The Torn Souls 4 страница

The explosion from the grenade interrupted Vitya’s solo performance. But the doukh ( a military slang for identifying enemies during the war in Afghanistan– Editor) did not kill him. Not reaching its target, the reactive grenade fell into a stone mound next to Vitay. The blast destroyed everything: Vitya’s submachine gun, his right shoulder and head; his right eye broken open from a splinter. His hands were torn off, his elbows were also gone. This flash from the explosion together with a pile of rubble stood up like a wall in front of Vitya’s eyes, and sure enough mixed all thoughts in his head that affected him for the rest of his life.

We understand him. To express or splash our emotions can be a huge relief, and each of us has the right to do so, in your own individual way. I found my way. This way is old enough, simple and cheap. It costs as much as the price of a ball pen together with a pupil’s notebook. What you have to do is to remember how to write the letters. Seems to me, this way is more effective for describing any unpleasant experiences and relieving your emotion compared to crying on somebody’s shoulder in the ward. Also by writing down events, you have a chance to interconnect and analyze these events again; this is why for me, writing a dairy became more effective. However, I can guess, that my colleagues in the ward, may have a different opinion on this matter.

My notes reflect a horror of my nightmares, my life’s thoughts, and it describes events that have occurred in our ward. My notes help me. I was writing these notes at night. In the morning I re-read them and get horrified: if this is happening in my head, then what is going on in the head of Vitya?

Friday, November 25, 1983, the 442nd OKVG.

Today Sanych got a visit from his wife. I did not think that this “Rambo” of Airborne Forces can be such a clown.

Oleg Timofeevich, a deputy head of the hospital’s third department, entered our ward together with the nice young woman who had tearful eyes. As soon as Sanych saw these guests, he jumped out of the bed and rushed around, searching for a chair, overturning everything in his path.

He has the Elizarov’s apparatus that was fastened to him due to a complex fracture of his leg – it was the consequences of a fragmentation wound. This wound Sanych received whilst he was going to have a cigarette; he stood behind the armor of the ALV ( Amphibious Landing Vehicle – Editor) in the bush somewhere in Charikarskaya. As soon as he made the first puff, the grenade launcher fired a shot behind him. The reactive grenade rammed the cannon of the ALV and ricocheted towards his leg– it is a usual sequences in this war. But, can you imagine, wishing to save his wife’s heartbreak, Sanych, whilst he was at the hospital in Bagram, wrote to her saying that he fell ill with cholera!? He warned her that his treatment would take a couple of months, and then he would be at home for a well-deserved sick leave. His poor wife became confused from a combination of her own feelings – a sadness regarding the serious illness and the joy to see her husband on his sick leave. So, this faithful woman began to make inquiries about the severity of her husband’s illness; and when the picture of all consequences of her husband’s disease was clearly defined, she sent a letter-instruction to the hospital in Bagram.

We can give a credit to the efficiency and sensitivity of the medical staff from the hospital in Bagram, who informed the agitated wife that her husband admitted in the Clinical Military Hospital, building number 442, on Suvorov Avenue at Leningrad.

The experienced officer’s wives, who were the members of a women’s committee of the division from where Sanych was sent to the “special mission”, learned that he was transferred on a plane from Tashkent to Leningrad together with a group of seriously wounded soldiers. Nobody made any enquiries about the diagnosis – they believed Sanych.

In accordance with the code of faithfulness for a woman whose husband at war, his wife left her children at home and rushed to Leningrad (nowadays is St Petersburg– Editor) to save her husband from cholera. At the hospital, the unfortunate woman was informed that her husband was placed into the third department of the hospital, which has purulent surgery patients. Now, can you imagine what she was feeling during these terrible minutes after learning where her husband was? Instead of a dying husband, she was on the way to meet a healthy looking fellow who was rushing around the ward with some kind of vulgar fracture in his leg?

It was a strange scene: two of us, legless, are in the beds, Lesha as a one huge plaster doll with a talkative head on the top; a gaunt Boris, with his transparent skin, holding the crutches, sits on a bed; an emotionally waiving Vitya with his circumcised hands; a stern face of Oleg Timofeyevich is somewhere in the background with a tearful wife of Sanych, and Sanych himself runs towards her crashing everything on the way.

