right, you ****ing
mongrels, we wont take you alive!
Suddenly there was gunfire. Somewhere here, very close and a crowd pours
in from the left wing of the building. There is shouting and the stomping
of feet. They are swearing with no accent. Our guys!!! That means that
they got through also! We are not alone. Hold on, you Chechens, were
going to come up there now with this whole mob and start killing you! We
are excited, we walk, we run towards each other. We are shouting merrily.
-Friendlies!
-Dont shoot, guys! Friendlies!
-Good health, makhra!
-Ura! Friendlies!
-What took you so long!
Nobody waits for response. They are simply talking. There are no officers
or soldiers now. We greet one another, embrace and kiss. Our guys! Our
makhra, our paratroopers. That word ours is rolling off our tongues!
I can repeat it silently and aloud again and again. We step back. More
and more are arriving. These are paratroopers, as well as makhra
unknown to us. An uplifting mood pervades all present:
-The Chechens are ****ing finished!
-This time, for sure!
-Have you heard about how we got smashed here during the first assault?
-Weve heard yeah!
-You heard. Why didnt you come to our aid?
-There was no order.
-Well take this bank now and divide the money in half.
-How else?
That was the sort of talk about. Nobody hurried upstairs. There were
fighters positioned by the stairwells, who kept up fire to chase the
Chechens back up. Well go up there in a moment and smash those mongrels
up. Let them rage up there. Everyone was in a warm, lyrical mood. Many
lit up, adding tobacco smoke to the pervading aroma. Some began searching
for their countrymen. Some were simply discussing what has been done
already and the upcoming assault on Dudaevs Palace. It was as if the
bank was already old business. Many joked about how they will divide up
the gold that is hidden in the basement.
There was a terrible noise. It was as though the ceiling fell on us.
Immediately, there were the sounds of screaming. A few seconds later
another explosion. We cannot see a thing. The air is full of suspended
dust. Only the cries and moans of the wounded can be heard. There is a
gaping hole in the ceiling over the left corner. What happened? The ears
ring. The Chechens yelling is louder. The gunfire intensifies. Somebody
had demolished a wall. Maybe some tanker hit it? Its doubtful. A shell
cannot do such a thing. That means that the Chechens mined it, and using
such means they decided to make a mass grave for us. They waited until
more of us pour in here and then blew us up. You mongrels, creeps, you
****ing bitches! Ive had enough of their perverted eastern psyche! I
went nearer to the collapsed corner. The dust and smoke are clogging my
lungs. Everyone is coughing.

A whole slab has collapsed. No less than ten people ended up under it.
Many were simply crushed. Their heads, their abdomens torn, viscera
squeezed out. Many meters of bluish-whitish intestines dragging through
the dirt and dust after their owners, as they were being carried out of
the pileup. Some had amputated limbs. Crushed hands, arms and feet still
dressed in their boots were lying underfoot. The living were wandering
about as if asleep, kicking the body parts of their comrades. One fighter
was bent over a body trying to tuck the intestines back in. It wasnt
working. They were pouring out like dough. Having tired of this exercise,
het pulled out a knife and cut off the protruding bits and shoved them
into the body. When he pulled his hand out, they were covered in blood,
bile and something else, slimy and porridge-like. The fighter gingerly
wiped his hands on the corpses coat. With some difficulty, I contained a
bout of vomiting.
The wounded were sitting nearby. They were being bandaged. Two were
missing arms. One of them was smoking with his good hand and was
enquiring of those present keenly: Theyll sew my arms back on, right?
Dont be silent guys, its true that they can sew them back on?! The
guys turned away ashamedly and were silent.
On one fighter, they were bandaging, tourniquetting a leg stump. A
starkly white piece of bone was protruding from that leg and crimsonblack blood was streaming along it. The leg was already tied up in
several places, but the blood continued to gush out.
Somebody was screaming desperately, somebody was swearing angrily.
Somebody was loudly chanting something akin to a prayer. Three or four
people, it was hard to tell who, because of the dust, were yelling into
their radios, interfering with one another:
-We got caught under falling debris!
-We have dead and wounded!
-Go to hell with your two and three-hundreds! I said dead and wounded!
-I dont know how many of ours. Everyone heres ours!
-I dont know!
-Medics!
-We need medics, right now!
-Some are seriously wounded. We cant carry them out by hand!
-Yes! Bring the vehicles over!
-Knock the Chechens out?
Not a minute had passed since the blast as all the casualties were pulled
out. Some remained under there, but there was no getting them out without
a crane. No more remained alive under that awful concrete slab.
Everyone knew that because of the Chechens on the second floor and the
roof we wont be able to bring over the vehicles for evacuating the dead
and wounded. We had to chase them out of there. And again there were
shouts:
-To battle!
-Lets hit those bastards!
-Ill chop a hundred of them up into cabbage for this blast!
-Ura! To battle!
-Forward!
-Upstairs!

There was no single command or commander. Everyone ran toward the one
stairwell leading up to the second floor. Screams and curses could be
heard issuing from up there. It was impossible to tell what exactly the
Chechens were shouting. The first to arrive began shooting up out of
their underbarrelers. The sound of exploding grenades bounced around the
enclosure, painfully whipping at the eardrums. Due to the narrowness of
the passage, the rest of the men had to simply stand there and wait for
their turn. And soon the fighters at the front made another shot using
their underbarrelers and stepped upwards. A stepfire, then another two
steps and fire again. And then they simply ran firing in front of
themselves. They shoved one another, prodding those ahead of them with
their magazines, they all lurched towards the second floor, the remains
of the third and the roof. I estimated that below us at least six hundred
people had gathered. I was afraid that the stairs would not carry such
weight and collapse. But they didnt.
I am running as part of a dense crowd. Im prodding the guy ahead of me
painfully with my gun. The guy behind me is doing likewise to me. Then
somebody kicked me in the ass to hurry me up. Grenade blasts and
automatic gunfire can already be heard coming from above. Forward!
Forward! What is this fat ass in front of me that is moving along so
slowly? Go forward, you! Quicker, quicker! Cant you, miscreant move your
feet? With some difficulty I contain the urge to poke him onwards with my
knife.
And so we pass the first landing. Forward. Forward!. What is it that is
so soft under my feet? I look down. The remains of a Chechen. At least a
hundred people has already walked over them. My feet are sliding in
something slippery and sticky. No use thinking about how this used to be
a person. Forward! Upward! Was it a person? No, it was a dukh. And that
says it all! There is nothing to discuss here. Forward! How Im fed up
with that ass! Move faster! You cant? Prod the one ahead of you forward.
Youre not prodding hard enough! Prod harder! You mongrel tribe! Theyll
finish off all the Chechens by the time we get there.
Anger and rage are suffocating me. Im not listening to anyone. Everyone
keeps saying that we have to ascend quickly. Im angry at the fat ass,
that cannot move fast enough in front of me, angry at that idiot thats
constantly prodding me in the back. Cant he see that I cannot move any
faster because of some fatty in front of me? I know that Im not thin
either, but had he seen the tub of lard in front of me, I would look like
a ballerina in comparison.
And now we can see the roof. The tempo quickens. Everyone runs over the
steps littered with debris. It seems my feet are about to loose grip and
I will fall. ****! Im not going to fall. I clench my teeth and lean
forward. Forward! I burst out onto the roof. I turn to the right. Some
fighters are holed up over therethey cant smoke out some Chechens dug
in on the third floor. Whereas the second floor is almost intact, only a
corner of the third floor remains. But the roof is almost all still
there. It hangs seven meters above us like a portico. A number of
Chechens have taken cover on the remaining corner of the third floor. The
rest have climbed onto the roof. Together they were in position above us
and were not sparing ammo or grenades for hosing us down. Some of our

dead and wounded were already being dragged away. And here a body of a
Chechen fell from above. Nobody bothered with him, they just kicked him
away so that he does not get in the way.
The Chechen positions were as safe from our fire as were our positions
from theirs. We were hosing the adversary down with lead as thoroughly as
we could, but with no result. My entire being thirsted for vengeance. I
went up to the fighters:
-Whos got explosives?
-I dont know.
-Whos got explosives?! - I shouted, trying to cover the noise of battle.
Somebody brought over about fifty grams of plastite. Not enough. I called
over our brigades radioman:
-Get them on the air, tell them to bring a kilo of plastite and electrodetonators. Understand?
-Understood! - the fighter began to nod his head and grinned, baring his
teeth.
-Dont dry your teeth, get on the air!
-Sir, yes sir!
The anger was not subsiding. It demanded release. The image of crushed
bodies loomed in front of me. I put up my gun and let off an upwards
volley. From the soul. We have to chase them off from the edge somehow,
otherwise we wont be able to place the explosives. I briefly explained
my plan to those near me. They understood and intensified their fire
using grenades and Mukha launchers, which seemed to help. They rolled
back, away from the edge. Take that!
And this is when our brigade sappers appeared. They carried with them a
large chunk of yellowish plastite, detonators and wire. The fun is about
to begin!
-Guys! Dont overdo it or youll collapse the entire building with us in
it!
-Dont worry!
-It wont be much here. Well be picking up the Chechens like ripe apples
in a second.
-Lets roast that cattle!
-Its a shame we dont have a flamethrower!
-Once more, guys, lets chase them away from the edge!
-Go! Fire!
And everyone began to shoot up the Chechens with renewed vigour. The
bullets ricocheted off the walls and travelled upwards. A hand grenade
that was thrown up bounced off of something and fell into the square
below. None of our guys were hurt.
-What are you doing, you ****ing mongrel?
-It wasnt on purpose!
-I dont give a **** if it was on purpose or not. Nearly killed me.
Idiot!
-Take an underbarreler grenade, knock it on your heel and then throw.
-Wont it explode in my hands?
-Dont fear, try it!
He tried it. It worked. The others understood what we were intending to
do and began shooting up their Chechens, chasing them away from the
edge. Our sappers worked quickly. Using broad, black masking tape, they
affixed the bricks of explosive to the surviving columns inserted the

detonators with one spare just in case and ran back. And it arrived. The
Judgement Day arrived. Pray to your Allah you bastard tribe. The sapper
affixed the wires to his infernal machine and span the crank. He then
pressed the small black button.
There was a deafening explosion and the brick wall hurtled downwards.
Short, human screams, full of horror rang out as the explosion sounded.
The Chechens met their death underneath those bricks. Thats right. An
eye for an eye! There were still some Chechens on top of the remainder of
the roof. The sappers were working on that as well and were now dragging
their machine into that corner.
-Wont the roof collapse?
-I dont know.
-Lets get out of here.
Orders were issued and the mob lurched backwards and out of that corner.
The crank was quickly spun once more, the button was pressed and again
there was an explosion. The roof tilted slowly and fell, not onto the
second floor, but onto the street. First the Chechens fell out and then
the roof collapsed on top, burying them. They would have fallen about
twelve meters and then the concrete slabs on topGood work. I didnt even
go up to the edge to look. The others went.
-Cant see anything!
-Wait for the dust to settle.
-Dont shoot! There is enough dust as it is.
-What if somebodys left alive?
-You crazy? From that height
-And then about ten tons of rock on top. I doubt it
-Look, its just like with our guys down below.
-Yeah. The guts are out just like then. Had they not blown the ceiling up
above us, they would have met a kinder death.
-****. A dogs death to the dogs. Lets go divide up the money.
-Lets go!
-Lets go divide up the money!
-Everyone gets the same share!
-Youre dreaming. Equal! Ha!
-All that were here to take this shitty bank gets a share.
-And no-one else!
-Let them go to hell!
-Screw those free-loaders!
Lets go to the basement! Quickly! Everyone was seized by the prospect of
getting some. Strangely, those that remained below did not go to plunder
the cellars, even though they were about fifty people, including the
wounded. They stayed put, occasionally shooting down into the basement.
It was dark there, like a sinners soul. They have constructed something
resembling fire brands out of the coats of the dead and wounded. These
were dipped in diesel from the BMP that have driven up and set alight.
There were bodies mutilated by torture, lying on the steps leading to the
dungeon. These were both officers and soldiers. They must have been the
wounded and concussed that fell prisoner during the first assault. Many
had their gaping mouths stuffed with packets of money. Some were gutted
and their abdomens also stuffed with money. A lot of money. But this was

old money. There was a currency reform in Russian in ninety three, but
the old money continued to circulate in the free and independent
Chechnya. Clever bastards. They gave this wrapping paper which had no
power anywhere outside of this shitty hole, to their people whilst
themselves receiving dollars for the oil, guns and drugs. The ****ing
bastards. Although, if you look at it, they were following the
unforgettable example of the Communist Party. Our wooden roubles were
not accepted anywhere back then. I doubt that they are worth anything
anywhere even now.
Everyone was immediately seized by the gold rush. The corpses were taken
outside. The paratroopers and the newly-arrived makhra went back to
their own positions. We remained and went down into the cellars.
The basements of the State Bank of the Independent Republic of Ichkeria
spanned the underside of the entire building. In one spot, the cellar had
two storeys. Lighting our way with improvised torches, we descended
below. We proceeded slowly. The Chechens could have left us with any
number of surprises. Its what they do. The signs of a hurried retreat
were everywhere. Torn-up boxes, spilling 1991-type banknotes all over the
place. Empty and full courier bags. A man walking ahead shouted excitedly
and started rummaging through a box. Everyone came closer. Dollar notes
packed and tied with paper ribbon were protruding from two boxes. By the
dim, dancing light of torches, these two boxes packed full of the coveted
green money, seemed the stuff of unimaginable fortune. Dollars, dollars!
These area life provided for, apartments, cars and good education for
the kids. Dollars, dollars!
It became crowded around the two boxes. Everyone ran up to them, shoving
one another and started grabbing the money taking a packet or two each.
They pulled out individual notes trying to spot the watermark through the
bad light, they crumpled, teased and sniffed them. Dollars! Worth
fighting for! Its like a reward for everything that we endured. A welldeserved reward. No need for either orders or medals. Here is our reward!
Everyone was excited. But here, one soldier exclaimed:
-Guys! The inks runny!
-What! Youre imagining things.
-It is runny! My fingers are green!
-Your fingers are dirty from birth!
-Spit on the banknote and rub, if you dont believe me!
-****. It is runny!
-Do you believe this ****! And here I was dreamingThinking that finally
I have some luck and will be able to live like a human being. Crap! ****!
The ****ing Chechens couldnt leave a couple of cartons of real bucks
behind?
-Mongrels.
-What are we going to do with all this?
-Nothing. Wipe our asses with it.
-What? Our ass?
-Itll go green.
-Burn them then. To hell with them!
-Maybe something can be done? - there was a small voice in the darkness.
-Do it and receive about five years of prison.
-So, were burning them?

-Go ahead, dearie, light it up.

-Lets check, maybe there are a couple of real packets in there?
-Lets check!
And the cartons were torn, the packets picked apart, the banknotes felt
and teased. Just about the only thing we didnt do with them was lick
them. We would have bitten them, like in the past, had that had any
purpose. The packets confirmed as counterfeit were hurled into a common
pile. And the pile of fake dollars slowly lit up from the torch flame.
Slowly, it burned, it smoked and crackled, spreading the stench of burned
paper and ink. There was not a single real dollar note in those boxes.
Its strange, I thought, that some seven, ten years ago, we were
preparing for war with the country whose currency those dollars are. And
now I would be so happy to get my hands on them. So what am I fighting
for here? For dollars? For ideals? For Motherland? I dont know. Bu it is
a known fact that we have already lost the Third World War. We lost it
without entering combat. We were defeated with the aid of this very
dollar. He is our god, our Supreme Commander, it is because of him that
this war began. And our tanks, which could occupy a territory
approximating to that of France did not help. Our rockets, armed with
nuclear warheads did not help either. Our rulers are trying to smuggle
this same dollar abroad. And that means that they no longer need Russia.
The great, mighty and undivided Russia. Having received their share of
the greens, they are ready to depart. They are already educating their
children abroad and here we are bent over double in this cold, damp,
shot-through and wind-scoured Chechnya. Why, o Lord? What have we done to
deserve this?
As we were watching the pile of counterfeit dollars burn through, the
guys brought six sacs of fifty thousand rouble notes. We began to examine
their contents, with a measure of hope, if not the same vigour.
Unfortunately, even a cursory examination revealed that the paper these
fakes were printed on did not stand up to any sort of critique. It was as
if the Chechens could not find anything better than wrapping paper for
printing this money. An yet another piece of our hopes and desires was
hurled onto the bonfire. The fire flared up and burned brighter and
happier.
-Look, our cash burns better than the bucks!
-Of course, theyre wooden!
-Exactlywooden!
-Alright, lets keep moving.
-Lets go see why our air force bombed the local ministry of finance and
why the hell they had to destroy the State Bank.
-What do you mean why? So that they can burn the evidence of their
machinations!
-Have you seen even one single document in this building?
-No. Only blanks.
-Thats right, you didnt. The Chechens have ferried out all the
documents. I dont know if they managed to pull the same trick with the
Ministry of Finance, but it would seem that they will continue to
blackmail our rulers for a long time to come. And were going to keep
having to knock these Chechens out from wherever they are, like the dogs
that we are, so as to procure these documents.
-It seems that way. What is to be done?

-Whos living well these days?

-What is this?
-Money. What else were you expecting to find in a State Bank?
-Precisely. Its money. But, this is old moneyfrom the 1991 reform. What
are we to do with them?
-What do you mean, what? Lets gather them up and use them for firing the
stove. We still have to spend the night in this building. So were going
to warm ourselves by the bonfire made of millions! Have you ever warmed
yourself by the fire of many millions?
-No.
-Me neither.
-I like it!
-Naturally!
Everyone present, liked this idea. The sacks of de-circulated money were
dragged towards the exit. Everyone was now a millionaire, if not a real
one, then at least in pretence. They could afford to warm themselves by a
bonfire fuelled with money. And by the by, one could daydream a little
and distract themselves from reality.
And reality was such that during the taking of the State Bank building,
we lost around fifty people. Dead, wounded and missing. Together with the
first storming of Minutka, the unsuccessful river crossing and the taking
of the bank, it worked out to be about 300 men. A hard price to pay.
There were many unknowns. The location of the new commander, who
abandoned us was unknown. Many fighters were missing and nobody way
trying to find them. There was strength for that, nor the means. We were
madly fatigued. We did not desire anything. There was only one wishto
eat and to go to sleep in warmth.
And though they brought us something to eat, there were difficulties with
the latter. We were brought NATO rations provided by the supply
battalion. Its this small rectangular carton. Inside it were sealed
metal provisions cans, the largest contained meat and vegetables. Then
there was something similar to jelly, chocolate, instant coffee, water
purification tablets, disinfectant napkins and chewing gum. The gum had
two functions. On the one hand it acted as a mouth purifier, on the
other, it contained a substance similar to caffeine, which to somebody
fatigued and tired offered a boost of strength and energy.
We began heating the conserved meat with vegetables on a fire made from
money and pieces of furniture. It emerged that it could be eaten even
cold. The meat was not fatty. The vegetables were tasty. We came to the
conclusion that a wounded soldier will not be able to open a can of our
Spam and will therefore die from hunger. The fighters and officers from
the supply battalion were hanging about.
-Where is such luxury coming from, guys?
-It was directed to Russia as humanitarian aid. By the Germans. And what
remained of this aid was sent to us.
-Our adversary is well-fed!
-What, did you think otherwise?
-Its best not to speak of it.
-Yeah. Did the supply guys bring any spirits?
-They did. Fifty grams to the brother.
-Not much. They could have sent more for the state bank.

-Wait. Well go to the ****ing palace tomorrow and then youll drink your
fill.
-And by the way, how is it there?
-Who knows. Our guys are bustling to and fro. Thats all.
-We have to take something again
-And how did you picture warfare?
-Im fed up!
-Go and hang yourself.
-Go to hell, you.
-Go there yourself.
Four hours after the State Banks takeover, dumb exhaustion took the
place of victorious euphoria. We could see from the roof of the bank that
our troops were trying to break through to the Palace, but were forced to
roll back virtue of massed enemy fire. With the dumb determination of
condemned men, they were being ordered to attack again and again and each
time they retreated from the smoke-shrouded building, leaving the dead
behind upon the square. Everyone realised that tomorrow, we too will have
to go under crossfire. The aviation was high up in the air, occasionally
shooting up the building from their cannons. The few tanks that were
about tried to assist as they could, but with no result yet visible. The
futility of these attempts to storm the building were a depressing sight.
There was a desire for a stiff drink. The annoyance and indignation over
this meaningless slaughter gave way to heavy fatigue. Nothing mattered.
Even the fact that somewhere near-by our comrades are lying dead under
the ruins no longer produced any emotion. One felt completely indifferent
to what was happening. In ones head, ones thoughts rolled slowly over
as though they were large boulders. Yura approached. Judging by his
inflamed eyes and tired countenance, he was not doing too well either. He
sat nearby, or more precisely he collapsed nearby, his back sliding down
against the wall, the rest of the way.
-How are you?
-I dont give a crap, - he waved his hand tiredly.
-Is there anything to drink?
-A little. Lets go hit up the supply men.
-Ive got no strength left. Had they brought it over, that would be
another story. Otherwise
-What are the people doing down in the cellars?
-Plundering the shelves of old money.
-The hell for?
-Thats what I said. Well get enough for kindling and for cards just as
well.
-How are we going for tomorrow? - I asked, lighting up.
-Hell knows. Im tired lately.
-Weve become too old, Yurka, for these games. I am completely
indifferent right now. Come get me with bare hands. I simply dont give a
****.
-I feel the same. Shall we sleep?
-Of course. Only where?
-Lets go to the basement, its cold here. It will get colder at night
and the drafts will get to us.
-Alright, lets go.
We rose slowly, lazily. We dragged our feet, smoking as we went. When we
approached the stairs leading down into the cellar we encountered the
supply and comms men, carrying sacks filled with money.

-What do you need this trash for, guys?

-Itll come in handy about the house! - somebody answered readily.
-Everything will come in handy to them, - I noted tiredly and began
descending into the basement, holding on to the wall with my arm.
-The battlefield belongs to marauders after battle, - Yura replied
philosophically.
He could no longer be seen in the dark, only the light of his cigarette
indicated his presence. Torches flickered up ahead.
-Lets go to the fire and settle there.
-Yeah, theyll finish plundering now and bugger off.
-They wont have time. Theres enough money there to fill ten trucks.
-I dont understand why they need that crap. They should bring over a
pair of cranes and dig the guys out.
-Oh yeah, hold your pocket open wider. These creeps wont be doing any of
that!
-There is an old army anecdote about this. Frontline man Ivan meets
quartermaster Abram after the war. Ivan is covered in wounds, walks on
foot, Abram meanwhile pulls up in a cool foreign car. Ivan asks where
Abrashka got the hot wheels from and Abram repliesDont be jealous, the
whole war I envied you that you had your own tank.
-Yeah, and then theyll be all over the TV, telling tales of how bravely
they fought. Shitty insurgents. ****!
-Just you look how well theyre organised. Some are packing, others are
dragging it to the exit and others stillto the vehicles. Stakhanovites!
-Do you actually give a crap?
-I dont.
-Then lets go and find a quiet, dry corner and sleep.
-Lets. Only, we have to warn this mongrel tribe that they remember to
wake us up when food and drink arrive.
-Hey, you, marauders! Were going to sleep here. So when they bring the
grub, you wake us up, you understand?
-We understand, alright, - the shock troops of the monetary front
replied, stuffing yet another bag with cash.
-Listen, its a hard surface to sleep on, - we were shifting about,
trying to get comfortable on the concrete floor. It was cold, hard and
uncomfortable.
-Lets go get some bags and sleep on those.
-Not a bad idea. Lets go, - we walked up to the shelves and started
scooping up the bags filled with money.
-What, are you ****ed in the head? - the people got nervous.
-Who said that? - Yura and I were looking at these pathetic scoundrels as
two hungry, exhausted wolves would look at a herd of sheep, which dared
make a noise.
Rats! Dirty rats! The light from the inclining torches cast uneven
shadows which distorted features on everybodys dirty faces. There was a
pause. It all boiled down to the fact that we were completely beyond
caring, me and Yura. It was us that put our asses on the line, just a few
hours ago to fight the Chechens. And looking at these newcomers, I did
not see them as people, brother-Slavs, brothers-in arms or makhra. They
were even lower than the Chechens. At least, those fought and died for
something. For their mythical independence, simple freedom, even if this
was freedom to lead a criminal lifestyle. This bitches tribe, that now
stood before us, did not fight the war, they were simply present. I did
not see any reason not to kill them. Not a single motive not to execute

them right there and then. All I needed was a trigger something to set me
off. Just one little thing to make me pull up my gun, which was now
hanging on my shoulder with its barrel downwards, take it off safety and
unload a magazine into this herd of swine. My hands began to itch, so
vividly did I imagine this glorious scene. Silence hung in the air. It
seemed that they sensed our superiority as well as the fact that unlike
our guns, theirs were standing up against the wall being too cumbersome
for present labours. Pistol holsters hung on a couple of people. Ha,
homeboys! To war with a pistol! Id shoot him at least five times, as he
frantically yanks on the clip with his shaking hands. We picked up
another few bags and casually retreated into the darkness. As I walked, I
listened for anybody to say something nasty behind our backs. But no. A
shame. Pity. Rats. ****!

----------CHAPTER 15---------And then I caught myself thinking that by comparing the marauders to the
Chechens, I start respecting the Chechens. I intermittently hate and
respect them. Hmm. One could go completely nuts at this rate!
We approached the chosen spot in silence and began to make ourselves
comfortable. We threw down the sacks of money. Some became the matrass,
somethe pillow. We embraced tightly and heaped the remaining sacks on
top of ourselves. They smelled of money. The smell of ink, sweat, grease,
oil and something else.
-You know Yura, I dont give a **** how much money we have right now
under our asses.
-Me neither. Good night! Hold on, Ill unlace my boots. What about you?
-I have already. Let me sleep. Good night. Do you think these marauders
will do anything nasty?
-Theyre cowards. The worst threat that they can manage is whispering in
the corners. They could also forget to wake us for food. Thats it. To
sleep.
-Night-time in the comms troops.
-And another day has passed, - Yura began an old army joke.
-To hell with it, - I concluded .
And we slept. I was asleep immediately, not moving, simply closed my eyes
and was asleep. I did not dream. There was no war, no battle, simply
darkness. I opened my eyes because somebody was shaking me by the
shoulder. It was dark again. There was a fire-fight, somewhere. I didnt
immediately realise where I was so I quickly clasped my gun. There as was
a voice in the darkness:
-Take it easy, take it easy. Friendlies. You asked to be awoken for
dinner.
-Yura! - I shoved him unapologetically in the side. - Lets go eat.
-What? We just went to sleep.
-What time is it?
-Its already one oclock. Daytime.

-Are you nuts, fighter? What dinner. We ate not so long ago.
-No, no. You slept for a day.
-A day?
-Yeah. I came to rouse you twice, but you didnt get up. I reported,
thinking that you died. A medic came and had a look. Said that you were
sleeping.
-Youre shitting me! Which medic?
-Dont know his surname. Looks like Rosenbaum.
-Probably Zhenka.
-Alright, lets go eat.
We followed the fighter, feeling our way in the dark. Did we really
manage to sleep for twenty four hours? It was hard to believe, but
judging by the churning in my stomach it may have been true. What an
entertaining cinema! Maybe its a prank? At the exit from the basement,
the vision was whipped by bright daylight. The noise of battle was
getting louder. There were officers and soldiers on the first floor of
the bank. They were earing. They greeted us with excited yells: -Good
health, sleepy kingdom!
-You sleep very well, guys!
-Youll sleep through the war at this rate.
At this point we knew that we really did sleep through a whole day. We
approached a warrant officer, who was handing out the NATO rations, took
ours and went off to the side.
-So what do you think Slava?
-Whats there to think. We slept, so we slept. Our nerves are frayed to
the limit as it is. Were exhausted. It a good thing that they didnt
forget about us. They could have simply written us off as combat
casualties. Missing in action. End of story.
-They definitely could have, - Yura confirmed. - They do that.
-And where is San Sanych? - I enquired of an officer of the comms
battalion.
-San Sanych will arrive in an hour. We were being sent to he go help the
troops storming the palace, but we sent them to hell. No commander, no
chief of staff. We wont go anywhere without them.
-Too right, - I nodded. - Any news of the new commander?
-Hes come on air a couple of times, saying he cant get through. The
Chechens are very active in the city and are not letting anyone through
into the square.
-So this means that were in a cauldron.
-In a cauldron, yeah, - the officer confirmed.
-Were not in a cauldron, were in the ass, - Yurka concluded grimly.
-Yura, we ended up there back when we got into to the military academy.
-Thats true, Yurka nodded.
-What else are they saying regarding the assault?
-Were going to go take it. The have been no attacks from our side yet,
whereas the other have already tried, copped it in the teeth and decided
not to try it any more. Reconnaissance have gone to the building already
and the situation there is grim. The Chechens have put up our dead and
wounded into the window frames. There are some from our brigade. Many are
still alive. They are tied to the frames. The Chechens are using them for
cover. -Right. A living shield. The bastards. Yurka was becoming
grimmer.
-So we cant do the tank carousel again.

-What carousel. The only thing to do is attack ourselves. Those mongrel

slinks will finish off our guys.
-They wont. Those prisoners are like their bargaining chip. Their final
insurance.
-Well see. When are they saying were going to attack?
-As soon as San Sanych drives up, well go. Khankala continuously demands
that we go. At first we kept sending them, then stopped answering at all.
-Correct. Let the landlord come, the landlord will sort us out.
-Are the approaches shot-through?
-Everything is out in the open, like on a plate. No way to bring up the
vehicles. One hundred and fifty meters of completely open ground on that
square.
-****!
-Well loose more people.
-Well be spiting blood again.
-Have they retrieved the guys from under that concrete slab?
-No. Nobodys even tried.
-How many of them are there?
-This was clarified. There should be two fighters from the first
battalion.
-Listen, the marauders from the comms and supply battalions were fetching
sacks of money. Where have they taken their treasure?
-They took it to the rear. In general, there was a bit of a hoo-hah here.
You see, whilst we were taking the bank, these folks were smashing up
private garages. They were shooting up the cars, blowing them up. They
looted spare parts for their own cars. The Kulebyakinsfather and son
outdid everyone by taking a mink coat from some woman, who then ran after
the BMP for three blocks. Everyone begged them to return it.
-Did they?
-Of course not.
-****! ****ing insurgents. Warring with women.
-For some its war, for some its dough.
-They also looted some hunting rifles. Only a few carabins, but about
twenty guns.
-How are they planning to register them?
-**** knows. They have some plan.
-Rats are rats even in Africa.
-We should send them ahead of us when we go take the palace with us
acting as the blocking detachment. And like in forty onenot a step
backwards. And then well see how they like a dash between two flames.
-You dreamer. Its more likely that they would be the blocking detachment
behind our backs.
-Yes. The Motherland knows its heroes.
-Man, do you have anything to drink?
-Spirits.
-Treat us.
-Here, - he handed us a hipflask with spirits. Judging by its weight, it
was full.
-Not bad. Ill go find mugs and water.
Yura returned with three glasses and some water. We poured the spirits,
diluting them. The water was murky. We tried to wait for it to settle,
but it was pointless. Hmm, if the eyes dont see it, the stomach wont
suffer. We clinked and drank. Sand crunched on our teeth. The taste was
such as if spirits were added to something rotten. It became warm in the

stomach, nonetheless. All good. We poured a second. The same effect. Its
all good. Red eyes dont go yellow. The worst that can happen is
diarrhoea. We poured off a little spirits into our own hipflasks. We got
some bullets and filled up our half-empty magazines. We also got some
grenades, both for the underbarreler and the hand variety. My own was
lying in my pocket. A talisman of sorts. God willing I wont have to use
it! There was a roar of an engine and the metallic clang of tracks on the
asphalt. Somebody had arrived.
There was a stomping of boots and a familiar voice. San Sanych appeared,
surrounded by other officers. Very little remained of his dandyness. His
collar was black, like it was used to polish boots, he was covered in
soot and like us all was unshaven. His face was covered in small bruises
and scratches probably from flying splinters or glass. His uniform was
torn in many places. It looked like he too had had it tough.
Officers of the staff and brigade administration followed him. Everyone
greeted one another. The brigade lives still. Seryoga Kazatsev was with
them. He approached and we embraced.
-Good health, men!
-Good health, Seryozha, hope youre well, my man.
-How are you doing here?
-Shitty, very shitty.
-He hear Khankala is sending us to storm the Palace, but we are in no
hurry to go.
-We barely made it here form that ****ing Khankala. The Chechens are
laying in ambush everywhere. Almost all approaches to the square are
blocked. There are as many of them as there is mud in autumn. They are
blocking our access here and we are blocking theirs. A layered cake, in
other words.
-What news of the commander?
-The old one or the new one?
-Both.
-All thats known of the old commander is that hes in the Burdenko
hospital in Moskva. He had two operations and seems to be doing OK. Knock
on wood. As for the new one - hes been to Khankala and then he got lost.
He went on the air a few times. And thats all. What news do you have?
-Not much. We took this ****ing bank. No money, or gold. The foreign
currency is all fake. But there is plenty of old money. Paper. The men
from comms and the rear scooped up a whole lot of it and dragged it off
somewhere.
-What do they need that trash for?
-Hell know why they need it, Seryozha.
-Marouders have their own way of thinking. Normal people would not
understand.
-Rats.
-Thats what we said. We went to sleep yesterday with Yura and slept
through an entire day.
-Not to worry, guys, youve had it tough. Are there big losses?
-****ing huge. There are still two guys under that concrete slab. Who
knows when well get them out.
-Hmm, the brigade has been gutted. If not for the paratroopers and the
makhra, we would have remained here forever.
-Were going to go assist them now.

-We got the order for attack from Khankala, but how are we to cross the
square?
-Also, our fighters are standing in the window frames over there, some
dead and some alive. We cant use the tanks or artillery or aviation. So
were going to crawl there ourselves. Its a shitty business. Really
shitty.
-Cant they take it without us?
-They tried. They ran to and fro, like during the first world war and
then rolled back.
-Its our turn to run around now. Whats going to remain of our brigade?
-Whos giving a ****?
-Exactly. No-one but us.
-Have you seen our Pashka?
-I have. Hes alive, the parasite. Hes with the supply men. I told him
that he doesnt dare drink vodka and cognac and to leave your rations
alone. Your cigarettes also. By the way, I brought you some cigarettes.
Not a lot, but its something at least.
-Thank you, my friend. What else are they saying at Khankala?
-Moskva is pressuring for the Palace to be taken as soon as possible.
Dudaev has been declared a criminal. We dont have to take him alive.
-Theyre covering their tracks.
-Sort-outs, ordinary sort-outs.
-Are they not planning to help us over there?
-No, There are no such plans. Sort it out on the spot. Co-ordinate with
neighbours, act according to circumstances. Our general nearly got into a
punch-up with Rolin. They barely managed to pull them apart. Otherwise
there would have been a battle.
-Madhouse.
-I would have wagered on our general. Taller, longer arms, more weight.
-Look, were being summoned to the meeting.
-Lets go.
They were gathering all the officers, who happened to be near-by. Some
were standing, some were sitting on crates, some were simply on the
floor. Some were sitting on sacks of money. Us threewe were standing,
not trying to get through to the front. Everything was clear as it was.
They call up the neighbours now and well go forward. In the best case
scenario, theyll deploy the smokes. If not, then well have to gnaw
asphalt and loose more people. Not many are left any more.
-So men, - San Sanych began, - great work on taking this bank. It cost us
a lot of blood. We lost a lot of good lads here. We are expected to also
help take the Palacethe government building. There is no plan, as
always. There is only one instructionforward! We have no reserves. I
ordered that the supply and comms men provide us with some people, after
which were moving out. Were going to contact our neighbours now,
confirm the time of commencement and then go. If the wind allows, well
deploy a smoke screen. If not, then let the Lord help us. Any questions?
The officers started asking questions. Me, Yurka and Seryoga were already
clear on everything. But how will we deploy the tanks and the BMP?
-Comrade colonel, what about the tanks and BMP? - somebody spoke ahead of
me.
-Well deploy them as the circumstances allow. We all know that our
fighters, our officers are over there, shackled to the window-frames. It
would be good to be able to rescue them. In the very least, nobody wants
to be the cause of their death.

In other words, the decision was made to advance. To advance, no matter

what. Its always the same. Fulfil the objective and if possible,
survive. The objectivefor the Motherland, the party, the government,
survivalfor oneself. God, Im tired. But the last thing I need to do is
to relax. If only, somebody could tell me that this war is necessary that
I am protecting my family. Or if there were guarantees, that in the case
of my death, my son, my wife will not wallow in need. My son would be
guaranteed higher education, and that my wife will have work. And that
they will receive a decent pension to the end of their days. And I know
that instead, they are guaranteed a paupers existence. No-one will help
them and theyll have to make do. One is forced to weigh ones hatred and
desire to fulfil the objective against the prospect of their family
starving on a pittance for the loss of a breadwinner. There were no
illusions that the work will be hard. The situation was made worse by the
fact that the tank carousel cannot be deployed. It saddens the soul.
Its sad and shitty. Not frightening, but exactly thatsad. You know that
there is no escaping this bloody work, but you want to save your guys as
well as keep your own head, or in other words to both get off and retain
your innocence. It would be good to get completely drunk right now.
Perhaps this is similar to how Jesus felt when he was informed of his
fate. At least his bigwig daddy was waiting for him whereas no-one awaits
us there. Although you cannot die twice. So if its written that you are
to perish in this bitches war, then no matter what you try, youll
receive your portion of lead for your mortal coil. Forgive me o Lord if
my thoughts somehow offend you! You must understand: fear, anger, upset
and longing. So help me out.
Yura, Sergej and I walked off to the side to have a smoke. We rose to the
top to look at the square over which we are about to go skipping, like
wounded baboons. A hundred and fifty meters of even, clear and perfectly
shot-through space. The asphalt on the square is pock-marked with craters
from bombs and shells. They are impossible to hide in. They are in the
line of fire from the palace. So we wont hide there. There is only one
hopea speedy advance. Naturally some can create a distraction and other
can advance, but they say, this tactic does not work here. The Chechens
have learned to fight now and unfortunately we think alike.
A small groupfive or six people can probably traverse this ground
unnoticed. But only a blind man will miss four hundred people running
across it, screaming. And there is no hiding in those craters. Its not
good, not good at all.
Some fighters will refuse to move due to fright and well have to spur
them on with our boots. By the way, I dont have a flak jacket. I should
take care of that. I turned to Seryoga:
-Zampolit, is it not your duty to care for the personnel?
-What do you want, you scoundrel? - Seryoga became alert.
-What do you mean what? I need a flak jacket. Where can I get one?
-Theres one underfoot in the BMP that I rode here. Must be idiots luck.
-Probably got holes in it?
-I didnt check. Better a holy one than none at all.
-Well have to stay together.
-We have no choice.

