The Torn Souls 12 страница

Every early cool morning, we were out hunting, at the time when the eastern mountains were still black on a background of purple silk, and the wind has not yet passed through the cabins.

We flew over the fields so low that the wheels were knocking the flaming poppies. And then at the parking lot, a dog Gloomy together with his two girlfriends came, and Gloomy was licking these wheels covered by poppy juice until he become like a good- natured puppy. ”

This is how the flight engineer F. wrote to his friend. Maybe it was written not to him but rather to himself whom he wants to be in the future.

So this evening he wrote in the letter about how they were looking for the missing plane. He described the girl with her milk can, which she handed to the white God landed from Heaven in an iron dragonfly...

Ten years have passed. Former flight engineer F. wrote a story about the sun, trembling in the lake, and serpents creeping about the snake swallowing. After reading it, his friend asked:

– Is it about an Afghan girl that you fucked on the border with Iran?

– I fucked her? – the former flight engineer sincerely was shocked. – God be with you, why do you think this way?

– Why do I think? You wrote me in the letter that she was the daughter of a cloth merchant, and while her dad was talking to officers about a missing plane, she gave you to drink of goat milk, then invited you into her father’s shop, where you smoked kalian (an oriental tobacco pipe with a long, flexible tube which draws the smoke through water contained in a bowl – Editor), and then the blue Iranian tulips were a love bed for both of you, and how she presented seven metres of this material freshly painted by her virgin blood.

I remember it by heart, because I read it so many times! I remember, you also were afraid that she gave birth to a boy with ginger color hair, and was scared that she and the child would be beaten to death by stones by her tribe. You also wrote that her skin smelled like wool, and called her Kteis, which in translation from Hazara means “cat”. After reading the letter, I was wondering could you remember her – or would you think ever about this incident, I was sure that it is a real story, even if a bit incredible... But you do not remember, bastard...

– What a mess! – the former flight engineer laughed. – My memory is not enough to be a true liar. I remember only one thing – that I gave her three packs of candy. And Kteis, actually, is not a cat...

War

(a lyrical sketch)

... If it is possible to choose one sketch from a library of his memory, the senior lieutenant F. will be pick this one.

It is night time. They have just landed. The flight engineer F. switched off both engines, and closed the door. On the floor of the cargo compartment a lot of blood has been left, but he didn’t want to wash it in the dark. Tomorrow, in the morning, when the door will be opened, myriads of black buzzing flies will break free from the helicopter. Then he will properly brush the floor with water.

And now he goes home. The large sky is covered with great stars, the earth is still breathing warm air, but already you can feel the coolness of the night is coming. The flight engineer F. unzips his uniform jumpsuit welcoming this breeze to his hot chest. He is very tired, and the ground is still swaying under his feet after a long flight. Holding the gun with an instinctively lowered hand, he almost drags it along the ground. He smokes, cupping the cigarette in the mouth.

Somewhere nearby, on the corner of the hangar, an invisible guard sighed like a horse.

The flight engineer F. turns from the parking lot and walks through the gate to the alley. There is a large railway container to the right. The breeze brings the smell of carbolic acid from a female toilet, in which a yellow light and laughter were streaming out from the slightly opened door. The flight engineer stopped, listened and smiled.

After this short stop, he keeps walking, swinging his gun together with the belt. He raises his head towards the shaggy stars that look like those in the famous painting of Vincent van Gogh, and sees how between them a red dashed line of the tracer volley has appeared, following with the distant sound TA-TA, TA-TA-TA.

Suddenly, something blasted behind the runway, and the earth convulsed under his feet. An invisible dragon in the night sky hits the chest of the western mountains – and then again silence.

The creaking sound of the iron door behind him, a rustle of his light feet, again the laughter, – and a silence... The night, the stars, the light of a cigarette – and the big body of this war are tossing restlessly from side to side, breathing in its sleep.

The war will always be with you...

Alexander Tumaha

Tumakha, Alexander Stepanovich was born in 1960 in Chisinau, Moldova. He graduated from the Kiev VOCU. From 1981 to 1983, he served in Afghanistan, as a platoon commander with the 56th Airborne Assault Brigade (Paktia Province, Gardez). He was awarded three Orders of the Red Star. He is retired as a Colonel and lives in Odessa.