The scene was so emotionally heavy, that the dearest guest suddenly fired off the most famous word which will be not allowed in books, but will be written on fences. No doubt, it is better to give free rein for your emotions with no witnesses around; otherwise your reputation will be damaged forever. But there is some time when you simply could not do in any other way.

Saturday, 7th of January, 1984, Military hospital N442.

The first week after the celebration of New Year has passed. Sanych was discharged to the hospital closest to his residence with a parole of honour to return the Ilizarov’s apparatus later. He went home with his wife before the holidays. His bed was given to another guy from the local construction battalion. He is from Uzbekistani, and his name is Shiraz.

What had happen to him was unreal. During the break, Shiraz sat on the non-working sawmill and freely swinged his feet until one of them accidentally touched the switch and turned the machine on. I can hardly comprehend how it occurred (perhaps somebody helped him with this machine), but the fact is – his Muslim ass got unlucky, and his rotten fate put a tremendous cross below his waist, outlining the lower part of his body. In the hospital, this veteran from a building battalion – let’s to be honest – did not improve his luck: the graduate from the Baku Combined Arms Command School, Lieutenant Boris, personally got interested in Shiraz and initiated the voluntary training for him to obey commands.

The transparency of Boris’ skin has already gone, leaving the yellowness and the unhealthy sparkling of his large black eyes for the most difficult days. Boris painfully goes through all that has happened to him; and Shiraz became just the lightning rod, through which the young officer ‘s self-esteem can be released due to a lack of time to train his own personnel. But as we say, diamonds cut diamonds.

The demeanour “I do not understand Russian” of the first year of service, has changed to “I’m not doing the job, because I have been around “ during the second year of service in the construction battalion. This is why, Boris included in his educational program, tailored for Shiraz, almost everything, with a field training exception, of course; for some reasons, absence of this important component in crafting a real soldier was very upsetting for Boris. Unfortunately, after many futile drills that were applied to Shiraz, our lieutenant eventually concluded that his failure in a military service was a logic consequence.

Already on the third week of his military service in Afghanistan, Boris had a chance to rise himself in the eyes of the battalion commander. During an ambush on his BMP (Armored infantry vehicle – Editor), he “cornered” the enemies’ car “Semurg” and destroyed it with his DShK (a large-calibre machine gun Degtyarev/Shpagin– Editor). Boris honestly reported to a battalion commander on such godsend booty and fiercely defended the catch from attacks of the marauding attempts of his soldiers. He was very proud that their “suasion” to conduct a “shuravy control” (the slang originated by Afghani people with a reference to marauding extractions of all valuables from the dead bodies conducted by the Soviet soldiers) before the arrival of the battalion commander got zero result. Well, the battalion commander arrived soon.

He looked with an undisguised disgust at the Boris’ DShK, the disfigured car and the dead bodies of enemies, and with a cynical calmness ordered his bodyguards to collect all valuables: money, watches, valued personal belonging and weapons. The harvest collection was conducted in front of the angry soldiers from the Boris’ unit. Having collected rich baksheesh ( here is something extra obtained free – Editor), the battalion commander flew away and left Boris alone to face his soldiers enraged with such injustice and they completely lost faith in the young lieutenant.

But fate gave Boris a new chance. Next time, when he was escorting the column, he managed to regain a respect from the soldiers as well as from the battalion commander. Being not yet tired from a devastation and desperation and not fully fed up from what was happening around him, Boris closely followed the instructions and attentively observed the surroundings from the optics of his gun,. He was the first one who spotted a girl standing up between rocks – she was throwing back her hair with an elegant movement of her head. Boris was fascinated by her beauty, but deeply shocked when he saw a grenade launcher in her hands. Who could guess that this elegant girl is actually an Italian shooting instructor, about who, and her professional skills, he learned about a few months ago from a radio interception?

