The Torn Souls 6 страница

We deeply sympathized with him; no funny comments were dropped from our tongues. So, heavy-heartedly Vitek dragged his feet down to the headquarters.

In no time, Vitek returned from the headquarters, smiling and radiating with joy.

– Guess what? –Vitek was glowing as a litre of vodka had been presented to him, – if you guess, I will shout you booze.

– A medal for the last combat operation was awarded to you! – I started the guessing game.

– You missed!

– Instead of the medal, they promoted you to a higher rank! – Forelock (the Ukrainian) picked up the game.

– You missed!

– Your son or daughter was born! – I assumed.

– What are you talking about? I already have been in the army for a year and did not see my wife, – Vitek victoriously looked over us.

– I give up, – I put hands up, Forelock (the Ukrainian) silently repeated my gesture.

– I’M GOING ON VACATION! I AM GOING HOME! – Vitek shouted.

We were speechless from this happiness which had fallen on him.

In the Soviet army, a vacation for a regular soldier was an extremely rare occasion: it was given only as a promotion, or (heaven forbid! ) if a bad accident occurred back at home. And this vacation should be certified by a telegram signed by a Conscription Office. In Afghanistan, our brigade was not awarded with any vacations as well as with any promotion at all. It was easier to get a medal for bravery rather than a vacation.

Vitek took his wife’s photo and began to kiss the photo repeating:

– My dear! I love you so much!

– I think, the Minister of Defense or the army’s commander must have received a big favor from your wife, if you have got the vacation, – commented maliciously Forelock (the Ukrainian).

– She did better! Much better! – Vitek exclaimed, – She is divorcing me! This telegram was certified by the court and they called me for my case hearing! The Conscription office had no choice as to sign!

In confusion we did not know what to say.

– Are you do not care? – I asked timidly, – don’t you love her anymore?

– I love her, – Vitek said confidently, – I do love her very much, and after this telegram I just adore her!

In that time, such oddities in the relationships that occurred between men and women were a novelty for us. We fell silent.

– She is a great woman, beautiful and clever, she is great in bed, – Vitek was calculating pro and cons loudly, – but I have no doubt that I will find another woman at home, but the vacation I could have only in a case of divorce, – Vitek kissed his wife’s photo and added, – you are such a good girl!

Many years later, after getting a law degree, I realized that it was compulsory to call a defendant to the Civil court, if the court knew where a defendant was. Of course, a consideration of the marriage dissolution procedure was also possible without a defendant’s participation. To do so, it was enough to just send a telegram, certified by a brigade commander, in which it should be stated that a defendant agreed with this claims for divorce and the case would be proceeded without the presence of Vitek in a courtroom. But lets be honest, have you ever seen any paratrooper officer who knew the Civil Laws of Russian Federation?

Driven by personal sympathy to Vitek, our brigade commander issued a vacation certificate and all necessary travel documents for him. The commander of our battalion received a strict order to look after this distressed soldier, to prevent him he doing any stupid things due to not coping with the distress. To make sure that Vitek will cope with this “distressful situation”, the company commander, a married man, shared his personal vodka with him and did a good deal of bad mouthing towards the unfaithful wife of Vitek. To say the truth, Vitek received more attention and care from the commander before his departure, then any of us ever did.

For Vitek’s farewell, we all gathered together. He looked shiny as a new cent in his best ceremonial uniform and new chrome boots given to him by the commander. A blue beret, a new white-blue striped marine singlet, a full set of awards (the Guard, the Excellence of the Soviet army, First Class Specialist, the Excellent Parachutist, the Best soldier-athlete), an aiguillette, and with his waist tied by a white ceremonial leather belt – all of these demonstrated his bravery. A medal “For Bravery”, borrowed from a soldier nicknamed Fly (what can you do, if, at that time, only Fly was awarded with a such precious medal? ) only enhanced this impression.

We scrapped up money for his vacation… and Vitek, such a handsome brave Soviet soldier, took off to home, representing an eagle-paratrooper, hero-internationalist, well, no less as an iconic reprint of the Soviet army.