-Seryoga, you always promise that youll be near us, yet at the last
moment, you always disappear somewhere.
-That happens.
-Happens. Youre dodging it probably, arent you?
-Me? Dodging?!
-What, you say you dont? - we started stirring Seryoga up. Hes a good
lad and despite the age difference we treated him on our own level.
-But I - Sergej was getting angry, - do you remember at Severny?
-We remember, Sergej, we remember. Were joking, dont get upset.
-Were joking, Seryoga. Wed better go and look the flak jacket over.
There is no desire to go attack naked again. It may not save you, but
it warms the soul somewhat and even guards you from stray shrapnel.
-It may guard you from shrapnel, but not from a direct hit.
-I know, we tried it ourselves and out of the five-seven plates, only one
survives, the restto shreds.
In this manner, discussing the advantages of various types of flak
jackets, we went up to the three BMP that brought San Sanych and his
entourage. Seryoga knocked on the armour with his gun. A soldiers mug
appeared. Judging by its crumpled state, he was sleeping.
-Youll sleep through gods kingdom, warrior! - Seryoga greeted him, Theres a flak jacket in there, lying in the personnel compartment, I
used it to sit on when I was up on the armour. Whose is it?
-No-ones, - the fighter was beginning to awake.
-Lend it to the captain, otherwise hell have to go to the Palace
naked.
-Hang on, - the fighter leapt down onto the ground opened the personnel
hatch, fumbled around and extracted the flak jacked.
It was dirty, oily and burned through, and in several places, marred with
brown stains, that looked like blood. But otherwise, it looked to be in
one piece.
-Where did it come from? - I asked the soldier.
-During the assault on Severny, we were transporting a wounded man.
Its left over from him.
-Where was he wounded?
-His head. Which is where the stains are from. The jacket is otherwise
intact. Dirty, but intact. I wore it myself a couple of times. I lost
mine somewhere, so I got around in this one, until I procured a Kevlar
one. The fighter proudly displayed a Kevlar flak jacket. Judging by the
workmanship, it was foreign-made. -Wheres this from?
-A trophy.
-Good work! - we admired the beautiful, light jacket.
-Any hits?
-Only shrapnel.
-And how is it?
-Good. It took it.v -And what about bullets?
-God forbid. For now.
-Ive heard it breaks the ribs quite a bit.
-Havent tried it.
-Trade?
-No. A trophy. Got it myself.
-Good work. And thank you for this one, - I began to affix the flak
jacket over my coat. Seryoga and Yura helped me.
I couldnt order the fighter to give me his trophy. I could not simply
take it form him eiyher. It was his. He risked his life to procure it.

His pride. An object of quiet envy from his comrades. I cant be a

bastard and just slyly take it. Its not good form.
I put on the flak jacket. It fitted well. It didnt stick out or hang
through and didnt interfere with movement. We lit up again. It was
strange. Only a flimsy building of the State Bank separated us form the
Palace, yet it felt like a thousand kilometres.
-Do you know what they call us at Khankala? - Seryoga asked.
-Who exactly?
-All of us, collectively. The army group.
-Whats that?
-Angel-annihilators. Some sort of morose seal thats meant to give an
aura of divinity to our infernal mission.
-They should call us kamikaze morons instead.
-Exactly.
-Well-said.
-Are the fighters still riding the ejection seats over there?
-They are. There is no shortage of idiots yet. They get into the pilots
seat and pull the ejection lever, triggering the gunpowder accelerators.
And thats it. One thought hed be claver and pull the lever without
getting into the seat. Tore off his arm.
-Weve heard about that one several times. Anything new happen?
-No. I havent heard about any new incidents.
-Look theyre waving to us.
-Looks like they decided to commence the advance. And by the way, why do
you, officers of the staff not participate in the planning of the
operation?
-What operation, Sergej?
-Its pure suicide.
-There is no plan. Its like the Civil War again. Forward and thats it.
And thats the operation. There is no need to graduate from an academy
for this. Its like Gaidar. To capture as much of the enemy as possible.
And send them under the ice. Have you read a book by Soloukhin called
Salt Lake?
-I havent.
-I recommend it. Have a read about how our former vice premiers granddad
drowned his enemies under the ice. If you dont go loopy from it, then
youll know that all is well and that you are already insane.
-I think that if I ever get out of this hell, there will be nothing left
that can amaze or scare me.
-Youre probably right. Well lets go have a listen.
-Lets go.
-Look, somebody put up the red flag on the State Banks roof, - I was
surprised, the red standard was waving in the breeze above the roof.
-Have you not seen it yet?
-No, as we explained, we have slept for a day.
-Goof effort, guys.
-What did you think! But that flagits just like above the Reichstag.
-Yes.
-And by the way, why not the Russian flag?
-Firstly, there simply arent any in stock. Secondly, the Russian tricolour has not yet attained the same symbolic significance for the
soldiers, having not been the standard of many victories and thirdly the
lads raised up on the heroics of the Great Patriotic war want to

associate with the victories of their forefathers. And their forefathers

fought under the red flag.
-Youre right. This has nothing to do with communist ideology.
-Alright, lets have a listen to what lies ahead of us.
-Nothing good, you can be assured of that.
-You are right as always. Lets go.
We re-entered the building. There were officers gathered around San
Sanych, who was busy explaining something. The gist of the operation has
not changed, except that our neighbours who got their asses kicked
already, proposed that we set out first, distract the enemy after which
time they will join us. San Sanych sent them far away. His proposal
sounded like this:
-The plan is that we begin to advance in an hour. Everyone goes, without
exception. Everyone who can hold a gun. All the supply men, sappers,
comms, tank repair detail and their crews. Ill go too. If we remain
there-San Sanych paused, then there will be no need for supply and comms
men. Just like in the communist song: This is our final and decisive
battle Questions?
-How are we going to go, one wave?
-Yeah, there is no point dividing our numbers. They are not large, as it
is.
-Maybe we go at night?
-Theyll deploy illumination and then it will be worse for us as they
will be in the darkness.
-Smokescreen?
-The wind is in our face at the moment. If it changes then we can try.
Right now, there is no point. And please remember that our lads are their
in the window-frames.
-Thats the bad thing. Otherwise we could have simply buried the Chechens
under the rubble of their own building, but now we have to *****-foot
around.
-Theyll perish anyway! - some young platoon commander exclaimed. Prebattle hystericsa common sight.
-What if you were in their place, how would it be then? - Seryoga asked.
-I would have shot myself.
-Yeah, with your hands bound. Some hero. How will you live with yourself
after, knowing that the lads died because of you?
-Alright, well quarrel elsewhere, - San Sanych interrupted.
Approximately an hour for preparations and then forward. Everyones
dismissed.
We dispersed to the corners of the building. Some went to the roof to
once more look over the square over which they will have to dash in an
hours time. Some became hysterical, nervous, feverishly scribbling
litters home in which they professed their love to their wives and told
their children to be good. Who knows, maybe this letter will reach home
together with the man who wrote it. Included in the package.
Many discussed where each detachment will go. Nobody wanted to go over
the shell craters with his men, where there was no cover from Chechen
fire. In the end it was decided to cast lots. The matches decided who was
to go to certain death and who was to get a reprieve. Chance and God
directed these matches. Fate. Kysmet. To each their own.

Neither I nor Yurka were in a mood to argue, or write letters. I wanted

to simply gather my thoughts, calm down. To rest morally. To drink fifty
grams was also an idea, but when I remembered the taste of diluted
spirits, the desire to drink disappeared. Plus the stomach may react
adversely. We went outside, lay down on the stones and smoked silently,
watching the clouds. ****, how little a man needs for happiness. A normal
family, a job to do, this sky, nature. There is no need to chase this
phantom of happinessthese banknotes. They create nothing but problems.
If you, knock on wood, end up in prison, because of some idiot, or
because of money, then you will be temporarily deprived of this beauty,
this joy. On the other hand, if you were in a few minutes, or meters to
be killed, you will be forever deprived of the pleasure to look upon
nature. And you will become a part of it yourself.
The clouds sailed across the blue winter sky, gracefully carrying their
voluptuous forms towards the North. To Russia. The Motherland. And a
thousand years ago they carried forth, just like that and will do the
same in a thousand years more. And nobody will remember it. The most
interesting thing is that I do not pity myself. I pity only that I had
not the time to do much. Although taken from another perspective, I have
already left a small imprint on this earth. I have fulfilled half my
mission. The most important thing is my son. The continuation of my
bloodline, my family name. All that remains is to make a human being out
of him. But that is the will of God. Even in the case of my death, my son
will not be ashamed of his father who perished and did not cower. Who did
not desert. The Lord keep him and me also, if possible.
A fighter ran out of the building and shouted that everyone be ready. We
went to our detachments, having decided that well go with the remains of
the second battalion. They have carried us through that inferno and so we
should continue with them. The first battalion was located to our right.
The chief of its staff Vanya Ilin waved to me. I waved also.
-Slava, come with us!
-No, Ivan, one doesnt change horses at the ford.
-As you wish. Good luck!
-Thank you. Good luck to you too!
The closer I am to that square, the faster does the blood course through
my veins. And now Im hot. I took off my gloves and shoved them
underneath the flak jacket. I checked my gun and took it off safety. I
placed a round into the chamber. Checked if the lucky grenade is in its
place. I crossed myself looking up into the sky. The clouds were where
they should be, unhurriedly continuing their journey. Its hot. I moved
the black helmet guard onto the back of my head. The blood rages in my
body. The taste of blood appeared in my mouth. The adrenaline began its
games again. Its important that our father-commanders dont hold us up
too long, or the adrenaline will burn up all our energy and well become
like squeezed lemons. We know this from experience. And finally the
command 555 sounds over the radio.
Attack. Attack. Attack. Forward, go, go you mad dogs! And we ran. Leaping
out from under the cover of the State Bank building. And here they are
the one hundred and fifty meters of the square. Everything is out in the
open, as if on a plate. There is no resting place, nowhere to hide. The
only path is forward. The Chechens open fire almost immediately. It was

weak at first, but soon became stronger and gathered momentum. Having not
covered even fifteen meters we had to start rolling and proceed forwards
in small running dashes. We interfered with one another as we did this,
colliding, falling to the ground and cursing each other.
It was the second battalion that due to the whims of fate had to run
across the centre of the square. Which was precisely that spot that was
the most heavily dug up, cratered and shot-through.
Unable to properly see, our eyes drenched in sweat. Roll and roll again.
Get as far away from the little fountains that rise up next to my head.
Face in the mud, the rocks and stones. Im not scared. Instinctively, I
want to climb into a crater. But I shouldnt. Judging by the bullet marks
there, the enemy have trained their guns on these pretty well. The
underbarreler grenade sack is swinging about, getting in the way. It
smashes on the ground as I roll about. Last thing I need now is for it to
detonate and tear me into pieces. Not only myself, but several people
around me. I have to be more careful.
This is probably far away enough. I start picking my target whilst trying
to catch my breath.
I didnt notice this from the State Bank, but having run and rolled
forward about seventy meters, I could now plainly see that there were men
in the windows of the Palace, their hands tied or nailed to the frames.
Our men, Russians, Slavs. The dead were naked and their yellow bodies
hung limply, hand raised and kneed bent. Some reached the windowsill and
it looked like they were frozen in silent prayerknees bent and hands
thrust up towards the sky. Others were as if suspended in the air, others
still hung their feet into or out of the windows, their bound hands
preventing their bodies from tumbling downwards.
Many were still alive. They were screaming, crying. Some were screaming
to be shot and relieved of their torment. Others were begging to be
rescued. The Chechens were shooting at us using the bodies of the living
and the dead as cover. Very few did not have a body of a Russian soldier
or officer in front of them. To my horror, I suddenly knew that I will be
unable to fire because I cannot be sure not to hit my own. Dead or alive.
I CANNOT!
Snipers were concealed behind our brothers bodies. They made almost no
effort to hide themselves and their sights glinted in the sunlight. It
was impossible to blow that scum apart using the underbarreler. Nothing
was possible! Nothing!
Only forward, forward, under a hurricane of fire and only there, when we
reach them can we smoke those scoundrels out. The German fascists did not
think of using concentration camp inmates as human shields. But these
folk
The living, exhausted and maimed by beating, their swollen faces cracked
from wind and frost were screaming. Some were simply moaning, others
opened their mouths soundlessly. This produced a bouquet of conflicting
emotions. There was a lump in my throat. I wanted to cry out loud like a

child, unashamed of my tears. To cry for those who were now suffering
blamelessly, because you could do nothing to help them. Why, God, why?
Why are they made to suffer like this? They are all yesterdays
schoolboys. Six to twelve months ago they were sitting behind school
desks, writing notes to schoolgirls and smoking sneakily in stairwells.
They have done nothing!
Why God, do you not punish those that sent them to this death? Why?
Answer! What have they done? Is it only that they had the misfortune to
be born in Russia?
Instead of running forward, whilst Im not being shot at, I lowered my
gun onto my arm and started examining the faces and bodies of those men
who now served as living shields to the Chechens.
Many seemed familiar. Many were definitely known to me. I may not have
known their names, or where they were from, having simply seen them
before in the brigades ranks. Tears were streaming out of my eyes due to
the stress or for some other reason. It was hard to breathe. The lump
remained in my throat, it was stuffy and despite the cold, I tore off the
helmet guard. On the third floor of the Palace, I recognised a fighter
beside whom I lay during the first assault. He was dead, naked to the
waist, his legs were hanging outside of the building and his arms were
nailed to the window frame. It was as if he was thrown out of that window
but held on with the last of his strength. To the right of him was dark
blob. It was a Chechen face.

----------CHAPTER 16---------I put up my gun, switched it to single fire and began to aim. I took a
long time to line up this abhorrent face, the face of my enemy. He was
shooting at the square, arduous, seized by the heat of battle. He doesnt
need a flak jacket. The dead body of my comrade was the best type of
cover for him. He was shooting in volleys, using that body as cover,
nailing fresh victims to the cold mud. More of my comrades. The gun was
lurching in my hands. The blood raged and was interfering with my aim.
The sweat poured into my eyes and prevented me from seeing properly.
Breathe in, hold, breathe out slowly. Breathe in, hold, breathe out
slowly. I slowly train the gun on the target. I line up that face with
the gap in the iron sight, I hold my breath as I press the trigger. My
finger reaches the limit and continues to press evenly and gently. I
dont even hear the gun fire, so consumed am I with the taskto KILL. I
simply feel the recoil in my shoulder. The rounds casing clinks on the
ground near me. My eyes continued to peer at the target. Perhaps I was
looking too hard, as I did not see the Chechen fall. But he did not reappear. I was sure that he was no more. You cannot hide behind the dead
to kill the living. You cant!

And only then did I return to the real world. Many were already far ahead
of meno more than ten meters from the Palace walls. A little more and
they will reach the dead zone, which is a stretch of ground where the
enemy cannot hit us. Some Chechens hang out of the windows in order to
shoot at us. At the very same moment, we are trying to shoot up the
Chechens. Some are wounded and are tumbling down. Some are screaming
loudly, some are falling silently. A few fall back inside the building.
Then the Chechens started to lob grenades at us.
Some of our lads made it to the Palace walls and hid there, some remained
where they were. The others faltered and ran back. As they ran past those
of us in position on the dirt, their eyes bulging, it seemed that they
were blind men. Their mouths gaping, trying to compensate for a lack of
oxygen. Its a panic. The Chechens are shooting at their backs and
gradually their fire is starting to fall on us. The wounded scream and
moan, plead for help. All of this assaults the hearing, pressing on the
eardrums. The cold stream of fear creeps into the soul. It takes a huge
amount of effort to remain on the ground. Im no hero, I simply remember
what this is like, this panic that seizes every body cell and synapse of
the brain and then there is only one urgeto run, run somewhere, without
picking the way. Only one thingrun, hide, conceal oneself.
I clench my teeth until they crack and begin to dig the ground using some
sort of a scorched piece of metal. I pierce the soil as deeply as I can
and throw it in front of me. I pierce it again and again cast it in front
of me. Its not going to work, you bastards. Well hold on here by the
skin of our teeth, with our very fingernails well hold on and take this
square. And then youll answer for those lads hanging in the windows now.
For each one, you will answer personally.
I made this decision somehow naturally, spontaneously. I didnt think
that maybe Im the only one thats like a mole, digging up the frozen
soil on this square. This is my war and I have my own score to settle. My
own score with the war, those who started it and those who are killing
our soldiers and officers.
Raising my head I looked to see if the Chechens were going to counterattack. It didnt seem to be the plan. They merely shouted something and
swung the corpses of our soldiers around. Those stiff, frozen bodies
knocked on the walls with a repetitive dull sound. Some Chechens fired
aimlessly in our direction. They shouted insults in Russian as well is in
their throaty language. They grimaced. They cut the skin of those few
prisoners that were still alive. They screamed in pain, some clenched
their teeth trying to remain silent, but those were few.
Would you, the reader manage to endure two or three days suspended in the
frost, as you are being cut up with a knife? Being all the while used as
a cover against your friends as they attack? Some lost consciousness,
which temporarily spared them from meaningless torments. So you hang
there, knowing full well that you are not going to survive this and you
watch as your saviours perish or fall captive as they run to your aid,
because they are afraid to shoot and hit you. And you have very little
choice but to die or to be killed, or go insane. In this case death would
be a release, a cure. But in the back of your mind remains a crazy

thought. What if you get lucky? What if they manage to save you after
all?
So, have a think about it, reader. Are you responsible for the deaths of
those lads, who met with such terrible, painful end? I think that you
are. That you bear a full measure of responsibility virtue of apathy,
your indifference to what is happening.
I dont wish this upon you, but imagine for a moment that in a few years
a new war begins. And you or your son, your brother, fianc, uncle,
cousin have to go fight in this meaningless war. What will you say?
Thats right, nothing. Youll whisper in your kitchen, discussing the
latest news, letters, gossip. And that is all. Because the in the seventy
years of the system you have been turned into a wordless creature that is
only capable of screaming when its being slices up but incapable of
coming to the aid of their neighbour. And so youll live out your life on
your knees and die in that same position. Help somebody and somebody will
help you. It is in life as it is in war. If you help somebody, then you
will not be betrayed or sold out. And you destroy the other herd as is
appropriate for being a part of you own, eat them up. And what would be
better is if we were to forget our differences, unite. But thats utopia.
Lately the Russian people are inclined towards self-destruction, selfmortification and the destruction of those near them. Their native
element is anarchy and rebellion. But they could not rebel against the
slaughter of their sons in Chechnya.
The Russian people are weak. His majesty, the Dollar has enslaved them
whole, including their souls. That imperceptible Russian soul, can simply
be bought. To shut it up in the very least. And a silenced, sold out soul
will never speak up. There should be no illusions regarding our so called
inconceivable Russian soul. We are bought and sold, just like anyone. The
only difference being that we move in bulk and at very low prices. Lower
than cost.
The only ones left to cry over the Russian soul are cheap intellectuals,
who in the perestroika years were the first to welcome the coming of
the dollar. And they named the first burglars in Russia no less than
buddy, genius and so forth. The first flames of ethnic conflict were
flaring up then, but they pretended that it was none of their concern.
When Russians were being murdered here, in Chechnya, those gentlemen were
appearing at various presentations, or as they are commonly known
freebies and pronounced flattering toasts to criminal authorities. And
whats the bet that they are hanging out at some banquet now, celebrating
the opening of some new joint venture, babbling something about the
rebirth of the great Russia.
They were not to be seen at the head of the columns protesting the war.
They did not organise committees for the gathering of humanitarian aid.
And this was not the year nineteen sixty eight. This was ninety four.
Thats it, milords. End of the line. Weve arrived. In the best case
scenario, our country will be divided up by the civilized world.
Peacefully, theyll divided it up into bite-sized portions like a wedding

cake. Just as it should be. The best piece of caketo the most
distinguished and important guest. Smaller pieces to the rest. Everything
will be according to protocol. And there will be the United Nations and
more inaugural presentations. Everyone will get their share. Everyone,
except the Russian people. Everyone will be sold out. In this case as
payback for our dues.
Another possibility is the banana republic. Dirt-cheap labour and a
thousandfold profit. The only export: raw materials. Nothing is produced,
everything is imported from more advanced countries. Including glass
beads for the natives.
And the most frightening prospect is that of another civil war. With all
of the outlying consequences. In all cases, you, the reader are not
getting a cent of it. With the only difference being that the lads that
are now face down in the dirt around me will be ripping open your bellies
and making you watch the torments of your wives, daughters, sisters and
girlfriends. Not because of savagery, but out of a simple desire for
revenge. That you were silent, having shoved your tongue betweenyour
teeth, meanwhile the Chechens made us watch the torments of our comrades.
Thats how it is, dear reader. Think about it.
The fighters around me also dug through the frozen soil, gnawing at the
stiff asphalt. Some used the craters to dig out their fox holes. The
Chechens realised, that unlike the previous attackers we were not
planning on rolling back and intensified their fire. Little fountains of
mud once again began to rise around me, stirring up dirt, dust and the
slushy snow. This incurred the release of another dose of adrenaline and
setting the gun aside, I set about digging faster.
Faster, faster. My fingers are bloody already, my nails broken off almost
down to the flesh. But I feel no pain, only the need to dig in and then
well get you, you creeps. We did not panic when we were laying under
mortar fire, only anger at the Chechens. A rage as big as the Universe.
Sweat is already pouring off my coat, streaming down my face. I felt that
my underwear and the afghanka are completely soaked in sweat. The last
thing I need is to perish from the cold! Faster! And so my head is
already concealed in the shallow pit. Bu the fact that I can no longer
see the adversary does not mean that they cannot see me. And so I have to
dig deeper and deeper. Its good that were not at war back in Siberia.
The soil freezes right through over there.
I recalled that when I was serving in Moldavia, I often had to answer
questions to the tune, is it true that the dead are not buried during
the winter in Siberia? Hows that? The soil gets frozen through too
deep, and so they cant dig a grave. So I kept having to describe for
these dummies the technological process of digging a grave in winter.
Meanwhile the Chechens brought up their mortars and opened fire. The
mines were falling inaccurately for now, throwing up large plumes of
dirt, snow and sand. The desire to live is strong. The instinct of selfpreservation awakens, the instinct of the love of life. Faster, faster,
deeper, deeper. My breathing falters, Im suffocating. The sweat is
getting in my eyes, but I do not wipe it away. Let it run down, down into

the ground. Fear and adrenaline help me work faster. Faster, faster. The
little pile of sand and dirt in front of me is quickly growing. I drag
off the formerly black, sweat-soaked helmet guard. The collar of my coat
is wet with sweat and the dirt is getting behind it. At first this this
was irritating and uncomfortable, but with time, this feeling passed. The
will to live made me disregard such nonsense.
Anger and the desire to live have extinguished all other urges. There was
no hunger, cold or thirst. One aim onlyto dig in and survive. Anger and
fear. Im suffocating. There is not enough oxygen. The bloody flak jacket
is constricting my movements, hanging on me like a lump. If not for it,
Id be dug in up to my ears. Id have to get up in order to take it off,
but no power existed that would make me to stand up now under fire. I
hate this shrill sound of the flying mines. I is not to my taste. This
sound will follow me to the end of my days, same as the scream of
aviation bombs. And every synapse, every cell of my body will wince in
terror at the mere mention of it. And the other thing that it will waken
is anger.
Its hot. I loosen the clasps on the side straps of the flak jacket. It
now practically hangs on my shoulders. The temptation to take it off
completely is great. To cast off fourteen kilograms of the cursed metal,
throw down the jacket and lie on the damp, cold soil wearing nothing but
the afghanka
My dugout is almost ready. All that remains is to conceal my feet. But
Im almost out of energy. The shard of terrible machinery that I used to
dig has worn down, became deformed and assumed a strange shape.
I bring the gun closer. It became semi-buried as I dug and the soil is in
my sleeves now. I pay no attention at all to this annoying detail. It
doesnt matter right now, it doesnt. Im alive, Im ears-deep in the
ground and only a direct mine hit can take me out now.
Carefully, very carefully, I raise my head over the edge. There is little
hair on my head as it is and the helmet guard is lying on the ground
beside me. Steam is rising from my head. Not a bad target for a sniper. I
try not to think of it. There is no desire to put on the helmet guard
cap. It seems that I remain unnoticed.
The Chechens are firing at the square using mortars, underbarrelers,
machine guns and assault rifles. They attempt to grenade the foundations
of the building, where a small group of our soldiers has taken position,
those that managed to break through to the walls of the Palace. Being in
the dead zone they managed to dig in. The Chechens tried to get at them
with grenades, but they were detonating at a safe distance. Neither the
Chechens, nor the friendlies were able to cause much harm to one another.
Only under the cover of dark could the Chechens attempt to knock them
out, which meant that we had to help our brother Slavs before dark, lest
the become part of the horror museum in the Palace windows.
Either we take the Palace, or we rescue our fighters from under its
walls. There is no third option. I look around. Many are digging their
fox-holes. For many they will become their graves. Many have finished

this work and just like me are sticking their heads like turtles out of
their dug-out shells. Just like mine, their heads are not covered and
steam is pouring off from them. It looks like the Chechen snipers are on
lunch break. Too right, you ****ing *****. The Chechens perceived that
the is no getting to us on the square and so they shifted their fire onto
the State Bank.
Each mine fell closer to the semi-demolished building. If a massed mortar
fire is conducted over this building, it will not withstand it and
collapse after a few hours. Those taking cover behind its walls will
perish. So it was yet undecided, which was betterto be here ass-up in
frozen square or to be concealed behind those impermanent concrete walls.
The same walls that may turn into ones mausoleum.
The first of the mines have begun to explode on the State Bank premises,
raising up clouds of dust and pebbles. There was a volley from our side
in response to this, whose mines landed far short, due to the prisoners
in those windows and exploded in front of the palace. It was as if the
Chechens were enraged by our manoeuvre and started to pound the bank. So
as to distract them, we, the soldiers dug in on the square had to also
open fire. And even though ours was a shallow fire, unlikely to cause any
considerable harm, they had to account for it also.
-Hold on men, hold on! - my dear AKS whispered to me and I followed suit.
-Kill the bastards!
-Bastards! - could be heard coming from the neighbouring foxholes.
Nobody co-ordinated the people or their fire. They simply tried to draw
the Chechen fire onto themselves. Only fire and only at the enemy. The
main thing is not to hit those that are hanging in the windows. It could
be that one could soon get hanged in the window just like that and there
was no desire to hit our own.
None of our prisoners were visible at the higher levels, but there were
plenty of Chechens there. Only a month and a half ago we would have had
to take our time calculating the altitude difference, make corrections
for the wind but now, we were shooting straight at them. And soon a dark
figure tumbled downwards. The Chechen was falling and not screaming,
meaning that hes dead, and if hes wounded a thirty meter fall will not
contribute positively to his well-being.
The Chechens raged. They shifted their fire onto the square. And again
there was the screaming of falling mines and explosions near-by. I sit to
the bottom of my dear, cosy foxhole. I open my mouth as wide as possible,
straining my eardrums. The muscles in my jaw grow stiff. Its getting
harder to resist the waves of air from exploding mines and grenades.
Stronger and stronger do they whip at the air drums. It feels like
something is streaming from my ears. I feel it with my hand and look, but
there is nothing. I must be imagining it. It difficult to fight with an
open mouth. Each new explosion feeds me a clump of dirt. Its not a
mouth, its an excavator bucket, filled with dirt. I spit it off. And
there is another explosion at that very moment. A wave of air rolls overt
the ears. My poor ears have not recovered fully from the previous
contusion and now this new lash of the whip.

I shake my head as if trying to get rid of water in my ears after a swim.

It doesnt help. A soft deafness surrounds me once again. Ill never be a
musician. Thats a fact! Enough. I peer out and shoot. I no longer pay
any attention to the explosions. They hit my ears, but are not longer
perceived so sharply. It is as if I have cotton wool stuffed into those
ears. I see the explosion first and only later does the sound reach me.
Im getting angry. ****! Am I really a cripple now? My arms and legs are
intact, but what am I to do now? I stopped shooting and felt for the
lucky grenade. Is it time or not? Here it lies in my dirty palm, all
covered in cuts and bruises, stuffed with dirt. A thin string of blood is
caked around my fingernails. I descend lower into the foxhole. I turn
over and light up. Then I take out the grenade once more and squint at it
with my eyes full of smoke. I look it over.
Its green in colour. There is a seam running down the middle. Here it
is. Two motions and its over. No more deafness, no more torment from
hunger, cold, pain and an unsettled conscious. No more agonising over who
is at fault in this war. Im at fault in my own life. I picked this path
myself, no-one made me. There is no-one else other than myself to blame
for my troubles. And nobody will accuse me of cowardice or desertion.
Nobody will try to establish how exactly Captain Mironov died. Was it a
mine or was it his own grenade. Was it due to the Chechen luck or
marksmanship or is it due to my own stupidity. The matte surface of the
grenade was hypnotising, paralysing to the mind. Only two movements
first, unfold the clamps, second, firmly pull the pin, simultaneously
releasing ones grip, thus freeing the lever. There will then be four
seconds to throw the grenade as far away as possible, which is how long
the delaying mechanism functions. A sort of a last chance for suicides,
should they change their mind. After that, no ambulance will help, no
matter how much you implore them.
On the other hand, I am apparently intact. My eyes see, my hands are
confidently gripping my gun. No-one is driving me away from the front. I
can fight my fill. Calmly, Slava, dont get crazy. Youll always have
time to pull the pin and release the lever. Take some more Chechens with
you. Youll be ashamed to look in the eyes of those men, whose bones are
knocking in the windows of that ****ing Palace. Calm down. Breathe in and
out. Slowly, very slowly, I unscrew the grenades aluminium fuse. It
resists extraction from inside of the grenade. It sparkles dully in the
daylight. Well always have time for this. I place the grenade and the
fuse into the left pocket of my coat. I do not store anything else in
this pocket. Only the grenade and nothing else. When the time comes,
there may not be enough time to dig the lucky grenade out of some other
junk. The grenade and its fuse clink as they settle on the cloth. They
can stay there awhile, its not time.
Because of these Chechens, I was ready to blow myself up a second ago.
But its too early. I drag deeply. I drag until there is pain in my chest
and my head spins. The cigarettes light burns my lips. I look it over
with regret. Just like my lifeit will burn to the end and you wont even
notice. I take out another cigarette and light it up from the first. I
turn over onto my stomach and pull up my gun. Were going to fight now,
you creeps.

The loss of hearing means that I can rely only on my sight and intuition.
Also on luck or if the reader likesfate. Despair gave way to ardour. A
happy, merry ardour. And now, you Chechens, well see who bests whom.
Deafness has its advantages. As the mine flies, our guys are hiding,
whilst the Chechens peer out of their windows, compelled by the sport of
seeing where it hits. I cannot hear the screaming mines very much, just a
quiet whistle. My head is buzzing, I am slightly nauseous. Its another
contusion. It wont contribute to my well-being.
I switch my gun to single fire. I note the most inquisitive Chechen and
take aim. The whistling sounds and I can see in my peripheral vision the
neighbours hide their heads in their foxholes. The curious Chechen
appears immediately. He was at one of the windows that did not have a
living shield. Get some, bitch! I press the trigger and watch the
Chechens body cast back into the building, in time with my shot. Youre
done, you ugly bastard!
Were going to fight some still. I may be half-deaf, but Ill let off a
few more shots before Im sent to the rear. A smile stretches my face
from ear to ear. I do not feel a shred of regret or remorse. Nothing of
the sort. I feel what the hunter must feel. I have difficulty controlling
this excitement. The most important thing is not to loose self-control. I
try to distract myself from the hunt and deliberately miss the next
mine. I put on the wet, cold helmet guard. I shudder as the top of my
head is covered in goose-bumps from the cold, moist hat coming in contact
with my skin. Im too distracted. I shouldn't get too carried way as that
may prove fatal.
Even though I let that mine through, I spot another curious one.
Curiosity killed the cat! - I tell myself. I wait for the mine. The
guys around me are conducting carefully aimed fire at the Palace. They
are being shot at in return. I wait. I stick out my head to watch for
that cat whos sticking his head out, unable to contain his sporting
urges.
This isnt theatre, kitten, where the best seats are in the parterre. You
stupid fault! Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, slowly breathe out,
the heads duck for cover, whistling, the targets head appears in the
window. Fire! Got him! Arms up, head backwards. His figure disappears
from the window. Another kill. Not a bad result for a semi-deaf invalid,
from such a distance. My ears will cost you dearly, you mongrels.
The Chechens started firing at the State Bank building again and this
time their mines fell accurately. Detonation plumes rose on its roof. And
the Chechens no longer paid any attention to our desperate fire. They
concentrated on one thingthe destruction of our sparse main forces. If
our guys do not advance now, death certificates can be written out for us
and those under the Palace walls.
Our guys probably retreated into the basements, but they wont hold out
there for long. The thick concrete walls will collapse, burying the
remnants of the brigade alive. Come on lads! Go forward!

Our troops ran out of the bank and retreated as if hearing my prayers.
They began aimless fire at the Palace from those positions. First the
BMPs, then the tanks, joined into the quire of assault gun fire. They
fired at the roof of the government building. None of our prisoners were
located there. Shells began to explode more frequently on the roof and
upper floors of the Palace, collapsing pieces of walls. I do not know if
their actions were co-ordinated, but judging by the movements in the
Chechen ranks and the fact that they began firing in other directions, I
supposed that there was to be an enemy counter-attack from other
directions.
The fire in our direction weakened and our guys began advancing. Due to
my lack of hearing, I knew this only because they started running
forward. The sounds of shots and concussions were difficult to hear as if
they were filtered through cotton wool. Infantry went first, the tanks
and BMP stood behind and conducted fire. And the first of them reached
us, the guys lying on the square and we began to rise up for attack.
The Chechen fire wiped us out once more. Some remained laying on the
square, some managed to conceal themselves in foxholes, the rest turned
back and ran. I remained where I was and if not for the cold, I would
have even been comfortable. My clothes, soaked with sweat began to cool
down drawing away my heat. It will be dark in an hour, maybe less. I
cant start a fire. I sunk a little lower into my shelter and lit up. I
warm my palms, hiding the little fire in my hands. The smoke warms my
throat and the tip of my nose. The doctors say that the body temperature
drops during smoking. Let them try rolling about in the frost, draped in
a wet uniform and with no smokes. Then they can tell us what effect
smoking has on the body. I would imagine that many would reconsider their
position on what is happening here.
There wont be any hot food or vodka for me. Not happy.
There were more desperate storming attempts later, but they produced
absolutely no results other than more casualties. All our attempts to
crawl out of our foxholes were terminated immediately. The Chechen
snipers were armed with good night vision equipment and were preventing
us from leaving. One fighter was killed, three were wounded. We crawled
up to them and dragged them off behind some piece of concrete, where
first aid was administered. Evacuating them was not a possibility. The
sniper was waiting for us and as soon as we emerged from behind there,
little fountains of mud rose all around us. There were three of us. Two
rescuers and one casualty. He was wounded in the leg. The bullet went all
the way through.
He was holding out well, joking, trying to distract himself. I reckoned
that he was going to loose that leg. We stopped the bleeding, but the leg
swelled to a monstrous size. We laid cold stones around it. So that the
fighter does not die from the shock of pain and to relieve his suffering,
we administered three capsules of Promedol over several hours. Each
fighter and soldier has one capsule in his medikit. We gave him ours. We
administered them into the vein, to prolong the effects. Ive never had
to do an intravenous injection before and in the dark on top of it all.
It worked. It was cold. The wounded man needed warmth. He started getting

feverish. His temperature rose. We laid him between us, took our flak
jackets off and covered ourselves up. In this manner, we warmed ourselves
and him as well. It was a cold, starry night. All the warmth accumulated
by the earth and our bodies during the day was seeping out into the
cosmic abyss. It was cold, very cold. The frigid earth sucked out our
warmth. It seemed that life itself was leaving our bodies, together with
the heat.
-Comrade captain, do you have a cigarette?
-What? Say it louder!
The fighter gestured his desire to smoke.
-Yes, here.
We lit up. I didnt have many cigarettes left. We smoked one between us
all, sending it around the circle. We took care to cover it up from the
enemy and the wind. The enemy could target it to kill us, whilst the wind
was firing up the glowing light, wasting precious tobacco. The cigarette
is capable of a lot. But despite it and the weak heat from each others
bodies it was getting ever colder.
The other fighter gesticulated a proposal to try to crawl and pull the
wounded man out. I nodded. The sniper let us go for a few meters and then
set to work again. For some reason he really didnt like us. Somehow we
managed to crawl back. The wounded man was lapsing in and out of
consciousness. We knew that he was critical and that he needed warmth and
medical assistance, not our pathetic efforts. Maybe the drugs had their
effect on him, but judging by how he was shaking, it seemed that he would
not make it til the morning.
About two hours passed. We lay trying not to display any signs of life.
One flak jacket was laid under the wounded man, The rest were heaped on
top. Shaking from the cold, we tried to warm him. The other fighter
attempted a dash through the stretch of ground that remained between us
and the State Bank, but after seven or ten minutes, he stumbled, spread
out his hands and fell face down, his legs thrown high up due to the
force of inertia. His body lay still. No movement, no convulsions. A lump
formed in my throat. I never learned his name, I would not have heard it,
but we felt for one another. We smoked the same cigarette not so long
ago. And now the lad is no more. Just gone. Killed. Tried to get help but
could not.
You sniper bitch, couldnt you see the lad is running away from you?
Maybe hes a deserter, how would you know? Why shoot him in the back? He
posed no threat to you.
It was getting colder. I found a vial of red Tetracycline tablets in my
medikit. I opened the wounded mans mouth and put in about five of them.
Im not a doctor, but I believe I did the correct thing. I knew that
should he die, nobody will accuse me of his death, of neglecting to help
him. I did not want him to die, to perish. There is this saying
Everythings written off in war. But I could not just leave him here.
Why? I dont know. He became a part of me a part of my world. Even though
he wasnt much younger than I, I felt like a father to him. I was
powerless to help him. The lad regained consciousness from time to time.
His lips moved, but I could not make out what he was saying. I became

afraid that this deafness will not pass and Ill remain like this for the
rest of my life. Looking at this wounded lad, I was horrified to think
that I will be able to look at my son, but not hear him, that I will not
be able to communicate with him.
Again, I felt a lump in my throat. I could not believe that I will never
be able to speak to my son. He will be asking something of me but all I
could do is spread my arms and smile stupidly. I pictured this scene very
vividly; when he comes home from school and begins to tell me of his
school business, but I cannot hear him. No! Thats not life, I wont be
able to be a proper father like that. My left hand reached into the left
pocket and felt the cool, smooth surface of the grenade with its even
side and the little cylinder of the fuse. There was a great temptation to
end the suffering of two cripples laying under the cold starry sky of the
enemy Motherland. We were two grains of sand in the cosmos and two
invalids in the endless expanses of the Motherland that hated usRussia.
I struggled to fight off this temptation to solve all my problems, past,
present and future, those problems that will appear should I now stay
alive and withdrew my hand from the pocket. I looked into the lads eyes.
He was looking at me, slowly moving his lips. I smiled guiltily and
tapped my ear. I spread my arms and just to be sure told him that Im
unable to hear due to my contusion. He responded with a weak, reassuring
smile. I took out a cigarette and showed it to him, he took it with weak
hands. We lit up. We looked up into the night sky, shaking from the cold,
embracing one another closer. Illumination rockets hung over our heads.
The sky was streaked with tracer volleys. The fighter started shaking
more and I embraced him even closer, almost hugging him. I looked into
his eyes and by the light of another illumination rocket saw how the
cigarette fell out of his mouth and its light burned through the coat,
spreading the stench of singed wool. His eyes stared glassily into the
sky, his body bulked and his extremities were jittering in convulsions.
There was a wreath of bloody foam around his mouth and blood was pouring
out of it in time with the convulsions. It ran down his chin and soaked
into the coats artificial fur collar. The body once again bulked
powerfully and without convulsions and then instantly fell to the ground
becoming limp. I raised his fallen head, not knowing what exactly I was
doing and started screaming into his face, which I could not hear very
well, I slapped his cheeks, shook him, tried to resuscitate him, covering
myself in his blood. The blood extinguished the cigarette on his chest. I
grabbed it and flung it away. Maybe he would have lived, had I not given
him this cigarette? I cried, silently, sobbing, scooping up the limp body
and pressing it against me. I shook as I sobbed and the dead body of the
Russian soldier shook with me. I lost a lot right now, maybe the person
most dear to me. I understood at that moment that I will not remain the
same. That I have changed. Forgive me, brother, that I could not help
you. Maybe you would have lived, had I tried to run for help? Does that
mean that I am a coward? I was afraid to be killed and decided to stay,
hoping that you would make it to the morning or to the next attack. I am
guilty before you. Forgive me! Forgive me! Forgive me!
And that is howin embrace with a dead body did I greet the dawning of a
new day of my useless life. I could not keep a good lad from dying. Why,
o Lord, why? A fog has descended. There was a small chance of getting

out. To hell with this square. To hell with this shitty Palace! To hell
with everything! That such a lad is to die for somebodys geriatric
ambitions, for their sport! That so many lads are to die for it! I do not
want to be a sheep for the slaughter. Let the aviation and artillery
grind this Chechnya into dust! This place is cursed by God. No country is
worth the life of whom I carry now in my arms. I was exhausted, but I
carried him in my arms. I walked slowly, the gun dangled over my back and
hit me in time with the footsteps. My hands, back and neck were stiff. I
walked. I looked straight ahead of myself. The flak jacket remained
behind me at the last night-time resting spot.
I reached the body of that soldier, who ran for help. I looked at his
back, marred with blood. The sniper turned out to be an expert in his
field. The bullet hit the spine exactly, severing it. Forgive me, brother
that you are here. I, a deaf invalid should be laying here instead of
you. Forgive me if you can. Im older than you and have already seen a
lot. And you? You just finished school and paid with your life for a free
education. Its not a fair price. My son stands a chance of ending his
life just like this. In yet another war, because of somebodys
schizophrenic hallucinations. I wont let him go to the army. I sighed
and continued onto the State Bank building. I walked slowly, waiting for
a snipers bullet in my back. This bullet would be a saving grace and
absolution for everything. But nothing happened. Somebody called for me
out of the fog, or more precisely, they must have called as I could not
hear them. All I saw was about five people running over to me. They
carefully took the soldiers body from me. So long friend! Forgive me!
Reply With Quote