My Replacement.

After so many years, when your shoulders will be heavy with the knowledge of military reality, acquired not from the press or hearsay stories, but from your own life experience which will never be forgotten, only then you can understand the life of young officers who served during the Afghan war. You will understand these people, who fell from the school bench into the very centre of the flame of the war.

They helplessly went from one senior officer to another, like small kittens “from tits to tits”, looking in desperation, after two “trench-fighting” years, to find better place for army service. They all tried hard but as it turns out not everyone found the way to do so. For these unlucky ones, life of a young officer kept a fault card in their sleeve.

Returning from the war, the beloved homeland joyfully opened its arms for these gray-haired youngsters, whose understanding of the meaning of honour, conscience and duty were much deeper and substantiated compared to those who did not serve the army. Their souls were distorted by the war. This is why their souls cannot be fooled with empty words about the truth of the war or the complexity of life.. For them, life itself was already a gift. Everything apart from life was a nothing.

These commanders of a company and a platoon were draft horses during any war, and took on their shoulders the main burden of not only this Afghan war, but apparently all wars during the past.

Let the senior commanders and military personnel of various ranks shout loudly about their own importance and indispensability during the war – no one is going to argue as all professions are needed, all professions are important –, but during the actual battle none of them can receive the higher rank without us, the young, devoted officers, who look after our soldiers, and who, in fact, delivered the task.

The flame of the Afghan war affected everyone: some of us were burnt without a trace, some of us just burnt the tips of fingers and for the rest of life have to wear gloves; some of us just got scared. Whether we like it or not, the flame left indelible dirt in our souls, which we cannot wash away for the rest of our life.

Were you sitting by the fire at night? Remember the feeling when a damp night passed, on the horizon a new day brings coolness, and only smouldering fire warmed us with its bare heat. The smoke, which you had to breathe all night and which penetrated into the lungs to the very bottom, this smell with its invisible threads of memory, will warm your soul during the dull routine of everyday life.

Difficult? – Yes.

Heavy? – Yes.

Pleasant? – Yes.

Contradiction? – Yes.

But only from all of these contradictions that are embedded in our memory, can we recall a full list of what we know as the soldier’s duty!

However, there is another way to live in this life. This is an obliteration of everything you had previously. To forget everything as a terrible dream, to cut off everything that was burnt. However, this will be another life, and this life will not be yours. This, however, would make you a vegetable! You do not breathe so deeply, and there is not enough air in the lungs, and, finally, who likes to be disabled by having a completely missing memory?

To remember or not, these are our only two options.

Without any hesitation, I chose to keep my memory.

Looking back to the past and assessing all actions, you understand that, from the position of the present day, you could have acted differently; but at that time, due to the beauty of your youth, you can only act according to your conscience; and back then, your conscience was clean, blank, ready for lines of hope, and without any life vicissitudes; and, of course, there were no signs that you will be thrown away at the end of army service like a used and therefore no more needed waste.

* * *

The airport of Tashkent... Day is breaking. There are three hours left before I will take the plane which will forever take me away from the war. I sit in a restaurant with no visitors. There is only me and also the waiter, a young Uzbekistani. He smokes at the bar. His work finished a long time ago, but in the East, respect for the elders is law number one..

“It is necessary to celebrate your retuning home! ”  – the restaurant administrator said, he was also burnt by the Afghan war. Being a former fighter, he understood me and stayed with me all night. This kind of understanding we got in the army.

The music stopped and visitors left. Now I am meeting the new day; the first peaceful day in my life as an officer. A cherished dream of a stupid shuravi (see “Terminology and Glossary”  – Editor)) to have a bottle of vodka, a plate with a triple portion of tobacco-chickens placed on the table in front of me. I did not even touch them, although I dreamed about them for twenty-six months. Dreams, unfortunately, very rarely reflect reality.

I have emptiness in my soul.

There is still no joy, there is no bitterness. These feeling will come later, not now.

Whilst I have time, I need to draw a line.