In a month-or-something Vitek returned back. According to military traditions, he brought us samogon (homemade brew), hidden inside of quite a few hot-water rubber bottles. Coming from his town, bordering Ukraine, Vitek presented to us homemade salo (a traditional Ukrainian type of bacon). Vodka, together with homemade sausages, was also presented to “father”-commanders. How he brought it across all borders – he kept silent. Despite being late from his vacation by two weeks, Vitek did not get any penalty.

– Okay, – Vitek started telling us his story – I am standing in my parade uniform in the court, the medal shines on my chest, and my wife came to the Court together with her new big-nosed Caucasian boyfriend whose entire body was covered with gold. I did good job to press my lips together to stop laughing and to keep my stone-face with no emotion. With my honest red eyes – red from non-stop celebration because a day prior the court we drank a lot, – I answered all questions. The judge was an elderly woman, who knew Second World War disasters; she looked at me and pitifully sighed. She announced the court decision in the name of the Soviet Union, to divorce us to hell, and then she asked us to hold on for a moment. We waited…and then the judge began swearing to my now ex-wife, telling her, in foul language: how bad a wife she was, and while I was defending the Motherland, she was turning hanky-panky here, and she should not have any respect from our society of Soviet people. I was sadly nodding with my head. It was a circus for free! And then in order not to spoil this performance, I ran out having no strength to control my laughing.

At the exit of the court, my mates were already waiting for me with more vodka. Our town is small and everyone knows each other. All ex-paratroopers gathered together as we all do on the 2nd of August (A National Day of Army Special Forces celebration – Editor). We drank first and then we went to our local market where we had great fun bashing Caucasians. How we beat them! How their goods from shops flew away in all directions! The Police turned blind eyes, see nothing, hear nothing. Yep, it was a great time! But then my mates decided to punish my wife, the traitor, and to dirty her with a tar and to carry around the town, I disagreed. I said to my fighting brothers: “What for? God will judge her. As for me, I forgave her”. The mates were surprised with my Christian attitude, but obeyed.

Vitek stopped telling the story, propped up his violent head with his hand and became thoughtful. Such a pose vividly reminded me of Gerzen’s novel “The past and thoughts” (see “Terminology and Glossary”– Editor).

Although, I was sure that, due to an unsettling type of personality, Vitek did not read this book written by Gerzen, neither have heard of this name.

– So what was happening next?

– Next! You could believe or not, mates, but on the 10th day after the divorce I got married (Author’s comment: any decision of the Civil court, including divorce, comes into force after ten days). We registered our marriage at the Civic office of marriage registration with no waiting time. The whole town was celebrating our wedding. Have a look the picture.

I took the photo. From the colored photo a young girl in her white wedding dress looked at me with a very nice smile. The happiness, hope and something else in her smile were so special, that it made my heart race.

– I hope, you do really love her! – I said.

– Of course! – Vitek answered without any hesitation. He took the photo and began to admire his darling. After a minute of silence, he added with a strong affection, – My dear! Maybe you will file for our divorce too? I wish to go home…for a vacation.

I became speechless. What else could I say?

In a fall of 1981, Vitek was killed during combat operation in Faizabat. We did not leave his body there.

The Voice of America

Today to listen to any “enemy’s” radio is not a crime neither an ideologically immature act. However, in the early eighties of the twentieth century, the “ enemy’s voices” had been oppressed as much as possible, so the amateurs must listen to them in complete secrecy and conspiracy. I like listening to these “enemy’s” voices, not because of their music or the high political consciousness and ideology, but simply due to my indifference to them. Once upon time, the Russian section of the radio station “Voice of America”, spoke about me, incognito, of course. My name, as well as the names of my comrades serving in the same brigade, were not vocalized, so we were simply named “Russian commandos”.

The tactic of our battalion was very simple at that time: directed by the army intelligence, we were “combing” villages, lying in ambush. Quite often jumping from helicopters, we had to block entrances and exits of the mountain gorges, while motorized infantry or units of the Afghan army caught mujahedeens (see “Terminology and Glossary”  – Editor) in the lowlands. Sometimes we were successful, sometimes not. As the saying stated – “it cannot be perfect every time”. Well, I am not going to reveal all tactics of the Soviet paratroops. My story is about the radio station “Voice of America”, the Second Company, and army jokes.