The Boris’ cry –“ What are you doing, bitch?!! ” heard by everyone in the area – was not only a comment to her throwing a grenade into the column’s head machine, but also was taken as a coded command to repel an enemy’s attack. The column returned a sea of fire.

Still looking at the Italian beauty through the crosshairs of the optical sight, Boris coldly knocked her down on the first try and collected the prize that was authorised by the KGB counterintelligence unit for her capture –“Order of the Red Star”.

Unfortunately, this did not save the column from a total disaster and Boris from troubles. His IFV (an infantry fighting vehicle – Editor) ran into a land mine. How Boris managed to fly out from the hatch, I still cannot comprehend. But the fact is – out of a whole crew of his IVF, he was the only survivor, maybe to tell us about a beautiful girl from Italy who once upon a time instructed how to shoot a grenade launcher.

Saturday, 25th of February, 1984, Military hospital N442.

Last week, Boris as a convalescent patient was transformed to another department – the traumatology that was located in a different building. His bed was removed and only five people were left in our ward. Although a number of wounded soldiers from Afghanistan keep coming, nobody was placed in our ward.

Imbued with the meaning of international duty, Shiraz conscientiously performs the responsible task of bridging Vitya with the bottle shop located on the other side of the hospital’s fence. Doctors have long forgotten how he got here and how he got wounded. One day, when he returned from his routine bandaging with a mountain landscape painted with iodine on his mutilated ass, then we understood that the medical staff of our department completely lost interest in him.

It is easy to say “Love thy neighbour as thyself”. As for us, this meaning is a bit different – “Leave us alone”. Unfortunately, for Vitya, this is absolutely inconceivable. Any normal person will be tired being for a while in the crowd, but not Vitya. Vitya cannot live without people. Demonstrating an astonishing searching activity as well as aggressiveness, he constantly looks for troubles. At war, this kind of behaviour gave him opportunity to do a high-quality “hunting” of enemies. Here, at the hospital, he already got us with his weirdness, and quite often he took his interest for communication outside of the hospital, to the local drunkards, sometimes forgetting who he is and where he is. His brain flames like a fire and finding the answer to the question “why he lives”, no longer bothered him.

In such situations, Vitya can do any sort of stupidity driven by a conflict between his protesting inner consciousness and raging like a storm his armless body’s energy. When he disappears for a long time, we send Shiraz to find him.

Sergei and I were taken a couple times to the Bestuzhevskaya street, where a prosthetic plant is located, to try out artificial legs. We have already outlived the first shock after looking at our skin-denture prostheses. When you see the ugly design of twisted metal bands, rough leather and strapped laces, then you realize what you really lost. The hope that somebody can help you is dying; and, whilst it sounds cynical, the main person whose interests must be a main priority, now is myself. This is why in such days I love to take trips to the city, this is the only way for me to get distracted. The view of the city from the bus window is very soothing.

Like all ill people, we think that the secret to solve our problems is contained in our recovery. This illusion is like a window glass: through the glass we can see the world, but this glass is also a prison wall that separates us from this world...

Lesha decided to learn how to play the guitar. The guitar was brought to him by the boys from his childhood street – Ligovka Court. Before the Soviet Army Day celebration, as a kind of honouring of this day, his left leg and right arm received a freedom from the plaster; only the rigid fix was left on the right leg; the left arm, as well as the whole chest, again was dressed in a plaster shirt. Now Lesha can sit.

Lesha celebrated the Soviet Army Day in his new milky-white armor, which we instantly painted and decorated with wishes, signatures and different army awards. The “Order of Survival” was presented personally by Vitya. He was trying so hard to embed a jubilee ruble cut in half into the wet plaster that we became seriously concerned that he could harm the weak breast of Lesha.

Lesha has three bullets in his chest in the collarbone wounds. He broke his legs when he fell into a mountain stream. His story is very sad..

Actually, like each of us have a sad story.