----------CHAPTER 17---------For the last time I looked at that livid, blood-spattered face. The
clenched fingers. I closed his eyelids earlier, during the night, but it
was as if could still see that glazed look. So long!
I walked towards the building, swaying and rubbing my hands. A soldier
ran after me and started to say something. I could not hear him. I looked
at him attentively and gloomily and without saying a word turned around
and continued towards the building. The soldier continued after me
pulling on my sleeve. He pointed and I could see stretchers and medics
bustling about in the direction indicated. It must have been an
improvised first aid point. I jerked my hand away and hissed through my
teeth: -Go to hell. Im fine. If anybody comes up to me, Ill wreck their
face. You can tell that to everyone.
The soldier looked in confusion at my bloodied coat and my filthy face.
-Its not my blood. Go away.
The soldier was saying something else, but I paid him no more attention,
continuing onwards. The entrance to the building was collapsed. I started

to walk around it. Here, I encountered the first battalions chief of

staff, Vanya Ilin. He looked grim, but when he saw me, he was startled.
He yelled something and ran towards me. He embraced me. He was saying
something. I shook my head, indicating that Im a little deaf. He grabbed
me and dragged me in the direction of the medics. I pushed him away. I
stopped and repeated something similar to what I said to that fighter
before.
-Leave me alone, Vanya. If you start dragging me to the medics, Im going
to punch you in the face. I have a mild contusion. My hearing will return
in a few days. Do you have anything to drink?
He nodded. He took me by the elbow and dragged me towards the fighters. Ivan, just dont point me out to the commanders for now. Theyll send me
off to the hospital and that will be the end of it.
Ivan nodded again and started saying something.
-Dont bother, I cant hear you anyway. If you yell into my ear, I might
hear you, otherwiseno.
We came up to a BMP. The engine was running. Ivan pulled on the handle of
the crew compartments hatch and opened it. He prodded me towards the
black opening.
Together, we climbed inside. The compartment is not tall, so we had to
bend over in order to get in. Ivan switched on the lights. I took a seat
on the bench that spans the length of the vehicle and took off my coat.
It was warm and dry inside. Meanwhile, Ivan retrieved the goods. As
always this was spam, condensed milk, onion, garlic, a bottle of spirits
and the NATO rations. He laid down some newspaper, straight onto the
floor and produced a miraculous bottle of sparkling mineral water. He
poured the spirits into the glasses. There is a rule in the armyeveryone
dilutes their spirits themselves, to their taste. When he handed me the
glass, I waved at him tiredly and he diluted it for me half-half. Which
is fine. We clinked in silence. We drank and chased straight out of the
bottle of mineral water. I have never drank spirits directed with fizzy
water before. We started snacking. I ate everything without picking. And
straight away, I started telling him what I had to live through. At first
I tried to speak loudly, but he indicated that I be quieter. I continued
my story. I told him everything and felt the lump in my throat again. I
forced down another dose of spirits. Tears ran down my eyes as I drank
and ate. My eyes became heavy from the stress I lived through as well as
from the food, the drink and the warmth. I wanted to sleep, terribly.
Ivan put away the leftovers and threw down a stained carpet, a few coats
in place of a pillow and another small carpet to cover myself. He helped
me take off my wet boots and socks. He placed them to dry at the warm air
conduit and having done so, he turned off the light and went outside. I
sank into a heavy, restless sleep. I dreamt that I was fighting on the
square again, together with that soldier, who died in my arms. We are
alive and healthy, smashing the Chechens. But then the soldier dies. I
woke, then went back to sleep, and in my dreams tried to do everything
possible to save him from an inevitable death, but all in vain. Either he
blew up on a mine, or a bullet pierced his body and each time he died in
the same fashion as before. I felt cheated and powerless, cursing
everyone, including God. The rage stirred my blood, releasing adrenaline.
I woke, but could not hear anything. The only thing I sensed was the
BMPs floor vibrating from the running engine. And again, I fell asleep

and it seemed like I dozed, then woke a hundred times over. After yet
another round, I decided that there was no getting rid of this nightmare.
I felt for the switch and turned on the light. I dressed and put on the
dry, although dirty socks. The boots were not completely dry and their
toes curled, having not been waxed for a long time now. I knocked them on
the armour, shaking loose large clumps of mud and put them on. I did not
button up the coat and taking up my gun, went outside.
Judging by the sun, it was past dinnertime. My wristwatch has stoppedI
forgot to wind it. My hearing began to restore, which was good news. I
could clearly hear gunfire in my vicinity. I could make out peoples
voices, but not the words, yet. Another day or two and Ill be a whole
man again, except that my ears rang terribly. But like everything, that
too will pass
Soldiers and officers were walking by. No-one bent over under the cover
of the State Banks walls. Everyone was calm and carried on as if they
were deep in the rear. I saw Yurka. Like all, he was filthy and his coat
was torn and burned through. His hands were covered in a thick layer of
dirt. His gun dangled over his shoulder and was covered in filth also.
His drawn face looked exhausted. He was drinking out of somebodys
hipflask and the sharply protruding Adams apple was jerking up and down
rapidly.
I calmly strolled over and waited for him to finish drinking. The way he
was gulping that water down, one would think that he came out of a
desert. I stood and waited. And soon he parted from the flask to catch
some air and noticed me in his peripheral vision. He handed the flask
over to some soldier standing near him. We stepped towards each-other and
embraced. We embraced tightly and simply, with out words or exclamations.
Were alive! Alive!
We parted form one another. Yura asked me something. I could hear his
voice but could not make out the words. Smiling, I shook my head,
touching my ear:
-Yura, Im contused, I cant hear you yet, so speak up.
-Contused again? - Yurka approached and started yelling at the top of his
voice, right into my ear.
I lurched back away from his screaming.
-Are you silly? Youll deafen me, you idiot.
-You asked me to speak up yourself.
-To speak up, not to burst my eardrums. Retard.
-Alright, dont get upset. I thought that you were done for. That you
remained back there. On the square.
-Tough chance. You wont get rid of me that easy.
-Go see a doctor. How many concussions is it now for you? Three? Five?
-Do you think Im counting them? To go see those creeps is the same as to
go see the Chechens. Except they will send you to the next world, the
othershome. It will pass. I slept a little and I feel better. In a day
or two, Ill be almost back to normal. The main thing is not go get any
more concussions. And youre yelling into my ears, you bastard. Where
were you, when I, with my pants full, was arse up on the square?
-I was there too.
-I didnt see you.

-I didnt see you either. Half the brigade is dug in on the square now.
They are preparing a bridgehead for the upcoming assault. Well go
tonight.
-Are they ****ed in the head? What about the living shield?
-Its a dead shield, Slava. No-ones left alive in those windows. This
morning, the medics were made to examine each one through the binoculars.
And they told us.
-They told you, - I grumbled. - Are they really capable of telling at a
distance if a fighter is dead or alive? Without examining them, feeling
their pulse? What are the others doing?
-The neighbours?
-Who else?
-They attempted to also dig in on the square, but it didnt work out for
them. Dont have the guts.
-Or they didnt want to, - I grumbled again.
-That could well be. Who knows what these elite forces are really like!
-They are good at marching and shooting at their own parliament. But
there are no visible results elsewhere.
-So, in other words, all hopes are for the Siberian makhra?
-Yes. Everyone attacks at our command, but the main assault is ours.
-An obvious choice, given that were dug in out there. Like fish on a
frying pan. What else is new?
-**** knows. What time did you come from the square?
-In the morning. I carried a fighter out in the fog.
-Alive?
-He died in my arms. A terrible death.
-All death is terrible.
-Youre right. Do you have a cigarette? I havent had a smoke all
morning. My blood is itching.
If I dont have a smoke for another hour, Ill go to the square armed
with my bare hands. Ill start getting withdrawn. If I spend a long time
without a smoke, I become angry and irritable. I get the urge to blow off
some steam at someones expense.
-Well find some now.
Yurka, pulled up a passing soldier and bummed a cigarette off him.
-Slava, its Pauper in the Mountains, will that do?
-Itll do. A head of cabbage thats passed through a horse?
-Where have you seen anything other than?
-I havent. Light it up.
We sat down onto some concrete blocks and shared the cigarette, passing
it back and forth. We dragged deeply, hiding the cigarette in our fists,
held the smoke in for a second or so, absorbing a maximum of the nicotine
and then slowly blew it out. My head spinned pleasantly after a long
break from the smokes. It will pass in a few seconds. We smoked silently,
burning up so much tobacco in a single drag as one would normally in
three. The last drag burned the fingers and lips and was disgustingly
bitter. The cigarette butt was yellow with nicotine. Yura got the last of
it. He dragged, looked at it with regret and then threw it out. This
hurried smoke did not bring any relief. There was a lump in my lungs, but
my hunger for nicotine was, for the time being, satisfied.
-So, how are you feeling, Slava?
-I can live like this. Have they dined yet?

-I dont know. I came out only recently. I was terribly thirsty, but am
feeling better now. All that remains is to grab a bite and snooze until
evening. Are you actually going to the square? Maybe you should see a
doctor after all?
-To hell with it. Im going. Ive got my own score to settle with the
Chechens. Let them pay in full.
-Feeling a little crazy?
-Not a little. Completely barking mad. No brains left any more.
-What about Moskva and all that stuff you were talking about before?
-Moskva is far from here although we might still make it there. But for
now, I have to get payback for that kid, that died in my arms. The
Chechens are near. Just across that square where there will be plenty of
work for everybody.
-Dont get carried away, - Yura warned. - Looks like your brains really
are sideways after that contusion.
-Yura, I tried to save that kid. And when I gave him my last cigarette he died. He died in my arms.
-Is that his blood on your coat?
-It is.
-I understand. You must have developed a complex of guilt before the dead
guy. You must think that he died because of you last cigarette?
-**** off. I have studied psychology too. There is no guilt complex here.
You see, the whole system of government is so rotten, it all has to be
replaced. What kind of a democracy is it, when kids have to die on their
own territory for someones rotten ambitions? I dont know how to explain
this to you properly.
-Well, you should go into politics after the war. You speak well.
-What kind of jackal do you think I am?
-Who knows, who knows you.
-I cant understand myself either. But Im beginning to hate my country.
-Write a report and go away from here. It will be readily signed off.
-I cant. I feel that this is my business. Remnants of my patriotism,
maybe. I dont know.
-Go to hell. This sort of talk, on an empty stomach, after a contusion in
your case and a sleepless night in mineEither we go eat, or Im taking
to you a psychiatrist.
-You see, I feel that ninety five per cent of peoples problems are from
other people.
-Hows that?
-Five per cent comes from disease, epidemics, natural disasters, rain and
so forth. But the other ninety five is the evil men do for each other.
For example they start these wars. They bow to the dollar. Exploit one
another.
-Do you suppose that communism is required here?
-Communism is utopia, blood, ****, wars. Enough. Im fed up. Although, at
least I got a higher education. But what about my son? I dont have the
money for his education. That means that hes destined for the army. I
dont want him to go.
-So what is there to do, Slava?
-I dont know. I pity Russia. Its almost gone. Its breaking up into
principalities. The economy is about to come down like a house of cards.
Moskva is going to squeeze the peripheries and satellites for all their
money and will build itself up and get fatter. And then the people will

demand to separate from Moskva. Or more precisely a precedent for

separation in the name of the people will be instigated. Its a shame.
-Why are you thinking of Russia now? In a few hours nothing will be clear
other than how to save ones own ass. And were going to zigzag across
that square like hares, trying to hide from snipers and sharp-shooting
mortar men. And youre taking Russia, Russia. Think of yourself. Lets go
find something to eat. My stomachs stuck to my spine. You have it easy,
youre fat, Im skinny.
-Lets go then. As for RussiaShe never cared for us and why the hell
should we care for it. Let them all go to hell!
-Thats right! And I thought that you might have lost it. And forget
about that soldier. I know you and I know you would have done all you
could. There is Gods will for everything. It was his fate. Think of
yourself, instead of thinking globally. To hell with it. Lets go find
some food.
And we went. Many greeted us. I have not yet recovered from the contusion
and for this reason was just smiling stupidly and waving my hands, like a
monkey. Yura negotiated and asked about food. We were like refugees.
Begging for Christs sake. If they had pulled up the staff vehicles, we
could have eaten and slept our fill in our truck. But we were never
refused comfort here, neither a piece of spam, nor a mouthful of vodka or
a cigarette for the soldier, officer in need. We were being loaded with
canned meat, cigarettes, somebody handed us half a hipflask of spirits.
Many knew us and slapped our backs in approval. Yura explained to
everyone that I am concussed and slightly deaf. I could barely hear what
he was saying, but was playing along vigorously, making a suffering face.
The people could not withstand our onslaught. Had we had somewhere to
stash the goods thus procured, we could have ended up with supplies for a
few days. As it were, it will be enough for the dinner we missed, as well
as supper and breakfast. Although it was not good to get too stuffed
before a fight. My flak jacket remained on the square. I was naked once
more.
We took up residence by the same BMP that I slept in earlier. The
fighters around it informed us that Vanya Ilin has gone with the
formations to dig in at the square, preparing a bridgehead for us. That
damned bridgehead.
We began to eat. We discovered a small stash of mineral water in the crew
compartment. Wherefrom Ivan managed to privatise this stuff, I did not
know, but we requisitioned a few bottles. We poured the spirits, diluted
it with water and drank. We chased with that same mineral water. There
was no water and there was no desire to walk the few tens of meters to
Sunzha to go fetch some. And so we just sat there, by the track of the
almost homely BMP, chewing the foodstuff procured. Yura prodded me in the
side, nodding:
-Look.
The brigade commander was personally walking through the temporary
positions, important as a goose. Pausing, he was saying something to the
fighters. The officers were openly ignoring his presence expressing their
utter contempt. They did not take notice as he passed by. They did not
rise when he addressed them. Judging by the expressions on their sooty
faces, they were saying something derisive to him, and were generally
being rude. For his part, the comm-brig was getting angry , trying to

berate them. Its a shame that Im deaf. The spectacle unfolding there
must have been a fascinating one.
Yura had pricked up his ears, listening attentively.
-Yura, whats happening? What are they saying?
-They are sending the commander to hell.
-I can see that from their faces, despite being deaf. What are they
saying precisely?
-They are reminding him who and how many vehicles and people lost during
the storming and the march.
-And what is that low-life saying?
-At first he was making excuses and then that there was an ambush.
-An idiot would understand that the Chechens were listening to us over
the radio and therefore could ambush us effectively. What else?
-Hes saying that the commanders actions are not subject to debate.
-Criminal actions.
-Thats what they are saying. Also they are offering for him to go to
hell and proposing that he leads the assault tonight.
-And he says?
-Not to tell him what to do.
The chief of staff and the brigades zampolit walked behind the
commander. Judging by their smug faces, they were completely on the side
of their soldiers. In the very least, they had to take all that **** that
we had to take in the fullest measure.
And so, Butalov, with San Sanych and Kazartsev in tow came up to us. We
pretended that we were eating and did not notice them. Butalov stopped in
front of us and watched us sternly, attentively. He must have thought
that this look instils fear and respect in his subordinates. But we could
not care less. Deeply indifferent to all he had to say and think. Im
deaf after all, so let the low-life yell. I wont hear him. Or Ill
pretend that I wont hear him. There are certain advantages in being deaf
after all. Let him go to hell.
-Who are you? - Butalov enquired, staring.
I continued to pretend that I could not hear him.
-Major Ryzhov and captain Mironov, - San Sanych informed him.
-I dont have such filthy officers in my brigade, - the comm-brig said
gingerly.
-If not for San Sanych, you wouldnt have a brigade either, - was Yuras
caustic reply.
-How dare you, you are junior in rank and age-Butalov began to get
angry. It seemed that he decided to compensate for his shaming at our
expense. It wont work, you grey dog!
-I dare, - Yura interrupted him, - because I have a right, as an officer,
a front line officer, whos seen his share of crawling under fire and
digging in the ground. I have a right as somebody who did not hide and
ride around someplace, while the whole brigade was laying their bones in
the battlefield. And now you come here pretending to be a tough guy. You
**** on the brigade and its people. We have seen enough of this nonsense.
We have all seen how the column got smashed up due to your incompetence.
Witnesses of such embarrassing things have to be removed and so, the more
of us remain on this foul square, the better it will be. Is that not
right? And better still, theyll send over completely new personnel for
the brigade. And then youll have a field day. Youll loose half their
number again. But in return youll satisfy your personal ambitions for

being a brutal warrior. It makes me sick to speak with you. This captain
carried out a wounded fighter in his arms, hes covered in his blood and
is almost deaf due to a contusion, but hes not going to the rear. He
cannot wash his face because you havent bothered to provide for the most
basic of the soldiers needs. And now you come and tell us about
seniority. Go to hell colonel!
Everyones jaw dropped after these words. Tough words. Very tough. It is
one thing to curse just like that, to let off some steam. Its another
thing entirely give him a manly send-off. Butalov went livid from rage
and turning to Bilich and Kazartsev asked them if they have heard that
exchange. They calmly replied that they did not as they were discussing
the upcoming assault. I was the only one who remained silent, making one
of my stony faces. Butalov was mad with rage, he was ready to burst like
a grenade. That would have been a hellishly pleasant sight. I even closed
my eyes from the delight of picturing it.
-Youre going to answer for this insult, major. Such insults amongst
officers, are paid for in blood.
-Well, thats amongst officers, - Yura laughed.
-You dont suppose Im an officer then? - Butalov raged.
-No, - Yura answered firmly, looking him straight in the eye. They began
to speak softer and I had to strain the remnants of my hearing in order
not to miss a single word.
-Comrade lieutenantcolonel! - Butalov addressed San Sanych. - Let these
two officers go at the avant-garde of the assault tonight.
-They are doing good work as it is and are not hiding in bushes. They
have been recommended for decorations, - San Sanych replied (that
interesting news, I didnt know). - Besides, they are senior officers of
the staff and should be employed according to their occupation
-Thats an order, comrade lieutenant-colonel! - Butalov shrieked. Are you
also deaf in the ear? What part of that do you not understand?!
-Your actions are putting the people under stress. They have been engaged
in incessant fighting for days. Their nerves are a limit and they are
deprived of the most elementary conveniences. You are adding to the
tension with such orders, which is unadvisable, - Seryoga Kazartsev tried
to delicately interdict.
-Do not interfere! Do your job, comrade lieutenant-colonel. You are the
one that should be taking care of the so-called elementary conveniences.
I appoint you responsible for procurement!
-That is the responsibility of the supply troops.
-While they are messing about somewhere, you, personally, are now
responsible for this work! Thats an order. Is everything clear?
-I understand, - Seryoga said through his teeth.
Butalov turned on his heel and went forthwith.
-You know, Yura, for some reason I wont be too surprised, that in the
shortness of time, our new commander is killed by a stray bullet.
-Exactly. That fool will eventually compel the people to such an act. And
nobody will investigate.
-The war will write it all off. One more, one less, theyll send in
another. Whats the difference! Pour it.
We poured another one. It helped. The heavy feeling in my chest
dissipated. I tried to only think of the upcoming attack, but the image
of the soldier who died in my arms constantly surfaced in my mind. I
cannot bring him back and if Im responsible for his death, then let me

suffer. But I wont let myself go insane like this. I dont like these
persistent apparitions. I shook my head, trying to chase off the ghost.
-What are we going to do, Slava? - Yura asked, lighting up another
cigarette.
-I have no business hanging around the camp. They might send me to the
medics and that will be the end of my story here. For this reason, Im
going to hide in this BMP and when its known exactly what time were
going, youll come get me.
-Alright, Ill go hang out, see what the new commander, ulcer his soul,
has thought up for us. Hell sure to chase us off onto the machine guns.
-Be thankful that he doesnt want us to do a psychological attack, like
in the Chapaev movie, without firing a single shot.
-Had he had his way, he probably would. What moron set him upon us?
-Whoever needed it, sent him.
-Alright, Im going. Should I maybe send Zhenya Ivanov, to look you over
quietly and without the hoo-hah? There are a lot of you Tin Soldiers in
our brigade.
-Do it, but no noise. And make him come look at me here. Im not going to
the medical regiment.
-Not my first day. Sit in the vehicle or hang around near-by. Ill bring
him over, when I see him.
Yura went off along the positions of what remained of the brigade. I
ascended to the roof of the State Bank, taking cover behind pieces of
concrete. There were about six soldiers and officers there. They were
busy marking our positions and those of the Chechens on a map. At first I
carefully looked at the square and the Palace. I did not see anything
good.
The Chechens continued to use the dead bodies of our men as cover and
were not letting us take a single step forward. Those fighters that
managed to break through to the Palace walls have rolled back, leaving
their dead behind. Those of us that dug in on the square presented a
vulnerable target for the snipers. It was our luck, that the Chechens did
not have a lot of mortars and no heavy mortars. Otherwise, our dead
bodies would have remained there.
And again, we have race forward, under the cover of darkness, stumbling
over the various stones and pieces of concrete, falling into craters,
pits and fox holes. The Chechens will suspend illumination rockets and
chandelier-like mines in the air. The element of surprise will thus be
lost and well make about fifty meters unnoticed. Then theyll hit us
with everything and they wont ask our surnames.
If everything happens as I foresee it, then even more of those kids, like
the one that died in my arms will forever remain only in memory. Because
of my hearing, I didnt want to bother the other officers with questions,
trying to clarify the situation. I didnt want to have to tell each one
of them that Im half deaf and ask them to speak louder. And to see their
pitying smiles in response, their concerned faces. I have no need for it.
I hate being pitied. Im not a cripple yet! Well see in the morning and
for now Ill sort my problems out myself.
I plotted the approximate route of advance. It wasnt a straight line, it
was a zig-zag, but it offered me at least some hope of survival. I peered

at the square, dragging greedily on my cigarette, trying to memorise the

route. I chanted the landmarks as if they were a magical spell, those
landmarks upon the route to my salvation, which I will have to recognise
in the uneven, fragmented illumination. I wanted to believe in it. I
wanted to very much! And I believed it.
My eyes searched out Vanya Ilin, but all I could make out were the dirtygrey and green coats. Some were in position on the square, trying to
shoot at the Chechens, some were smoking. Some were deepening their
temporary shelters. God keep them! In a few hours they have to open up
with a hurricane of fire, that the Chechens do not dare raise their heads
as we run across the square. That was the only remaining plan.
Only the Siberian makhra is able to dig themselves in on the square and
maintain a defensive line. It was thanks to the Siberian makhra, that
the Fritz was thrown back from the Kremlin walls in forty one. Does the
reader remember the twenty eight Panfilovtsy? They too were Siberian
makhra. And they were part of an entire front. Thats how it is. As
soon as the next ****-up approaches, the Siberians are summoned and when
its victory time as well as time for decorations, apartments, all of
that happens for the warriors of the Arbat Military District. But we are
used to this. And now, when the countrys prestige has fallen in the eyes
of the international community, the Siberians are covering for it. They
run forward, bayonets at the ready in order to protect the states shitty
image. They cant use artillery, which is forbidden, they have to dig in
ear-deep in open country. Well do everything that the old, decrepit and
having not served a single day in the frontline, Supreme commander
orders. Just like in a cheap vaudeville - What does the master order?
What is your will? But it all gets very tiring, when for your faithful
service, you get dipped head-high in ****. And our patience is at an end.
I finished the cigarette as I continued to peer at the path ahead of me.
I threw it down, trampled it underfoot and began to descend.
The field medic Zhenya Ivanov was waiting by the BMP where Yura left me.
I observed him. He was calm, smoking. In his hand, he held a hessian bag
with a red cross sewn onto a white circle. I approached him unhurriedly.
-Good health man. Have you been waiting long?
-Slava! - Zhenya shaook my hand firmly and then pulled me towards him. We
embraced. - How are you?
-A contusion.
-Another one?
-Yeah, - I hesitated, - another one. My hearing was almost completely
gone at first. Its gradually coming back. Have a look whats happening
in there. But rememberIm not getting evacuated.
-I know, I know, - Zhenya sighed.There are plenty of you crazies. Lets
have a look at it then.
He produced a small round mirror and secured it on his head. He had some
other shiny things which would look just in place in a torture chamber.
Zhenya grabbed me by the ear rather unceremoniously and something cracked
in there.

----------CHAPTER 18----------Easy, you sadist, its crackling in there.

-Thats good that its crackling.
-Youre going to tear it off you bastard!
-If I rip something off, Ill sew it back on myself.
He then shoved a metal tube first in one of my ears, then the other. He
then repeated the procedure. For some damned reason, he looked into my
throat as well as up my nose.
-So, how is it, papa-doctor?
-The eardrums are intact, but are inflamed due to the impact of
compressed air.
-In Russian and louder.
-Youll live
-And will I hear?
-You will. Not immediately. Ill give you some eardrops. Dont catch a
cold. In other wordstake care of yourself.
-Hows the workload?
-As heavy as the mud. It seems to be quiet now, but during the night
there was such an onslaught of casualties that we thought we would be
overwhelmed. A lot of smashed limbs, lots of stomach wounds. Many died in
the medics arms, many others in transit. Three hundred casualties have
passed through the medical regiment overnight that did not live.
-**** me!
-Yeah, thats right.
-Enough medicines so far?
-Enough for now. But we met the medics from other formations and the
situation there is grim. The Ministry of Emergency Situations personnel
have medicine, but they do not share with either the Interior Ministry,
or the militia. They say its for the locals.
-Bastards. They are condemning their own to death!
-Slava, youll have to excuse me, but there is a lot of work. Any
problems - come see me.
-Its better if you come see me.
-No time. And when there is time, I fall asleep. There is not time to
sink a hundred grams. Im living on cigarettes alone. Im off to get
ready. The Chechens are going to give us more work overnight. How about
you? Do you want to spend a few days in the field hospital?
-Leave it, Zhenya. Do you remember our talk?
-About life and death? Is that the one you mean?
-Yes. Help me out, if something happens
-Youre a fool, Slavka.
-I am, I hope, only temporarily deaf, but I feel like a total cripple, I
wouldnt wish this on my enemy. But I know that this is probably
temporary and that I will return to full health and be able to stand on
my own two feet. But if I wind up unconscious on your operating
tablePlease try not to revive me. Alright?
-No. And Im not going to discuss it, - Zhenya rubbed his reddened,
fatigued eyes. - Im going to go. I have a lot of work. You should rest.

Youre not going to take this shithouse overnight anyway. So get some
sleep. Good luck! And my throat is tired from talking to you. I keep
having to shout. Take these.
Zhenya produced a plastic flagon filled with some tablets and handed it
to me.
-What is this?
-It counteracts fatigue and stimulates heart function. In short, a
stimulant. Its given to sportsmen, marathon runners. It will help you go
without sleep for pronged periods of time and to keep your head in
critical situations. I take it myself sometimes. But dont abuse it.
Also, here are some vitamins. Theres ascorbic acid. Take it.
-Thank you, Zhenya.
-Good luck!
-Good luck to you too. Farewell.
As soon as Zhenya went, I felt horribly tired. A deathly, crushing
fatigue. A part of my difficult and dangerous work was done. But there
was no end of it ahead of me still. Only in movies do you see energetic
soldiers skip about between battles and sing and dance at every available
opportunity.
Maybe thats how it really was back in the day, but it works out to be a
bit different now. Everyone moves about slowly, tiredly. One gets tired
when they have to fight for a long time. Morally, physically,
emotionally. Feelings, perceptions and sometimes instincts are blunted.
Its a bad thing. Death follows the blunting of instincts. It may happen
because of unsafe handling of weapons or because one sticks their head
out where they shouldnt. Their reflexes and reactions are delayed. And
it is for this reason that there is no consideration for emotion. On the
one hand an emotional paralysis has its advantagesit prevents one from
going insane. One must preserve ones reflexes, the ability to react
instinctively. For this purpose, one must relax and rest on a regular
basis. To relax with vodka. The best way to rest is to sleep. Killing a
few Chechens is the best way to unwindit helps reduce stress. Those that
do not have access to Chechens but have explosives have a slightly
different recipe for relaxation. A loud explosion or a demolition also
bring relief. I have tried it also and it helps. But killing few Chechens
is better. The helicopter men have told us how they threw the Chechens
down onto their positions. The psychological effect of such a thing is
astounding. The Chechens will is paralysed, the helicopter mens stress
is reduced to zero. I cant vouch for the authenticity of this, but I
like the idea itself. There was a story going around, back when the
troops were being brought into Grozny, that in order to extract the
necessary information, two or three Chechens were being put into a
spinner and taken up. Amongst them was the prisoner with the necessary
information with which he, out of some patriotic or idiotic
considerations did not wish to part. Out of some higher considerations he
could not be tortured, so a psychological method was employed. A couple
of his neighbours were thrown out of the helicopter as he watched. Then,
when they dragged him over to the hatch and repeated their questions, he
became much more cooperative and less patriotic. All means are good means
in war.

And that is why I again felt tired. Not depressed, but simply tired. I
looked at Zhenkas medicine. I swallowed a couple vitamins and placed the
mystery tablets into my pocket. It wasnt yet time to experiment on my
body. A whole night is ahead of me. Ill sort it out later. I carefully
looked myself over. Im filthy like a pig. My coat is marred, stained
with dirt, clay and blood. In several places, it is burnt and torn. My
boots are covered in a very thick layer of dirt, my trousers are also
filthy and worn-through in several spots. I loved the uniform. From my
first days in the academy, my company commander Major Zemtsov has
instilled in me a love of the uniform and drill order. He was always
neat, shaven and paraded a shining example of an officer for the greenie
cadets. He should see me now. I sighed heavily. Its always seems such a
hard time, the hurdles - unsurpassable, but with the passage of years,
when one looks back you simply laugh at yourself and your perceived
troubles. When you are at the institute, you laugh, remembering how hard
it was for you in school. And you tell your children with a smile how
tormenting the institute exams were. Likewise, you joke about your
worries before taking up command of your first platoon with your friends
at table. When your skull is extensively bald and when wrinkles have
criss-crossed the mug of your face, you quiver as you remember how
difficult it was to talk to girls. How you prepared for the first and
subsequent dates. If only that young cadet, Slavka Mironov had my present
experience. Although even now, you might get acquainted with a younger
girl, that air of romanticism is missing. The blood doesnt rush through
the veins as it did before. Ive gotten old. I laughed as these thoughts.
It would be good to chase some girls right now. Has Christmas passed?
What date is it anyway? At first I wanted to go ask somebody, but changed
my mind. Whats the difference! What will it change? Nothing. My birthday
is in January. I wont think of these things. I should not get distracted
from the most important thing: to fulfil the objective and to survive.
That is all. I am deeply indifferent towards all else. Towards everyone
remaining on the continent. Same as they are indifferent towards me, so
am I and those around me are collectively indifferent to them. Well be
back!
I looked around me attentively. Everyone moved tiredly, slowly. Their
faceslifeless, their eyesred like albinos, sunken in, their faces
drawn, pointed. Everyone whom I remember as portly have become thin. Its
a good diet. Anyone wishing to loose weight quickly are invited to war.
Not a bad advertisement. Guaranteed results.
Whereas before there was some excitement ahead of whats coming, there
was no such thing now. No emotion. To war then to war. Indifferent to
everything. It seems that the nervous system has learned to preserve
itself, not spending precious energy on needless worry, which usually
comes before an important event. And when the event happens, the
adrenaline is released, sharpening the reflexes. The human organism is a
clever system.
Yurka came. He was visibly nervous.
-Whats new?
-Has the doctor come?
-He did, but dont answer a question with a question, like a Jew.

-I visited the staff. Nothing good there. Khankala is pressuring. The

neighbours have shat their pants full and all the arrows are being
pointed towards us. In shortshit.
-This is our final and most decisive battle. Thats how it is.
-Thats exactly how it is but I see that this does not interest you.
-Thats putting it lightly. I dont give a ****. Come what may.
-Youre loosing it lately.
-Im calm. Completely calm. I have not felt this measure of inner balance
in a long time. Im indifferent to all and am completely at peace.
Nothing burdens or torments me. I feel no guilt, fear or emotion.
Everything in parallel.
-You look like you have made some sort of a decision. I hope it does not
involve committing suicide or laying on top of an embrasure.
-No. Im just very tired of this idiot house. And so, let them make any
decision they want. Ill go anywhere, except for the hospital. And here I
remain as I was. I dont try to be an insurgent but at the same time, Im
not hiding in the rear. Its business as usual, except without emotion.
-And how about your appetite, do you still have it? What about the will
to live?
-Dont worry about that. All is fine there. Whens the assault? Nighttime?
-No. Everythings been re-shuffled as usual. Its in two hours. The
neighbours have to hit first and we are joining this concert twenty
minutes later.
-I would have preferred a couple of hours.
-I would too. Its a good thing that they were compelled to at least do
this little bit, as they didn't want to do anything at all.
-I understand. Siberian makhra will not complain and go fight to the
last man. Its no elite. As per usual, and the norm.
-You carry on like parrot. Alls well and great.
-Dont get crazy. Help me instead.
-What do you need?
-I need to find a new medikit. If you can, a new flak jacket, also. And
if you cant then dont worry about it.
-Ill try. Keep your nose up!
-I am. How many times do I have to tell you, you dummy that I am calm.
Thats all.
Yura left and returned after about ten minutes bearing a brand new flak
jacket in his hands.
-Who gave you that?
-They got new jackets in the third battalion. They gave me one. Zhenka
Ivanov has passed on these ear drops for you. He said that they took a
long time to find. Last flagon, he says, they help a lot. Here, take it.
Also, heres a medikit.
-Thank you Yura. What would I do without you?
-Nothing. Skip around the square not wearing a flak jacket.
-Exactly. Help me adjust it. Easy, my ears hurt.
-They cant hear yet, can they?
-But they hurt.
-Be patient. Im letting the straps loose.
-The bastards heavy. Ive spent half a day without it was like flapping
around on youthful wings.

-Youll descend soon. San Sanych wants you to stay with the staff during
the attack.
-Are you serious?
-Yes. Hes heard about your ears.
-Did you talk?
-No. Just that many on the brigade have already heard about your
adventures. That you carried out a dead fighter. There was a similar
story in the first battalion. A platoon commander went insane there. So
San Sanych and Seryoga Kazartsev are concerned for your sanity. Stay,
Slava, especially seeing that you shouldnt go into the night in such a
mood.
-Go to hell. Im fine. Calm. Im feeling good. I have never been calmer.
I dont deny that this could be a reaction to the previous night. But I
want to and I will go into battle. I dont care about any orders. I would
understand if my knowledge and experience were of some use in making a
decision, but in this case its just pity. So, kids, I love and respect
you very much, but go to hell, - I was calm even when I said this, calm
as a boa constrictor. No emotion. Only naked, sober intellect.
We spent the rest of the remaining time, drinking a few shots of spirits.
We tried to snack as little as possible. Yura got tired of straining his
throat in order to communicate with me. And I was in no mood for theatre.
I did not want to speak in monologue. I was calm and had no desire to
disturb this fragile balance by needlessly disturbing the air.
The time passed in total silence. I wasnt thinking, dreaming, or
remembering anything. I simply observed my surroundings. I replenished my
ammo. I filled the hipflask with water. In other wordsI got ready.
We went with the remnants of the first battalion this time. Seryoga
Kazartsev went alongside us. The neighbours began their attack, the
firefight commenced, but the Chechens were not stupid. They were waiting
for us. We had just enough time to dig in on the square. Ten minutes
after the start of fighting, Butalov issued the command for us to attack.
The men on the square opened fire at the Palace, pinning the Chechens
down. Taking advantage of this, we rushed forward. I already described
the route to Yurka. But our plan was no meant to be.
Once again, the Chechens opened up with a hurricane of fire. Some of the
fighters in the second battalion could not withstand their losses and
fell back under the cover of the State Banks walls. There was a second,
a moment where it seemed that the entire brigade is ready to turn back.
But something held the men in place. They faltered but did not turn, did
not show their backs to the adversary.
I was a little sweaty from all this running around, but I kept calm,
maintained my inner peace. I tried to run around the corpses and not
approach the spot where I spent the night. It was marked with the flak
jacket I left there. The soldier who ran for help and was killed laid in
the same spot and in the same position. I observed all this in my
peripheral vision. There was absolutely no desire to immerse myself into
what I had experienced then. I wont be able to bring him back, but Ill
be forced to remember him until the end of my days.