As usual we landed from helicopters into the mountains, it was a habitual routine. We quickly blocked the exit and entrance of a gorge and equipped our positions for firing from a prone position by digging trenches. We camouflaged the trenches and reinforced our cover with stones. The commanders estimated the outcomes of the enemy’s possible actions, and in the case of an attack, divided soldiers accordingly into firing sector groups, and the paratroops were ready for a battle. Nothing special, everything was in line with so-called “military routines”. After arranging these temporary firing points, four volunteers went on a scouting mission.

Just do not get the wrong idea that we were eager to demonstrate our bravery by searching for mujahedeens. No! We simply were looking for anything or something to eat.

Our provisions were disgusting. At our military unit, the battalion’s kitchen offered the following daily menu: a watery soup with dried potatoes and chunks of boiled fat; a porridge with vegetable oil; and compote from dried worm-eaten fruits, which we named “a meat broth”, as it was full of boiled worms. When we were “in action”, a travel ration of food includes canned fish with an expired date; a package of crackers, and that was it. Canned food rations were calculated at 200 grams per day per head. When we very modestly tried to tell the deputy brigade commander that we wanted to eat, he opened his arms and replied with the saying: “A paratrooper, like a hungry wolf should be hunting all day long: your feet are your supply”. So, you will not be surprised to learn that in the military operation, we were like a pack of hungry wolves. Our combat force officers, who ate a little better than we did, turned a blind eye on food looting and in return, they received their share. You certainly can condemn us, but you cannot blame us. We just wanted to eat!

So, we – four secret service agents-looters – are coming to the mountains and valleys, for hunting. Eventually, we found a large field, full of melons – gorgeous, juicy, sweet, savory melons. But as experienced soldiers, at first, we observed the area for any potential military action, to be sure not to be running into the real enemy and get a good portion of lead instead of melons. There had been, you know, some precedents before and, we learnt our lessons. We did not find any insidious mujahedeen, except an old man who was guarding this field. We did not consider him to be an enemy. We waved hello to the grandpa and began our first round of eating, then started gathering the melons into a ground sheet. The grandpa expressed his presence in a voice and we waved back to him. After this, we did not pay any attention to him. We picked up all melons in the ground sheet and we were ready to depart back home, when in the climax of our operation, we heard an unexpected gun shot.. We didn’t hear the rumble of the gunfire, but the shot whizzed dangerously close.

Together we formed a chain and grabbed our weapons to repel the attack. We looked at the grandpa, who was trying to recharge his old smooth-bore, single-trigger gun. We rushed to this bogeyman, expropriated his gun, but what to do next with him, we had no idea.

No matter what kind of gossip is going about us, no matter who are telling this gossip, I can assure – we never touched women, children or the elderly. So, we were standing and looking at the grandpa and did not know whether to laugh or to cry, we could not shoot him, or to punish the old man. The man was ashamed, he was not able to understand our words. But, on the other hand, he was able to kill us with that gun. We took his gun, and showed a fist to him. He did not get scared and shook his two fists back to us.

For a whole week, whilst blocking the gorge, solders were continuously consuming melons growing on this field. At night paratroopers-eagles descended to the village to steal hens as well.

Although mujahedeens were not detected, villagers came to our commander with a complaint regarding our actions; the familiar grandpa was a member of that delegation. By pointing at me with his dirty finger, he confidently identified me – here is the criminal! Of course, the commander promised to follow up with a decent punishment, forgetting that he himself enjoyed these melons and roasted chicken.

We apologized to the civilians (such things did happen), the grandpa’s ancient antique gun was returned, and our travel ration was presented to Afghans as compensation for their inconvenience and moral damage. They accepted it with gratitude.

I would forget about this ordinary case, but, in a day after our return, my buddy from a signal support company ran into our tent.