Being the senior in the group, Sergeant Lesha decided to take his subordinates to the village to do the New Year’s baksheesh hunting. They expropriated a lot, but before leaving this village the “people’s avengers” fiercely attacked them. Lesha was defending himself to the last bullet, but eventually lost his consciousness and felt down into a fast stream of the mountain river. Downstream, he was found the by our soldiers, who were smart enough to figure out, if the New Year’s presents – condoms, blocks of cigarettes – were floating in the river, then soon Father Christmas should appear... and he did. The temperature of cold water helped him not to bleed to death, and therefore a tiny bit of his life was left in this metal-stuffed body. His parents very often visit him and with each new day a taste for life is getting stronger in his body with every movement.

My next bunk neighbour is Serega who has very bad habits: he smokes and keeps silence a lot. His lazy disdain and melancholic displeasure is manifested in a loosely concealed desire to muck up.. In short, his stubbornness and ambition won over, a senior nurse from our department who relaxed the smoking ban and, herself, brought him a personal ashtray. Serega was born in Alma-Ata. He lost two legs from a mine explosion. After heavy rains, a part of minefields, – already forgotten and not marked on any map, – together with landslide, slipped down from the hill. When Serega received the order to change the position of his post, he bravely walked on a slope- he was confident that there are no mines and never was– but his bravery left him after 15 steps. His partner was blown up into pieces when he was trying to drag Serega away from the mine, and himself accidently stepped on another mine. The pieces of his partner’s body were thrown at Serega and covered him completely. Now, Serega is covered from the top to the toes with bandages and plaster; he looks like a battered smoking four-engine plane that has one engine left with a mission to get somewhere.

A lack of opportunity to move independently invites boredom and the atmosphere of hopelessness that bring an ignorance and limited interest about our tomorrow. We wake up in the same room, the same window looms in our eyes, irritating us like the cloak of a matador. We are trapped in the cage of the present. There is no need to hurry – we have enough time: we have today and tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow...

Everydayness is the curtain that hides us from the reality of our situation. We became slaves of our own weaknesses.

We quickly accumulate weariness from each other. We are impregnated with the passivity that has long become our usual state of mind; and this is more dangerous compared to the damage from Serega’s cigarettes or Vitya’s craziness. All of this looks like a terrible, unpleasant and insidious sickness. Resulting from our current situation, the causes of this disease are easy to determine. We ourselves understand very well: this disease is nothing but a consequence of our uncertainty and a fear of what will be tomorrow.

Friday, July 27, 1984, the military hospital N442.

Tomorrow I will go home. Demobee!!! I tried to write about today, but I could not put down a single word. Only after a few painful hours the stream of something rude poured out from me. The details of our relationship in recent times are too nasty and humiliating.

We got tired of each other. It started before we were transferred to the fourth department of traumatology.

I am sick of Vitya’s conversations and his attempts to share each of his “little happiness” with everyone. I have changed my perception of life and now every day for me is only a day with a set of tasks. I do not take into my life anything superfluous, so in the future, I do not have to free myself from it.

Vitya is openly reposed to himself whilst we, Serega and I, knocked down our stumps to the blood, trying to overcome the first obstacle – the eighteen steps that separate the first floor of the hospital from the sidewalk. New boys from Afghan are constantly arriving at the hospital. From our ward, only Vitya and Lesha remain in the hospital.

After the treatment, Borya was cured and recognized as fit for drill. He got a vacation and went to his mum to gain strength. Due to skin problems, Serega was admitted to the day care hospital at the prosthetic plant. He had constant and persistent rubbing and irritation of his skin.

Lesha already moves independently in the hospital. I think, only his plaster shirt that still covers his arm and chest, keeps him from jumping over the fence. Our inscriptions on his plaster shirt have almost worn off. Only the chopped ruble from Vitya that was pasted with a super-glue taken from “Elektrosila” (a well-established heavy machinery plant during the Soviet era – Editor), shines as before. This piece of iron cannot be torn off from the Lesha’s plaster dress– it is forever there.