I hold my international passport; my fingers involuntarily stroked the red-burgundy cover of it. Thanks to you, my dear red coloured friend, now I perceive the world around me with completely different eyes. No, my romantic side has not vanished but it has acquired more tangible forms and now reflects life with its shades and coloured variations, not only in black and white as it used to be.

I close the last page of the passport with the stamp “Afghanistan: Departure before October 9, 1983”. It is no longer needed..

What was left behind? What lies ahead?

I dreamed about this day so much and how many plans were born!

All friends are there; here are no new ones. Now I know exactly the meaning of friendship. I know who is a friend and who is just a comrade. Here, in the Soviet Union, I will have only comrades and co-workers. My friends-brothers, including native Afghanis, were left back there.

It is no longer necessary for me to get a “sword from its scabbard” (to get angry – Editor) or any reason for “cutting off heads”. Thanks to my “Afghani teachers”, starting with the first company commander and finishing with the Extreme Battalion commander, I took their wisdom. My teachers were older than me only 3-5 years, but taking into consideration their “military” years, I am like a first-grader compared to them.

The military school, which I finished, turned out to be only a kindergarten considering the depth of profiling subjects. In two years, we speedily completed this school; in one month we did what normally would take three months. It was impossible to cheat. Immediately after the final exams, the combat work began. There was no time for relaxing in the training programs.

Afghan is my life’s “exam” where I learned “something and somehow” (a citation from the Russian classic comedy-in-verse “The Woes of Wit” by Alexander Griboyedov – Editor)

Assessments for this “exam” could be given not by the senior commanders or inspectors from the Union ( see “Terminology and Glossary”– Editor), but mothers and fathers of the soldiers who performed combat missions together with me. I think, in this “exam” I could receive a good mark; all the jingling rewards on my chest is not the way to judge me.

I will be the one who have to judge myself.

Looking at the soul, which was not burnt by the stresses and the Afghan heat, I could estimate a level of damage to my soul which I have to live with now and cherish the memory of those guys who will never be with me.....

Later there will be holidays and disappointments, my wedding and the birth of children, joys and adversities. But all of these will be later, in my peaceful life. But when I sum up my own “exam” results in that pre-dawning morning, I understood that I will not pass.

My life was divided into “before Afghan “ and “after Afghan “ with a bloody trait between two parts. Afghan! How scary this word is!

But how to forget it, not to remember.

When it is already today

To live with war on the earth,

It threatens to tear to shreds.

To ashes, fire and blood,

And to the widow’s tears,

And to the weeping mothers.

How many scars and deaths

Will be left in this beautiful world?

No need to repeat it.

... Leaning against the edge of the table and propping my head against my fists, I met my first peaceful dawn..

A replacement... Do you know what kind of meaning it had for us? For us, this word does not refer to the process of changing batteries in the radio or an oil filter in the engine. The replacement for us is the hope in our souls, the euphoria, it is the best feeling in the world. It was a time when everything around was singing, the heart was popping out of our chests, the birds were cheerfully tweeting. The replacement arrived, the most darling legs of the substitute emerges from the helicopter, and his boots touch the metal of the corrugated surface. In this moment everything is thrown aside by this person and even the images of the most loved ones became secondary.

Here he is, my darling replacement!.. Oh, a speck of dust is on his shoulder! Oh, the wind from working jets tore off his officer’s cap and carried it away to the minefield! Oh-oh-oh!

Damn this officer’s cap!

Get used to it. “If you want to eat jam, put up with the flies! ”  – as we said..

Pf-ff, ff-ff, – you blow off, accurately and gently, an invisible speck from his shoulder., God forbid to hurt or to scratch!. Give me your suitcase, I will carry it for you.. do not worry, you will have time to carry it for a year, at least,.. Shit, it is heavy: did you put bricks in it? Or maybe you have some vodyara ( see “Terminology and Glossary– Editor) in the suitcase. Be careful! put your foot here, please, step only there, do not look there... you do not need to see it now... you will see everything later and understand where you are...

Now tell me how is everything back there, in the Union? We were so eager to see you here! The table will be served with food for a dear guest. And your anger and hatred, that five minutes ago boiled your soul, suddenly will disappear and, you felt the nirvana state with only one thought ticking in your head: “You finally got it! This is the substitution! ”.