– Hey, you! Russian commandos! “Occupant”! Come to our tent at 8 PM. – he invited me through laughter.

– What for?

– You will listen to the news. It will be repeated at 8. Come and you will not regret it.

The subdivision’s signal company had powerful radio transmission facilities, which were used by our signal operators for entertainment in any possible way. Good music was transmitted by “Voice of America”, for the “corrupted” Soviet young souls before and after the news. This is why guys were sometimes listening to this station.

At 8 pm I was in the van of the signal company. The radio transmitter was on and after the music, the news started. In his Russian with a tiny hint of an English-speaking accent, the announcer vividly described the amenities and pleasures of the “free world”, the human rights abuse in USSR (see “Terminology and Glossary”  – Editor), and, in the end, commented on a current situation in Afghanistan. Further, I present the message below, as I recalled, with little notes and comments in the course of the text.

“Self-Defense units in the village of the province of **** **** Afghanistan ****…”  – Hm, it is definitely about us: the name of the place and time coincided. – “put up a fierce resistance to Russian Army’s force”. – Ha! The announcer is telling of the incident with an old grandpa and his shot from his ancient gun. – “Despite the overwhelming superiority in numbers and weapons, the Soviet occupants were unable to defeat the brave patriots of Afghanistan. In such a situation.. ”  – and here some dramatic tones were added by the news reader to his voice – “…Russian commandos used a bacteriological weapon against the civilian population”. – You bet! The canned “Pollock-in-oil” with an expired date could easily be passed as a bacteriological weapon. – “Residents of the village *** suffered a terrible disease. ”  – Do not worry! After eating this canned fish, we also suffered from diarrhea; in three days the civilians will be all right. – “Volunteers from the Red Cross…”  – During my entire military service I never saw any volunteer –“… provided necessary medical care to the people. This can prove again that... ”

Rolling thunder of laughter did not give us a chance to listen to the end of the news, so I never found out what it proves...

– They are something! – said my mate after finishing his laughing. They can cook up such outstanding lies, but somebody will bite at it as the truth.

– It is a pity that our superiors did not hear this news. – I sadly said, – Apparently our food nutrition is considered to be a biological weapon to other people.

It was unclear, whether our officers have heard this program or it was just a coincidence, but we were given canned buckwheat porridge with meat after this program – quite decent food – and we no longer shared our travel rations with the Afghanis.

Thank you, “Voice of America”! Thank you for improving food nutrition for the Soviet “invaders”!

Thank you, “Voice of America”! Nowadays, as soon as I heard the beginning of your program, I start laughing and recall the melon field, the old grandpa, “the fatal shot”, and tins of “Pollock-in-oil”.

Thank you, “Voice of America”! Thank you for helping me to understand at my young age that your “free world” lied just brazenly and shamelessly, as the Soviet Union did.

Igor Frolov

Frolov, Igor Alexandrovich, was born in Aldan (Yakutia). He graduated from the Ufa Aviation Institute in 1987 and served in the Soviet Army as officer (Mi-8 flight engineer) at Far East and Afghanistan. After he left army, he worked as a guard, janitor, mechanic, massage therapist, journalist and coordinator of the literary festival “Burning Mountain”. His book “Logbook 57-22-10” was published by Exmo Publishing House in 2007, by Vagant Publishing House in 2010, and Tsentpoligraf Publishing House in 2015. He is also actively publishing in various journals his works. He is a member of the Union of Writers and the Union of Journalists of Russian Federation. Currently he lives in Ufa. He is married, and has a son.

Logbook № 57-22-10

(The novel in chapters)

This is a story of the life and incredible adventures of Senior Lieutenant F., a flight engineer-gunner of the helicopter MI-8, who together with his friends completed ten months of his air force military service in Afghanistan during 1985-87, written by himself.

As an epigraph to this story, a description of several aerial photos were downloaded from the Internet and will be provided below.

In front of me, there are two photos taken by Americans in 2001 during the operation of American troops in Afghanistan. The first photo is titled “Shindand airfield: prior the strike” and the second one – “Shindand airfield: after the strike”. White arrows indicate numerous holes that are visible in runways and taxiways. The Shindand airfield was heavily bombed in order to destroy one of the many bases of Taliban.