Shiraz left for the demobilization, leaving Vitya on his own with his problems. The circumstances forced Vitya to take the initiative and do something by himself; but we do not have enough patience to correct what he tries to do on his own. All they do is to point out his own mistakes to him, forgetting about Vitya’s victories and merits in the past. Vitya expects from us what he used to receive from Shiraz, who looked after him. But we know all Vitya’s wicked tricks, and try to reproduce them by ourselves, according to the saying “fight fire with fire”. He put on weight, almost every day got drunk before a night time; and constantly loses his artificial eye. Everyone got tired from his crazy snaps: the hospital’s deputy, the chief surgeon and ourselves. Vitya, shamelessly, ignores the challenges dealing with the fitting of a new prostheses. I understand him: indeed, two plastic hooks in black gloves are not a proper replacement for hands, as well as a set of hooks for carrying bags and holding a shovel is not a reason to be prided even for an ordinary man, not to mention a man like Vitya.

We are saying good bye to each other. Tomorrow, early in the morning, I have a flight. We exchanged addresses with Lesha and Serega. When I was writing my address into Vitya’s notebook, I said to him: ” I do not take your address on purpose – you will write to me first, then I will reply to your letter. No letter to me - do not expect a letter from me”. We embraced each other. Vitya patted me on the back with his stumps, pressing his body against me. I shook his already shredded right stump.

I looked at the last page of my diary, and having read only a part of the daily records, it seems to me, that the filth accumulated in me over the years I had now lost. Why was I writing then in such a way? Was this presumptuous attempt of squeezing the most disgusting thoughts and feelings from oneself, an attempt to get rid of them forever? The endeavour of keeping up dairy records was, definitely, a desire to hide from depression.

I deceived myself, I wasted my energy. The diary pulled the most unpleasant thoughts and feelings from the depths of my soul. The diary is a mirror in which I saw myself. But, unlike a real mirror, it reflected my past and it was painful. I closed the diary...

I took the letter to check the address, which, I knew, could not be there. Covered with large round letters, the letter made me think and I realized that in thirty years I had repeated the same mistakes as done by myself in my twenties - I involuntarily acted in similar manner when life impressed me and when I faced any physical danger.

And yet, when I received this letter, I was not able to deal with the situation on time. I could not answer the letter. But I had no right not to do so. As for the new values in my life, well, where did I get them?

I imagined how Vitya, holding the handle in his mouth, displays neat, childlike round letters. How he waits for my answer and, finds any excuse for my silence. Now, my guilty conscience is a tax that I have to pay for trying to live free from the unfulfilled promises. But I want to be free and clean before my conscience. Compared to making mistakes and reiterate them, doing nothing and having remorse is much easier.

Vladimir Osipenko

Osipenko, Vladimir Vasilievich was born on May 4, 1956 in Zhitomir. He graduated from the Suvorov Military School in Kiev, the Ryazan Airborne School, and the Military Academy named after Frunze. During 25 years of service in the Airborne Forces, he made his way from a commander of the reconnaissance platoon to the Deputy commander of the division. He fought in Afghanistan; participated in peacekeeping operations in the Trans-Caucasia and Trans-Dniester areas, and the republics of the former Yugoslavia. For his military service, he was awarded many distinguished military orders and medals from the government of the USSR, ( later – the Russian government) as well as from the UN. Currently, being the Colonel of the reserve, Osipenko Vladimir Vasilievich lives and works in Moscow. He is a member of the Writers’ Union of Russia.

Samy

All of us are fatalists when it comes to others.

Natalie Clifford Barney

For many years, I have been carrying a heavy stone weighing upon my heart. Nobody reproaches me, but self-judgment is often merciless compared to a civic court. It is a common mistake to think that we have a power over our fate, or over someone else’s destiny particularly...

At the central outpost in Rustam Kalay, where our battalion was located, a soldier Sergeant Samenenko carried out his military service. He was a responsible, conscientious, neat chap from Eastern Ukraine. For his neatness, officers from headquarter appointed him to bring our food from a kitchen, to slice our bread, to open canned goods, and to make some tea. He was doing this job for several months. He could enter our headquarters at any time, and we were openly talking in his presence without hiding anything. He even was in charge of our personal goods that we got from a small military-run shop. Of course, he was regularly checked for cleanliness and also his secrecy. For several times, he gave us not only food, but finger food to accompany our vodka, and he proved his trustworthiness to us. So, he was a trusted person.