The brigade raced madly forward. The Chechens were being assailed from
three sides. Only forward. We were running forward, only forward. Not an
hour had passed since myself and Yura ended up under the Palace walls.
The Chechens were shooting at us from above. They have blown up the
entrance hall which made rapid access difficult. Our tanks began shooting
at Chechen fire points out from behind the State Banks walls. The
adversary did likewise, pounding the bank. A piece of wall collapsed. And
at this point our brigades zampolit Sergej Nikolaevich Kazartsev did
something that was discussed for a long time afterwards. The soldiers
that were unable to overcome their fear and turned back in the first
minutes of battle, were located very near to the collapsed wall.
Paralysed by terror, they conducted chaotic fire at the Palace, thus
attracting unnecessary Chechen attention to themselves. They were under
heavy fire. Kazartsev dashed towards them. When he got there, he raised
up the soldiers with a kick of the boot or an expletive and led them
away. From a tactical point of view, this was sheer madness. He ran over
open ground towards the fighters and then again towards the Palace,
leading them under the cover of its walls.
We were as impressed with this truly heroic action as the Chechens. We
covered him as we could, but for the Chechens, this was something of a
rabbit hunt. A sport. They shot enthusiastically at Sergej when he was
alone at first and then at the entire group as he led them away. I
watched this mad race with bated breath. I have not known what thats
like beforewith bated breath. Its when you watch and your breathing
stops. All your thoughts and feelings are transported there to be with
our lads. You can feel with the skin on the back of your head where they
are and what they are doing this very moment, even through you cannot see
them. Meanwhile you fire upwards at the Chechens. And only when you are
changing the magazine, do you momentarily glance back at the running
figures. And they seem so near, yet how far do they still have to go! You
cant lob an underbarreler grenade at the Chechens. The trajectory is too
steep. We shoot in long volleys. Anything, just to get the Chechens away
from windows, to draw their attention onto ourselves. Our guys are
getting closer by the second. And the Chechens are getting madder. They
too begin to shoot up the square in long, sweeping volleys. Quicker, go
men! You can do it! Go Seryoga!
And it seems that God was on our side. The lads made it through a wall of
fire to join us. They could not believe that they survived, they spun
their heads around in a daze, they were shouting merrily. We pulled them
in, slapped them on their shoulders encouragingly. But the real hero was
of course Seryoga. Not very tall in height, of thin complexion, what he
did made us regard him in a new way.
There were no orders for him to bring the people out and he did it
risking his own life. Before this moment, I treated the numerous zampolit
crowd rather coolly, but I knew now that there were real men amongst
their number. Good work Sergej! Steam was pouring from his body. Somebody
extended him a hipflask of water. He skulled it without pausing. Everyone
who was near-by began congratulating him with a successful sprint. In
Soviet times, such deeds were rewarded with the Heros Order. Nowadays,
he wont receive anything, other than the gratitude of the rescued

soldiers mothers. And he wont hear them either. So, mothers, offer up
your prayers for a good manSergej Nikolaevich Kazartsev. God give him
health.
The Chechens became very angry and started laying on us from above. Their
grenades were not yet causing us great harm. We managed to knock off a
few of them. One screamed as he fell down. The rest were silentalready
dead. The fighters were not too eager to check their pockets. Gradually,
step by step, shooting upwards, our necks stiff, we moved forward. The
arms were ready to drop down, the back, the shoulders, the neck were hard
as stone. The burned gunpowder get into our eyes, blinding us. Our lungs
were choked with its smoke. There was an urge to stop and bend over
double in cleansing spasm of coughing, bring up and expel all that filth.
And in order not to falter, one had to hold their breath, breathe slowly,
through the nose. And finally here are those walls.
The first group of soldiers scales the Palace walls and enters the
interior. Ura! We are shouting. Yelling to deaden my fear, I jump up and
hold onto the wall. There was a window near me, half blocked with
sandbags. There was an aperture at the top. The bags were made from thick
waxed paper and stuffed tightly with sand and dirt. My fingers slid over
the paper unable to pierce it. The flak jacket and gun were pulling me
down. A little more and Ill tumble back down. Judging by the sound of
fire and expletives, there was a serious fire-fight going on behind those
sandbags. And here I am hanging like spit on a mirror. Anger at my own
awkwardness added strength. Sweat pouring, I rushed upwards. Forward. I
clamoured up like a beetle over glass. And heres the aperture. Filth
everywhere as well as signs of recent shooting. This was a good fire
point.
Having secured myself atop of the barricade, I swing my gun forward and
look around. A good entry. Im right in the rear of a small group of
Chechens. Four insurgents have taken cover behind sandbags, columns and
protrusions inside the building and are holding back our assault.
Trying to contain the excitement that was ripping me apart, I sweep a
volley across their backs. Two fall down howling, the other two flee the
field of battle. Our boys take the enclosure with victorious cries. I
yell to attract attention to myself and the guys drag me in. We run.
Nobody spoke words of gratitude, there was no time for that.
The first floor was an ordinary vestibule enclosure of a large
administrative structure. Tall ceilings, columns, protrusions. The enemy
could be waiting in ambush anywhere, leave behind mines or traps. Poor
lighting complicated the inspection of the premises. The only light that
was available, penetrated the few window apertures. A mix of dust and
burned gunpowder hung in the air. The throat, the nose were dry and the
soot that had lodged in our lungs wanted to come out.
Incredibly, I remained calm, despite the blood and adrenaline boiling in
my veins. My brain worked like clockwork. It calmly analysed the
situation and delivered correct decisions.

The Chechens fought for every centimetre of the vestibule, but we pushed
further and further forward. We fired our guns intuitively, at sound and
light. There was frantic firing on the left, then an explosion, which
deafened us. Just like with the previous contusion, my hearing improved
after another airwave impact. And the world of sounds seized me once
more. This is wonderful. Anger, the mad desire to live appeared once
more. The apathy and calm had disappeared. Forward, only forward. Smash
the creeps!
Our neighbours poured into the fissure that formed due to the explosion.
Judging by their uniform, they were makhra, like us. These men joined
us enthusiastically. Those Chechens, that managed to evade us by going
upstairs were trying to supress us with grenades, but we managed to cut
the majority of them off in a distant corner. The Saracens were fighting
to the death. But balance of power was clearly not on their side. We
fired volley after volley from the underbarrelers and their shrapnel was
mowing down everything that was living in that enclosed space.
More and more troops were arriving. And it was no longer possible to tell
who was where. Everything got mixed up. Siberian makhra, Volgan
makhra, paratroopers, internal troops that appeared from somewhere.
Naturallyno single command, co-operation or any sort of a single plan of
action. Although there was one planto destroy the enemy. To break, crush
and throw these jackals off the roof. Get them! Forward!
And again my breathing falters. No-one is listening to one another.
Everyone is shouting and shooting at the Chechens. Everyone shouts
something different. For some these are the names of dead friends. After
pronouncing one, they pull the trigger, not sparing the ammo. We are in
the enemys lair! We waited long and lost many on this ****ing square. We
watched, tears in our eyes as our friends hung in this buildings
windows. Its the end of the century. Everyone calls for forgiveness,
kindness to one another. There will be no forgiveness for you! Death!
Only death. It wont be enough to hang each and every one of you holed up
in this building. For those lads whom you used as human shields. A
bastard tribe, slinks and parasites of Russia! Its Judgement day! Hang
yourselves!
Again, I am in the heat of battle. A volley, another volley. A shadow
lurks in the vestibules twilight. A long volley in that direction, just
to be sure! I am yelling something excitedly, but I cant even hear
myself. The main thing is that we made it. We have reached our Reichstag!
We did it! A volley, another volley! I am happy! Ill remember this Day
on my deathbed.
Somebody nudges my arm. I look sideways. Ha! Its Yura! He is also
excited, his eyes glint with the heat of battle.
We grin happily at one another. Alive! We are alive now and that means
well live for a long time afterwards. I yell that my hearing has
returned. He yells something back, but I cannot make it out over the
incredible pandemonium of battle. Shoulder to shoulder, we move forward.

Some of the troops descended into the basement. No shooting can be heard
from there, meaning that there are no Chechens. In our own corner, we
have chased the enemy upstairs. There is no desire to ascend to the
second floor. The rapidly approaching dusk, the gathering darkness and
smoke did their work. It was almost impossible to see anything on the
first floor. The fighters drag the bloody rags out of the corners and
throw them outside. That was all that was left of the defenders. We have
to spend the night here and have absolutely no desire to do so next to
the remains of our enemy.
There was the sound of voices, exclamations, yells. Firebrands appeared
at the entrance to the basement. Everyone moved closer and saw that the
corpses of our soldiers were being carried out on stretchers. Some were
dressed in their coats, others were completely naked. Many bore signs of
horrific torture. Many had their throats slita typical method of
execution for the insurgents. Some had their eyes torn or knocked out.
Their fingers a bloody mash. Two men had their feet sawn off. There was a
roar of rage, a cry of horror across the enclosure. There will be no
mercy for the Chechens. Only death.
The world-famous demagogue Korolev and his entourage spent his time in
that basement. The same basement where our soldiers were being tortured
to death. Just like him, they were citizens of this country, his
countrymen. What right does he have to accuse us of excesses?! He is a
moral cripple, just like those men sitting above us in this building.
Nothing but a creep!
Everyone stood and watched. The roar gave way to a sombre silence. Those
that wore helmets or hats, took them off silently, as they farewelled
their comrades on their final journey. Home. We could not save you.
Forgive us.
And the bodies kept coming. Nobody counted how many there were. No less
than fifty. When the sorrowful procession emerged outside, gunfire broke
out from above. The Chechens shot at those who were carrying their dead
comrades. Somebody screamed as would a wounded man, or somebody near
them.
We thirsted for the blood of the enemy, we wanted blood. The desire for
revenge compelled us upwards and forwards.
Nobody gave the command, but everyone ran to the two stairwells that led
upwards. The Chechens tried to greet us with dense fire from above, but
our rage as well as mutual understanding reached such an intensity, that
we all fired our underbarrelers in unison. There were no more cries of
victory, in the heat of battle. Vengeance, that was the only word spoken
through clenched teeth. To hell with everything. They must not live.
Step by step, we slowly proceed upstairs. Chechen corpses are lying on
the stairs. We trample them. For us, they are no longer people, they are
things. Our entire attention is concentrated only on the target ahead.
Having forgotten to look under my feet, I step on an insurgents corpse.
My foot sinks into something soft and disgusting. I push the corpse away
trying not to look at it. Its almost impossible to see anything, only

the wind howls in the broken windows of the first and second level.
Cannot see the enemy. Its dark. A game of who looses it first is about
to begin. The Chechens cant see us either. The first to fire will be the
first to reveal their position and therefore, the first to perish. And
for this reason none of us were smoking or talking. We stepped carefully.
One of the fighters picked up a tin can and threw it. It clanged on the
concrete and rolled away. Immediately, there were tree volleys out of the
corners. We spotted those points of light burning brightly in the semidarkness and opened fire. As soon as that happened, more lights lit up
and we started hosing down the second floor with our gunfire. The bullets
ricocheted off the columns with an unpleasant squealing sound. It was
dangerous to stay in one spot and so everyone dispersed.
A roll over the shoulder ending up on one knee, a volley, then another. A
roll to the side and another volley, lying down. Short running advances
forward, bent over double. My frantic breathing falters continuously.
Again, I am sweating from the physical exertion. As I move, broken glass
crunches under my feet and body. My feet slide over spent shells lying on
the ground. But the only way is to move forward. To stop means death. I
hear the stomping of boots behind memore of our fighters are ascending
the stairs. It was easier on the first floor; roomier allowing direct
line fire. Here, there are lots of offices. The corridor has bends. We
advance inwards meter after meter, suppressing the Chechens frenzied
resistance and cutting them off from stairwells and elevator shafts. When
we reach the offices, we begin mopping them up as is the standard
practice. Almost no doors remained and there was no need to kick them in.
A few grenades, a volley, onto the next office. Somebody yelled loudly on
the left and there was unaccented Russian mat. Friendlies. Judging by
their replicas, somebody is wounded with shrapnel from his own grenade. I
could hear him getting dragged off to the first floor. The Chechens were
also lobbing grenades and shooting almost point blank out of their
underbarrelers. More and more of our troops have to be taken back
downstairs. Some of them are going to the three hundred, some two
hundred.
But I wasnt thinking of this now. Forward, only forward. Again, I can
feel the salty taste of blood in my mouth and again the adrenaline is
raging in my veins. Fear and ardourthose are the two feelings that drive
men in battle. Together, they are an explosive mixture, ready to go off,
releasing a huge amount of energy.
Forward. Another office. We approach the door, bent over double and when
we are within a few paces of it, we pull the pins and throw the grenades.
We try to throw them around the corner, so that the shrapnel doesnt clip
us too. We jump back and press into the wall. Two explosions rock the
office. Another two explosions echo on the other end of the corridor. We
leap into the doorframe and shoot up the space beyond. We fire from the
stomach, expending our ammo generously. One, then two volleys across the
entire office. It seems that no-ones here. We turn to leave and a volley
issues from behind us. Someones there after all. Thankfully the bastard
didnt get anyone. We shoot again, firing our underbarrelers. About six
grenades fly into the office. Its quiet. Again, we run inside and shoot
it up from the stomach. Step by step, we advance inside. We fire, not
sparing the ammo, stopping only now and then to change our magazines We

stumble upon the mutilated, bloodied corpse of an insurgent. Its too

dark to see him properly. We turn out his pockets and exit into the
corridor. The rest of our guys are far ahead of us. Its too dark to see
anything other than the muzzle flashes now. The deafening sounds of
explosions bounce around in the enclosed space. Flashes from exploding
grenades illuminate the corridor. Gradually it gets quieter. The second
floor is ours!
Its strange, but ones empathy for the insurgents diminishes with each
engagement. At first there was some doubt. That perhaps we are here as
invaders. I was tormented by the thought that in some way, I am part of
an occupying force and maybe even a murderer. But now, I am completely
indifferent. Vengeance, full stop. Nothing more. Everything is clear as
black and white. Were good and they are bad. The ardour of battle
dissipated gradually. Fatigue set in, I craved sleep. The fighters were
busy discussing the days events often interrupting one another as they
recalled memorable episodes. Two fighters returned from the first floor.
Judging by their replicas, one of them was wounded in the shoulder. The
medics, who were located in the basement, operated on the seriously
wounded right there on the spot.
The fighters tore out clumps of cotton wool from their ripped jackets and
improvised torches. A crowd of curious men gathered around. One of the
soldiers got undressed. Everyone could see by that uneven light that his
right shoulder was covered in blood. Somebody gave him a flask of either
spirits or vodka. First they let the wounded man take a big gulp, then
started to treat the wound, cleaning it of dirt and dried blood. His body
twitched from the touch of the medikit cotton wool. To prevent himself
from yelling in pain, the man put a belt in his teeth, clenching it every
time. Saliva ran out of the corners of his mouth and he wiped it off with
the back of his hand. Sweat rolled over his forehead, obscuring his
sight. Those around him were encouraging him, supporting him, trying to
distract him from the pain.
Armed with a bayonet blade and assisting himself with a trophy stiletto
knife, his fried was widening the wound, trying to locate the piece of
shrapnel. He was trying not to hurt him, but the wounded man winced in
pain. He was offered an injection of painkillers, but he, clenching his
teeth and trying not to scream in pain sent them all to hell.
Finally, the surgeon reached the shrapnel. Everyone understood, that it
had to be pulled out very quickly, otherwise the patient might faint from
pain or even expire from the shock. In war, one cant help it but become
a decent medic. There is no such thing as spare knowledge.
The surgeon constructed a pair of clamps, using the material at hand.
Those near-by grabbed the patient firmly. He tensed, preparing himself
for the pain about to tear his body and mind apart. His teeth clenched
the belt tighter and even in this poor light one could see his cheekbones
whiten from exertion. His eyes shut, the sweat poring over his face more
than ever.
His comrade carefully inserted the improvised clamp into the mutilated
shoulder, grasped the shrapnel and yanked it towards himself. The wounded

man howled and lurched backwards, then forwards. Blood gushed out of the
wound. The soldiers near by scrambled to tear open the dressing packs.
The thick paper cracked loudly, the pins that are inside each one flew
onto the floor. They quickly unrolled the bandages, being careful not to
touch the inner surfaces. They craftily dabbed the blood. They tried to
bandage him up but the blood instantaneously soaked through all the
available dressing and ran down his back. Either large blood vessels were
damaged, or the lads blood was not clotting properly. Everyone knew that
at this rate. In the dark, somebody unfastened a magazine from his
assault rifle and began retrieving the ammo. Nobody wanted to resort to
this barbaric method but there was no other choice. In the army, small
wounds are customarily treated with cigarette ash, large oneswith gun
powder.
A fighter stepped forward into the circle of light, holding two open ammo
cartridges. The others quickly removed the bandages and dressing. The
powder was poured out onto the wound in one swift move and then set
alight by one of the torchbearers. It lit up immediately, blinding
everyone temporarily. The wounded man leaped to his feet, but as
everybody could see, the blood had stopped. The men chatted approvingly.
They spoke encouragingly as they bandaged his shoulder carefully. The
shrapnel piece was washed in vodka and presented to the soldier for
keepsake. He was made to drink the remaining vodka. That was it. The
operation was a success. A long cold night lay ahead, a typical winter
night in Chechnya.
Yura turned out to be the one that poured the powder over the fighters
wound. He approached and silently handed me a cigarette. The little
devil! He lived! We lit up. We were very glad to see one another. We
smiled as we smoke.
My partner retrieved something from his left pocket and showed it to me
without saying anything. The lighting was no good. I bent towards it and
dragged strongly. By the red light of the cigarette, I made out a hand
grenade. Its fuse was out and laid adjacent to it on his palm. Just like,
me, Yura also carried a lucky grenade in his pocket! This means that
our time has not yet come!
-You havent used it?
-Not yet. Where were you? I wanted to be near you but you disappeared
somewhere.
-Hell knows, Yura! Everyone ran and I followed them, thinking they were
going after beer. Instead they led me here.
-There would have been a queue after beer, but here, there is nothing but
the Chechens. How are you?
-Intact. My hearing is back. Everything is fantastic.
-Really. Everythings really wonderful? - he sounded sceptical.
-Are we not alive, you and me? Alive! In one piece? More or less! Were
in the Chechen Reichstag, on the second floor. What else do we want?
-To eat and drink!
-Go up to the next level and ask.
-Theyll pour you some! How are we going to spend the night?
-Hell knows, Yura, somehow. We cant go to the basementtheres an
improvised hospital there. I dont know how they mange to operate down
there.

-Just like hereby torchlight.

-The hell. Its the end of the twentieth century and we practice surgery
by torchlight. At least were not using dog lard and magic spells.
-You should fight your own people some more and then youll have to
resort to magic. How did you imagine it would be?
-I dont want anything. How do we exit the building?
-Dont even think about that! Some tried and those that did not manage to
get far are being sewn up in the basement. Those that were faster
remained on the square. The Chechens didnt let anyone through; from this
side of from the other. There is no more going there now!
-Those faggots!
-Whom do you mean, Slava?
-Not our guys, surely! Those bastards!
-Dont get crazy. If you want, there are plenty of floors above us. They
want to starve us out. We wont last long here without supplies of food,
water and ammo and the evacuation of the wounded. So, we have to advance
upwards as soon as we can.
-Wait, what if they send us the same surprise as they did at the state
bank? When they blew up the ceiling above us? What a great time that will
be?
-They wont.
-Why?
-There are a lot of levels. The top floors could collapse.
-These Muslims are liable to sacrifice themselves for faith and in the
name of killing the infidel.
-They all want to live.
-Thats also true. But there will always be a couple of fanatics deeply
indifferent to other peoples lives. And they will blow it up. There are
plenty of fools everywhere.
-I like the way you think. You are always ready to embue the people with
a sense of optimism in the coming day, Slava.
-Im a realist. Lets go find a place to sleep.
-Lets go look for some firewood. Perhaps the Chechens havent burned it
all.
Slowly, we walked along the corridor. We examined each office, gathering
pieces of furniture, doors and window frames. We dragged it all to one of
the offices. There we found a packet of writing paper. We lit a fire. The
weak flame licked the remains of furniture, melting the lacquer which
bubbled and blackened and did not want to burn brightly. We leant against
the wall, shoulder to shoulder, staring silently at the flame. It drew
our attention. Each one of us thought of his own. His thoughts raced far
away from reality and the events of the day that passed.
Gradually we became warm by the fire. Despite the thirst, hunger and the
overwhelming emotion, we became sleepy and began to doze off. Another day
of my life was over. Another day of another war came to an end.
It was uncomfortable to sleep. Our extremities stiffened quickly, our
legs cramped up. Then it became cold, the fire having almost died. We had
to stay semi-awake, keeping an eye on it. It was still dark when we came
to. We threw some more firewood onto the flame, which started up slowly.
We started on some morning exercises, waving our hands around, doing situps and push-ups. The physical exercise made us warmer, but we cannot

hold out long without hot food, tea, and vodka. The Chechens wont let us
out without losses and wont let in any help. Who gets who. They too
cant just leave. We wont let them. Well rip them up like yesterdays
newspaper!
A fire-fight broke out outside. Carefully, so as to not be picked off by
our own, who might take us for Chechens, we peeked out of the window. A
large group, at least a regiment, which looked to be a compilation of
internal troops and marine infantry were trying to break through in order
to come to our aid.
The Chechens on the upper floors conducted desperate fire. We could now
clearly see what an impossible goal we managed to achieve, having
traverse that square. Everything could be clearly seen from up here, even
in the poor morning light. The fighters trying to break through to us
now, who were attempting to take cover behind burnt-out vehicles and in
small dug-outs, were as vulnerable, as if they were targets on a firing
range.
There was fire and grenade explosions in the corridor. We ran out of the
room. Our fighters were retreating away from the second stairwell, trying
to repel the Chechen onslaught. The bastards were trying to break out! It
wont work.
I load a grenade as I run and fire without aiming. It disappears in the
stairwell and after a second, a pop of explosion sounds, then that of a
falling object. The shooting stops for a few moments, only to soon
resume. They wont break through. More and more of our guys are awake and
are coming to help.
There is a fire-fight at the first stairwell also. The Chechens are
desperately trying to get out of the cauldron. Yura is near and is
shooting out of his underbarreler. I know from experience that he is
better at it than I. He knows how to lob them accurately. Where I,
lacking that special type of imagination, that allowed me to predict the
trajectory the grenade will travel by, Yura could do it very well. Many a
time he amazed me with his ability to lob a grenade at the target from an
impossible position via an uncanny trajectory. And he always got it the
first time. And so now, with a calm expression on his face, he was
shooting at the Chechens But underneath that unassuming mask was
concealed an arduous, passionate fighter.
The enemy also switched to grenades and underbarrelers. For this reason,
the two sides had to keep their distance. The grenade duel continued.
I had a thought for a moment, that if all our guys were to be led out and
the building blown up with everything inside it, that would be the end of
all the Chechens there! But they wont let that happen. The command wants
victorious outcomes. And pictures of the taken building on the front
pages of newly fashionable magazines. The flag flying over Reichstag.
Theyll order in more troops to help, at which rate they will loose no
less than a third on the square. Theyll pack no less than a division
into this building and let the rest fall here.

----------CHAPTER 19---------I can guess what our father-commanders in Moskva are planning! Dont
expect anything pleasant from them! Malice and hate? Plenty for all
around! Sense? None available!
We could hear that the fire fight outside was intensifying. The poor guys
out there. We should step up our efforts, so as to draw the enemy fire
away from them and onto ourselves. How many times had we had to draw
enemy fire onto ourselves! It would be so good to plant a couple of those
pot bellied generals from the Arbat military district here. Let them draw
enemy fire onto themselves, saving the lives of those soldiers now
fighting on the square, as they try to come to our aid.
Once again, I put up my gun. Only two underbarreler grenades remain. I
switch to the ammo. I cant see properly, but I fire anyway. Its
becoming crowded due to all the soldiers coming up from level one and the
basement. Nobody wants to stay out of this. Everyone yearns to have a
hand in the destruction of this wasps nest. If the war would also end
after this, that would be absolutely wonderful! But from what I know of
these people, makes me realise that they will continue to fight for each
apartment block, will conduct guerrilla warfare until the last of their
number. So, in whose name and for what are we fighting here? Are we
avenging our comrades and those RussiansI hate the term Russianspeaking, people that were hurt and abused here, before we came?
Suddenly, something burns my left cheek. I grab for it, but determine
that its OK, somebodys hot, spent cartridges have flown into my face. I
rub my cheek and continue to fire, trying to disregard the pain. I have
half a magazine left and another full short one in the pocket of my
coat. Also about twenty loose cartridges in other pockets. Soon, Ill be
forced to disengage. Yura, who is in position next to me, does not have
much more either. As my mother kept telling me: Learn English, sonny!.
No matter how I tried to ration my ammo, the lock snapped drily and then
again after another fifteen minutes. I asked the soldiers around me for
some ammo, but they told me that they had none to spare. Judging by their
excited faces, I surmised that they simply dont want to share. There was
no immediate threat to my life and therefore they didnt give me any. The
tight bastards! Thats it, Im spent I have to disengage from the
fight. I shouted to Yura to the effect, he nodded and answered that hell
be done in a few minutes and will follow suit.
I had difficulty getting through the crowd of soldiers and officers as I
walked to an empty portion of the corridor. I decided to wait for Yura
here and then continue onwards. Soon he was here. He was excited:
-Did you see how we made those creeps **** themselves?
-Yeas, it was wonderful.
-How are you?

-Dont hold your breath!

-Hows that?
-Theres this anecdote, - I began, as we descended to the first floor. Somebody asks an old Jew: Hows your health, Abram? And he answers:
Dont hold your breath! Its the same with me. No matter how shitty I
feel, I always reply like that old Jew.
-Original.
-Ones driven, when theyre angry, they want to stand their ground. There
would be no use in whingeing to you, that everything is crap. Imagine if
I began to complain to you that war is pointless. After all, you cannot
do anything to stop it and meanwhile you might think what a wang I am.
-Not bad Slava. I like it. Do you know what wang stands for?
-A wise and noble general?
-So you do know.
-Not my first year in the army. Were going to laugh so hard, we get a
stich, when we wont find any ammo downstairs. Going to burst from
laughter.
-Go to hell, you!..
-Whos going to re-supply us? Have you even seen a transport from the
Mainland? - right now, a spot three hundred meters distant form the
Palace seemed like it was deep in the rear.
-What are we to do?
-Well try to take it from the wounded. They shouldnt need it any more,
and we do.
-Slava, if one listens to you, theyll go grave-robbing for some ammo.
-Will you?
-Lets go. Its not like were digging for gold teeth. And maybe some
help will arrive by then. Well bum some from them.
-What a madhouse, Yura! Were scavenging for ammo from the dead and
wounded, so that we can continue to fight. What do we need this for? If
you tell about this to a normal person, they'll think were making it up!
-So dont tell them then.
-Im not planning to. Alright, lets go.
We descended to the first floor and wandered around in search of
ammunition. Occasionally, we stumbled over guns, which upon closer
examination were already cleaned out of ammo. When we asked the few
fighters watching the square, they replied that they are waiting for
fresh troops to arrive and that supposedly they will have some to share.
According to them, there was nothing to be had in the basement either, as
the dead and wounded have been cleaned out of everything that they had
that could be taken. It looked like we were not the only ones hunting for
ammunition.
We began to get crazy, me and Yura. Judging by the gunfire, there was a
serious battle going on upstairs. Meanwhile, here we were hanging around
like the worst of cowards. In exasperation, I passed the vestibule and
kicked the debris underfoot. With a grim face, Yura observed the goings
on on the square. Nothing good, judging by his reactions. The fire fight
over there was very lively.
There was the sound of boots on the stairwell. I went to see what it was.
Two fighters were being carried in stretchers. Two Hundreds. One was

missing a foot and part of his ankle, the other looked like he was torn
to pieces.
-Laid down onto a grenade. Of his own free will. He covered us. And
Sashka got unluckyhe was standing near him and his foot was torn off, the fighters answered my silent question.
-Wheres their ammo? - I asked. Despite the tragedy in the air.
-It got taken upstairs.
-A pity.
-Everyones got only a little left. But we seem to have advanced, so
maybe well take some from the Chechens.
-****! Its as if were in forty one. Claim your weapon from the enemy.
****.
-Why dont you try to relax, - one of the soldiers looked at me like I
was crazy. - Would you like to take mine?
-I would! Hand it over.
-Here, - the soldier retrieved a pair of magazines out of his bag and
handed them to me.
-Thank you brother! I owe you a bottle!
The fighters went onwards, into the basement.
I examined the first magazine. I could see a round in the control portal.
Same with the second magazine. They were full. Sixty rounds. Not much,
but it is something. I wanted to share with Yura, but in truth, my
reader, there is this saying in the army: hog-crush. Human greed. Ill
give up my life for Yurka, yet I could not give him a magazine. Whats
sixty rounds? ****, nothing. Two minutes of proper fire and divided in
two not even that. Ardour and greed are not the most desirable of
virtues, but I am who I am.
I swiftly ran upstairs. Where has all my apathy and fatigue gone? Maybe
theres something wrong with my head. Everyone around me is calm,
composed and tired, meanwhile, I like a young greenie, cant wait to
engage in battle. Maybe Im being a fool?! It happens.
Forward, forward! Tempo, speed, only forward! In our absence, our guys
have taken the staircase and were approaching the landing on the third
floor. It was not an easy task to get to the forward position. The
soldiers were lying on the floor, shooting upwards. As before - no visual
on the enemy. Neither we, nor the Chechens could see one another. As soon
as there was movement, I barged in and joined the rush forward.
Here it is, the third floor! As soon as we reached the landing, we
scattered. I fell down and began to quickly roll, holding my gun in front
of me. I thought I saw a shadow. I fire as I roll. The bullets scatter
arc-wise. I halt by the wall. There is some sort of an office next to me.
I rise up on one knee and peer into the doorway. It seems that there is
no-one there. Nervously, I turn and enter, half-squatting and holding my
gun at eye-level. There is a rustling behind me. I quickly roll over my
right shoulder and fire in the direction of that sound even before I
land.
It turns out to be a draft rustling the scattered papers. There are two
insurgent corpses in the office. I approach them as I suppress the

feeling of revulsion. Looks like somebody got them through the window,
using an underbarreler. There are two guns and some sort of a bag. First
of all I take the guns. Right. Off come the magazines! They are not full,
but there are some rounds left. Next I hurriedly undo the clasps on the
bag. A pair of grenades on top, which I move to the right pocket of my
coat, Under that, there is moneyroubles. Your mother. What the hell do
they need these roubles for? Could have traded this bag for a tin of
rounds. I take out a packet of money. They feel strange, greasy. I tear
off the ribbon and retrieve a banknote. As to be expectedit is
counterfeit! The paper is slightly better than toilet tissue. What the
hell do they need these paper scraps for? I dont know. Children of the
mountains. They must think that these are real. But. They could not have
held position with just two magazines. I continue to rummage around the
enclosure. Here they are! My dearies. Six magazines stacked by the
window. A half-empty tin of ammo, about forty hand-grenades and a tin of
underbarreler rounds. Also six Mukha rounds! Come to daddy, my dearies!
Come, come!
Such good lads, these Chechens! Well-prepared. But all you get is a dick
in your mouth! I shove the full magazines into my pockets. Its a good
thing that the men who developed our uniforms made the pockets to fit
these magazines. Pockets not in and in partial use, I stuff with the
loose rounds. I grab the underbarreler grenades. At least five kilograms
in total. No less. A pair of one-shot grenade launchers dangling behind
me, another one in my hands. The assault rifle with a full long
magazine and a grenade loaded into the underbarreler hangs muzzledownwards off my right shoulder. Now, I can do some fighting.
As I was busy stuffing my pockets with these treasures, a serious firefight developed in the corridor. I stood up on one knee by the side of
the doorway. Carefully, I stuck my head out into the corridor. The
Chechens have built a barricade in the corridor and were engaging our
forces. There was also a shoot-up on the stairwell.
I approached our guys, using various protrusions for cover. Step aside,
boys! The people parted and covered their ears. I tore off a piece of
paper located on the grenade launchers beltit contained a pair of
cotton wool tampons. I stuck these into my ears, opened my mouth and
fired. A terrible noise. Especially in such a confined space. If there
was any glass in the windows here, they would have surely been smashed
out.
The barricade made from furniture and pieces of brickwork was blown apart
into small fragments. Very nice! I retrieve the second RPG from behind my
back. Heres a present to you from the Mad Dogs. I tear off the safety
ring, lift the sight and press the button that appears as a result.
Your Judgement Day cometh, you mongrels. A terrible thunder, despite the
cotton wool. Wonderful! With difficulty, I contain the urge to slam a
third Mukha in their direction. All good things in moderation! I cast
off the empty launcher pipe and pick up my gun. A volley. Sweeping from
wall to wall. From the soul. How good does it feel to sweep my gun like
this, from the knee, wall to wall! Not sparing the bullets. Not having to
count how many you have left for this room and if you will be able to
emerge out into the corridor. The lock issued a dry snap. I pull out the

magazine and shove it into my pocket. Ill have use for it later, I have
some stuffing for it. I insert the second one.
Forward! Only forward! Its unlikely that anyone survived such a
reception, but what the hell, the devils a joker. A mop-up is a mop-up.
The explosions erected a thick wall of smoke and dust in the corridor.
The smell of burned explosives, gunpowder, cement and whitewash tickles
the nose. The handy-work of my Mukhas . Cleared the road for us.
We advance in short runs. The tip of my boot snags something soft, I cast
it aside. Out of the corner of my eye I see that it is a piece of an arm
draped in a rag, probably all that is left of the sleeve. There is a red
stain on the scorched wall and a pile of rags underneath. My handy-work!
Forward!
As we advanced forward in this manner, we counted eight corpses. Some
were torn apart by shrapnel and I got the others out of my gun. Now this
is real war! Good on you Slavka! You son of a bitch! Well done! Full
marks!
I was proud, almost in love with myself. No matter how far we advanced,
we did not encounter any live Chechens. It looked like this lot did not
manage to retreat to the upper floor. And it also looked like I, using my
trophy grenade launchers managed to liberate the entire floor. Not
single-handedly of course, but for the most part. It meant that my life
was not in vain, that I have done at least one good, useful thing with
it.
We also discovered the bodies of six of our soldiers on that floor. Two
had their members and testicles cut off and inserted in their mouths.
They all, without exception, were covered in bruises, haemorrhages and
blade cuts. They were tortured. What were the Chechens hoping to discover
from these prisoners as they sat here completely surrounded? Most likely
nothing, they were just displacing their desperate rage on them. A
helpless rage. A terrible thing.
I went over to share the trophy ammunition with the other fighters.
Everyone was amazed with the things that I have found. We then went to
aid those that have pushed upstairs. Our soldiers were already fighting
for the fifth floor. The Chechens left a small group to be torn apart by
us and the rest ascended to the seventh floor. They blew up the
stairwells between the sixth and seventh floors, but they did not have
time to do this to the second stairwell, or maybe something went wrong.
Either way, this left us with only one way up. This looked very much like
a trap. With each new floor, the Chechens shouted Allah Akhbar and
fought with ever greater desperation. They knew at this point that they
will not be able to exit the building and that we have received
reinforcements, which made our advance ever more lively. The
reinforcements allowed us to rest. They brought up water. A lot of water.
This water; I wont forget its taste until the end of my days. The
tastiest drink that I have ever had in my life. It seemed like I drank no
less than three litres. My stomach was like an aquarium. Spirits were
brought up also. These were in the same great demand. I drank half a
glass of diluted spirits immediately. There was no hot food, but we

warmed up the spam on bonfires made from remnants of furniture, doors and
window-frames.
Our brigades command arrived at the building with the first
reinforcements. At first, Butalov tried to present himself as a seasoned
warrior and an experienced fighter. But it didnt work. His own
subordinated did not acknowledge him, not to speak of everyone else. What
sort of a person he was and what he was capable of was already made
common knowledge to anyone wishing to listen.
And as such, no single command ever emerged. Paratroopers, marine
infantry and interior troops all arrived and each one of their commanders
thought himself a great military man but each was lethargically and
sincerely sent to hell, sabotaging their orders and instructions. Many of
which, by the way were absurd, such as the order to line up particular
formations on particular floors. There was an attempt to gather the
formation commanders for consultation, meanwhile a lot of company
commanders were knocked out, not to mention those in smaller formations.
Some smartasses tried to divide up the wounded and forbid their medics
from treating casualties from other formations. What nonsense! Thank God
that the medics had their wits and courage about and ignored such
ridiculous orders.
The command posts of the newly-arrived commanders were set up in the huge
basement. But they sat there beside themselves with boredom. There were
no troops to command. They could not make decisions and bring any plans
to fruition. At first they all rose to the top and took part in the
actual fighting, but they soon tired of this, descended back down and
drank with fellow officers. Some however stayed upstairs and continued to
fight with their own or other troops. That is what San Sanych and Seryoga
Kazartsev did. Not once did they leave the fighting during those
engagements, although they had the right to do so as commanding staff.
They fought next to us like ordinary soldiers. They swore at them when
they did something wrong and they patted them on the shoulder for a
successful shot or a well-placed grenade. Maybe this is what
distinguishes real father-commanders from parquet-shufflers and
careerists. This was not mere bonding, this was respect for the man, who
works hard, just like you, who isnt afraid of dirty work. Who doesnt
shirk that **** in which you have to swim on the whim of Moskva. You know
that they are not a conduit of Muscovite idiocy, but a commander whos
fighting for Russia, and who suffers every death and wounding of his men.
TheySan Sanych and Kazartsev are the ploughmen in this war. They were
not the ones composing the gleeful daily reports to Khankala about their
shining victories and they were not the ones assuring the command back
there that the Building is so very close to being taken. No! Butalov did
that for them splendidly, remembering naturally to underscore his role in
this liberation action.
And of course, he was not alone. All the commanders who took up residence
in the basement wrote similar daily briefs. At first they did this
separately, so their numbers were all different. Having received a
dressing down from Khankala for this nonsense they now gathered together
and having decided on the details of their reports, sent them onwards. As
it happens in any war, these reports would have it that half the Grozny

population is holed up in defence of this building and have for their

most part been destroyed. Whats going to happen when we continue
onwards?
The medics were also down in the same basement. At first they were weary
of one another, but soon they cast all their differences aside and united
into one machine. Logic prevailed!
Despite the arrival of reinforcements the taking of upper floors
proceeded very slowly. The Chechens fought for every centimetre of the
floor and stairwell. Two insurgents covered themselves in grenades and
ran towards the fighters. Fourteen men died, not counting the enemy. This
incident made everyone very angry. The Chechens began laying traps,
mining the doors, offices, tins, grenade crates and grenade launchers. It
all went up into the air as soon as somebody touched these trophies.
Grenades or mines were used as detonators for the other munitions. After
that, there was nothing left to bury. A bloody mass that could fit into a
large herring jar.
New and new troops arrived and they wanted to fight. No-ne held them
back. You want to fightso fight! They fought according to Suvorovs
principlesevery man knows his move. New and new commanders arrived. Many
tried to take command again, but in vain. They quickly settled down and
went off to drink and write odes celebrating their military genius.
Everything was as old as the earth. Everything repeated. A couple of
times, some Muskovite generals arrived with reporters. They posed for
picturee in front of the building and gave interviews from its interior.
They spoke to the wounded fighters. Somebody tried to approach me once,
but I turned around and sent them to hell over my shoulder. Last thing I
need is for my parents to see me on the TV screen. I have no need for
such nonsense.
Days and nights became one and the same. Somebody was constantly
fighting. I kept the same regimenattack, repel counter-attack. Once, the
Chechens managed to push us back a couple of floors. From approximately
level ten down to level seven. We had to shake them up considerably in
response. With casualties and losses, we reclaimed it all. And thats how
it was. You fight for half a day and when you run out of ammunition, you
descend a few floors. Down there, there are bonfires; hot porridge and
spam awaits you. Somebody keeps up the flame, prepares the food, pours
you half a glass of diluted spirits, brings up ammo, munitions and
cigarettes. If these were supply troops, then thanks be to them. No-one
asked who you were and which formation you were from, officer or soldier.
Everyone simply came up, sat down, ate, smoked and walked off, clearing
the spot for another. A few hours of sleep, from which the cold awakes
you, a light breakfast and upstairs. You push somebody aside and engage.
Everything is rehearsed down to the smallest detail. The brain no longer
reasons due to an excess of experiences, the conscience is switched off.
I have stopped counting the number of levels taken and which level we are
fighting on. Once, we took the stairwell and managed to get to the next
floor straight up. It seemed that half my life had passed, whereas we
have spent all that time in this cursed building.