Also a few other photos on the same topic were offered by virtual space, which provided a picture of an American “Hercules”. Now they stand on the ground where Russian ILs and ANs (see “Terminology and Glossary”  – Editor) were once parked. You can see Americans pilots with bespectacled helmets, are dragging boxes, definitely containing toilet papers, along concrete slabs of my runway. The dust raised by these American “Apaches” is the very same dust which was ingrained forever in a collar of my jacket...

I can see no flies – portable bio toilets are erected everywhere...

It cannot be right. I think it is the wrong time – sorry, gentleman!

... Looking at the photo “Prior the strike”, I can recognize my airfield. It is a surprising and, at the same time, strange feeling to observe the past from a present image. The photo gives overview from the above and it makes an impression that nothing changed there.

I see the runway from where we took off and landed hundreds of times. I remember hot waves of an unbearable heat with a floating mirage of Eastern mountains.

I see a TECH platform, two hangars, and a narrow path, directing you to a parking lot, and a ground in-printed square mark that used to be our squadron house.

I see the parking lot and all others helicopter pads – among them is mine as well, but there is no board №10 on it. It means that the board now is on duty in the air. And I am inside of it. And we are landing. A vivid infinity of my memory enhanced by a low quality picture.

Otherwise, how can I explain why I see every detail on these photos much more clearly.

The alley of residential mobile houses and pedestrian pathways are covered by broken bricks. I can see the central square with a Lenin bust in the middle, the courtyard of our headquarters with a small fountain, the diner hangar, the banya, (see “ Terminology and Glossary”  – Editor), and our swimming pool under the ragged camouflage net...

I see it all – figures of pilots and technicians, departing and landing helicopters, dust-busting oil tracks, landing fighter-bombers with a rainbow of colored parachutes at their tails, and above all of these I can see rusty-color mountains, blue sky, and white sun...

Nothing there has changed over these years, everything there is the same.

It means that I am at home again.

Under the Mercury’s sun

It was a day of the winter’s solstice of 1986. They arrived from Chirchik (see “Terminology and Glossary”  – Editor) at the Tuzel airport in Tashkent on Mi-26. This model of aircraft was just recently adopted for military service. They routinely filled out custom declarations – “Do you have gold, guns, drugs? ”, and proceeded for boarding to a “humpbacked” IL-76, which in one in an hour or so will fall from a stranger’s sky, coming down almost vertically with uncertainty to its passengers: whether it was just a rattling in their ears, or it was a noise from a huge aircraft fuselage, unable to withstand such compression and therefore was almost ready to fall apart.

Stretching out his neck, the flight engineer F. looked in the tiny window and saw how sugary sparkling pinnacles were floating under the sun. Nevertheless, the IL-76 did manage to land, and after turning engines off, and at an unbelievably slow speed, the ramp has opened. The daylight was so dazzlingly bright that new arrivals, standing with their suitcases and bags, must raise their hands to cover their squinted eyes.

They were met by a crowd of men tanned nearly to a black color, who were looking at the newly arrived rotation, with a mixture of delight and tender feelings. I think, even beloved women could not see so much love as was poured from the men’s eyes. The newcomers stepped down onto a sunny concrete, adding their milky-whites faces to the coffee-black colored crowd.

Above the stationary Ill-76, in the sky, two scampering MI-24s kept falling down and lifting up again and again with a howling roar, trying to protect this multicolored crowd; and the sound of iron “crocodiles, ” frolicking over the stationary Ill, was a song of happiness.

The flight engineer F. looked around. He was standing in the middle of a huge endless crater-looking field. Its flat bottom was surrounded by rocky mountains with some breaking points at the north and south of this valley. The runaway was stretching in both these directions too. The scenery was colored in red and yellow, however, it was not a Martian one. Being an amateur astronomer, the flight engineer F. knew that such sceneries could be found under the Mercury sun only.