He was excused from guard duties, but he knew his combat responsibilities and attended classes and training in the mountains. He was not looking for a bravery medal nor was he playing chicken. An absolutely normal and reliable soldier named Semyon, or Samy, as his fellow soldiers and officers from the Communication battalion called him. We thought that it was his real mane. Newcomers also assumed the same. Anyway, Samy had a cheerful personality: when he entered a room, he cheered up everyone. The battalion commander often met him with one humoristic line citing the famous Rosenbaum’s: “Semyon, lets put it under her... ” I do not remember that Samy had ever been scolded.

However, one day something incredible happened – Semyon got drunk! He was staggering through our outpost answering “Fuck you all” to any question or comment. It was a real scene!

Occasionally, from time to time, we had some soldiers who got drunk and tough rules were applied on the spot. Those who were caught for heavy drinking, received a hard but easily understanding treatment to make sure that this misbehavior will be wiped out not only in a soldier-in trouble, but also in others who considered to do it. The inventive pack of treatment included a heavy rack-sack packed up with stones, marching up and down in the mountains and icy spring water. All of this activity would definitely ruin the appetite to misbehave again. Knowing consequences, every soldier accepted the punishment without complains. Perhaps, also Samy has prepared himself for the hard treatment. I cannot recall to whom this idea came first, but officers decided to punish him according to the army statute: arrest – sending him to the headquarter ’s army prison, and detained him in guba (see “Terminology and Glossary”  – Editor).

– He is a good chap, he will get his treatment tomorrow and everything will be back to normal, – Viktor Lazarenko, Chief Technical Assistant, said.

– There is no sense to take him to Kabul, will arrest him here, let him sit for a week – he will get wiser, – Company Commander suggested.

– This is a not good decision, what other soldiers will say? He was trusted more than others, so his punishment should be more severe. And forget about cages, it will not happen under my rule, – Battalion Political Officer gave his point of view.

– You are correct. A whole battalion is watching what we are going to do, including officers, who want to know how we will deal with the soldier- confidante. By the way, comrade Captain, you also should deal with the sergeant who brewed this alcohol. Tell him, If he wants to put a home brew on our table, he should hide it better from soldiers.

– He hides from others, but this is our Samy...

– To get rid of this home brew, let Samy sleep it off. Tomorrow, in front of the battalion, I will arrest him and with a “yellow ticket” will send him to a headquarters’ Glasshouse.

This is how Battalion Commander summed up decisions and thus ended our discussion.

The next day I saw Samy was stitching the authorized tag of imprisonment to his uniform, without which he might not be accepted to the headquarter prison located in Kabul. He was guiltily hiding his eyes, avoiding looking at anyone. His drooping shoulders, depressing posture – all was saying: “I am guilty, it is better to punish me here. Let me do marching through the mountains, but do not disgrace me – I am no worse than others! ” My heart sank. I had never seen such deep and sincere repentant soldier.

– Are you getting ready?

– Yes, Sir!

He looked up and I saw in his eyes, a fear as if he was sentenced to death. I wanted to crack a meaningful joke about cleaning in the headquarter prison, but restrained myself, turned and walked away. After all, he should talk to Battalion Commander, who can turn back his fate, because Battalion Commander knew – Samy might be an idiot, but not a scoundrel. Yes, Battalion Commander, Gennady Ocheretyany, knew it as well, but some small military-bureaucratic machine began to twirl, and no one could stop it.

Who took Samy to the headquarter prison, I do not remember. A week later I was again talking to him. He looked like a beaten dog, an emaciated and haggard soldier who stood next to his dear APC (see “Terminology and Glossary”  – Editor) and did not want to leave it for a single moment, although there was a lot of time before signing off from the army... no need to show off …

I do not know what kind of slip up happened among officers-in-charge, but a regimental ceremony that nominated awards for our officers and soldiers, has been postponed. Senior Lieutenant S., whose name was on the list of the ceremony, suggested:

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