The higher we went, the more troops gathered in the Palace. It was as if
the entire army group came to storm the new Reichstag. There were a lot
of new faces. There was spetsnaz of all types: GRU, FSK, MVD, SOBR, OMON.
And a countless number of other types of troops. There were as many
generals as the mud. Where were you, bastards when we dug ourselves in on
the square? ****! ****ing vultures! Marauders! There was a lot of various
types of journalists. Simple makhra was not admitted to come before
them. Instead, the new arrivals, who were barely out of the scout camp
were sent to appear on the blue screen. They were the ones that told you
lies on the news broadcast, my reader. Having dined well and washed it
down with beer not a moment ago. In short, I wont bore you with the
details. We took that Reichstag. Somebody placed the victorious red flag
above it, although it was changed to the Russian tricolour a few days
later. And this doesnt matter much. Maybe to the Muscovite generals and
their cronies, but not to the Siberian makhra - no.
Butalov ran around the levels trying to gather us. When only two or three
levels remained, it was decided to lead the negroes (that would be us)
away, leaving the dessert to the Muscovite elite. For some reason Butalov
was unequivocally sent to hell and all the newbies dressed up in pretty
Turkish and American camouflage were sent back to Moskva. And we
continued to fight. And when we were done, we signed the walls of the New
Reichstag. There were many kind words about our dead and wounded. There
were many curses also. Everyone got itthe Supreme Commander with his
former subordinateDudaev. The Minister of Defence was not overlooked
either. Butalov earned his own separate greeting.
Dudaev and his entourage were not to be found in the building. They
probably left earlier. None of the insurgents that defended this citadel
survived. At least according to my data. There were no prisoners either.
Our soldiers were in no mood to take prisoner even those that
surrendered. Many leapt off the considerable height, many hung by pieces
of electrical wire bearing numerous knife and bullet wounds. The memory
of our comrades being used by the Chechens as human shields was too
fresh.
When we exited the building and began tallying up our brigades
casualties, nobody could properly report where his men were and how many
of them there were. Complete chaos. Gradually, the situation clarified.
Fifteen people died and seventeen were wounded in the building itself.
Three of the ones that were sent to Severny had fled and were hiding on
the formations, which messed up the reporting. The doctors examined them
and with curses chased them off onto the next transport out. One was in
the early stages of peritonitis, the others had pus-ridden wounds.
Peritonitis is a hellishly unpleasant thing. It is when some internal
cavity is torn, such as the stomach or the gal bladder and intestines
come in contact with bile, or when a stomach wound gets infected. You
begin to rot alive. Very few chances of survival. And thats the soldier
who was so eager for battle, either out of desperation or the lust for
revenge. The other two were no better. Everyone becomes a bit of a medic
in war. These guys were facing amputation and instead they were going
into battle. Their limbs will be amputated anywaythe bones are
shattered. And they go and fight as if they are healthy. They deserve a

monument in life. Where they are and what happened to them afterwardsI
do not know.
Everyone felt encouraged. It seemed that with a little more pressure, the
enemy will turn and run. But at this point some sort of talks began with
the elders. What is there to talk about with these Chechens? But no, the
Muscovite aces and the staff command are whispering between themselves
and the troops are standing still, chewing their own snot. The Chechens,
will meanwhile re-group, bring in reinforcements, treat their wounds,
recover from the shock of defeat, their mullahs will conduct another
round of propaganda amongst their tribesmen and the Holy War, the Ghazw
will flare up with renewed force. No-one will provide us with reenforcements, or bring in fresh supplies and new vehicles. Who is Moskva
working for in this case? Do you know, reader? I dont either, and nobody
in our brigade understood it. It turned out that Moskva is fighting a
pretend war, supplying the Chechens with time as they talk idly.
All this would be completely hilarious, if not for the very real death
notices and the corpses still lying in the streets. Hilarious, had it not
been so terrifying. Surely those that conducted the war from Moskva were
not all bought out? But the events that unfolded suggested that it must
be so. I really wish that I was wrong in this matter! But these questions
constantly arose in my head and I found no answers. Other soldiers and
officers directed similar questions to me, but I joked and sent them to
hell. It was a difficult time. We constantly discussed this matter with
Yura. There were no answers. The bleak weather, the destroyed buildings,
huge losses, corpses in the streets, the lack of prospects in the war
itself and the Pyrrhic nature of our victory itself, which our own
commanders were actively turning into a defeatit all spoiled the mood
and undermined that shaky belief in the Supreme Commander and his
entourage. It felt like we were all betrayed, sold out, that our losses
were in vain. Nothing mattered.
As we sorted our feeling out, there was an order to take the canned goods
and cognac plants.
The first battalion along with the tankers took the cognac distillery.
The second battalion went to the canned good factory. After a day, the
internal troops insinuated themselves in. Were not greedythere will be
enough for everyone!
Replacements from the Siberian Military district began to arrive.
Battalion commander vacancies were being filled first. Open vacancies.
The wounded battalion commanders were ordered home. They were farewelled
by the entire brigade. Those that came to replace them quickly assumed
their role. For now, none of the new arrivals was engaging in anything
stupid.
It was very interesting to observe the formation commanders as they
arrived for briefing. The first battalions commander and the head tanker
were visibly loosing their health and wasting in plain sight. The colour
of their faces, which at first was bright-red was slowly changing into
bluish-yellow. The second battalions commander on the other hand,

blossomed from day to day. He no longer drank plain water, only fruit
juices. The balance of power was being restored.
Me and Yura visited both sites. We had five litres of Chechen cognac,
about fifteen litres of various fruit juices as well as some horrible
stuff that gets used in the process of making preserved fruit and juices.
It smelled like plum liquor and tasted like burnt cork with a whiff of
acetone. The stomach hurt after drinking it, but there was a decent high.
Thanks to the wits of Vasya Tsapalov, this concoction was named cocktail
a la Chechnya.
After taking these key objectives in the enemys defence, our brigade
became very popular and welcome in all the other formations. Commanders
came to visit us and their fighters went to visit our fighters. Everyone
left with giftsa few hipflasks of cognac and a crate of juices. We were
being invited to visit. We traded uniforms, armaments, munitions and
spare parts for our vehicles for the cognac. The third battalion traded a
captured BMP for two two-hundred litre drums of cognac. Who says that oil
is the blood of war? Nonsense! Liquor is the blood of war. It seemed
that, had he been on offer, we could trade Dudaev himself, in return for
trophy cognac.
This idyll was unfortunately not to last. Only ten days. At which point
an order came from Khankala directing all stores of trophy cognac be
destroyed.
These terrible news momentarily spread through the army group, thanks to
our comms men. And it began. They came from everywhere, bringing with
them whatever vessels they could find, the most popular being the
canister. They also brought uniforms, rare spare parts and a lot of
trophies. These were Chechen submachine guns, knives, flags, green
bandanas, troop movement maps, that were signed by Dudaev and Maskhadov.
Although in comparison to one another, the signatures were different.
Some were without signatures at all. But those that brought them assured
us that they were taken from a dead or captured insurgent, who fought
like a caged tiger and before he died, tried to eat, burn or tear it,
depending on personal preference.
Three ejection seats were brought to us, with the owner of each claiming
to have personally removed it from Dudaevs plane. There were a lot of
humorous moments. It seemed that had we asked for a missile warhead, that
we would get it too, in exchange for a couple of drums of cognac. Its
good to be a monopolist!
And finally some moron from Khankala arrived and started shouting that we
cease getting the army group drunk immediately. One had to be there.
Those that were queuing for the cognac were shouting filthy mat at this
young lieutenant-colonel. Some were trying to trick him. Others, using
armour-piercing rounds were trying to make as many holes as possible in
the big cognac cistern. The liquor gushed from these holes into the cans,
canisters, jars and pots placed beneath them. Desperation and greed can
do incredible things!

After fifteen minutes, the lieutenant-colonel, who did not find a single
countryman here, having been born in Moskva and having served his entire
term there, managed to escape his surroundings and ordered in the name of
the Commander to destroy the steel storage column. The tank battalions
commander aimed the tank gun personally and fired an armour-piercing
round. A collective cry of horror sounded, as the column listed, then
fell, a thick stream of cognac gushing out of a tear in its side. Cognac.
A sea of cognac spilled out onto the ground, flooding everything around
it.
Everyone ran to scoop out the puddles of the liqueur. And above this
chaos reigned a thick, intoxicating stench of cognac. It made you sneeze,
weep, salivate uncontrollably and was perceptible to the touch. A merry
ardour, was soon replaced by a muted irritation and outbursts of
righteous anger, as the it quickly soaked into the ground.
Covered in mud and soaked in cognac, the officers muttered curses as they
stared grimly at the Muscovite upstart. Unable to endure this awkward and
oppressive pause, he quickly retreated. He did that just in time, as the
officers began expressing their opinion of what has happened:
-Foul goat!
-****ing mutant!
-Soldiers louse! In Khankala, they have everything! Their food and vodka
comes from Moskva!
-He could have at least asked, we would have given some even to that
bastard. -What does he need this cognac for?
-He gets vodka from the Kristall plant, why would he drink this Chechen
swill? Not going to happen!
-Couldnt the little creep come a little later?
-Another hour and everyone would have properly filled up.
-We should sample the goods! Pour it!
And there began an ordinary officers drinking session. Representatives
of all types of armed forces that were deployed in Chechnya participated.
The snacks were produced out of their BMP and tanks. Spam and condensed
milk prevailed. Has the reader tried chasing condensed milk with vodka?
No?! Try it, its an unforgettable feeling! There were even some
delicacies. Salami, cheese. Somebody even brought mayonnaise. It tasted
wonderful! After the third shot, glass, hipflask cap, everyone having
brought their own receptacle and having their own accepted doseno-one
was being judged here, the cursed lieutenant-colonel was forgotten and
the men began to recall past events. They remembered the battle at the
Palace.
Some would brag desperately of their feats in battle, some told us how
their subordinates and comrades died. There were tears and vows of
revenge for the fallen. But everyone was of a single mind that the
bastards from Kremlin and the General Staff were at fault. We all drank
to a purely military toastTo death to fools!
It started getting dark. Officers from neighbouring formations continued
to arrive. The news that Khankala had ordered the destruction of the
strategic cognac resource had rapidly spread throughout the army group.

And they came in the hope that at least something was left. They were
welcomed into warm company and pumped full of the remaining cognac.
And then our favourite dickhead from Khankala, the young lieutenantcolonel came back. This time the idiot did not come alone for he dragged
a recon troop with him. This was like trying to frighten a hedgehog with
a bare ass! The sentrys voice rang out in the darkness:
-Halt! The password is three!
-Stavka representative lieutenant Sergeyev.
-Hold it right there!
-Im telling you, Im a Stavka representative! Call the sentry chief!
-Hold it right there, or Ill shoot!
-Im holding. Call the sentry chief!
The sound of footsteps and the sentry chiefs voice sounded in the
darkness:
-The representative will come to me, the rest stay put!
-Who do you think, youre you ordering to report to you? - the offended
voice of the idiot Stavka officer, sounded in the darkness. -You. If you
do not begin to move in a seconds time, Im opening live fire without
warning.
-Im coming. But I wont let you forget this!
-Over to me march, and cut the chit-chat. You dont know the password and
are still showing off. How many of the likes of you are floating belly-up
in Sunzha?
-Wheres the commander? I have personally come to confirm the order to
destroy the liquor is being fulfilled.
He entered the circle of light containing about forty officers. Silently,
the recon troop followed him like a shadow. Although from first glance,
they had the numerical superiority, it would be folly to forget, two
battalions stood in waiting in the darkness. They may not have been fully
staffed, but they were hardened in battle and strong in the knowledge
that their officers will not betray them, will not hide behind their
backs, their lives. Would the recon men from Khankala be able to say the
same of the parquet officer they were accompanying? It is doubtful, and
judging by their tense faces, they were not elated at the prospect of
having to fight at the whim of that Muscovite. On the one hand, they had
orders, on the other their ownmakhra.
The lieutenant-colonel waltzed into the circle of light. New uniform, a
well-fed mug, clean and cleanly-shaven, white hands, nailsunbroken, a
glint in his eye, a lust for life and the command. A miniature Napoleon.
In person. Barrel-chested, a white under-collars strip gleaming in the
darkness. A picture-prefect or an idiotic patriot movie-grade officer. A
regiment commanderminimum, a battalion commander in the very least.
Beautiful, smart and tidy, One thing thoughhe doesnt give a crap about
the people. Hell lay down a regiment, a battalion, as long as he is
noticed, as long as he is praised. A frightening person. And even now,
one can feel an air of superiority, possession in his gaze. Had he had
his way, he would declare us all saboteurs right now and had us shot
without trial or jury. And he would be proud of it to his grave, immune
to the pangs of guilt. Had he been the commander of a shield detachment

in forty two, his talents would have been well-placed. It would have been
even better if he ended up in the forward detachment instead.
He was greeted in silence. Some officers having met his gaze, held it and
then demonstratively turned their backs and began discussing the recent
battles. Khankalas ridiculous orders were being discussed particularly
loudly. The rest of the officers also turned around also and started
pouring the cognac, clink and consume it. This was the last straw for the
muscovite shuffler. He shrieked like a piglet, breaking into falsetto:
-Cease the piss-up!
No reaction. Nobody even turned their heads towards him. But the tension
in the air was felt by all. The backs stiffened. Some began adjusting
their guns. There were a couple of dry snaps in the darkness as someone
took their assault rifles off safety. Were they the partying officers, or
the newly-arrived recon men is unknown. But it were these sounds that
whipped across everyones ears forcing the officers to almost
simultaneously and rapidly turn around and face the unwelcome guest.
-I demand that the party is stopped immediately and everyone disperses to
their own formations. I have authority to arrest and escort to the brig
anyone who disobeys! - he was glowing with self importance and seniority.
-Go to hell! - a voice sounded out of the darkness.
-Who said that? Who dares say that? - the little colonel nearly jumped
into the air.
-Who are you planning to arrest, sonny? - a colonel of the internal
forces asked the muscovite. His voice was calm as he approached him.Me?
A colonel? You snot-head are going to arrest me?

----------CHAPTER 20---------In the army, only very respected men are allowed to call their
subordinates sonny. This was a terrible insult to the lieutenantcolonel, like he was spat into his face.
-Just you try itmy regiment will pull you and your Khankala apart like
matchsticks. Who the hell do you think youre shouting at? These men are
almost all of them, field commanders of formations fighting in Grozny.
And where are you fighting lieutenant-colonel? Who are you fighting with?
Us? That means that youre a dukh! Is that not right? Youre conducting
some sort of negotiations with them. Whispering behind our backs.
Traitors!
-Dont start with that talk! I have orders to break up your booze-up and
to deliver anyone who objects to Khankala. -Go ahead and risk your health
and career.
-Are you threatening me?
-There are almost fifty officers here, all of them small or big
commanders. Tomorrow, well all write briefs. One brief each, where well
report that we were at a co-ordination meeting, when an intoxicated
officer burst in, insulted the sentry and the sentry chief and then

attempted to assume command. How does that sound to you? Do you have a
written order for our arrest and delivery to Khankala?
-Noit seemed that the lieutenant-colonel had finally realised what he
had gotten himself into.
-If thats the case, then your improper conduct will be established
during the investigation and youll have to go and assume command
somewhere far away from Moskva. And thats where well catch up with you.
And it is then, sonnythe colonel put special emphasis on the word
sonny, well talk to you of duty, conscience, orders and officers
honour.
-I have orders to put an end to the booze-up, - he started again. But
this was no longer spoken in the same commanding tones.
-Whos boozing, sonny? - The internal forces colonel stabbed at his selfesteem again. - Were conducting a meeting on the subject of joint
action. Its a tactical and an operational matter and therefore there is
no need to invite representatives of the stavka here.
The representative in question stood there like he was just gotten spat
all over. His life will be a difficult one from now on. The men present
as well as his recon troop will tell everyone how he was put in his place
and he will have nothing to say back. His shoulder sank, his gaze
lowered, the anger boiled inside of him. He wanted to tear us up, but he
was cut down by that colonel of the internal forces. The recon men he
came with were not on his side either. On top of that, a dense crowd of
fighters was moving in out of the dark, surrounding him as well as his
recon troop. That was on the one hand. On the other, he realised that
Rolin could well disown him, if anything was to happen. The Muscovite
turned on his heels and marched off, his recon following in his
footsteps. The engines soon roared to life in the dark and the vehicles
drove off. The tension was released. Everyone loudly discussed what had
transpired and cheered the colonel. He gratefully accepted the
congratulations and noted only that that idiot went into the night for
the sake of none other than his career. He could perish and take his men
with him. The idiot. He is the sort of man that can destroy a lot of
innocent lives for the sake of his own betterment.
After about fifteen minutes, there was again the sound of engines and the
voice of brigade commander Butalov:
-What is this piss-up? Who permitted this? Where are the battalion
commanders?
-He couldnt manage himself, so he sent that moron instead, - the tank
battalions commander hissed angrily through his teeth.
-Whats going on here? - the brigade commander entered the circle of
light.
-Were conducting a briefing. Why are you not present? - the same colonel
trumpeted.
-I got a call from Khankala. They told me that theres a boozer in full
swing here, that some lieutenant-colonel was insulted and sent to hellSo
here I am, - Butalov quickly said, looking over the men as he tried to
figure out how to conduct himself in the present situation.
-Theres no party here. Were in a meeting and decided to have supper as
well. And then that moron from Khankala came and started to shriek
something about some party. Psycho. Were working over the plans for
joint action and were about to send for you, but you beat us to it, - the

colonel said in well-meaning tone, putting his arm around Butalovs

shoulder and ushering him towards his BMP, where an improvised dinner
table was set.
Credit where its due, Butalov quickly worked it out and joined in on the
drinks with the rest of us without kicking up a fuss. But the mood was
spoiled by the idiot stavka officer. All present realised that that was
not the end of it and that there will be consequences. But nobody thought
of it now.
-We survived the inferno at the Palace, and to hell with all else. Live
and be happy.
-Thats right!
-Pour it brother!.sorry, comrade colonel. Its dark, I didnt recognise
you.
-What colonel? There are no colonels at the table. Everyones equal here.
Lets drink! To life, my brothers!
-To life!
-The Siberians are champions, yeah?!
-Of course!
-The Siberian makhra never disappoints!
This banquet continued until four in the morning after which we slept
briefly. At ten in the morning, there was a call from Khankala that
everyone is to report for briefing. All of the officers of the staff
went. Everyone hoped that we were about to be thrown at the Chechens.
According to radio surveillance data as well as judging from the
conversations we were having with the Chechens over the air, their
spirits were broken. The symbol of their independence and sovereignty,
their pridethe Palace was ours. They shrieked in rage over the radio,
sending us to hell. Our radiomen merrily advised them to go ****
themselves.
The men in our brigade, starting with the commander and ending with the
lowliest supply man were in high spirits. It seemed that if only we push
a little more, victory will be ours! The enemy is on the run and we have
to hang on his shoulders, chase the Chechens off into the highlands,
where they will be blockaded and lazily bombed by the aviation.
It was in such high spirits, still slightly drunk, that we arrived at
Khankala. Almost all of the officers with whom we spend the night so
merrily were also present. They too wafted of spent booze. As we all
stood and smoked in front of the two-story building, that lieutenantcolonel creep appeared a few times. We have already forgotten about the
incident that night, but he was clearly bent on a re-match. Let him try
and risk his health, the rear-guard rat. Finally we were all invited in
to see Rolin.
When a hundred or more men poured into the room, it got very hot and
stuffy, so everyone who was not a formation commander were sent outside.
Yurka also got out. Judging by expression on Rolins face and the
lieutenant-colonels sly grin, we were not about to be presented with new
battle plans. Instead there was to be a grilling over the last night's
bacchanal.

It was nice out in the street. Warm and relatively quiet. In the giant
quarry located at the entrance to the base, somebody was calibrating an
underbarreler sight. They had it good here. Almost like at a firing
range. Me and Yura went to inspect the attractions.
The new stavka was deployed at a former DOSAAF centre for flight
training. There were three two-story buildings and a small airfield lined
with Czech-made training jets. Our fighters were climbing all over them,
taking out pieces of memorabilia. One of them got into the pilots seat
and was pressing all the buttons and pulling on the levers.
-Dont touch the catapult, you idiot! - Yura warned him.
-Whats going to happen? - the fighter inquired.
-First youll go up, then down. Youll become a bag of bones.
-Youre not making it up? - the fighter looked at us mistrustfully. - In
that film Hard Target 2 he flew up and came down safely.
-Youre so big, yet you believe in such fairy tales! - I laughed. - That
was in the movies. Dont even think of pulling that lever.
The fighter didnt look like he believed us, but he climbed out of the
cockpit nonetheless.
-If you dont believe us, lets conduct an experiment.
-Hows that? - the fighter was curious.
-Bring over a sandbag and a length of rope.
-Where from?
-Over there, the windows of the command post are sandbagged. Bring a few
friends to help you. Get the rope out of the camouflage net.
The fighter brought over a few men.
-Slava, have you nothing better to do?
-No, Im bored. Whilst Rolin is over there scaring the commanders with
various punishments, and they ask him about the mysterious negotiations
hes having with the Chechens, were going to have a little fun. Also
well see how the ejection seat works. Have you ever seen the pilot
catapulted out of his plane?
-No. Why not? Lets try it.
We watched in silence as the fighters stole a sandbag out of some trench
and dragged it in our direction. Everything was quiet. Just like at some
training exercise during peace-time: with the planned manoeuvres
finished, everyone starts getting restless and they think up various ways
of entertaining themselves. We were tired of drinking. Everything was up
in the air. This lack of action was eroding the sense of confidence in
oneself, the objective and corroded ones ideals like rust. We were being
sold out, right in front of us.
A KamAZ truck drove slowly through the checkpoint at the entrance to the
base. Chechens came pouring out of it, many were local elders, all
wearing the distinctive sheepskin hats. Some of these were tied with a
green ribbon. That meant that the wearer was a highly respected man, who
has been on a pilgrimage to Mecca. He has not seen anything other than
sheep in his entire life and as soon as he retired he immediately became
a respected man. And with the ribbon a very respected man. I have the
insurgents wear the same green headgear. It meant that they have stepped
on the sacred warpath of jihad against the infidel. Which also includes

you, the reader, as you too are an infidel, in the eyes of true
believers. And so what if you have done them no harm? That doesnt worry
them. Youre an infidel, full stop. And that means that you are subject
to complete extermination. Only we distinguish you from these armed
fanatics. And in twothree years, youll be spitting in our faces.
We watched as the Chechens unloaded and were now standing by the truck,
smoking, as they examined the base with some interest. Their attention
was particularly drawn to the parked and camouflaged tanks and BMP.
-Slava, look, these bastards are engaging in visual surveillance.
-Thats right. Thats reconnaissance.
-The hell they need these negotiations. They are just buying more time
for them to be able to spill more of our blood.
-Next, theyll be taking pictures. Its like some spy film. How good
would it be to fire off a volley from the stomach at these folks!
-Cant!
-I know I cannot, but how I want to be able to! From the gut, from the
soul, a long volley, the whole magazine! To swing the barrel left to
right!
-Dont torment the soul with such appetising tales! My hands are itching
too. Im curious as to what our commanders are planning to negotiate with
them?
-You wait. Theyre going to agree that were allies and to hand over some
of our guns and armour as well as some of our men as slaves in the form
of material compensation. ****!
-Look, some stavka pimple is running towards them on bent legs. Hes
going to kiss with those apes in a second.
And thats exactly what happened. Some officer came running out of the
headquarters. Having approached, he began to shake hands embrace and kiss
with each Chechen.
-Slava! Look what good friends they are. As if they are his rich
relatives from America, bearing gifts. Do you get this?
-The only thing I get is that we have once again been betrayed and
scapegoated. And that is all.
-These trained monkeys will be brought to the staff briefing and together
they will work out the action plan. Together, theyll be thinking how to
counter-act the unlawful armed formations. I bet that theyll offer to
create new militia troops and will be asking us for guns and vehicles.
-Most likely. Also they will play for time by harping on about how
theyll negotiate the insurgents voluntary disarmament.
-Id give a lot to be present in that meeting, when theyll negotiate
with these morons.
-What for?
-What do you mean what? So that I can see our staff commanders lick these
Chechens asses.
-You won't see anything new or interesting, just get needlessly angry. We
both know very well what will transpire over there.
-Theyll proclaim that they are the opposition and that they awaited our
arrival as the liberators from the odious tyranny of Dudaev and his
clique. The usual bullshit and nothing else.
-We should be marching forward and trampling them underfoot.

-One thing I dont get though, is why are we standing still. The more we
linger, the more well pay in blood later when we take our next
objectives.
-Right now, we can take the surrounding villages and targets practically
without losses or damage to property. But if we linger, the Chechens will
come to and dig in. And there will be more assaults and bombardments. We
risk our lives, pulling off heroic feats of which the press trumpets nonstop, meanwhile more and more houses are being destroyed and more and
more civilians perish. The Chechen economy is completely ****ed, more and
more two hundreds are shipped back to Russia, more and more children
are orphaned on both sides of the border, and more and more civilians are
crossing over to the insurgents. All because the Muscovite morons are
conducting some sort of talks. Its all about money, nothing other than
money.
-Huge amounts of money.
-Naturally. After all there was money to get this liberating expedition
going. As there was money to arm the insurgents. It would not be
convenient for the shady dealers to end this slaughter now. And I would
not be at all surprised that mercenaries are right now being recruited
both in Russia and overseas.
-So, brother, lets go launch the catapult and in the evening go get
drunk!
-Lets. Same ****, there is nothing to do. Im in a terrible mood. They
could have at least waited until we left before they brought these
Chechens over. But no it had to be right now.
-So as to show us, who is the real boss here, that we know our place. A
slap on the cheek and a spit on the grave for us and the fallen
respectively. They fell in stacks under machine gun fire in Grozny and
the same Chechens are now being negotiated with by our superiors.
-Where were they with their negotiations, when we were being shot up at
Severny and on Minutka? Muscovite mongrels! I dont want my son serving
in the army. Not in any capacity. That he be neither a soldier, nor an
officer. He too will be betrayed and sold out to the very people he will
be fighting. At firth they trumpet on about the holy mission and, about
the rights of Russians and the defense of the civilian population and
then after a couple of months they themselves sell the idea out. ****!
May they choke on their money and die!
-As the saying goes, money doesnt stink of either blood or sweat, nor
does it smell of gunpowder, vomit or crude oil. Therefore and because we
will not be allowed to whack them here, lets go launch the ejection seat
instead. The officers briefing will soon be concluded on account of the
newly-arrived rabble and were going to go home inspired to new feats of
courage. Id wager that we will not hear anything new, only that we are
to mop up the surroundings and build relations with the locals.
-Whats there to bet on? Thats precisely what will happen.
We approached the plane. The fighters had laid a oblong sandbag into the
pilots seat and were strapping it in. A long green rope was tied to the
catapults lever. A decent crowd of curious men had already gathered
here. No-one had yet seen the catapult fire.
With all the preparations complete, everyone stood back. The fighter
yanked on the rope. There was a loud pop and the seat propelled its

sandbag pilot upwards. The plane was bathed in clouds of smoke from the
gunpowder accelerators. The seat arched about twenty meters up into the
air and then began to fall back, spinning about slowly. Everyone was
expecting to see the parachute deploy, but it didnt and the seat plunged
to the ground about a hundred meters away from us. The parachute never
opened. With my gaze, I searched out that fighter, who wanted to get in
the pilots seat and addressed him:
-Did you see how the parachute didnt open? The same would have happened
to you. A bag of bones.
-Exactly. Thank you for talking me out of it. Otherwise they would had
had to gather me up in a plastic bag and send me to my parents.
-Thats right. You should listen to your elders. They wont tell you
anything bad. Lets go see what became of the bag.
We approached the ejection seat. The sandbag burst and the soil spilled
out. Everyone stood there silently, contemplating what it would have been
like. That instead of this torn sandbag, it could have been them, their
broken ribs sticking out of their torn side and their spine somewhere in
their trousers.
The base guards were running towards us, having heard the sound of an
ejection seat being fired. They thought they were going to see another
dead body, but were relieved that this was not the case this time.
According to them, there is a new kamikaze almost every week, seeking out
extreme experiences, as if there arent enough of those in war. One of
the fighters unfastened the sandbag and dragged the seat off. Another
trophy. It can be swapped for a few liters of booze, by saying that its
Dudaevs own ejection seat. Or one could sell it to warfare enthusiasts
back home. These funny people still exist.
The Chechens were discussing something excitedly in their throaty
language, as they pointed in our direction. The commanders began to
emerge. The briefing was over and it was time to go back to our own.
There was a traffic jam at the entrance. The commanders were coming out,
whilst the Chechens were invited in. Naturally, nobody wanted to stand
aside. Me and Yura watched with interest to see if this ends up in a
fistfight. And then somebody from the local staff pulled the Chechen
elders aside, clearing the way for our officers.
Butalov came out. He swaggered over to his BMP. The other officers and
soldiers were coming up to it also. He stopped. They surrounded him,
waiting to hear what he had to say. He looked around and said:
-Nothing new. We are to remain in our positions. There is no order to go
forward.
-What nonsense!
-They sold out to the Chechens!
-Shameless swine.
-Bitches and creeps!
-All our problems are from Moskva and the Muscovites!
-Thats a fact!
-Lets go get drunk!
-What else is there to do?
-Lets go.

We departed on our way back and arrived without incident. We remained

where we were for almost another two weeks. In order to not go insane
from idleness and to maintain morale in the ranks, we busied ourselves
with manual labour. We dug and dug, dug and sandbagged trenches. There is
nothing worse in war than sitting around idly like this. Young people
appeared in the city that started to hang around the army positions. The
Chechens became that bold. Intelligence reported, that Dudaevs
headquarters were shifted to the village of Shali. The insurgents main
forces were located in the cities of Argun and Gudermes. Checkpoint in
Grozny were getting ambushed at night again and soldiers started going
missing. An internal forces BTR blew up on a mine on its way to Khankala.
Most of the crew died. Those that survived were captured and led off in
an unknown direction. Severny airport was fired upon. Such was the
price of this inconceivable truce with the enemy. Intelligence and
counter-intelligence data indicated that there was a concentration camp
near Shali. Allegedly around forty of our people being held there.
Another concentration camp was located near the village of Komsomolskoye,
but the numbers there were smaller. There are rallies in Vedeno and
Nozhaj-Yurt in support of the insurgents. They are signing up volunteers.
Boys of seven to twelve years old are being trained in sabotage and
reconnaissance. In other words, the Chechens were spending their time
productively. Unlike ourselves. We remained in place and continued to
chew our snot.
One good thing was that hot food was being prepared for us in the field
kitchens. We no longer had to eat what The Lord giveth. Each battalion
was swiftly equipped with a small sauna. We washed up thoroughly,
laundered our clothes. New underwear and bed linen was sent up from
Novosibirsk. We cut our hair and shaved. But the lack of action was
stressful. The Chechens were distributing xeroxed leaflets, where they
threatened us, appealed for us to lay down our arms, cross over to their
side. These creeps were offering friendship after half our brigade was
lost!?
They started leaving audiotapes at our positions, which contained songs
in the afghan style about how the Russians came and are killing the
Chechens. Personally, neither the music, the lyrics, nor the dreadful
singing had any effect on me. Had they thought of this when the troops
were being brought in, a few idiots might have fallen for it. But not
after Minutka, not after the living shield. What sort of sentiments was
one to expect? Death! Brutal death for all who died, disappeared, was
imprisoned or became a cripple! And these Muscovite cronies are dragging
their feet, unable to issue the order, not even for attack, but even for
movement.
Finally our commander was summoned to the chief of staff. When he
arrived, he was advised that our brigade was to change position. We are
to set off tomorrow. As it is customary in the army to do everything
through the ass, the same happened this time. This was not peacetime
where you were told to go and you get in the car and drive forty
kilometers to fetch a bottle of vodka. But everyone was so fed up of
waiting that they quickly gathered their things and were ready to set off
by five in the morning.

The column passed without losses this time. The weather was terrible.
Everything was grey and muddy. Rain was falling from the sky. It was OK
in the city where there is asphalt, but as soon as one gets off the road
a little, there is impassable mud. Everything becomes damp immediately.
The trench-coat soaks in the moisture and becomes unwieldy. Clumps of mud
stick to the boots. They are no longer boots, but huge clogs. The
vehicles are covered in a thick, slippery layer of dirt, which makes it
difficult to cling to as one rides over uneven ground. The pillow under
your ass conspires to slip out and throw you off onto the ground. You
have to hold on, almost with your teeth in order to stay on. For this
reason and despite the risk, me and Yura decided to ride in our own
vehicle. We were in the middle of the column. I watched the city recede
as we went. All that remained of the city. I do not know if this was a
beautiful city or not, before I came here, but I knew that each square
meter of it was generously irrigated with blood. Both our own and that of
its defenders. The thing that struck me the most was that there were
still corpses out in the streets. They were ghastly and bloated, but
every now and then they were there. Judging by their clothes they were
primarily Russian. The Chechens bury their dead quickly. But what about
us? Even here, we have abandoned our own. We betrayed the living and
whats to say about the dead? I was told that a special burial detail was
deployed, that gathered up these corpses and sorted them out. The
servicemen were wrapped in foil and sent to Rostov-on-Don, the civilians
were sent to the city cemetery and buried in a mass grave. Forgive us
Russians!
Reconnaissance went on ahead. When you exit Khankala, you proceed along
the road to Argun. After about thirty kilometers you turn left and cross
a bridge over the rail tracks, then up a hill for some time where you
come to Petropavlovskaya village. We called it Petropavlovka. We passed a
village called Novyj (meaning new) Binoj. I dont know what the old
Binoj looked like, but the new one was a gathering of new Chechens.
Huge brick mansions, decorative arches, cast iron gates. We should have
stopped there. But it was already taken up by the paratroopers. The
elite was in luck, ulcer their soul.
We could have taken the safer northern route to Petropavlovka, but this
was closer and the road was better. About eighty per cent of the way was
through forest or bush. An ideal setting for an ambush. A lot of bends
and gorges that came right up to the road. It was winter and the branches
were bare, but when the first leaves appear, there begins whats called
the green. Green thickets, that obscure everything from sight. One can
conduct razor-sharp strikes and retreat unnoticed. Not a lot of time
remained until the green is to begin. Therefore the sappers will have
to work hard to mine everything around us, set up trip-wires.
What is a trip-wire? Its simple. You attach a piece of, preferably not
copper wire (so that it doesnt glisten in the sun), to the ring on a
grenade or a mine and the other end to a sharpened stick thats hammered
into the ground or a bush. Somebody snags onto the wire, the ring comes
out and thats it.

On the way to Petropavlovka, it emerged that our breaks have failed and
there is no hand-break. Using some electrical wire, we tied a pair of old
car tires to the radiator and broke using the BMP ahead of us which
greatly entertained the fighters who rode on top of it. As Yura, who was
riding in the cabin, cursed Pashka for the faulty breaks, I sat in the
kung, trying to catch our belongings as thy flew about in there. The main
problem was that the pot-belly stove wanted to spill over the beds and
the beds were trying to mount the stove.
There were two burned-out BMP's outside the village. Rolins group
proceeded down this road as they entered Chechnya. The reconnaissance
troops came onto an ambush, five people died, three were wounded. So this
village is an insurgent nest. As long as they leave us alone, we wont
touch them either. Otherwise we are liable to burn them down.
We made it to the edge of the village without incident. Reconnaissance
were there to greet us. They reported that there are no open signs
discontent, no armed resistance, no ambushes or barricades. The locals
asked if we were coming to avenge the armour burned and Rolins soldiers
killed here in December. To which our men reasonably replied that even if
one of our fighters comes to harm, we'll take off the heads of the entire
village and in the meantime, they are to voluntarily turn in any guns
ammo, gold and foreign currency they have. None of which was naturally
forthcoming.
The brigade headquarters were deployed in the yard of what was once a
telephone exchange. Two artillery divisions to the north of the village,
the third battalion to the east so it could cover the road we came in by.
The first and second battalion were placed to the west, the engineers and
sappers were to the west also, next to an old animal farm and the medics
as well as the technical support and maintenance troops were placed
beside them. There was a cemetery there. Tall, rectangular epitaphs,
covered in Arabic ornament. There was a school and a mosque in the
village. Before Dudaev came, this village was predominantly Russian, but
they were simply forced out of here, many were killed. No more than ten
houses remained and even there, there were mainly old men and women.
We parked our truck next to Seryoga Kazartsevs. It was time to
familiarise ourselves with our surroundings. Recon and comms men were in
charge of guard duty at the Command Post.
We gathered everything necessary and along with Kazartsev, who was the
serving chief or reconnaissance departed for the forward positions. We
wanted to see how they have set themselves up, as well as examine the
village. Only the main Lenin Street had asphalt. The rest were unsealed.
There were many new houses. Not simply houses, but luxurious mansions of
the like we have never dreamed of back in Siberia. Everything had an
Eastern flair to it. Even the gates were painted in various shades of
green. The locals tried to stay out of our sight and hid inside their
houses. We were driving past some shed, when we spotted an old woman, who
was wiping tears with her left hand and with the right, making the sign
of the cross, as she watched us. We could not pass her up and stopped. We
jumped down and approached. She howled loudly out of her toothless mouth.
Her wrinkly face contorted completely. We didnt understand what was

happening. When we got near, she fell to her knees and embraced the recon
mans feet. We were startled. We tried to pick the grandmother up, but
she clung on and cried:
-My dear ones! You finally came! Thank you Lord that you let me live to
see it! My dear ones! Thank you!
-Grandma! What are you doing?! Stop that! Please get up.
We somehow tore the old woman away from the fighter and put her back on
her feet. We asked her:
-Grandma, where do you live?
-Here, my dear, just here, - she pointed at the shed, which didnt even
have windows. - I lived in a house before, but they threw me out of there
and put me here.
-What do you mean threw you out? - we asked, confused.
-They came and told me to get out, or Ill be killed.
-Who said that?! - the blood began to boil in our veins. - Wheres you
house?
-I dont need anything, dearies, theyll kill me. Im happy just to see
my own before I die.
We entered the shed, which the old woman called her home. It used to be a
cattle shed. An old, sunken spring bed covered with some rags. Next to it
- a table. A fuel drum covered in clay served as the stove. One could see
that despite their nature, these meager quarters were being swept up and
tidied. We sat the grandma onto the bed and wanted to give her some water
to calm her down, but there was no water in this house.
-Grandma, do you have any water?
-No, sonnies, I dont. The neighbours, the Chechens used to bring me
some, but they have not come for three days now.
-Do you have anything to eat?
-No, dearies, I dont.
-Right, get everything thats in the vehicles and bring it over here, Kazartsev ordered the fighters that were standing near-by.
They ran off and soon returned with canned goods. They found a clean
bucket and poured all the water from the hip-flasks there. When the old
woman saw all this, she fell to her knees again and tried to kiss our
boots. There was a lump in my throat and my eyes watered. Four years had
they tormented this woman and other Russians in this village. Many simply
disappeared. My fists clenched in anger. We managed to pick the old woman
up and sat her down once again. She cried:
-Just dont leave, my dearies!
-Dont worry grandma, nobody will touch you now.
-As soon as you leave the village, theyll kill us all here. Take me away
from here, just take me away!
-Were not going anywhere, were going to stay here and well tell
everyone they not dare touch you.
-Thats right, grandma, well take off the head of anyone that so as
looks in your direction.
-Are there many Russians in the village?
-No. Only a few.
And she listed the addresses of Russian families. They were all old men
and women, who had nowhere to go. No-one awaited them. Russia was

completely indifferent to their despair and the suffering they had

endured. It didnt look like anyone was planning to evacuate them out of
this Chechnya even now. Cursed and forgotten, just like everyone in
Russia.
I went out onto the street, trying not to burst into tears, my teeth
clenched until they cracked. I retrieved the cigarette pack. My hands
were trembling. I lit up and was about to throw away the match, when Yura
approached and lit up also without saying a word. For a while, we smoked
our cigarettes. The lump in my throat gradually disappeared.
-What are your thoughts on this whorehouse, Yura?
-****ing hell! Were going to return to the Command Post, find the local
chairman and get that dog to put all the Russians back in their homes.
Let just try and object, Ill string him up on the nearest lamp-post with
my own hands, - judging by the expression on his face, he was not joking.
-Can you imagine, Yura what these people had to live through, whilst
those Muscovite bastards were pumping oil? To hell with them, let them
steal, seeing that we live in such a country and under such a government
where thievery is a national pastime. But why are we forsaking our own
countrymen?
-Twenty million Russians are left behind in the former Union republics.
And here its just a few old folks. Whos to take care of them?!
Bastards!
-Lets go. We need to find the local chairman, otherwise Im going to
just pick out the best house and move that grandma in it. What kind of
****ing people fights old men and women! But alright, were going to put
things in order here. Theyll bathe in blood yet.
Our soldiers exited the shed, led by Kazartsev. Everyone was silent. Some
were wiping their eyes. Everyone lit up. After me and Yura went out, the
old woman told them that when the troops were brought in that autumn, the
insurgents burst into her house, beat her up and raped her. And only
thanks to her neighbours did she live. The neighbours were Chechens. We
noted those houses. They must be good people. We wont touch them. But I
have severe doubts about the rest.
We drove out of that street and after a few minutes arrived at the
command post. We recounted the grandmas tale to everyone there,
including San Sanych. Everyone was astounded. Our fists itched to string
up two or three of these conquerors on some lamp posts, so that the
villagers get it in their heads that its not OK to hurt Russians.
Vengeance will be had even if it is belated. We needed to see the
chairman.
The recon troopers caught some local and ordered him to bring him the
chairman of this hole. The local man explained that the chairman had fled
somewhere three weeks ago and that he was the main thief and scoundrel.
At this point the engineer-sappers came on the radio to report having
been shot at by a sniper. One man was dead and another wounded, who
needed immediate medical attention and could not be moved. It looked like
the sniper was atop the mosques minaret.
A minaret, dear reader, is a tall cylindrical tower, with a pointed roof.
At the top, there is a circular platform, from which the mullah and his