The first battle

Newly arrived pilots were placed in tents; while a squadron of old pilots were occupied in so-called “modules”-prefabricated shield barracks: before returning to the Union (the short version of the U. S. S. R– Editor), they should wait for a couple of days till “Hunchback” (IL-76) will arrive.

At night, everything was rumbling and trembling in the direction where the mountains were bombed by heavy artillery. Every night shells and cartridges, with rustling sounds, were flying above the tents. Howling and chattering flocks of the BM-21 “Grad” were flying over our heads with a sound that closely can be described as flushing water in a gigantic toilet. In the beginning, nobody could sleep. But a week later, nobody woke up, even, when their plywood walls were attacked by acoustic sledgehammers of artillery so hard, that all alarm clocks and shaving kits kept falling down from the shelves.

On December 23, in the morning, Lieutenant F. and Lieutenant Mukhametshin received Board №10 (see “Terminology and Glossary”  – Editor). The previous pilot of Board №10 was constantly smiling, kept opening and closing hoods, running in circles, kicking pneumatics and slapping his hand on the glazing. Eventually he shook hands with two lieutenants, and with words “Do not worry, this machine is good and strong as a bull”, he rushed off from the parking lot without looking back.

After lunch, the flight engineer F. ( who got his first turn to fly and went for an inspection of the newly received board) was approached by two pilots in bleached jumpsuits. It was obvious that due to celebration of their replacement, these two had a big hangover, more likely they did not even get sleep at all.

– Where is Andryusha? –the older aviator asked the flight engineer. – Has he already been replaced?

The flight engineer nodded, hoping that without Andryuha, these two will go away.

– Well, bro, then we will fly with you – the older aviator sighed, and both pilots, with a great effort, proceeded climbing towards the pilot’s seats.

Being the first day on duty and understanding nothing ( are there warning signs here?! ), the flight engineer F. followed them; still he could not comprehend what was going on. In his understanding, the newcomers should have received training before any military actions, or, at least, have some familiarization with a map of the area and local habitants. It was expected that training flights with an instructor over the airfield should be completed first, then the distances of flights should gradually increase, and only after a month, once mastering their flights and overcome any fear, they can be given a military task... However, the engine started up, and in the impenetrable yellow dust, the airplane drove to the field, revved the engine and lifted off.

– Get the machine gun ready, my friend, – the commander said. – Let us climb to the maximum height, and then you can sit back. We need the maximum, then “Stinger” cannot get us. Thank God, this is our last flight and it will be the end of my duty. After this trip, the fun will be all yours.

We reached the maximum height with enormous difficulties.

– Rotten machine... –the commander grimaced.

Wearing a parachute and getting ready his machine gun, the flight engineer observes gray-yellow fields on the ground below. At this place, the horizon was not wearing a blue color like at home, rather it was hazy yellowish.

– If you see a sparkle at the bottom –you report immediately, see a flash – report, a trail of smoke – it means shooting, you do report at once. If you have spotted a blink of sunlight–it means an airplane’s window reflection of light, you report – the commander kept muttering endless surviving instructions.

We reached 3, 500 meters.

– “Dust”, I am 314, – the commander reported. – we are coming out of the protected area, and seeking your permission to proceed with the task. Roger!

– Go-ahead, 314! – “Dust” replied.

The flight engineer switched the trigger on his firearm. Now they were flying to the north, climbing almost in a straight line.

– There is no need for a machine gun here, – the commander said. – Return to your seat.

The flight engineer F. tried to move away from the machine gun but it was so difficult to turn around because, his pectoral parachute clung to the machine gun. The flight engineer knew if a parachute ring will hook onto his machine gun, the parachute will open in the cabin and it will not be a pleasant situation for anyone. He sat back and lifted his right leg but instead of putting his leg on the floor… he accidently stepped on the “step-gas” pedal. The handle jerked down, an angle of blades dropped, and the helicopter suddenly began falling.

Although the commander kept pressing his step-gas, he was not able to quickly enough react to this surprise attack from the blind leg of his flight engineer. Indeed, his hangover played its role.

– Fuck… –the commander said motionlessly. – Take off the leg, brother, it is hard enough...

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