assistant call to the faithful to gather for prayer, etc. The minaret is
usually the tallest structure in these villages. Its a perfect vantage
point for observation and fire at the surrounding landscape.
The sappers reported that they have already conducted suppressing fire at
the minaret and the animal farm, using the PKT. The sniper did not
reappear. So, the villagers have prepared us a warm welcome. Alright,
were going to sort you out now. Everyone was stirred up. The recon men
grabbed the medics and rushed to the wounded mans aid. The sentries were
ordered to renew their vigilance and respond to any provocation with
deadly force. We left it up to them to decide what to consider a
provocation. They were experienced, shot-up troops and will work it out
themselves.
After fifteen minutes, it was reported that the wounded soldier was sent
to Severny and also that the locals were gathering in front of the
Command Post. Many are outraged at us shooting up the minaret, but are
for the time remaining composed. We went out to talk to them. First the
general, then Butalov, San Sanych with Kazartsev, followed by us. If the
brigade command was demonstratively open and not armed with automatic
weapons, everyone else was on guard. The belt on the right shoulder,
right hand on the pistol grop, the lefton top of the stock. Spying for
the slightest movement in the crowd.
There were about fifty people gathered including many elders. Judging by
the fact that the generals words were being translated to them, they did
not speak Russian. They nodded self-importantly, as if we were asking
them for something. No my good sirs, were not asking, were stating our
demands. Your choice to accept them or not, but youll be safer if you
do.
I cannot hear what the general and San Sanych are saying. Butalov is
silent as always, he cant say anything smart in his own circle, no to
speak of playing parliamentarian with the enemy. I saw the locals as
facilitators, the middle men. It is these locals, or thanks to their
silent approval, their neighbours shot at Rolins troops and threw the
Russians out into the street, killed them. One of our soldiers was just
killed and another is fighting for his life. We have been here just a few
hours and have not killed anybody. What do these Chechens want? That we
take offense? That wont be difficult.
The general spoke confidently, his voice sharp and convincing, a wellrehearsed voice. And thats as it should be, as befitting the rank of
general. The gist of his address was as follows: turn in the sniper
immediately, return the Russians to their homes, close access to the
minaret. Anyone who appears there will be taken for a sniper and the
tower will be destroyed by a round from a tank cannon. We also want the
insurgents. There will be random house searches for guns and insurgents.
And in general be thankful to your Allah and to our God, that we didnt
go mop up the village straight off the bat. What is a mop-up? I explain:
a mop-up begins with a grenade through the window after which we enter to
see if there are any guns or insurgents present in the building.
Understood? If we hear any threats towards us, or the Russians residing

here, if there are any actions or provocations, we will use that as an

excuse to mop up the village.
The crowd grumbled indignantly. I tensed, sweeping the barrel of my gun
from left to right.
-Slava, half a step to the right, youre in my line of fire, - Yura
whispered into my ear.
That means he too is vigilant, which is good. Its always good to feel
your comrade beside you, ready to cover you and to drag you out from
under fire.
The general also demanded that a village chairman be appointed in place
of the one that fled. The Chechen elders talked amongst themselves and
announced that they are appointing one Ibragim Arsanukaev. I like their
democracy. The oldest and most senile had gathered and chosen somebody.
Immediately a man stepped forth from the crowd. He wore a city-style
winter coat and a fur hat and introduced himself as Ibragim Arsanukaev.
Allegedly he was part of the opposition to the acting regime and was at
the head of an opposition command during the first unsuccessful storming
of Grozny. Chief of staff so to speak. Rotten on the inside, you can tell
a mile off. It would be good to pick at those insides and see what was it
that he really headed and whom he really shot at. No matter, you mug,
there will come a convenient time when me and Yura are going to ask you
about this.
We grabbed this Ibragim, whom we christened Head Chechen and took him
to the meeting. Butalov was fluttering around this man like a moth to the
flame, chattering away with him about something. Must have been
compensating for his silence earlier.
-Look Slava, theyre going to kiss next, - Yura spat off.
All officers of the staff were summoned to a briefing. Me and Yura looked
at each-other and went to our vehicle. Pashka had tidied already, having
wiped off the soot and grime in the kung and setting the table. The
canteen was not yet functioning, but they promised to start serving hot
food tomorrow.
We took off our boots and were enjoying walking through the kung wearing
slippers, our cold and stiff feet slowly and pleasantly thawing. We sat
at the table. It was a familiar menu. Vodkathe tables essential
adornment and spamits main meal. There were also sprats in tomato sauce
the mass grave, condensed milk, the officers lemon - onion, thickly
sliced salo, canned bread and juice from the canned goods factory. The
spam was fragrant, having been warmed up on the stove.
We poured for the three of us. Pashka had not changed at all in our
absence. He recounted how the comms men marauded, while we were taking
the Palace. They took everything that wasnt nailed down. Televisions and
stereos, warm clothes, chandeliers that somehow remained intact, fridges,
carpets, some furniture.
-You know guys, - I began after the first glass, - if at first I was
indignant at seeing acts of pillage, then after everything thats
happened I feel nothing but mild disgust. One cannot build ones

happiness on another mans sorrow. How, I wonder will they explain to

their relatives, wives, children where these things had come from? How
will their wife dress in someone else's things? Even if they were illbegotten from other victimsbut to take them into ones own usethats
something I find it hard to get my head around.
-Dont worry, Slava, if they are doing this, then I take it to mean that
they know their wife will not throw all that junk away, wont judge them
or wonder if by any chance it was taken off a corpse. Maybe it is we who
are being idealist idiots, by walking past things we will never be able
to afford? For example, do you have a video player?
-No.
-See. Should you want to, you can bring back twenty. So whats the
matter?
-Must be that feeling of mild disgust.
-They are no so shy at Severny, - Pashka interjected.Ive seen it
myself, how they loaded a transport full of stuff. Two hundreds bound
for Rostov and pillaged rags. All in one plane.
-Hmm. Martyrs of idealism and marauders, together in one carriage.
-Thats nothing, - Pashka continued. - In Grozny, the entrusted the
distribution of humanitarian aid to the opposition.
-What? To the Chechens? - Yura was indignant.
-To the Chechens, - Pashka confirmed. - As apparently they know better
who and where needs what. And then it all turns up at the bazaar at
astronomical prices.
-****ing hell! - I whistled. - they have district commandants for this
they were previously in charge of the distribution of aid. And now,
having knocked out one lot of Chechens, were letting another lot who are
even more hungry and greedy take us for another ride. Is that how it is?
-The local opposition bosses say that the army is mistreating the
populace. Short-changing them, stealing, giving more to the Russians as
compared to the aborigines. As such and in agreement with the command,
they let the foxes into the chicken coop. As a result the Russians are
finishing of the last of their scraps and are going around the formations
stationed there complaining at the aid distributors. As soon as we try to
interfere, out come some tough guys, both Russians and Chechens and start
yelling about incitement of racial and ethnic violence. They have already
replaced two district commandants, who nearly ended up in court for
inciting ethnic conflict, - Pashka was a silent type normally and was not
prone to such lengthy monologues, which fatigued him. He took up the
vodka and skulled it. Alone.
-Yeah. To some its war and to some its dough.
-And what did you think they were marinating us in Grozny for three weeks
for? Were there troop movements? Were reinforcements brought in? They
started up some kind of separatist talks with the Chechens. We should
have gone out of the city and kept on the enemys heels, destroying more
and more of them. And what did we do? And whats the use of talking about
itLets drink, Yura.
-Lets drink, Slava!
We drank. There was no desire to speak after all that which was just
said. Our yapping could not change anything. Wethe intelligent, strong
and patriotic officers could do nothing. We could do just one thingdie
for our Motherland. And that was all.

Its just like in civilian life. Your country is being plundered, pulled
apart and you, the dummy get your privatisation voucher, even though you
well know that nothing good will come of it. Youre being set up. And if
in civilian life it gets somehow covered up, in war, the lower ranks, who
lack firm moral standing and while watching the degraded elites are
dragging off anything thats not nailed down. Maybe its in our blood? To
compensate for that which the state is unable to provide us with? Maybe
this is how it should be? And our brigade with very few exceptions is a
band of development-arrested imbeciles or whats worseimbeciles with a
hyper-inflated sense of patriotic duty? Patriotism is not in fashion
lately. Its only logical. Who are we to defend? The Motherland? And what
is Motherland? It seems that Ive gotten started down this line of
thinking again, reader. Forgive me. But I cannot understand the meaning
of war without an ideal. If there is no ideal, then at least pay us and
feed us properly, do not consort with the enemy in secret, do not ship
plunder on the same flight as corpses, guarantee the crippled and the
families of the dead a decent living. Do not instigate shows, concerts
and presentations during bloody slaughter and do not kiss with the
representatives of those countries who are aiding the insurgents. Do not
dance on the bones of the fallen. Its insane. Its the year 1995. Its
the fiftieth anniversary of the victory over Fascist Germany. Its the
anniversary of the taking of the Reichstag and the year of commencement
of a shameful campaign against ones own people. Did you want to make it
clear whos the boss here? You haveits those who steal. Those who make
money with our blood, who spit on our graves and in the faces of widows
and orphans, those who throw the crippled overboard of life. Fifty years
ago, we took the Reichstag, signed its walls, hoisted the Victory
Standard. This was also like the taking of the Reichstag, with probably
not much fewer losses than before. But there is no victory of the type
one would have desired. Yes, we celebrated with vodka and made fireworks
by discharging everything that could be discharged into the air. But
something was missing. If were going to fight a war, we should fight a
war, rather than do it in half-measures. On the one hand, we are
constantly reminded that we must move forward, that the Chechens are
being aided by the enemies of Russia. That the criminal, yet legitimately
elected (as opposed to the current marionette) local government was
conducting a campaign of genocide against the Russians. But on the other
hand that theythe insurgent Chechens are not the enemy, but some sort of
an unlawful armed formation. And that there is no need for full-scale
war. It sounds like that anecdoteslightly pregnant. Simultaneously, it
is not OK to bring to justice representatives of these unlawful armed
formations when they supposedly repent and cross over to the oppositions
side. And there is one simple reason that they cross over. They have
stolen their fill under Dudaev, dealing in fake avisos, racketeering,
raping and tormenting the local Russians (and spilling plenty of blood in
Russia itself, beginning with city markets and ending at the White
House). And now they see that they may end up loosing what they have
plundered or even be held responsible by law and so are crossing over in
droves to the so-called opposition. And the glorious law enforcement
organs can do nothing. Shame! Shame on you Russia! No longer can I be
fooled by sweet odes to your expansive soul. My mind refuses to be
clouded, Mother Russia. To make it out alive out of this slaughter is all
that I now desire and not just alive, but having fulfilled my duty. I am
a Russian officer! I will carry out my orders. I will do my utmost that a

minimum of soldiers blood is spilled on this ground. But those who are
guilty of their death will know no mercy. Neither here in Chechnya, nor
over there in Moskva.
The amusing thing is that we can be tried according to emergency laws,
which are basically the same as those of wartime. This would be for
marauding and other crimes. But if a bureaucrat in Moskva is caught
embezzling from the army coffers, writing off on war losses and robbing
the soldiers, NCOs, officers and civilians, then he will be tried
according to peacetime laws.
An this, reader, is how one looses it. We return from this or some
other war with these complexes. Only those that plundered will return
with a heap of trophies and will boast of their military feats. And those
who went in front of these marauders will hide their face as they beg for
change in metro underpasses. A missing limb. Dont turn away from them,
reader, dont lower your gaze, give them a coin. You can justify your
greed by supposing that hell spend it on booze anyway. And he will.
Because the Motherland had crippled him her citizen by the hand of
other citizens of the motherland (are the Chechens and the Ministry of
Defence not citizens of the same Motherland?), who now, like you, turn
away from him. No-one needs them. The able-bodied have enough trouble
setting themselves up in life and here-a cripple wants something. Dont
be afraid, reader, they wont trouble you much. Unless some leader
emerges, who will unite them and then another bloody mess will begin. But
in the meantimegive them a coin and forget about them. Just like the
president, the government and everyone else had forgotten about them.
CURSED AND FORGOTTEN BY ALL! You will not be the first or the last who
will pass by an invalid of the inglorious Chechen expedition. You can
even spit on him. Hell take it. After all he took that pain when he woke
up in hospital missing a limb. No arm or leggone forever. And it still
hurts, it itches, but he cannot scratch it as he can seeits not there.
And it itches still. And he is still nineteen. The prosthetic costs just
as much as the military insurance company will pay out in six months. And
when it wears out, thats it. Nothing to do, but stay home and watch TV,
until the electricity is turned off for unpaid bills. No fullness of
health until the very death. Every day there is hunger. But there is no
money. What to do? Whos at fault? Booze! Only booze! Shed drunken tears
whilst remembering oneself a brutal warrior. Sleep and dream of yourself
completely healthy. Sing, jump, dance, date a girl. And when the morning
comes to see once again that there is no limb. And to know that there is
nothing else left in this life. And to go to the metro underpass or a
warm shop, to beg for change whilst hiding ones eyes. And thats it.
Lifes over. All that remains is the anticipation of death. Curse the
weak-willed comrade who was not brave enough to shoot the wounded,
instead of dragging them out under fire. The only thing that remains in
ones soul is the Big emptiness and the anticipation of Death. The
yearning for Release. Forgive me Brother!
We spoke little. The realisation that we were cheated once more was
oppressing. Those that sent use here in the name of the big Russian ideal
were the very ones who betrayed those few Russians. Bustards!

We agreed with Yura and directed to Pashka, that we are going to take
those Russians that were left in Petropavlovka under our patronage. Well
help where we can. We were to begin tomorrow, starting with the question
of accommodation. Just let one louse squeal in protest. Ill crush them!
We finished off the vodka, smoked outside and went to bed. Sentries
gunfire could be heard on the outskirts. They combed the bushes as was
their custom. Yet another day of my life had passed and to hell with it!
Sleep.
We woke early in the morning, washed up and went to get breakfast. A
breakfast at the Command Post in wartime! Good, well-prepared, hot food!
It wasnt notable for its variety - wheat porridge (or as it was known
among military-men slash sixteen, i.e. sixteen caliber hunting
buckshot), with spam, mass grave, officers lemon and sweetened tea.
Everyone was in wonderful spirits. No scent of war, its as if were on
manoeuvres. Were stationed in a village, whose citizens provided us with
an abandoned homestead to settle in. If not for the sentries at the
outskirts shooting up the bushes and the forest near-by, the picture
would be completely peaceful.
People were not in a hurry to go after a filling breakfast. Were sitting
around, calmly talking, smoking, spinning the usual army yarns. Bliss and
a sense of well-being pervades. A languid feeling throughout the body.
The gun is resting next to my leg. Instinctively I place my hand on the
stock.
Seryoga Kazartsev is at an adjacent table, telling the tale of how he
went to fetch the new conscripts last year:
-I arrived with two captains in tow, to get the youngsters from one
fabulous Siberian city. We introduced ourselves, signed in. Were working
with the documents, interviewing the conscripts. As is customary, in the
evening, we supper with the local comrades and with conscript agents such
as myself. That night, at two in the morning, a new recruit went AWOL.
There, he bought drugs, injected them and returned to the conscripts
quarters. He started climbing over the fence which was covered with
barbed wire. In his altered state, he cut up his arms to the meat and
fell to the ground. He looked at his hands, back at the fenceeverything
is covered in blood. And here, he went loopy. He ran to the militia
station shouting: Help the officers at the conscription station got
drunk and are carving up and shooting the conscripts, there are several
bodies hanging on the fence! Help, quickly! The militiamen look at the
lad, hes covered in blood, his arms seem to have been cut up with a
knife and his face is scratched. The entire militia station raises up and
bursts in on us at half past two in the morning. They raise everyone up,
disregarding rank and up against the wall, legs spread wider than the
shoulders, arms uphill, face to the wall. Were all half-drunk, cant
work out whats going on. They are asking us about some bodies, murders
and mass executions. Like its the year thirty seven. We raised up, lined
up and counted the youngsters. Everyone seems to be accounted for. The
druggie started coming down. His whole body shaking, hallucinating even
more. The militiamen are thinking hes in shock and are believing that
schizophrenic, meanwhile he keeps running with his tale: Ive seen the

officers kill a conscript and put the body in the back of a car. In the
yard, there stood the local officers private vehicles. The cops went to
search the cars. One of the officers brought meat from the village. It
was sitting in his trunk. When his car was opened, they started shouting
dismemberment!, i. e.the fighters body was supposedly dismembered.
The lighting was pretty bad over there. That was something! The poor
officer got handcuffed on the spot. After fifteen minutes an expert
arrived. Looked at the meat and confirmed it was beef. It least they
didnt beat us. But their mugs were vicious and they held everybody under
the gun. In case we were accomplices. Since that day I have an equal
dislike for drug users and militiamen.
-What did they end up doing to that idiot?
-Sent him to a madhouse. It was confirmed that hes a finished drug
addict and issued him with a white ticket.
-I would have finished that bastard off.
-And would have added to the militias workload.
-Did they at least apologise?
They apologised, but what good did that do? That circus went on til six
in the morning.
-I dont like the militia either, - the newly-arrived second battalion
commander Igor Krasilnikov spoke up gloomily.
-What for?
-I went to Moskva for an assignment. I stayed with friends. I went out to
catch a bus. It was winter, a lot of snow, ice, it was slippery. So Im
standing there, waiting for my bus. A bus comes, then anotherboth not
mine. Then anotheralso not mine, the people get off and get on. Then I
hear behind my back; Stop! Hold, you bastard! I turn around to see a
militiaman chasing some guy. Im in my uniform also. I waited until the
guy approached and punched him square in the eye. He fell to the ground.
Im all proud of myself, awaiting words of praise and certificate of
merit from the local militia. Meanwhile, the militiaman skips over the
guy on the ground and runs onto the bus. The guy gets up and
-And what?
-What, what? Also punches me in the eye, I came back from that trip with
a massive welt under my eye. Thats how it is. I dont like militia since
then.
-Alright, lets go talk to the commander.
-Lets.
-I dont have the slightest desire to go.
-Who wants to?
-We should go see the sappers, maybe they brought their sauna over.
-What are you talking about, what sauna?
-Like that thing in the movie Kin-Dza-Dza! Like their flying machine.
Except without the propeller on top. Otherwise, spot on.
-Well finish with the briefing and if there is no rush of any sort,
well go wash up.
The staff was located in the old telephone station building. A low
ceiling, the windows are sandbagged, a dim electric bulb. The general,
the brigade commander, San Sanych are sitting behind the table, the rest
are on chairs of various calibers. Just like at a kolkhoz meeting. Were
going to look at the figures and the prospected harvest. Just in
different units.

I wont recount the entire meeting, suffice to say that that night, the
general and the brigade commander discussed their plans for co-operation
with the new chairman. According to them, he was a good guy, who was all
for the Russian Constitution and its territorial integrity. During the
first storming of Grozny, he was at the oppositions front-line. There is
one thing that I dont get: why is everyone shouting how the opposition
helped us out so much, during the first assault? Why didnt Dudaev hang
them all back then? Had they fought at the front-line, they should have
been seen and known by name. During the first assault, I didnt see a
single member of the opposition greet us warmly. So when they say the
opposition is strong in Chechnya, I smile widely. Our government is
hedging its bets on a marionette government. On its puppets. Its absurd.
The funniest thing is that apparently the Khankala command has to now
confirm anything it does with the locals and their elders. To regularly
appear at public gatherings and explain our actions. The general swore
and spat in frustration as he told us all this.
Te commander took the chair at this point. He was not known for being
good with words, which could have been forgivable had he been a valiant
warrior. But as he wereneither a talker nor a doer. As a result, his
attempts at public speaking were always taken with an element of irony.
And so: this Chechen chairman from the opposition came so much to his
liking that he was almost kissing him wetly on the lips. But after their
talk, he disappeared. Either kidnapped or ran off himself. The commander
is giving us an order to find him. Somebody in the crowd suggested we
look in Sunzha, where a lot of things are floating at the momentboth
enemy and allied. And when they are in the river, they look the same.
This remark made the commander very angry, but we were laughing. I
inquired as to how the brigade commander proses that we look for his
chairman. We could turn the entire village over, house by houseno
problem. Just issue the order. He didnt of coursehe was scared. He
suggested that we talk to the local populace and establish the chairmans
location. Also Butalov advised us not to try to move the Russians back
into their homes as that would produce a negative reaction from the
locals. Rdmembering what we saw yesterday, I couldnt help but reply that
I am deeply indifferent to what the Chechn insurgent thinks. Im here to
restore law and order and that includes the civil rights of the Russians.
And I will be doing precisely that as becoming of a Russian officer. The
opinion of local insurgents is of no concern to me.
-How dare you say that, Mironov? - the commander replid.
-Instead of ordering to search for this alleged opposition leader, you
could have told Khankala that we have no business chewing our snot here.
We're standing still and conversing with the Chechens. The insurgents are
up in the mountains, for the time being. If we stay here another few
weeks, theyll start to come down. But for now there is no action here.
Why the hell are we here then, wasting the countrys money? Everyones
yelling about Ilinka being the hive of insurgency. We are five kilometers
away from it. Were not moving forward and just standing here waiting for
something. Intelligence reports that there are no insurgents in this
village. So lets go over there or at least send one battalion there. Why
are we standing still?
-Mironov is talking business, - Yura supported me. - Its as if were
offering the Chechens a break. It will be a month soon. What for?
Discipline is collapsing, in a little while, the fighters are going to do

something stupid out of boredom. You didnt let us clear the village. A
whole band of insurgents could be hiding out here, right under our noses.
Are we going to be friends with them? So Mironov is right when he says
that we should be clearing the surrounding area and petition Khankala to
approach Gudermes as closely as possible. Right now we can realistically
blockade the Argun-Gudermes road. The 125th artillery regiment, which is
currently scratching along the Caucasus Range can put Gudermes into a
vice. Well have the high ground and will be able to fire at the city.
There is nowhere to go from thereDagestan is next and there are border
blockades. It will be just like Leningrad.
-Thats right, the enemy will have nowhere to go.
-The soldiers are too relaxed and may pull something. The junior officers
are getting too friendly with the personnel.
-Theyll start stealing cattle next. For the fresh meat.
-Enough! - Butalov chimed in. - Enough! This is a military briefing, not
a kolkhoz. And right now I need this chairman. You are to check houses
only with my express permission. And only if there is information about a
specific crime being committed.
-But, its a village full of Chechens and we dont know.
-Were not at war with the civilians!
-We were in Grozny, but not here? Hows that?
-Thats it! Enough! Im the commander here.
-One could argue that point, - Yura whispered in my ear.
I nodded in approval.
-You can feed the Russians out of our stores, but not move them to their
former homes!
-You ****ing mug! - I whispered to Yura.
Butalov proceeded to speak more of building relations with the locals.
Some nonsense about a council of the elders. It was Seryoga Kazartsev
that lost his patience at this point:
-Comrade colonel. If the bastard spent his entire life herding the
kolkhoz rams, then what the hell kind of an elder is he? Dudaev gave
everyone over sixty the title of learned ulema. So that made anyone who
had seen five thousand rams, learned. And those who had seen even more
are twice as learned. So what are we to talk to them about? Their
children and grandchildren are fighting us and were hoping for them to
welcome us. We came here as invaders and there is no need for illusions.
We devastated their capital. They may not have liked Dudaev, but we came
in his stead. We destroyed their city and the villages that surround it.
We should not loose face. We came here to fight a war, not to conduct
peace talks. We have the power and those bitches should better respect
it. Otherwise it looks like we rolled in here, made a big noise and are
now calling for negotiations. It was this village in which Rolins
vehicles got burned and his men killed. Let Moskva talk, our business is
to fight. The only thing well achieve with indecisiveness and lack of
action is to show the Chechens how toothless we are. Or if you like
impotent (laughter in the audience). What, do you think that when you
begin making love with a woman, you should scream in extacy that you two
should talk? How does that work?
-Carry out the order, - Butalov cut off.

Had he backed us up or condemned Khankalas and Moskvas flawed politics,

then we would have understood him. And had he risked his skin to move us
to Inlinskaya, we would have been on his side. But as it was, he did not
even bother to inform us, the officers of the staff, brigade commanders
and utility chiefs of the brigades objectives. That was because he was
unable to do so. He was too afraid for his own career to be asking
questions in Khankala or by contacting the Siberian Military District
command and getting them to pressure the General Staff. It was one of two
things now. Either we received a full resupply of personnel and vehicles,
write off or repair what is damaged and a week after we receive all this,
we enter combat. Or we are no longer needed here and we pack up and
depart for the God-blessed and Devil-cursed Siberia. It depend on
personal taste.
After that useless briefing, me and Yura had no urgent business to attend
to and so we went to see the recon men. During the battle for the palace,
a replacement was sent from the Novosibirsk Military District, a new
chief of reconnaissanceYura Pakhomenko. He was a huge man in the rank of
captain. Our kind of man. He fought fiercely, but not stupidly. For our
recon men, he was prepared to tear out throats. The previous chief of
reconnaissance was sent to the rear. After the city action, he developed
a persistent claustrophobiathe fear of enclosed spaces. He felt equally
uncomfortable out in the city's streets. He would constantly glare
around, waiting for a shot. There was nothing surprising about this. In
that hell, appropriately titled Grozny, we have all gone a little crazy.
God willing, this madness will not manifest later in my life.
Captain Sukhorukov was sent as replacement for the recon regiments
commander. This was a magnificent fellow. He came from the Novosiberian
academy. He was a company commander there. He wrote a report asking to be
sent to Chechnya. The academy, although based in the military district,
is not subordinate to it. It is subordinate directly to the Ministry of
Defence and he could have very easily stayed put, as officers from
military academies were not ordinarily sent into such operations. He
asked for this assignment himself, demanded to be sent. And he
recommended himself excellently. He crawled though basements, together
with the recon men and wasnt afraid of anything.
It is not an easy task to earn the reconnaissances respect. They are the
armys elite. They are charged with very special assignments and are
allowed a lot of leeway. It is the dream of almost every soldier to serve
in a recon troop. They are spared most of the meaningless army work and
are taught to fight thoroughly, to be able to remain on enemy territory
for a long time, to gather information and to pass it on. All the lads
there are sportsmen and are taught hand-to-hand combat. They are
constantly made to improvise and adapt to ever-changing conditions. To
kill. To kill not from a distance, using a sub-machine gun, but using
their own hands, quietly. And if the enemy sentry happens to be dressed
in a flak jacket, their job is to cut his throat from ear to ear until
their tongue falls out of the gash. Reconnaissance travels ahead of
everybody and when everybody breaks camp and makes themselves
comfortable, and eats their fill, they do not rest. They look around,
searching for the enemy. If the enemy is encountered in the thickets, he
is taken out quietly, using blades and the only the thinnest, lightest

one is left alive, so that he can be whisked away as far as possible,

unless there is a radioman or commander to be had.
If a recon man is captured, he makes for the most desirable piece.
There is a quick interrogation. The Chechens studied in our academies too
and therefore their reconnaissance techniques, troop formation and
interrogation methods are exactly the same as ours. Force of habit! And
when an enemy reconnaissance operative allows himself to be captured, he
knows that it is better to quickly tell what they know. A swift, painless
death follows. A point blank shot from a pistol, if they are lucky.
Otherwisethe blade. They have special knives. There are two types, the
NR and the NRS. The first is a long narrow blade with a limiter over the
handle, the second is a modification of the first, that has a button.
Pressing this button ejects the blade over a distance of five to seven
meters. If it hits a man, he is very likely to die. Both types of knife
are worn in a sheath on the right thigh, can be attached to the belt or
the left shoulder. It all depends on the mans skill, fashion, habit, the
nature of the task at hand, the landscape, et cetera.
A makhra recon man carries the same types of armament as an infantry
man. An AKS (Kalashnikovs assault rifle, folding-type) or AKSU, which is
the shortened version thereof. The NR or NRS, the underbarreler grenade
launcher GP-25 and the PB pistol. They move around using the same BMP-2.
Only the spetsnaz have special equipment and vehiclesours is all the
same stuff. In other wordsmakhra. But the recon men are deservedly
respected by the personnel. On the other hand, they are the most
undisciplined of us all and the commanders always try to make them their
personal body guard. But the company commander is God and Tzar in one
person. The smallest act of disobedience is wrought with the harshest of
punishments. In normal formations, this may be limited to a punch in the
face, but in reconnaissance, snot and teeth fly in all directions. Also
the company commander may call a duel. He will put on the gloves and
there are no rules. The entire company is witness. If youre stronger,
more agile and aggressive, then you might best the commander, but there
was no such precedent in our brigade up to this date. In war, relations
between the soldiers and the command are even, almost brotherly. In
reconnaissance these are even closer. Reconnaissance has to advance
forward for tens of kilometers without support of the main force. They
are led by an officerhe is their pathfinder. If one man falters, the
entire group are as good as dead. The notion of shoulder to shoulder is
very tangible in reconnaissance.
And so we went to see these very men. If we were to go ahead with our
plan to move the Russians back into their homes, then if anything goes
wrong, the two of us may not be able to cope. The other battalions are
several kilometers away and we could use the recon men's help. One
doesnt come to visit with empty hands. As was mentioned earlier, we had
a monopoly on spirits, not counting of course, the medics. But the medics
needed theirs for the wounded as well as for fortifying their own health.
The comms men also had a small amount of spirits, but they were not
drinking it themselves or giving it to others as it was required for
servicing their gear, without which it refused to function in field
conditions. An interruption to communications is a crime.

Reconnaissance were housed in one of the enclosures of the telephone

exchange. Their officers lived in a kung on the back of a KamAZ truck.
-Good health men! - we entered the kung and saw that reconnaissance was
in the middle of the second breakfast. There was a bottle of a-la
Chechnya on their table.
-Are you drinking that swill? Dont you have anything better? - we
inquired.
-Good health, come in, - they made a room for us to sit. - The cognac ran
out, weve forgotten about vodka, so were choking on this ****.
-Ah well, we happen to have a flagon of spirits on us, would you like
some?
-Pour it! - the chief of reconnaissance extended his glass.
-Me too! - the recon commander joined in.
We also poured ourselves some spirits, diluted and firmly covered the
glasses with our hands. A chemical reaction raged in the glass, whose
contents turned white. Its important that no air gets into the glass at
this point. Then we drank. We snacked. Spirits are heavier than vodka to
drink, although there are connoisseurs in our brigade, who prefer it to
vodka both on taste and colour.
-Whats new in intelligence? - Yura asked.
-Nothing special on the air, but we spoke to the spetsnaz and they are
telling us horrifying stories, - the reconnaissance chief began.
-So what terrible things are the spetsnaz saying?
-They went into deep reconnaissance towards Shali. According to
intelligence there is a big concentration camp there with about fifty of
our guys in it. They went there, had a look and yesthere is a
concentration camp. They are being tormented, beaten, not fed anything
and made to work in shackles. The middle ages in other words. The spetsnz
chief managed to restrain his animals.
-Thats right, - the company commander added, - say they took out the
guards, where would they take the prisoners? And the mission would be
ruined.
-Dont interrupt. Continue, please.
-They had to lay low until nightfall. Shali is crawling with Chechens.
They climbed into some attic, some are sleeping, some are keeping watch.
And then they hear the mullah shriek and a lot of noise in the town
centre. And they are on a hill. They have good optics, so they sit there
watching whats going on. Its a rally and in front of the rally is
Dudaev himself! Hes surrounded by about forty guards, but they are all
below him and hes like in the palm of the hand. About four hundred
meters away. You could take that out without the optics. But there was no
order. The chief calls the baseKhankala and tells them that he can see
Dudaev. What to do? They respond by saying he has to wait. In half an
hour they come on the air and prohibit them from photographing Dudaev.
-****ing hell! - I spat. - Pour it!
We drank. Snacked. The recon men wound themselves up without our help and
warmed us up also. It was time to talk business.
-Guys. Since we have been sold out and betrayed ourselves, how can we
sell out others, our own? Are we here of our own free will?
-Of course not.
-Of course. And what is there to do, Slava?

-Nothing much. We talked about this with Yura and there is an opinion
that since we cant take the local Russians with us to Russia, we should
at least move them back into their homes.
-For a just cause?
-For a just cause. Let the Chechens fear us.
-No problems. What do you think?
-A good deed.
-Shall we go right now?
-Do you have anything to do?
-Nothing urgent. Will need to swap out the torsion on the BMP, when I
come back. Im free til the evening. By the way, maybe we should shake
up a couple of houses, allegedly in search of the missing chairman?
-Lets.
-And the commander?
-Let him go to hell. The idiot wanted his friend found, so were looking
for him.
-Thats right. We received information from our source regarding the
chairmans possible location.
-Who shall we take with us?
-Im thinking a pair of vehicles and about fifteen people including us
and the mechanics. Should be enough.
-Well cover up our faces and put on the camo.
-Alright! Well meet in half an hour.
Me and Yura went to get our guns. We normally wore bandannas on our heads
and tied another bandanna around our faces when we rode atop the BMP.
Only the eyes shone outjust like bandits out of a western.
Half an hour we were gathered in the street. As soon as we saw the recon
men, we burst out in hysterical laughter. This could only happen in our
(Red, Soviet, Russian) army. There's mud all around us, no snow, only on
the mountain tops and there is a little bit of green from the first grass
here and there. And our fighters are dressed in full body white camo and
their faces are covered in white masks. These are specially insulated
against Siberian frostbite. Nine ghosts in early spring. What a comedy.
Half the command post gathered to the sound of our laughter and were
compelled to join in. You couldnt see this in you most terrible
nightmare.
-What are you cackling about? - the recon chief sounded offended.
-When you went to war, could you not procure normal camo? - I asked
through tears and laughter.
-There was none in stock and Novosibirsk didnt want to issue us with any
of theirs. The war started in December, who would have known it would
drag on like this?
-Well have to write up a delivery order for green camo, otherwise youre
going to scare all the Chechens away. Alright lets go you Caspers.
Friendly ****ing ghosts.
-Slava, we took some sappers with us, to search for weapons.
-Yeah right. Weapons. Gold and currency?
-As the Lord giveth. There is a big house next to the road. Clearly not
built with honest means. The locals say that Imsdaevs parents live
there.
-Whos that?

-A member of the DGB (the Chechen Republics Department of State

Security). Hes supposedly holed up in Vedeno right now.
-What a pleasant lad.
-Indeed, but with just one flaw longevity.
-Should we take the parents hostage?
-With pleasure otherwise, but thats not how we work right now.
-They take our guys hostage and then swap them out.
-We dont fight the elderly. Had we been able to get our hands on the
sonny, that would have been good. One could get two or three officers and
a detachment of privates for a DGB member. Have you heard how they
exchanged the Chechen spetsnaz guy?
-In short.
-They took that hog in Grozny, he was wounded, unconscious. He and Basaev
trained with the GRU in Balashikha. Then he went to Abkhazia and here he
was in Dudaevs personal guard. Big fish. And here he was wounded. They
patched him up and decided to swap him out.
-How did he manage to stay alive?
-He was taken by the paratroopers, who knew him from Abkhazia, so they
spared him.
-Did it work?
-Yeah! They got five officers and nine soldiers in exchange.
-Not bad. He must have been an important cadre. Where is he now?
-Being treated at a resort. The whole of Turkey, Jourdan as well as our
brother-Ukranians are not letting the opportunity to help the downtrodden
Chechens pass them by.
-****, what a life.
-What did you think. Alright, lets go!
We climbed onto the armour. The white ghosts were placed into the
personnel compartment. Almost the entire command post came out to
farewell us. The camo suit number brought everyone a lot of merriment.
We rolled up to the luxurious mansion. Back home the toughest guys
build such houses. Here, theres one in a village. They must have gotten
nice and fat using our money. We leapt out and surrounded the house. A
couple of neighbours came out to look, but upon seeing our vicious faces
quickly retreated. We burst into the yard. A huge Caucasus Shepherd dog
was tearing at its chain. A recon man fired in front of the dogs muzzle.
He didnt hit him. The dog squealed and retreated to its kennel. It
stayed there for the rest of our time here.
We drag an old man and woman as well as some girl out of the house. The
girl is carefully hiding her face behind a scarf. Dont bother, youre so
homely, that even though I havent seen women for a long time, I cant
drink that much vodka. We leave three men out in the street. One in
front, one at the rear of the yard. The third is watching the locals.
There is no need to aim your gun at them. We scared them with our
appearance and behaviour alone. There is also one important psychological
element. When a Muslim dies, they are wrapped in white linen, then a
carpet and are buried in a sitting position. The recon men, in their
white camo must have looked like the dead risen from the Muslim hell.
The house is being thoroughly searched. We are searching for guns,
wounded. The interior is lavish. New expensive carpets, handmade.

Expensive, imported furniture. Electronics to match. In all my life, I

shall never be able to make such money.
We examine the family photographs. Aha, heres the face were looking
for. A young man of about twenty five is depicted in front of a Nissan
Patrol. He is covered in guns. Judging by his pose, the car is his
property. The guns are all imported. An American M-16 assault rifle. A
Colt on his belt as well as a couple of grenades. That Chechen daggerknuckleduster is dangling next to it. A sight to see. A shame youre not
home, lad. That the Chechens had a lot of guns was no secret, they even
tried to manufacture their own. But imported weapons were not accessible
to just anyone. They would have had to have been either very rich or very
influential. That the little bastard was walking around with such toys
meant that he drank a lot of our blood.
There was screaming from above and a fighter descended carrying bloodied
bandages and bed linen. The stains looked fresh, meaning that not a day
had passed since they were made. Somebody was hiding out here and judging
by the amount of blood he bled, he was in a very bad shape. But he left.
I hid the photograph into my inner pocket. It might come in handy. The
fighters, meanwhile drag their finds into the center of the room: a
radio, a machine gun, half a sack of old banknotes, a couple of open tins
of ammo a grenade fuse. The recon men are disappointed. They were hoping
to find some foreign currency, but there was none. They found a pistol
buried in the garden. Whats funny is that the sappers had flat batteries
and they found it using a metal probe. And a probe is effective to a
depth of forty centimeters. So, dear reader, should you decide to bury a
machine gun in your garden do it at a depth exceeding fifty centimeters.
Using our methods of metal detection, no-one will find anything.
The characteristic roar of the BMP engines sounded from the street. Me
and Yura looked at one another.
-Your mother! - Yura cursed. - the boss is here.
-To hell with him, - the recon chief was unperturbed. - Look how much we
confiscated. They should get this Old Man Khattabych, string him up by
the rib and ask whose guns these are and where his son is. Our work is
done. Well go and resettle the Russians now, under the guise of
searching for more weapons.
-Just let one little bitch yelp something against me, Ill strangle them,
- that was the recon commander, whose whiskers bristled in righteous
indignation.

----------CHAPTER 21---------The garden gate flew open with a kick. Butalov entered. He embodied the
righteous indignation of the Chechen people. How quickly did he forget
Grozny. Thats alright, colonel. A major and three captains are going to
set you straight now.

-Rhyzhov! Whats going on here? Whats the meaning of this outrage? The
locals came to me and said that marauders are wrecking an elders house!
-Marauders?
-What? Us?
-Look, comrade colonel, see whos the criminal here, - which a nudge of
his foot, Yura propelled the guns and ammo we found towards Butalov.
-You found this here? - Butalov deflated like an air balloon.
-We also found bloodied bed-sheets. A wounded man was being sheltered
here.that was Yura, the chief of reconnaissance.
-Doesnt look like a period. Too much blood, - the company commander
could not contain himself.
-And their sun is in the DGB. Slava, show him the photo, - silently, I
handed Ismadaev Juniors photograph to the brigade commander.
-Why are you so silent, Mironov? - Butalov asked.
I smirked and stared at him. I knew that he hated being stared at like
that.
-Hand this elder over to me for a few hours and hell quickly remember
where his son is, who was sheltering here and where the guns come from.
-You cant do it like that, Mironov! You cant!
-What about Grozny then? What about those lads that hung like Jesus in
the Palace windows?
-Are you an animal, Mironov?
-Not yet. But I learn quickly. When we first came here, had we sealed off
the village, searched it and only then conducted talks with the
aborigines, then very few could have slipped out. Instead we came and
made a big noise. A few Chechen radiomen are left in the village now, who
will inform on our every move. And these acts of intimidation are
necessary so that the locals respect us and so that our fighters remember
why the hell we came here.
-Be quiet Mironov! This is no time or place for such talk! Youll come
see me later! Cease this immediately!
-What are we to do with the owner of the house?
-Ill take him to Khankala now. Let them deal with him there. Any news of
the missing chairman?
-Yes! - the chief of reconnaissance lied without batting an eyelid. We
all nodded.We need to check a few houses, he was apparently seen there.
-We didnt just come to this house, - the recon commander continued, - we
received information that your friend was seen here, which is why we
came. - Yura made an innocent face.
-Hes not my friend! - Butalov objected. - He is the head of local
administration and we must build a normal working relationship with him.
-We understand. - Yura Ryzhkov interrupted the commander so as not to
hear this story again. - We were merely carrying out your orders. It
wont happen again. -Return to the command post.
-What is the chairman is hiding at the addresses we have not checked?
-Alright check them, but carefully.
Having taken the old man and the confiscated material, Butalov got into
the BMP and drove off.
-So, men, are we going home or are going to shake up the Chechens some
more?
-What did we start all this the hell for?
-To ****, **** and once more ****, as Mr. Lenin taught.

-Theres nothing to do at the command post. Well die of boredom. This

way well at least splash some adrenaline into our blood.
-Vodka would have been better.
-Where are you going to find it with these Muslims?
-They cant drink wine. Allah said nothing about vodka.
-To hell with these true believers! Theyll ****ing poison us!
-Anything can happen.
-Well share the spirits with you.
-Thanks guys. Where are you getting those spirits form anyway?
-We distil it out of petrol.
-Yes, no, but seriously?
-Strategic resources. When we set out, all the radiators were filled with
spirits, instead of antifreeze. Everyone drank theirs, but we saved ours.
-You two are impossible to talk to. Where are the spirits from?!
-Wed tell you, but you wont believe us.
-Where is it from?
-How stubborn you are. If only you were as stubborn at work. Our driver Pashka - has developed special abilities after a surgical procedure.
Vodka and spirits are a vital resource in war. But where to find them?
Nowhere. Organise their manufacture on the spot? Youll need raw
materials, equipment, meanwhile, youre sitting in a trench. What to do?
And so Novosibirsk scientists from the academicians districtyou know
the one Im talking about?
-Yes, I do, get to the point.
-Alright, I continue. And so, Novosibirsk scientists, under orders from
the Ministry of Defence have conducted an experiment in producing spirits
in combat conditions. Though careful selection, a group of soldiers form
the Siberian Military District were chosen, on the basis for their
propensity towards alcoholism. They were inoculated with special
preparations.
-And?
-We have already told you too much. Me and Yura signed non-disclosure
papers. If we tell - well be shot, right, Yura?
-Swear on my life!
-Alright, dont **** my brains, keep to the story.
-Pashka produces it and urinates pure spirits. Thats where we get it
from. We collect it into flagons, cool it and supply the entire brigade.
We are keeping an eye on the results, but nobody has died yet. We have
both been promised a medal and Pashka has already been recommended for a
Hero.
-**** you are both such morons!
-Youre both sick in the head. Urine! ****! How do you even think up such
foul crap?
-What? We dont drink these spirits. We have pure the pure, factory-made
stuff. For comparison.
-Idiots! ****.
-Alright, relax. Have you no sense of humour?
-Not that sort of humour. Alright, lets go!
The recon men were angry that we fooled them like little children and
wanted to take it out on someone. One BMP went to fetch that grandmathe
crazy old woman whom we saw yesterday. The second BMP drove towards her
old house.

To our surprise, the house was empty. Although the stove was warm and the
beds unmade. That meant that the occupants were warned. Were being
watched - which is entirely our fault, seeing the hoo-hah we started. And
those white camo suits - were we hoping to remain inconspicuous?
We searched the house, but did not notice anything criminal. The fighters
found a can of paint and inscribed Protected by the Russian Armed
Forces on the green gate. Just let them try to show themselves here! We
explained to the curious neighbours, that well promptly have the head of
anyone that objects and if need be the whole village may meet with an
unfortunate accident. Well deliver the goods, no problem.
They brought the grandma. She wept as she walked along the her old walls.
She felt the corners and looked out the windows. She constantly adjusted
the tablecloths. The fighters went to fetch water. The old woman
continued to try to fall at our feet. It seemed that she had lost her
mind, as she opened that toothless mouth. Her disjointed story seemed to
indicate that her husband died when he refused to move. It seemed that
the new owners had a good reason to run. And so they should have. Our
fighters would have hung them, thats for sure. On the green plank over
the gate. We left some food for the old woman and the commander promised
to send his soldiers every day to help her around the house. We confirmed
once more, the addresses of other Russians who lived here and Ilinka. The
old woman told us that the new chairman was yesterday taken by car in the
direction of Ilinskaya village. And so well have a reason to go there,
show ourselves and take a look at this nest of insurgency.
We left and before dinner resettled another two families. Only in once
case did the new owner try to object, but when he saw that the fighters
were in no mood to talk, he promptly gathered up his flock and retreated.
A triumph of justice, as far as we were concerned. And if you dont
agree, go to the command post and well discuss it. We told the mullah to
tell everyone: the other Russians are to return to their homes. They are
not to be interfered with, otherwise well start to interfere with the
locals. At first, the mullah played dumb, pretending that he doesnt
understand Russian, but when we told him that we can always check the
mosque for guns and reminded him that it was from his minaret that the
sniper fired, he promptly remembered this language. He babbled something
about some holy month called either ramazan or ramadan and that
fighting is forbidden during that time. So dont do any fighting, if its
forbidden. Whats it to us? Everything will be as we say and if not,
well make it so. Also and by the way! Bring back your chairmanwe like
him very much. If you dont, youll regret it. He is our commanders best
friend. Thats it, bye-bye. Regards to your parents! If youre in the
neighbourhood, mullah, drop in to see us!
They days that came afterwards were grey and ordinary. Rain fell
constantly from the sky, devouring the remnants of the snow. The vehicles
constantly bogged in mud. The moodzero. Longing. At the command postthe
men were quartered in the vehicles, somein the building. But the
battalions lived out in the open fields. The tent fabric which was soaked
in water-resistant chemicals did not endure the onslaught of the elements
and started to leak. Everyone starting with the comm-batt and ending with
the ordinary soldier moved into earthen dugouts. New underwear and bed-

sheets were sent up from Novosibirsk. They were taken out of the socalled untouchable reserves and the folds on them were as hard as wood.
That was half the trouble though. The other half was that they were
infested with lice. Also there were some holes here and therethe results
of many years of moth-work. We had enough of our own lice here without
the Siberian ones and their number had now doubled. The underwear was
quickly taken out of circulation and burned. I would venture a guess,
that somebody made good money on that underwear. Replacements arrived in
a few daysthis time without holes or lice. Somebody wrote off a whole
lot of linen and underwear, sent a flight back and forth a few times,
undoubtedly it didnt fly empty. So you count how much money was wasted
and made. For some its war and for some its dough.
The situation in Chechnya was paradoxical. The troops stood still. No
action in either the western or the southern direction. The insurgents
reorganised and started ambushing convoys. Snipers appeared in Grozny
again. They actively shot up checkpoints and unweary sentries were being
abducted and cut out in the night. The soldiers brooded over the
unexplained lack of action. Formations of the Ministry of Extraordinary
Situations (MChS) played a significant role in the chaos. In the second
half of February three BTR of the internal troops drove up to our
positions. There, I met one of my classmates from the academyOleg
Bassarov. We were in the same company, he was in the first platoon, Iin
the second. As is customary, we embraced. He remained a comms man and was
currently stationed as Severny where the Internal Forces Commander was
located. They went into reconnaissance and came upon an ambush. One man
was wounded and they turned back. On the way, they came upon an MChS
hospital. They took their wounded fighter to the medics there, but the
hospitals chief started shrieking something about the facilities being
reserved for the local population only. He had to be reasoned with using
guns and when a couple of barrels pointed at his gut and another one at
his head, he perceived that he was wrong and gave the order to operate. I
have heard a lot of stories like that. The MChS didnt like their troops.
It was a given that we got drunk with Yura and Oleg as one should with
a former classmate. We recalled our academy days and the mischief we got
into. He left in the morning.
The rains stopped, but then started up again. And then came the day of
celebration for all who wear a uniformFebruary 23Red Army Day. The
first army celebration in Chechnya! The Minister of defence came to
Grozny for this occasion. He summoned all the formation commanders
stating that he brought a lot of gifts. Butalov went with three BMPs.
There was one small box of presents for the entire army group. About ten
Commanders wristwatches. And that was it! No decorations or medals.
Not-a-thing. Just a parting word expressing confidence that the troops
will continue to fulfil the Supreme Commanders every order. ****!
Muscovite shitheads!
We compensated this rotten business with booze and celebratory fireworks.
The fireworks turned out no worse than at the taking of Grozny. Once
again, we have been spat in the face. We wiped it up and got drunk.
Makhra will endure anything.

----------CHAPTER 22---------As the time went by, rumours of a pending advance hung in the air. But
there was no order. Despite numerous requests, we were not allowed to
move to Ilinka. The Chechens, meanwhile were getting bolder. The trees
were sprouting a little greenery and one could no longer see straight
through the forest. Every night, the Chechens were shooting up the
sentries. They tried to come closer, but encountered the tripwires and
scattered their guts on the near-by trees. A flock of crows feasted over
there for a week afterwards.
A little bit later, a reconnaissance group of paratroopers passed through
the green on our territory and were ambushed. We didnt hear a firefight and nobody called for help on the radio, otherwise we would have
definitely come to their aid. The local kids showed us. One is confronted
with such things numerous times in war, but each time they have to suffer
through it anew. Six people, our lads, Slavs, lay dead. Their stomachs
cut open, gutted and stuffed with dirt. Stars cut into the skin of their
backs. The officer had insignia cut into his skin, where the lapels and
epaulettes would be. Their genitals removed and stuffed into their
mouths. Eyes torn out, ears cut off. The medics said that this was done
when they were already dead. To scare us.
On the second of March, two platoons, supported by a pair of tanks moved
onto Ilinskaya. First we checked the DGB officers house. Once again the
enemy radio operator in Petropavlovka warned somebody in Ilinka. Our
agents reported that the moment we moved out, all the insurgents ran away
in the direction of Gudermes. In short, we didnt catch anybody. On the
other hand we found much that was interesting in two houses there. Six
assault rifles, an R-159 radio set, a Shmel and three dog-tags. It
meant that the Chechens living here, collected dog-tags of our soldiers
that they have killed. The soldiers were furious. Smash! Destroy! Whats
that standing in the yard? An imported car? Should we blow it up? ****
off, were not marauders! Well just take the stereo and the seats, as
they will come in handy. A volley at the carfrom the soul. And another
volley. How good! The tires burst, the car sinks to the ground. We walk
away a small distance and let out a few underbarreler rounds at the house
where the insurgents lived. Another round at the car. Its engulfed in
flames and after a few minutes it explodes. Were not marauders, were
not after other peoples property.
As we searched for a place to cross the Sunzha during a reconnaissance
mission, a tank got mired in the silt. We were ambushed. The Chechens
shot us up pretty good. They were hoping to capture the tank. They took
up position atop an oil extraction tower. The tank destroyed it on third
attempt and that, considering its gun barrel was completely spent back in
Grozny and that only the top of the tower was visible from where they
were. Thats combat experience right there! You cant get this good on a

firing range. Well done! We shouted merrily as a couple of insurgents

tumbled down onto the ground and the debris from the tower fell on top of
them. But, taking advantage of the higher ground and the cover of forest
foliage, they approached and attacked us again. As night came, we mined
the tank and evacuated its crew to the shore. We spent the night there,
constantly firing illumination rockets. The BMP crews periodically shot
up the opposite shore, preventing the insurgents from coming closer.
In the morning, the insurgents tried to break through to the tank. The
used grenade launchers. RPG-7, Mukha and potato (underbarreler)
rounds, which hissed overhead and smacked into the silty riverside. The
shrapnel lodged in the trees and clinked on our helmets, but nobody got
hurt. Not even light wounds. Truly, God only loves the infantry!
Two tankers from the evacuated crew dove into the painfully cold water in
order to hook the towing cables. They managed it on their third attempt.
Next, they climbed into their tank, shivering from the cold, where they
unsealed the untouchable reserve of spirits as well as the commanders
stash of vodka.
The towing cable was tied to the second tank. It tugged. The cable
stiffened, the engine roared, the tracks dug into the ground, throwing up
clumps of dirt. They tugged once, twice, then a third time, but alas with
no result. The half-sunken tank remained where it was. The insurgents on
the other shore howled in delight and intensified their fire. It seemed
as if they had an infinite store of RPGs. We radioed for help and another
tank rolled up. BMP and small arms fire chased the insurgents back.
Again the soldiers dove into the freezing water. They managed to connect
the second cable first go this time. Like some mythical beasts, the tanks
pulled in unison and their stricken kin began to emerge out of the mud
and onto our side of the river. Its engine was started in order to
assist. Water, silt and clumps of mud poured off its sides. We were
ecstatic!
The village had to be warned that the Petropavlovka chairman be returned
and that if there is a repetition of the ambush business next to their
village, that we were going to burn them down. Nobody was actually going
to go ahead with it, nor would we have been allowed to do it, but the
threat worked. After another day, the chairman returned, although what
the hell did we need him for? But Butalov and our general were happy.
From then on, that man was constantly present at the command post. Like
an enemy agent
There was another swapout of the officers. I sent some money for a
telegram to my wife, in honour of March 8.
Time passed and the 8th of March came. There were no women in our
brigade, but we celebrated the date very thoroughly. There were toasts
and fireworks in honour of our wives, mothers, sisters and girlfriends.
Following the holiday, we were advised to prepare to move. Only the
troops in the western portion of the theatre were shifting. The southern
contingent was to stay put. There were not a great deal of us in the west

- the Siberians, the artillery regiment from St. Petersburg that was
crawling along the crest of the mountain range and a patchwork brigade
from Ulianovsk was located near Argun, alongside an MVD regiment. They
said that fresh troops were approaching. Perhaps to replace us?
The rain bucketed down for the second week straight, not ceasing for a
single minute. How could one move in such mud? The order came on the
thirteenth of March, that the entire western contingent move to
designated regions. The only things left in Petropavlovka, was the
medical battalion, OBMO and the maintenance troop. The rest began to
move. And onwards and onwards we went.
The command post was to be shifted to the Ilinskaya village. Positions
were to be taken up on the north-west of it, in the direction of
Gudermes. Imagine, reader, an unsealed clay road, winding alongside a
ravine that often comes up right to its edge, with the entire brigade
crawling along it, tethering on the sheer ledge, risking to topple over
it and slide down into the muddy depths.
On approach, we came under mortar fire. It was coming from behind the
village and the aim was bad. But somebody was spotting it and the mines
fell ever closer with each volley. Small arms fire began from the
hilltops above the road. We crawled around like turtles, colliding with
one another, but for the time being the insurgents were out of luck.
The first and second battalions rounded the village via the fields. The
enemy was waiting for them there. They got off the road as best they
could, dismounted, started digging in and engaged. Somebody reported over
the radio that they scared off two women, who were hiding in the bushes
and that they may have been the artillery spotters. Everyone cursed at
them over the air. Theres a fight and they are skipping about with some
bitches. Idiots! Couldnt find a better time!
Has the reader ever tried to dig into clay, after two weeks of rain? Its
not dirt, its butter. The spade slides, unable to grasp the soil. Mines
are falling from above, hitting the mud with a loud smack. They explode
half a second later, sending huge fountains of filth up into the air. And
with each soul-tearing scream of an approaching round, you are obliged to
drop face first into that disgusting mess to wait it out. Its foul
business, let me tell you.
We somehow managed to work out the enemys position and using the BMP and
tanks spotted the fire form our self-propelled guns. This was a great
moment! How many days had we spent, not seeing such a vigorous exchange
of fire and a proper fight. The incident with the bogged tank was a mere
skirmish in comparison. Somebody may disagree, but that is my subjective
opinion, but that particular battle resembled Grozny the most. Again, the
adrenaline raged in my veins, that same taste of blood in my mouth. In my
soula fear, mixed with ardour and a mad glimmer in my eye. Im in
business once again!
Forward! Forward! Rolling and half-kneeling towards the nearest crop of
bushes. Yura is beside me, Pashka is a few meters away aiming and
spraying the bushes out of his gun. Yura gets up on one knee and fires

the underbarreler. Me and Pashka are covering him. Here beside us, other
officers and soldiers are shooting, digging in. The primary shock of
coming under fire had passed. We have been idle for too long. Forgot what
a real battle is like. Got fat. But muscle memory is beginning to awaken.
A roll-over, another roll, a volley. Something is movinga volley in that
direction and another one, just to be sure. Me and Yura work well as a
pair. He sees the direction of my fire and sends a few grenades there.
One of the concussions sounds different. I can hear a yell. An insurgent
just bought it.
And then the insurgents faltered and started falling back. Smash them,
guys! Forward! Everyone felt it and intensified their onslaught. You
could see even without optics that they were retreating. The bushes were
swaying and their backs could be seen in the clearings. The first and
second battalions report over the radio that the same is happening on
their side. Push the insurgents back! Its victory! The first victory
after so many days of waiting! Forward!
Suddenly, someone comes on the air and issues some strange command.
Nobody could work it out at first. We thought that the insurgents are
trying to fool us again. We switched frequencies and the call-sign and
requested confirmation. But nowe heard correctly. We are ordered to stop
advancing, disengage and return to our initial positions. What a madhouse. Nobody knows whats happening, everyones confused. Had we been on
the backfoot, unable to overcome the insurgents, that would be
understandable. But here, we have the upper hand and suddenly this order
to fall back!
The first thing we thought was that there is a mutiny at Khankala.
-Muscovite bastards!
-They sold everything that they could.
-We must be next!
Very reluctantly, we commenced our return to our former positions at
Petropavlovka. It looked as if the insurgents ran from us and weaway
from the insurgents. Who would dream of such a thing? In the eyes of the
locals it looked like we got scared and ran away like cowards. That the
insurgents were stronger. When we re-entered the village, we could see it
in the eyes of the locals that greeted us, that they were jubilant. We on
the other hand were as mad as demons in hell. The locals were already
scuttling about at our former campsite, gathering up those things that we
did not have time to remove. We chased them away with skyward gunfire.

----------CHAPTER 23---------The general, the brigade commander and the chief of staff, went to
Khankala immediately, not taking the time to change after the battle. As
it turned out, none of the other formations were able to move, due to the

weather. Those useless sons of bitches got bogged! Only the Siberian
makhra managed to bring up their vehicles and fulfil the objective! The
Siberians have to go and gnaw the asphalt in Grozny, advance as they and
their APCs get shredded to pieces and these shitheads cant move over
peaceful mud. Are we not going to do any fighting til July, when the
ground dries up?
As it were, we stayed in one spot for another three days. The rain
stopped after a day, the wind picked up, the sun came out and dried the
ground a little. Forward!
This time the shift happened without incident. The brigades command post
was deployed in what used to be a school. It hasnt been operational for
more than a year. Dudaev didnt need educated people. If you read the
Koran, that made you an instant academic, as far as he was concerned.
These highlanders...what can you expect?
The school had two buildings. The headquarters were placed in one and in
the other, which was across the road from itthe reconnaissance, the
hazchem troops and the medics, who were to join them in a few weeks. For
now, the medics remained back in Petropavlovka. There was an animal farm
behind the school, where communications and other services were
quartered.
We parked our vehicle in front of the school. Seryoga Kazartsev parked
beside us as usual. The rank and file were near there, as well as the
secret division, where the topographical maps were kept. The field troops
were headed by a new arrivalMajor Seryoga Artamas. He had a nickname
Fantomas, but he didnt like being called that and only tolerated it from
his friends. He was much older than me and Yura and thought of us as
upstarts. We were not too keen on being his friends either.
We started to get acquainted with the locals. As usual, they assured us
of their loyalty and told us terrible stories about how the insurgents
tormented them and so forth.
An amusing incident occurred the next day. It was the second battalions
commanders birthday. In war, a birthday is a very special occasion. As
such, the second battalions zampolit decided to undertake a suicidal,
but highly noble mission. In the middle of the night, he and some drivers
took off in two BMPs. He managed to pass through all the checkpoints, got
shot up a few times, god knows by whom, but it seems that idiots have
good luck, for by morning he was in Mozdok. How he got through there is
yet another question, as the city had extra police checkpoints and was
teeming with the military, but whats clear is that he made it to a cake
shop. He roused the night watchman, who called the shops director. When
the frightened director came, it was explained to him in common terms
that the best cake that his establishment has to offer was required for a
special mission. Naturally, everyone in the brigade knew that the best
cakes are made in Siberia, but in view that there is a war in progress,
as well as various shortages in effect, nothing of that sort of quality
was required of him. The shop-keep was deeply offended. He went inside
and emerged with his biggest and best cake with the words Happy

Birthday written on it. He packed it himself and included some candles.

He refused to take any money.
On the way back, the zampolit used the remaining funds to stock up on
Champagne and Vodka and was back the same morning. Imagine the
commanders surprise when the entire battalion lined up to wish him a
happy birthday with cake and Champagne. Truth be told, the battalion was
at that point a mere thirty men, which included the commander and his
deputies. And they were in charge of defending a frontline spanning three
kilometres...And this is not a soldiers anecdote, this story is
completely true, not an ounce of fiction. That is the nature of the trust
and respect that develops between men in war. It is not a case of the men
trying to score points with their superior, no. When they fight, they
have their conscience and not their fear in mind. If you have nothing but
decorations and promotion on your mind, your own fellows will see though
it very quickly. And having done that, when there is a fight, no-one will
cover your back or offer you a mouthful of water or vodka. Youre either
a part of the collective or, youre a corpse. There is no third option.
Our sentries started coming under fire at night. There were no
casualties. We were forced to mine and booby-trap everything around us.
As soon as a few insurgents blew themselves up, the shooting stopped.
There was also a notable incident. One night a sentry heard a rustling.
Hold it!, he said, The password is five! Silence. And then a boobytrap activates. Then after a seconda second and then a third one. The
illumination munitions fire as well. The booby-traps are rigged to launch
about twenty of these, but they do not fire all at the same time, instead
they go off one after another to provide lasting illumination. It looks
like fireworkslots of light and whistling.
The entire sentry contingent came running, thinking the insurgents were
planning a break-through. They fired, launched illumination, but there
was no fire in return. Its all quiet and they could not see anyone out
there. They calmed down, put up some more sentries, just in case and went
to bed. The morning arrived without incident. At first light they went to
see what it was and the only thing they found were clumps of cat fur. It
looked like a cat had tripped a wire, got scared and tripped two more. It
was impossible to tell if it was the last booby-trap or our shooting that
finished him off.
Life at the field camp, meanwhile flowed down its course. It was calm.
During the day, we shot up the highway connecting Gudermes and Argun. It
was about 80% visible from the second battalions positions. We bombarded
the suburbs of Gudermes. The insurgents took up position on the slopes of
a hill overlooking the city allowing themselves to control the approaches
to it. We learned from intelligence as well as from radio conversations
with the insurgents that the then unknown Shamil Basaev was in command
there. The spetsnaz that came to visit us were happy to talk to him. They
remembered their times together in GRU training camps near Moscow and
joint operations in Abkhazia and Ossetia. They told one another to come
visit.
The Chechen positions were being worked over with self-propelled
munitions day and night. We could sometimes see the huge rockets travel

overhead. We called them telegraph poles and humanitarian aid to our

Chechen brothers. We slept like babies, when the self-propelled
artillery was working. The kung swayed to and from like a new-borns crib
and the insurgents did not dare show themselves and bother us.
And then came a day, which I shall never forget for the rest of my life.
The 21st of March. We came under mortar fire the day before. Only a few
mines were launched at the command post, one of which hit a residential
building. The bombardment then stopped. But the second and third
battalion were thoroughly worked over with fire that by the looks of it
was being corrected by somebody who could see our positions. This
included hidden positions, that the enemy could not see over the frontline. These artillery spotters had caused us a lot of trouble during the
war. No-one was killed though. There were three woundings and they were
promptly sent to Petropavlovka to get qualified help and from thereto
Severny. The Chechens fired from concealed positionswe could not see
their muzzle flashes and therefore establish their precise location. We
eventually worked it out approximately and responded with our own mortars
and then spotted our artillery. After the seventh volley, the Chechens
ceased fire.
The morning was foggy. We didnt have anything specific to do, me and
Yura and were therefore bored. And then came a message from the second
battalion that a woman was detained. She was walking along the highway to
Gudermes. Wearing soft footwear and concealed by the fog, she passed all
the checkpoints and concealed positions like a ghost. She was walking
alongside the trenches, when she came upon some of our officers, who
detained her. They searched her although not as thoroughly as one
normally would in war. They didnt want to be rude. But, they did find
bandages and cotton wool in her bag as well as a miniature pistol a PSM
in the lining of her cardigan. She tried to retrieve it when they grabbed
her, but did not manage it in time.
The battalion commander reported her to the command post immediately
although he kept the pistol for himself. When she was brought to us in a
BMP, the officers from the first battalion recognised her. She was that
same woman, they saw during the unsuccessful foray into Ilinka on March
13. They proposed that she must be the one spotting the insurgent
artillery.
Three people conducted the interrogation: myself, Yura and the general.
We did it in a small room behind the gym, where the chief of staff was
normally located and where we had our evening meetings.
Had it been a man, everything would have been simple. But with a
woman...That was the first time we had to interrogate a woman. And she
was pretty. She had no passport on her, which was nothing out of the
ordinary. When Dudaev came to power and declared independence, the
locals, who accepter an Ichkerian citizenship got a stamp in their Soviet
passport, bearing the new coat of arms. A note was also made to the
effect. That was why all the younger people carried their Komsomol
papers, so as to avoid irritating our soldiers. She too had her Komsomol
ID. It stated that her name was Sugalaeva (which was her married name,

the birth-name being Berditel), first name Khava, patronymic Dadaevna,

born in 1962.
We began in a cultured manner, without any psychological trickery. But
she was not co-operating. She repeated the same story like a parrotthat
she was in Grozny and was walking to Gudermes, where she lives. Her
husband died in a bomb raid in the first few days of the war (meaning
that she had no reason to have sympathetic feelings towards us). He
sister was minding her young daughter in Gudermes. She was not an
artillery spotter and was not in Ilinka on the 13th of March.
We called the officers again, who confidently identified her as being the
same woman they saw. We radioed the checkpoints, who reported having not
recorded her as one of the people who passed them. No other roads out of
the capital were available as they were mined by both ourselves and the
insurgents.
It looked like she must have been
spotting the enemy mortar fire as
whereabouts, which she radioed to
in war and one must remember that
here, but an entire people.

hiding out near-by and was most likely

well as collecting data on our
the enemy. A woman is less conspicuous
we were not fighting a regular army

The recon men, who have not seen any captives for a long time now (and
who have a special score to settle with spies like her), were asking to
have her handed over to them. She screamed in horror that we not allow
that to happen. We played good detective bad detective. Yura was the good
one, I was the bad one and the general was playing the impartial judge.
When she started resisting, I applied psychological pressure by
threatening her with various punishments. I demanded that she confess. We
wanted to know where the Chechens were located, so that we could bomb
them to oblivion and enter the city without incurring any casualties.
She yelled that she didnt know anything. I produced a map of Gudermes
city and asked her to point out where her sister and daughter lived. She
confidently pointed out a spot somewhere near the train terminal. Judging
by how she handled a military grade topographical map, one could tell
that she had used one before. For this reason, we handed her an old map
which contained our previous positions. It was oldalmost due to be
burned. She was visibly interested in the symbols that denoted our
positions. These symbols are double Dutch to a normal person and whilst
it was doubtful that she had a military education, she could have had had
some special training.

At this point, I lifted the handset, which we used as a lie detector. I

pretended to order that artillery shift their fire to the spot which
Khava had pointed out on the mapthe one where her relatives lived. This
produced another bout of hysterical screaming. San Sanych stuck his head
in through the door at this point. This intellectual was naturally a

moralist, who didnt know that we could do nothing to physically harm

this woman. That is not the sort of scoundrels we are. We have not
learned to fight wars with women yet.
But San Sanych didnt trust us. He knew that I was capable of
unpredicatable things and that is why he asked us to release the woman.
We had to constantly draw from the generals cognac reserve to calm our
nerves as the woman cried. Even though we found cigarettes in her bag,
she refused to smoke or accept the cognac we offered her. Even the glass
of water that we put on the table for her, she threw to the floor. A
determined womanunwilling to accept anything out of the enemys hand.
When me and the general went to the toilet, she offered herself to Yura
in exchange for release. When we came back, before opening the door, I
pretend to issue a command: Bring up a BMP, park it close to the gym and
rev the engine, so as to drown her screams. Were going to file her
teeth!
In the meantime, Yura issued a command not to bombard the railway
terminal district. As a result she told us a little of the Chechen
positions and fortifications. I was more and more convinced that she was
a spy, a Cheechen Zoya Kosmodemyanskaya, whilst Yura was thinking the
opposite. He thought that she was detained by mistake. I proposed that
she be sent to Khankala, where a filtration camp has been established and
where the special division and GRU men can deal with her.
Whilst I was out to get some cigarettes, San Sanych scooped up the woman
and put her into his jeep. He took her to the outskirts of the village,
where he simply released her. I was furious. I cursed one and all,
disregarding rank and convention. Everyone got it: the chief of staff for
his noble conduct, Yura for having not resisted his commanding
officer...I wanted to give chase, but they never told me which direction
they took her in. Profanity burst forth from my mouth like the Niagara
falls. Having finished the generals cognac, I as well as the recon men,
whose hopes have so thoroughly been dashed, departed for the second
battalions positions.
There, I spoke at length with the second battalions commander in the
course of which he told me in detail how the woman was detained. He also
showed me the map she had on her. It was an ordinary military mapone
from the General Staff, except that our positions were marked out in a
lot of detail using pin pricks. They were barely visible. Our command
post, the self-propelled artillery in the first and second battalionit
was all there. The commander didnt pay any attention to the pin pricks
at first. He thought that the woman simply picked up the map somewhere
which is why he didnt report it. It remained unknown if she was the one
that made those pinpricks or was simply running errands. But I was
ecstatic, because it proved that I was right. San Sanych, together with
Yura fell for the womans tears, although nobody tortured or raped her, I
would not have allowed it myself. But the fact that she was released made
me furious.

Having drank more with the commander, I asked him if he could point out
the fighters that detained Khava and allow me to interview them. Igor
pointed out two soldiers, who were stationed on the extreme left flank. I
went over to see them, which the chief of reconnaissance and the
battalion commander began studying the pinpricks on the map in the hope
of learning something about their author.
I, meanwhile went up to the soldiers, who were busy monitoring the ground
in front of them.
-Good health men!
-Good day.
-Good health comrade captain!
-Do you know me?
-Affirmative, we were next to one another on Minutka, digging in.
-Thats right, I remember. Light it up, men, - I handed the cigarettes to
them, - and tell me about how you caught your girlfriend this morning.
-We were sitting here, it was quiet, foggy. Were listening. Visibility
about a meter. You could crawl right up to us in this weather and we
wont notice. But we can hear very well. And we hear something like soft
footsteps.
-Thats rightlight footsteps. When one of our guys walks, you can hear
his boots pound on the ground from far away, but here it was like a
rustling. And then we see a shadow in the fog. Its moving very quickly
we cant do it like that and its almost soundless. As usual, we yell:
Halt! Password! Hands up, face in the dirt! We approach and see that
its a woman.
-She was al-right, she offered to pay us right there and then, if we let
her go. It was about seven in the morning. She said that nobody would
know.
-So, what did you do, guys?
-No, captain, we didnt lay a finger on her. But when we refused her, she
started grabbing at her cardigan, at which point I hit her in the ear.
-With the gunstock?
-No, its a girl, her skull would have popped. Had it been a guy, that
would have been a different story. We opened her cardigan and the pistol
fell out. It looked like a toyI have seen a general have one.
-A PSM?
-Yeah. And in her bag we found bandages, cotton wool and behind the
lining, a map. We had a look at it, it was clean, so we handed it over to
the battalion commander.
-Is there anything wrong? Should we have finished her off on the spot? Or
het her go?
-No, everythings fine guys. You did the right thing.
-Look, that bush moved!
And there it wasabout one hundred and fifty meters away from us, on the
enemys side, the bushes were moving. We looked harder and saw that an
infantry group approximately twenty in number was crawling towards us. It
was dangerous to let them come any closer. We immediately started firing
our guns. The fighters here had an automatic mortar launcher AGS-17
(code-name Plamya) I got behind its controls. I aimed approximately
using line of sight. It is designed to bombard sections of ground and
delivers the munitions in a checker-board pattern. As soon as we started
working the Chechens over, they realised that they have been discovered

and started returning fire. Help was about three hundred meters away and
they were already on their way.
The Chechens decided to back themselves up with mortar fire. The first
volley exploded far behind us. And then the next thing I remember is a
bright flash and that was all...The ****ing end!!! Some people say that
their life passed in front of their eyes. I didnt see anything like
that. I simply switched off, as if I was dead. I felt nothing. The
complete and utter ****ing endthe end of all hopes and dreams. End of
the line.
In a short while I wake up at the bottom of the trench, even though I was
sitting on its side, operating the mortar. I grab my headI cannot see
out of my right eye. I look at my hands and see that they are smeared in
blood. My head is splitting and every movement is painful. My right leg
is also hurting. I lower my gaze and carefully feel my leg. Its all
there. At this point, somebody tears off my hat. For ****s sake, it
hurts! Its one of the fighters from before. He starts to bandage me up.
It feels like I have cotton wool in my earsI cannot hear anythingyet
another contusion. He continues to bandage me. Very carefully, I feel my
right eye. Its there, but why cant I see out of it?
As the fighter continues to bandage me, not taking to much care to be
gentle, gunfire breaks out overhead. I push him away:
- Go, Ill manage.
The fighter nods in understanding, stands up and starts firing his gun.
Smoking cartridges from his gun fall back into the trench. I continue to
apply the bandage around my head and use the loose end to wipe my eye. It
sees, its simply covered in blood. Swaying, I stand up, my feet are
weak. As I do this I notice another soldiers body in the trench. Part of
his scull is missingshaved off, as if with a razor. The creamy-grey mass
that was his brains is scattered about the trench and the top of his
scull is lying nearby. It still has a bit of his scalp attached to it. So
far, I have been lucky, but well have to see what the doctors have to
say.
There was zero emotion. It was as if I had observed it all from the
outside of the body. There was only a feeling of regret that I was so
young and had done so little. That I could have done more with my life.
There was no fear of death. I had stared her in the eye for so long that
I had become accustomed to it. Maybe my time to die had come. But why not
immediately? Without pain or sufferinglike this fighter, with whom I was
digging in on Minutka and who was killed outright. I could have been
lying dead beside him now. Why not? Is it not time yet?
The surviving fighter was firing his gun and I, having picked mine up
from the side of the trench, proceeded to join him. It seemed like a long
time had passed, yet judging by how close reinforcements had approached
us, I must have been out for only three minutes or so. The bandage kept
sliding down, I had to constantly adjust it and blood started filling my
right eye again. I switched hands on the gun, which was uncomfortable. I
started firing the underbarreler. At first I was looking to see where the
grenades had landed, but each explosion sent a shockwave of unbearable

pain through my head. I started firing without aim, placing the grenades
in the barrel and pulling the trigger in a mechanical fashion. As I was
loading yet another round, somebody placed his hand on my shoulder. I
lurched backwards and pulled up my face (the blood started filling my
left eye) and I saw Igorthe second battalions commander.
-Thats it Slava, we knocked them back, - I was struggling to hear him.
-Go sit down, were going to bandage you up.
-Igor.
-Yes Slava.
-Tell Yurka, that shes an insurgent. That shes a spy. Make sure you
tell him. Promise.
-I promise, Yura and Ill hand over the map. The recon guys had a look
and my battalions positions are on there in a lot of detail, as well as
the command post. You were right, she was a spook.
-Igor! Shes an insurgent! - I was happy at that moment, happy to have
been proven right.
There was only one thing that I wanted at that pointthat if I was to not
make it, that it would be made known to everybody that they were wrong
and I was right, that they let an enemy go. They wanted to inject me with
Promedol, but I refused:
-No guys, I have important papers on me and when I hand them over to
Yura, you can inject me with cyanide for all I care, just take me to the
command post.
-You should go to the medics.
-Later. Firstto the command post. If I dont make it, tell Yura that
shes an insurgent, - I must have become fixated on this idea.
They loaded me into a BMP. An officer came with me. The recon men have
already gone before the attack began and they took the map with them. As
we drove I had to throw up several times and I was in and out of
consciousness because of the shaking. We eventually made it to the
command post and I was carried into the meeting room.
-Wheres Ryzhov? Get me Ryzhov! - I was yelling.if hes not there, tell
him that shes an insurgent!
-Quiet, Slava, we know. The recon guys have brought us the map already.
Dont worry.
I continued to rage and scream, like a drunk in a determined stupor,
yelling that the woman name Khava that we released was a spy. San Sanych
couldnt look me in the eye. All he did was approach and quietly say:
-That was Gods punishment Slava. A warning.
-Had you not let her go, San Sanych, my head would have been in one
piece. You and Yura took pity on her
Yura came. As soon as I saw him enter, I started shouting:
-Yura! I was right! Shes an insurgent! An insurgent! The recon guys have
her map, which has our positions on it.
-Slava relax, were going to the medics soon.
-Alright, but take my notebook, there is something in there that may be
useful.
-Give it here and lets go to Petropavlovka.

They bandaged me and washed my face. I could see out of my eye again.
Yura poured me half a glass of vodka as well as a little for himself. We
drank and then got underway.
Every pothole and crevice made me intensely sick. The vodka was good,
which meant that the sickness was in my head. We arrived at the field
hospital. They were waiting for us. I came out on my own and walked into
the operating room. There, they undressed me and put me onto the cold
metal operating table. My friend Zhenya Ivanov bent over me:
-Salute, Slava, whats happened to you?
-**** knows, Zhenya. A mortar round blew up next to me, one soldier had
his head taken off, but I just got a scratch. Do you remember our talk,
Zhenya, when we were cleaning out the medical dump?
-I dont, - was his terse reply.
-You do remember, you son of a bitch you do. I dont want to become
disabled, especially in the head. If you find that you have to open up my
skull, dont do anything. So that you conscious doesnt bother mejust
give me a chance. Ill simply go outside for a smoke, before the
operation. Agreed?
-Were not agreed to anything. Im going to give you a shitload of
sedatives right now, so that you dont skip about.
-Ill show you a shitload of something...will you do as I ask?
-Go to hell.
-Well see who goes who later. I ask you one thing though: dont open up
my skull, not even out of curiosity. You wont see any brains there
anyway, only bone.
Zhenya and his assistants pumped me up full of Promedol as well as
something else. They made a small incision in the skin on my forehead and
retrieved the shrapnel fragment, which they presented to me on the spot.
But, they said, my case wasnt clear and so they sent me to the hospital
at Severny. They loaded me into an MTLB with red crosses on its flanks
and top and drove off. Yura sat beside me. I felt pretty sick from the
drugs, the operation as well as the contusion. The mechanic was an expert
driver. He shifted his gears and the vehicle raced though the green
without reducing speed. We did not come under fire. We drove through
Grozny. In the centre of town, there was the sound of gunfire and
something struck the side of the vehicle. We stopped. Capture was not on
my agenda, especially with a broken head. I had no weapon on me, other
than the lucky grenade. I glanced at Yura, helpless. He smiled
reassuringly. The warrant officer was talking to somebody outside. Then
the door opened and they shone a torchlight into my face. ****! Then we
drove off again. Yura reported:
-There was an announcement on the air that a BMP was coming from the
Chechen side, which had already taken out two road blocks. They thought
it was us. Its a good thing that the warrant officer launched the flare,
otherwise they might have blown us away.
-That must mean that it is not my fate to die yet! San Sanych said that
it is my warninga waring for bad behaviour. But had he not let that
harpy go, we would have all been back at the command post drinking vodka
and drilling holes for our medals.
-Youre right Slavka, its not time yet. And please forgive me for that
chick. Who would have known that shes a spy? Had the battalion commander

handed over the map, we would have worked it out. Dont stress. Well
catch more of these people. Dont let yourself down. Youre alive and
thats the most important thing.
-Dont let them know back home.
-Do you think Im an idiot, Slava? Everything will be fine. Youll get
insurance.
-Ill buy a video player, I would have never made enough for one
normally.
-Should I stick my own head out so that I get a video player too?
-Stick your head out after a couple of blocks and something will fly over
and hit it. To hell with such money though, Yura. It sounds like were
almost there?
-Were passing the checkpoints in front of the airport, - Yura said as he
looked through the periscope in the crew compartment.
We drove up to the hospital, which was located inside the airport
building. It all looked as it did before. It was almost two at night. I
was immediately taken into the care of two beautiful, wonderful and very
kind medical nurses. Despite the late hour, the dizziness and the hole in
my head, I felt almost as if I was in love with them. I devoured them
with my eyes and drew in the scent of their bodies. When, a couple of
hours prior I saw Khava who was also an attractive woman, in front of me,
I did not feel this way. It was like I was in heaven.
As one filled in my medical forms, the other gave me some sort of
injections. Clearly, one of them was for tetanus, made just under the
skin, but what the others were, I had no idea. However, I was prepared to
endure them all. Wincing from pain, I tried to joke. I grinned and told
anecdotes. The girls laughed. A young doctor came. He listened to my
jokes and laughed also. Then, when the nurses were finished, he took me
into a dark office. A number of x-rays of my head and leg were made. They
then took me into to another office and put my head into a vice attached
to a huge diagnostic machine and spent a long time looking into the
monitor. My x-rays arrived and the two young doctors there started
whispering about something. It was taking too long and began to get on my
nerves:
-Come on men, what do I have? Is it serious or not? Tell me the truth, I have moved my grenade from the trench coat into my jacket. The trenchcoat remained in the ante-room.
-We cant tell. There may be a crack in your skull, or it may just be a
broken vein.
-Guys, it must be a vein. There was a lot of blood when I got hit. So it
must be a vein.
-We cant tell. We have to look at t more.
-What do you need to look at, what are you tourists? Ill bet two bottles
of good cognac that its a vein and in exchange you dont have to look
any more. Deal?
-I also think that its probably a vein. It doesnt look like a crack, one of the doctors said and then added something in incomprehensible
Latin.
-Alright, well stich you up, but tomorrow youre off to the hospital on
the first flight out.
-Which hospital?

-We dont know. Depends on where the flight is coming from. Youre
walking wounded, so probably Rostov or Novgorod. Lets go, patch your
skull up.
-Thanks guys!
I got up and followed the doctor to the operating theatre. They laid me
down onto the operating table. The doctor washed his hands, donned the
face mask. A young nurse assisted. A lock of hair came loose from
underneath her cap, which is how I could tell she was a blonde. Her
beautiful blue eyes gazed at me jovially.
How can I die, when I have such beautiful eyes look at me so
mischievously? I gazed into her eyes as if they were a bottomless lake. I
could not see her face but imagined that it was beautiful behind her
facemask. Its a shame that I am married, as I am almost in love with
this beauty.
My bandages were once again removed. Blood started pouring out again. It
really looked like I had a severed vein. They injected me with
anaesthetic and then started to cut something off and then stick the rest
up.
-Is it the kind of thread that dissolves? - I enquired.
-No, we ran out of that on the second day of the war. We use what we can
get.
-And what do you have now?
-Black thread, number ten.
-The soldiers at the barracks use those to sew on buttons and so forth!
-Thats right. We get it from the warrant officers in exchange for
spirits.
-Madhouse.
-I agree one hundred precent. Now, bear with us, were going to cut off a
loose bit.
-They cut it off already in the field hospital!
-Theres some more that needs fixing.
-Dont damage my skull!
-It caught and stopped shrapnel, so I think it will be OK against a
scalpel, - and again that horrible scraping sound filled my head.
-Have you at least soaked the thread in spirits? - I asked, wincing from
pain but trying to look brave in front of the pretty blonde.
-We have.
-Thats good. Otherwise it could be like everything in the armyshit
happens.
-Things happen. When we operated on the frontline, we sometimes had to
use normal thread.
-And they lived?
-They lived, - he reassured me.
-Thank god!
-Captain, try not to breathe on me, - the doctor asked.
-Why?
-You reek of booze, you could put a horse down.
-My colleagues administered some medicine after I was wounded.
-Be quiet or Ill fall over. Breathe through your nose.

I started drawing through my nose.

-Breathe quieter, I can still smell it. Just a little longer. Im almost
done, another minute...Here. Done. Go to the ward, you can nod off til
the morning. I have already put you on the passenger list. Your war is
over.
-Thank you, thank you very much.
Swaying, I walked out to get some fresh air. I patted my pockets in
search of cigarettes. They were in my coat back inside. I went back
inside and grabbed my coat from the ante-room. I came out again and lit
up. My head started spinning. It could have been the cigarettes or the
medicationhard to tell. Yura was already gone. Slowly, as my condition
allowed, I trudged towards the airport. A sentry called to me out of the
darkness:
-Hold it! The password is minus one!
-Go to hell!
-Ill show you where to go in a minute.
-Shut up and call the airports commandant.
-One minute.
Sashka appeared after ten minutes or so. He was yawning.
-Who wanted the commandant?
-Its me, Sasha. Mironov.
-Slava, its you?
-That right brother.
-How are you, you old devil, whats been happening?
-Nothing serious. I got nicked by shrapnel, but my head is in one piece.
-Lets go, I know all the doctors here, theyll fix you up.
-Sasha, they already have. Tell me instead, when is the plane coming to
get the wounded?
-Its usually here around twelve. They collect you over there and fly you
off to Rostov, where they sort you out and then forward you onwards all
over Russia. So youre done fighting, eh?
-**** off, Im not done. Tell me when the transport to Khankala departs.
-I dont know. There have been no plans for one as of this evening. Why?
Do you want to run for it?
-You think fast. If you could think something up for me in the direction
of my brigade around eight in the morning, and if not, at least to
Khankala that would be great. Can you do that?
-Slava, you should rest. Go home. Ill arrange for a first class seat for
you.
-Send me first class to Khankala instead. I cant go, Sasha, you
understand, I cant.
-But why?
-Why? Hell knows why.
-You havent been a coward, havent deserted. Youre wounded and not just
anywhere, but your head. You shouldnt joke around when its your head.
-Dont lecture me. Im staying, period. And if you cant help me with
transportation, Ill hitch hike it there. Will you give me transport?
-I will.
-When I go, there will be some noise here. Hush it up. I dont like
scandals. Thats it. Im off to the hospital.
-Maybe youd better come sith with me. Well have a snifter of cognac.
Come on, Slava?

-No, I cant. I feel a bit ill. Ill go lie down and will be back here at
eight. Alright?
-There will be transport waiting.
I walked inside the hospital. In the dark there, I felt to find an empty
bunk. I didnt undress, just took off my shoes, laid down and went
immediately to sleep. I did not dream and woke at about seven in the
morning. I washed my face rinsed out my mouth and went walked over to the
airport, puffing on my cigarette.
Sasha was waiting for me there. He was smoking nervously. When he saw me,
he walked forward and threw open his arms. We met and embraced.
-How are you, Slava?
-I am well, thank you. Transport ready?
-Only as far as Khankala.
-Thats fine. Lets go and Ill call the brigade for a pick-up.
We went to the comms room where I radioed the brigade and asked to be
picked up from Khankala. They were very surprised, but I told them that
they called me a faker at the hospital and kicked me out without even
feeding me breakfast.

----------CHAPTER 24---------The ambulance had to go through the whole city. I was not armed. It felt
like riding through the town naked as everybody stares and you dont even
have a vine leaf to cover yourself up. We were passing some ruins. The
whole thing was no longer a city, but a never-ending ruin. What was it
all built for? For whom and for what? Why did I get a hole in my head? I
got off lightly, it could have been worse. I could have been sent back in
a pine box, wrapped in foil. And what about my son? ****! Who can explain
to me why we destroyed this city, killed so many of its citizens and lost
so many of our soldiers? To reduce the unemployment rate? I dont get it!
Once again I was tormenting myself by pondering the futility of war.
There were people scuttling about the piles of debris that used to be
this city, pushing trolleys filled with their simple belongings in front
of themselves. But the insane thing was that there were still corpses
lying in the streets, that nobody had bothered to clean them up after
this long! As soon as it gets warmer, the Plague is guaranteed event.
****! When it comes to killing peoplethere is always plenty of money for
it. But when it comes to burying them properlythere is neither the
money, nor any desire. They could have allocated at least half a precent
of what was looted to the funerals.
It is a completely pointless, senseless war. The generals will get
decorations and carry off truckloads of loot. And all Ill get a modest
insurance payout. I calculated it to be something around one and a half

million roubles. You can probably buy something, with it, provided they
dont delay the payment. Otherwise inflation will eat it all up.
Little boys were running around in the ruins playing war. They were
shouting something in their own language and they were laughing. Children
absorb what is around them, like a sponge. And thats how theyll grow
uptheyll know nothing but war and they wont see anything other than
these ruins. Its easy to destroy things. But it takes generations to
build something. I doubt that these people, whom we tried so hard to
destroy and in the process of which, taught to fight, a people who had
had a taste of the outlaw life and what it is like to have a real enemy
us, will be able to or want to rebuild here. Instead, theyll go to
Russia. And there theyll spread out and have a good time. Perhaps
theyll provide the opportunity to experience the same horror they had,
to other Russian cities. Who knows what will happen? Who could have
predicted a year ago, that this will happen? My son is going to school
this year. We have to finish this whole thing before September 1,
otherwise, hell be watching war reports on TV instead of doing his
homework.
I have not had breakfast. There was a tickling sensation under my tongue
and despite the headache, I felt like a drink. Symptoms of alcoholism?
Well see. The most important thing right now it to get back to my
brigade. If I am intercepted in transit, Im liable to be sent straight
home. And why is that that I dont want to go home? I like to finish what
I started. I have to finish this. No-one was sent to replace me. It would
be shameful to leave here, shameful before the officers, the soldiers and
the Russians who were crippled and have lost their lives here. Also,
imagine if I was to come home all bruised, my head in bandages and say,
Hello dear! **** that! Ill recover and then go. No order has been
issued to send me home against my will. There is no action at the moment,
its all quiet and I have time to get well. I have gotten the medicine
Ill need myself, at the pharmaceutical dump and if there is not enough,
I can barter for it with our neighbours, using our stocks of spirits. Or
Sashka, the commandant will get it for me. Ill get through this! Most
importantlyIm alive
Having to endure serious injury, made me re-evaluated the life I have so
far lived. I obtained a different perspective on things. I started to
value every day that I was alive, each minute of it and learned to
extract joy from everything that was happening to me. To disregard
misfortune. I am alive, I have something to eat, my wife and son are in
good health and the rest is bullshit. I treasure every breath, every
minute of my life. I am happy to see the sun, the rain to feel the wind.
I have gained a new love for nature. Nature is our motherwe have come
from her and to her we shall return. And those politicians in Moscow are
nothing but crooks, who could not give a **** about me or about Russia.
No longer do I want to concern myself with the fate of the people, the
Motherland. They have no care for me or my family, so why should I? Let
every man take care of himself. But God forbid someone touches my family.
I will crush them. Combat experience is not something that you can just
forget. If the need arises, I can destroy, maybe not spiritually but
physicallyfor sure. I have learned not to forgive insults brought upon
me. If previously I was able to shrug my shoulders and leave it be, I can

no longer do so now. Society has made me into what I am and must accept
me for the same. I have perceived my Identity, identity with a capital
I, not a mere cog in the machine. I have paid my dues to society and to
Motherland. I have paid them with my blood and physical well-being. Were
even now. If society and the Motherland feel that they do not owe me
anything, then so am I free of any further obligation to them. No
propaganda slogan will stir me now. Dont get me wrong, I do not claim to
be above other people and society, no! But they will never again get me
to shoot at my own people and fight a phony enemy that they have given me
as a distraction from other problems. That trick will not work on me any
more. This whole sad affair, is not the work of enemies from beyond the
sea, enemies that robbed my country and bled it dry, who have sent me to
my death and who want to deprive my son of his future. This is not a CIA
operation. I have no enemies here, or more precisely I had not had any
until I made some myself in Grozny. All the trials and tribulations this
country endures, a country whose spinelessness and stupidity I both love
and hate, all my personal sorrows and misfortunes are the fault of
capital city politicians, regardless of their creed and ideology.
With that in mind, I arrive at the checkpoint at the entrance to
Khankala. There is a quick documents check. We drive into the base. A lot
has changed. The debris has been cleared away, everyone salutes, just
like in peace-time. I stop some young soldier in the rank of 1st
Lieutenant. There is a big badge on his chest, bearing the word
Khankala and some sort of a design, possibly featuring a shield, I
cant see to well as my eyes are still watering from the contusion. All
the locals have one of these badges.
-Where can I get one? - I ask the valiant soldier.
-Nowhere. The Commander handed these out personally to all who serve
here. Its a distinguishing Stavka badge, - the warrior proudly declares
as he gently pats his badge.
I shake my head and walk away. The times we live in! Naturally, come
peacetime, these Khankala people will be so proud of their service here
and as part of the Chechen War. Seeing that every soldier was given such
badges here, whats to say of the real decorations and ranks, that must
be pouring forth on the chosen as if from the Horn of Plenty...
Ive been told that the brigades cadres department representative, who
was stationed in Mozdok and whose sole purpose was to fill out decoration
forms as well as take care of other paperwork constantly sent the award
paperwork back to the brigade. He did it on grounds such as they were
incorrectly filled out or dirty or creased...This desk monkey turned
lieutenant-colonel from captain in three months and became decorated with
every conceivable order and medal. When San Sanych learned of this, he
warned him not to come back to the brigade, after which he got himself
transferred to the Moscow Military District. There is no shortage of lowlives and dickheads anywhere
Two BMP roll in through the gates, the familiar S painted on their
side. So warm and cosy! I seems as if I havent seen my brigades
vehicles for at least three hundred years! Friendlies! Siberians. I hurry
over to them. They notice me and raise up as they hold onto protruding
bits of armour, they wave to me and yell. Genuine happiness. There is a

lump in my throat, it is as if its in a vice, my eyes water. Im getting

a little too sentimental and hysterical in my old age. If the guys
notice, they might think that I cracked it, having caught one in the
head. I brush off a tear. The vehicles stop and everyone gets off. They
surround me. We embrace and pat one another on the shoulders. Yura also
came. And if I laughed and joked with the others, with Yura, Yury, my
good friend, I simply embraced, silently, not saying a word. I felt that
his shoulders were twitching slightly too and when I stepped back, I saw
him also wipe a tear. I understand, brother, I understand. That means
that I have not gone crazy. This is just what real friendship between
men, tempered by combat and blood is like.
-Whats new, Yura?
-Just promise me that you wont worry.
-Tell me what it is already!sweat appeared on my forehead.
-You see, while I was away driving you to Severny, - Yura began, - some
idiot called home to Yurga, where hes from and said that you have been
killed and that I am wounded.
-Did you call everyone in the military district to stop this nonsense?
-I have, but they have already written out a death certificate for you
-How, why?!
-Well, they thought that it would be better if your wife gets is sooner
rather than later, so that she could claim the social security benefits
and prepare for the funeral.
-****, what a ****-up!
-Dont worry, I stopped it.
-Thank you, Yura! - I said and I meant it. I shook his hand firmly.
-They told my wife that I am wounded. I had to get the comms men put me
through to her to tell her that it was all lies, slander and provocation.
Yurga is closer to Novosibirsk than Krasnoyarsk.
-My wife doesnt know, for sure?
-For sure, so relax.
-Last thing she needs is a death certificate for a husband whos still
alive!
-Means youre living a charmed life, when theres a death certificate for
you whilst youre alive.
-Such good things you say, brother!
An hour later, we were on our way towards the brigade. This night made me
realise how much I value my fellows, how close I feel to the officers and
soldiers in my brigade. We might quarrel and often, but we are all united
by the huge task at hand, even though nobody clearly knows what it is all
for.
The medics undertook intensive rehabilitative measures upon my immediate
arrival. They injected me with the medicines that I myself collected at
the pharmaceutical dump back in Grozny. How I knew it back then that they
were going to come in so very handy. How right I was...I cant sleep on
my back now because of that medicine...My headache lessened as the days
passed. Large dark circles formed under my eyes, as if I had been in a
fight. Everyone was cracking jokes about it, but it didnt bother me. It
was all in kind-hearted jest. I had no idea that the men felt that way
about me.

The stitches were taken out after a week. Not taken out, but rather
yanked out. The regular thread that was used instead of the silk one
began to rot and some of the stitching remained under my skin. The rotten
thread came out with the pus. I asked the doctors to make an incision and
purge the pus, but they refused. Even the offer of a pair of bottles of
good cognac failed to sway them. As a result I had to squeeze the pus out
every day like a pimple, forcing out the grotty thread. This procedure
made me wince in pain. I treated the wound with spirits. It was very
unpleasant to walk around with a festering sore on my forehead. It made
me feel like it was about to become infested with maggots.
I visited my godfather in the second battalion. Igor received me as one
would a close relative. Whilst I was recuperating, he had managed to
dislodge Basaevs gang from their positions. Those thirty men managed to
drive away a whole band of insurgents! They were Abkhazia veterans
trained by the GRU and the makhra managed to best them! We went to
inspect their positions. While there, I found an almost new set of
binoculars. Its a trifle of course, but a pleasant one nonetheless. It
was ours, a Soviet model, an eight referring to its magnifying power.
Yura found a seven and a TR, which is a miniature periscope designed
for observing the terrain without having to stick your head out of the
trench.
Spring was in full swing meanwhile. Apricot trees were flowering. Their
pink blossoms covered the still leafless branches and spread an
intoxicating fragrance. It made one long for peace, love and a woman.
Some stupid war was preventing them from returning to their beloved!
One time, we drove over to the artillery positions. They were stationed
on the tallest hill and were conducting spot bombardments of the city of
Gudermes. The special department guys brought information regarding the
locations of the Chechen vehicle and munitions stores. That was the first
time that I have seen a munitions dump go up in the air. I have to say
that it is an incredible sightlike a nuclear blast. An enormous brightred cloud rises slowly into the air and grows like a mushroom. Its
astounding. What you see in the movies doesnt begin to even come close
to the real thing. But the most amazing, beautiful and at the same time
terrible sight I witnessed was a flock of cranes that were circling
overhead. They have come back north from warmer countries and were
circling up in the air unable to understand what was happening to their
home, where all the smoke, noise and fire was coming from. Where were
they to raise their young now? Everyone stared, mesmerised by the birds.
No one even thought of taking aim at these majestic creatures. They
hovered around in a carousel for about two hours after which they lined
up in a v-formation and departed towards the north-west.
When we returned to the command post, we learned that two Krasnoyarsk
representatives of the Soldiers Mothers Committee have arrived at the
brigade. I am not aware of what they spoke about or what they did. My
only interaction with them was when I handed over a letter to my wife. I
had to prepare her for the fact that I have a festering hole in my
forehead.

As usual, I wrote that I was stationed in Mozdok and that having

participated in a joint action, I stumbled over in the street, fell and
injured the skin on my forehead. I was afraid that one of the good
Samaritans would tell her of the real nature of my injuries. Pashka was
preparing the firewood as I wrote that letter. Despite the coming of
spring, the nights were still very cold.
-Vyacheslav Nikolaevich, when you go home, do you think youll be after
the Chechens? - Pashka asked.
-What for? - I asked sincerely.
-What do you mean what for? They wounded you and you fought them.
-Pasha, we were not fighting a war, we participated in the restoration of
constitutional order. And it wasnt a whole people that we were fighting,
but their leaders and the local army, which Moscow mistakenly calls
armed gangs. The people are not a part of it. There is an influx of
refugees into Russia at the moment and a little later, former members of
these very same armed gangs will be joining them. And even then, you
will not be able to kill them, Pasha.
-Why not? - Pashka was confused.
-Because its against the law.
-They too cannot kill you, despite the fact that you destroyed their
homes, killed their families, robbed them and raped their daughters and
sisters.
-I havent robbed or raped anyone, - Pashka grunted as he split some
kindling.
-Im speaking allegorically. The point is that we have to learn to live
together. Simple as that. A peaceful co-existence. There will be no final
victory here. We - us and the Chechens are citizens of the same country
and no matter how disagreeable you might find it, they have the same
rights as you do. Even greater rights in this case. Because they are
refugees, whilst you as well as I are murderers of peaceful civilians. No
more, no less.
-Thats too muchmurderers. They are the enemy and besides the Muslims
are against us Orthodox Christians to begin with, they treat us as the
enemy. And in peacetime, they always cause us trouble.
-Youre wrong, Pasha. Ive got some friends in Krasnoyarskmilitiamen,
three of them, they work together. One of them is a BelarusSasha
Dubodelov, the second is a RussianSasha Nikanorov and the third is
AzerbaijaniNatik Talibov, who by the way was not born in Russia, he was
commissioned to go there and decided to stay after 91. And this Talibov
doesnt care about nationality or creed. He works to uphold the law and
fights criminals of all nationalities: Azerbaijanis, Tajiks, Chechens,
Russians, he does not discriminate. What do you say to that? It all
depends on the person.
-A couple of days ago, a tuned Volga was stopped at a checkpoint. It
had kitting, bumpers, mags, a bunch of antennae on the roof, like a
hedgehog, tinted windows...The driver got out, all dressed up, a Chechen
dandy. He said that hes an opposition representative. Naturally, our
guys could not give a ****, whom he represented, be it Dudaev himself.
Rules are rules. They started searching his car. They found a large
briefcase in his boot, which they wanted to open themselves, but the
Chechen told them not to. He opened it himself and inside there was a
shitload of buttons, indicators, and so forth. He asked them if anybody
had a home number to call. One of the fighters told him his area code and
phone number. The Chechen produced something that looked like an

umbrella, but which opened in the opposite direction. It was a satellite

phone. He spent about fifteen minutes setting it up, after which he
handed them the handset. Our fighter spoke to his mother. Our guys liked
the toy and asked him to give it to him. But he was against this idea. He
said that it was too expensive a toy to just give to anyone and that he
wont give it up. So the fighters killed him right there and then, put
his body into the Volga, set it on fire and rolled it down the bank of
Sunzha. It exploded right near the water. They started playing with the
satellite phone, but could not get it to work, however hard they tried,
so they shot it up too and threw it in the river.
-He should not have been so greedy. The fighters are also complete
idiots. Should have asked for the instruction manual before finishing the
Chechen.
-He wasnt giving it up, that bastard! - Pashka was indignant at the
opposition representatives irrational refusal to share.
-Could our guys not make him talk or something?
-Yeah, they jumped the gun there. And think of itwe could have called
home now! What do you think comrade captain?
-Dont mention it, Pasha.
The letter was finished and I went to find the head of the mothers
delegation. I asked her to send the letter to its address in Krasnoyarsk
either by simply putting it into a post box or delivery via friends or
relatives. I may disapprove of some of the things that this committee
did, but at the same time, Im grateful for them delivering the letter.
Reinforcements arrived a couple of days later. All over Siberia and
Trans-Baikal, they had gathered up a bunch of unemployed men, dressed
them up in uniform, armed them and put them on a plane to Chechnya. They
promised them mountains of gold. They all signed contracts. This was the
first time that a professional or mercenary army was employed in
combat, curse their soul. ****!
Some of these Dudaevs bane could barely stand on their two feet.
Whilst in transit, they managed to swap their dry rations out for booze
and proceeded to get wasted. Had they not been held up by their comrades,
they would have collapsed onto the ground. Some were conscripts. They at
least had some preparation on a Novosibirsk gunnery range. They were
capable of handling a weapon. There were many volunteers. Russia will
never have a shortage of ****ing heroes. There was to be another load of
mercenaries the next day. We started sorting this lot out. These men
looked to be three hundred years old. Looking at their faces ravaged by
alcohol, I felt in the prime of my youth. I thought they were about ten
years older, yet they mostly turned out to be younger than I... Some
idiot told them a tall tale about how they will be paid a premium for
each Chechen head, on top of their salary. Naturally they carried on like
the toughest of warriors next to whom Rambo was a ****ing amateur.
Soldiers who have just been through all the circles of Grozny hell stood
near-by and observed this circus with calm bemusement. Eventually the
newcomers were sorted out and taken away to the battalion positions.
The command post was roused on alarm at 6 oclock the next morning. The
second battalions commander requested our immediate presence at his

positions for the purpose of resolving an incident. There were no

injuries, but he requested that everybody who could walk and was not
busy, come to his aid. We cursed profusely as we got our things and drove
to the second battalions positions. We witnessed a very colourful scene.
The battalion was divided into three groups and lined-up to attention.
The first group consisted of Grozny veterans as well as a few of
yesterdays conscripts. The second group, about twenty five to thirty in
number consisted of members of the newly-arrived civil guard. They, as
well as everyone in the most numerous groupthe third one were morbidly
hung over. Their faces of the men in the third group were beginning to
blossom with welts and black eyes, their lips were split, noses
bleeding and their uniforms were smeared with blood. They were unarmed,
their weapons lay on the ground in front of them. The first two groups
had their guns on them. The battalion commander reported to the general
and then began his story:
I woke up at one in the morning and as usual, went to check on the
sentries. The third company was quiet. None of the fighters were in their
trenches. Im thinkingthats it! Either they were completely cut out or,
the entire company deserted and crossed over to the enemy. I raised up
all the available officers and we went to look for them. There were no
bodies, no signs of a struggle, so were thinkingthey deserted for sure.
But, we could hear some sort of a commotion on the hill, thats near-by.
We trained our night-vision equipment on it and could see that the entire
company is three sheets to the wind drunk and are conducting a
bobsledding championship up on that hill. They were riding their guns,
the stock flat on the groundgoing around trees on them, colliding with
one another, falling over. They were very happy being about ita picnic
on the roadside of life. We caught them all somehow, lined them up and
disarmed them. It was dark, completely impossible to see, but the
headcount seemed to indicate that they were all there. Then we questioned
them one by one, away from the others. I asked them: Do you know where
you are, you animal? No!, he answers. You have been captured, you
Russian swine. If you agree to shoot at the Russians, well keep you
alive. If the lad would say, Kill me if you want, Im not shooting at
my guys! then we would let him go to sleep it off. If he would say I
will! then naturally I had no choice but to kick his teeth in and throw
him into the brig. And if they would say Ill do as Im ordered - the
same. My soldiers, the ones that I could trust laid into him a bit as
well. In short, out of a hundred and forty mercenary militias only
thirty refused to fight against us. They were ready to die rather than do
that. The rest of them, comrade general, I request to be sent back to the
recruitment offices that enlisted them. Heres my report.
We studied the soldiers willing to fight us with great interest. Everyone
was itching to lay their hands on them, but by the looks of their faces
the error of their ways had already been explained to them that night.
The traitors squirmed as we stared at them. Some were trying to explain
something about having families and children, but that produced nothing
other than irritation, hatred and disgust. Nobody wanted to dirty their
hands of such bastards. Any soldier who lived through the Battle Grozny
deserves a memorial made of gold and respect. I have said so before and
am not afraid to repeat myself that I am prepared to bow low to the
ground before each and every one of them. These lads, eighteen, nineteen

years of age had no notion of their own greatness and the strength of
their spirit. The magnitude of their sacrifice. Out of the three hundred
and seventy five men, only twenty eight remained in the second battalion
at that point. Its a terrible statistic. None of us dared say a single
word against these men roughing up these traitors. We would have done the
same for those who remained at Severny, Minutka, at the train terminal,
the hotel Kavkaz and in many other corners of the mass grave that is
the city of Grozny.
At around dinner-time more reinforcements arrivedanother fifty men
mostly also mercenaries. In total, two hundred and twenty of them were
brought to Severny and there were plans to bring more on several
transports. The scum from the second battalion were packed like sardines
into an outbound flight and sent home.

----------CHAPTER 25---------San Snanych went to address the local peoples concerns which have
accumulated over the recent days. He took me and Yura along as
bodyguards. It was a weekend, although it didnt feel like it because in
war events tend to blend into one long stream. You forget what day of the
month or week it is. On this particular day, there was a solemn prayer
event held at the local mosque. We arrived towards the end of it and all
the locals came out and surrounded the UAZ jeep we were in. This didnt
come to my and Yuras liking and we yelled at them to keep a distance of
five meters away from the vehicle and line up in single file. This did
not introduce an air of warmth to the proceedings, but it made us feel
more at ease. There were a lot of young people present, aged up to twenty
five years. We could tell the insurgents amongst them by a variety of
signs. There was the frayed fabric on the right shoulder from constantly
carrying a gun around. The habit of holding your left hand in a semi-bent
position, which also comes from having to carry a gun around. The faded
fabric on the coat-sleeve of the left armfrom the gun barrel. The face
whose skin is pale from being covered in soot that inevitably settles on
it in combat. And a heap of other small clues that unmistakably
distinguished the insurgent from a regular person. There was a large
group of these men hanging around in the background. They did not
participate in conversation. The fact that most of them were dressed in
long, loose clothing and held their hands behind the folds of its fabric
did not inspire us with a lot of confidence. We had three guns here, not
counting the driver who would barely have time to get out of the car
before hes made a part of the local landscapes palette. The elders
stood at the front and were a perfect living shield. It would be hard to
get through them to the real enemy. Well, I was not planning to risk my
life for the sake of these towelheads.

Our eyes burrowed into the probable adversary, searching for any sign of
a suspicious movement. We were ready to respond with deadly force at any
moment. Yura stood slightly to the right of San Sanych, ready to shield
him with his own body and push him to the ground. My role was to provide
cover. We had one definite advantage: the sun was behind us, blinding the
enemy. We were also upwind of them, meaning that we had a better chance
of hearing any sound, any crack of ammunition being loaded any clinking
of metal parts which would signal an impending attack.
I didnt listen to San Sanychs exchange with the locals. I think it was
something about the spring sowing. All my attentions was directed at the
crowd. As I swept my gaze across them, the barrel of my gun followed. At
the back, the young men whispered amongst themselves and pointed in our
direction. This made us very nervous, but nothing happened. After a half
hour of being locked in a state of nervous tension, very similar in
intensity to what we felt on Minutka, the meeting was over. We went to
see the local elder, who invited us to his home.
The host produced a couple of bottles of pre-perestroika cognac. I
decided to decline, citing my injury. He then served a meal, I dont know
what it is called, but he said that it was only served to honoured
guests. There were boiled beef bones, some skeleton in other words and
something similar to dumplings made from grey flour and served with
garlic sauce. I liked that, but the bones looked rather unappetising and
I declined to try them.
After about thirty minutes of such peaceful feasting, some old man runs
in and starts yelling in Chechen and pointing in our direction. The host
explains that two of our soldiers are apparently beating up the mans
neighbour and his wife as they demand vodka. ****! This is the last thing
we need!
We run outside and the old man points out where it isits quite near. We
run into the yard and see that two recently-arrived mercenaries are
beating up an old man. The old woman is screaming. The locals have
gathered in the street. San Sanych is the first to engage by spinning one
of the marauders around and punching him in the jaw. The latter tumbles
off into some pit. As he is propelled forward, Yura gives him a good kick
in the ass which provides acceleration. I grab the second one and bring
him down to the ground, on the way towards which, his face meets my knee.
San Sanych lifts the first one up and punches him again, this time
directing him towards the exit. Yura does the same with the second one. I
approach the old man and help him up. He is about seventy, his face is
smeared in blood and he is swaying barely able to stand. I lead him off
towards the well. Meanwhile San Sanych and Yura kick the two marauders
out and into the jeep. The driver helps. We race to the command post.
About a hundred of the newcomers are gathered in front of it as well as
the battalion commanders and everyone who was in the command post.
San Sanych sends me to fetch the commander. I had barely the time to
reach the door when I hear screaming behind me. I turn around and the
hair on my head stands on end. There is an instantaneous release of
adrenaline into my blood. The first bandit had produced an F1 grenade

from his pocket (this thing has a range of two hundred meters) and had
already torn out the pin. His hands are raised up into the air and he is
shouting. There was a heap of people all around him. If the grenade was
to blowit would be a heap of mince, a lot of it. Were idiots, we should
have searched them before we got them into the car. I run. Yura and
Atomas grab the idiots arm and immobilise it. Seryoga Kazartsev runs up
behind him and strikes him on the back of his knees, which cuts him down
to the ground. Yura and Atomas carefully retrieve the grenade from the
fingers of his hand which they twisted to immobilise it. They try to
retreat clasping the armed grenade close to themselves. The big guy tries
to get off the ground and go after them at which point I run up to him
and deliver a powerful kick, its force multiplied by my anger and hatred.
The kick connects with his chest, something cracks and he flies back and
onto the ground, hitting his head with an unpleasant sound. The people
surrounded him and begin to kick him.
I run after Yura, Atomas and Kazartsev. Yura is clutching the grenade,
his hands are shaking and his fingers are white from exertion. Atomas and
Seryoga fashion a pin out of some rusty wire. They secure it with great
difficulty.
-Thats it Yura, let it go! - Atomas says, his voice faltering from the
stress.
-Guys, I cant, my fingers cramped! - Yura is not joking.
-Lets do it slowly.
The three of us start to unbend his fingers. They feel like wood
completely unresponsive. Soon the grenade is lying in our hands.
Kazartsev and Atoms take it and having ripped out the improvised pin
throw it into a deep ravine. We fall to the ground. There is a loud
explosion and we can hear the shrapnel ring as it smashes into the its
sides.
Everyones shaking from the stress. Sweat is evaporating off our bodies.
We walk to our kung. When we pass through the school yard everyone greets
us as we go. Those two are standing off to the side. They are tied up and
their faces are bloody. A noose is secured around their necks and
connected to their hands. Any movement and the noose tightens,
suffocating them.
The four of us enter the king. Yura opens a carton of vodka and without
saying a word retrieves two bottles, which he places onto the bed. We get
the glasses out. Also in silence. There is no point in speaking. Everyone
is still shaking from the stress. We pour half a glass of vodka for each
man, clink them and drink. We do not snack. Another half glass, clink and
drink. This, finally brings some relief. The hysterics begin. We start to
talk, all at once interrupting one another. Atomas takes the chair.
-Men! - he began, I thought that you were ordinary shitheads pretending
to be tough guys at the front, for which reason I treated you somewhat
coolly. But I now see that you are real men. So, I drink to you. You can
count me as your friend. To you!
We all rose, which was somewhat awkward in the cramped kung, clinked and
drank in silence. We have never heard such warm, unpretentious words.

In our last few days of this war we walked around with an heroic aura
about us. Five days later, we were told that our replacements have
arrived. Two majors. Mine came from Barnaul, Yurasfrom Omsk. We drove
to Khankala to pick them up where we placed them inside the BMP. They
were offended, but we told them to relax as right now it was most
important for us to get them there alive. Theyll have plenty of chances
to take a ride on the armour in the near future.
That eventing we got them drunk and had a few ourselves and in the
morning drove to Mozdok with the general. He also had a replacementthe
army corps chief of staff. That man started carrying on immediately.
Something about correct uniform, saluting, bed-making and other such army
bullshit. Its all good in peacetime, but there is no place for it in
war. Me and Yura no longer cared. We said our goodbyes to San Sanych,
Seryoga Kazartsev, and all the others with whom we walked under shrapnel
and bullets. It was a pity we had to leave. Here, we left a part of
ourselves, our lives and our souls.
At six in the morning, we boarded a bus, all fifteen of us on our way
home and at nine we were at the air-force base in Mozdok. An An-12 was
waiting for us there. Its a huge plane which has two compartments. A
small one, which has six seats and a second huge one, which is designed
for cargo. A customs officer came and started to search us, quite
roughly. He was searching usfront-line troops like we were common
thieves. After we boarded, the captain asked:
-If you choose to go in the big compartment, well have to fly lower and
come into Rostov for refuelling. The trip to Novosibirsk will take about
seven hours. If you go in the small compartment, (which is pressurised),
we can make it in four to five hours.
Naturally, we chose the small compartment. There were only six seats and
we had extra people with ussoldiers whose mothers retrieved them from
captivity. All together it was about thirty people. There was no toilet
in this compartment and we could not smoke. The air-conditioning wasnt
doing very much. The general was with us, despite the offer from the
captain to join him in the cockpita show of solidarity and front-line
brotherhood.
It was cramped and uncomfortable, but that was nothing compared to being
at the front. We landed in Novosibirsk and hitched a ride on a military
vehicle to the train terminal. We drank a hundred grams and embraced. He
was already on his way home, whilst I had to still make it to
Krasnoyarsk.
-Be well brother!
-Good luck to you!
-Thank you for covering my back!
-Same to you.
We were choking with tears. We could talk for the rest of our remaining
lives, but it was time to go home. The war was over. Yura walked towards
the bus stop, turning around and waving every five steps he made. I waved
back, brushing off a tear.

When he was gone, I went to the train terminal and bought a ticket. I
sent a telegram to my wife informing her of the date and time of my
arrivalsometime after diner. I called my friendthe chairman of the
Chamber of Industry and Trade of the Central Siberian region Kostrin,
Valeriy Alekseevich and asked him to meet me. He was very glad to hear
from me and assured me that hes definitely be there.
The train was due at three in the morning. It was about eight oclock in
the evening. I walked into a near-by kiosk, bought two bottles of cognac,
one bottle of vodka and went to see my friend, Ivan Mironenko, who lived
in a dorm on Krasnyi Prospekt..
I knocked on his door.
-Who is it? - Ivan answered.
-Mironov.
-Slava! - the door opened, - come in!
He called another friend of ours, Seryoga Mazlov. We drank all the booze
as I sat there and talked. I had to talk, talk it all out. And then they
came to see me off. They got another bottle of cognac for the road. We
drank it as we stood next to the carriage, straight out of the bottle,
with no snack. Some people of non-Russian appearance were trying to load
sacs of goods into the carriage. By the looks of them they were probably
Chechens. The usher yelled at them to go see the trains supervisor and
sort it out with him. They were handing her cash and she yelled at them
more. I couldnt help myself and said:
-What are you yelling at these insurgents for? Well go take their ****
off them in a second and send them under the train!
-Slava, what are you saying?! - Ivan interrupted me.Relax, the war is
over.
-Im sorry guys, I cant adjust so quickly.
They put me in the carriage and I slept off the booze. At this point I
was approaching the most beautiful, my most favourite city in the world.
I could see the familiar hills and the chapel. My God! Im home. Its
pointless to try to explain how I felt at that point. Elation, happiness,
adorationthere are no words to describe it all.
Kostrin greeted me at the terminal. We embraced and I could not hold back
emotion and burst out in tears, right there on the platform. Alekseevich,
who is an older man could not take it either and we stood there like two
idiots embracing and weeping in the middle of the train terminal. We then
went to his work, which was opposite the toy store, where we drank a
couple of bottles of champagne.
And then he took me home. My heart was beating rapidly. I felt an
unexplainable sense of fear. I flew up to the third floor like a bird and
rang the doorbell.
I could hear my dog start barking as the door swung open and there on the
threshold stood the most beautiful, my most beloved womanmy wife.

The end