Oh, my God! What eyes he had! There was no pain or fear in them. There was no emptiness either. These eyes were full of life, and, by the way, they reflected the most professional faithfulness and correctness.

Everything written above is a classic. It is how it should be.

But now how it happened in reality..

* * *

The main backbone, the officers, from our battalion are also preparing for a planned substitution because each of them had at least a year of military service. During July-September 1983, our battalion almost every day had a sort of celebration because the planned replacement of officers finally started. Substitutes were arriving, one after another, every day. During these days we have to celebrate the arriving substitute as well as to celebrate the freedom of the replaced one and his departure to the Union. Of course, between these celebrations we have some intervals to fulfil our combat tasks.

One day, we received a call from Kabul: the document had been signed for awards that would be issued to three-quarters of our battalion! The surnames of those receiving awards were told by phone to the battalion commander, who became the owner of this secret. The battalion commander thinks that only he knows about it and plays with us by squeezing out only several names per day. He forgot the army rule: if one name will be mentioned, tomorrow a whole battalion will know about it.

But get real, asshole! Communication is under our control, and everything that we need to know, we knew. This is why the flocks of half-drunk officers smoothly flew from one unit to another, from one barracks to the next, transferring their celebrating mood together with bottles of vodka.

You do need to think negatively about it. This is a long standing army tradition around the world. You saluted to your friends or to whom you are obliged to: “Comrades officers, such-and-such, I introduce myself on this occasion! ”  – and after this, the celebration drinks will follow and conversation flows: who is up for a position, who is up for the title, who is up for the award, who is up for departure from army, or, on the contrary, arriving.

Traditions are the most important things in the army.

* * *

I remember my first medal, I celebrated with a flask of surgical spirit which I got from someone in the communication unit, in exchange for an “Astra” gun. This Spanish-made pistol was given to me (and I want to stress this) absolutely voluntarily by a captured doukh (see “Terminology and Glossary”– Editor) when I stepped on his wrist.

This flask was waiting for the sacred appointed time of my first celebration.

The celebration took place in a modest officer’s unit. Tables moved together in a T-shape were covered with newspapers and on top of them is everything that is possible to find in the officer’s supply menu: cherry tomatoes, a pot of fried potato, condensed milk, fresh buns, cheese, “Si-Si” lemonade, a couple of army dry rations, chopped cold meat from the army shop, fried pies, fresh onions and some other greens, and, of course, oranges. Under the table, it is compulsory to have 56-. litres of alcohol. Now the decorations for the celebration are complete.

The first “visitors” sit on the bunks shoulder to shoulder and, smoothing the awkwardness of their early arrival, they read the newspapers which covered the tables. In the centre of the table there is a mug with alcohol, in which I placed my medal.

To all who came, a “ beginning shot” from the mug was the first compulsory act, just to get the feeling of the celebration started.

Being the main reason for this occasion, I cough and stand up. With the elbow a bit to the side, I “officially” announce the reason for this gathering, which is the awarding ceremony. In my right hand is a mug with my medal, in my left hand is a bottle with home brewed alcohol. I gulped in one mouthful the contents of the mug hoping to catch my medal with my lips, but the medal – against all laws of physic – stuck to the bottom. I poured more home brewed alcohol into my mug and made another attempt to catch the medal. No, it still stuck to the bottom. Embarrassing, I tried to shake this stupid medal off the bottom of the mug. But against all forces of gravity, this medal seemed like it had been glued. The third filling of home brew hit me in my head like a bullet– and finally –BOOM– the heavy gold medal hit and sliced open my lips.

What a f.. ck! Blood together with the disinfectant are running on my festive face. But some cherished words still need to be pronounced. I also need to listen to the speeches of the senior officers about how they are immensely happy to have in their cohort such a brave officer like I am. After the speeches with a glass of vodka and compulsory pickled cucumbers, the official part of ceremony is finished. After 15 minutes the celebration continued without me. The home brewed alcohol did its deal and I am with the most happy smile on my bleeding lips sleeping in an unnoticeable corner. Now my present is no longer needed.

This is a clear example of “the tear-stained air mattress in the back of the van”.

Usually, the beginning of these celebrations is ceremonious and noble. But close to the end, the chorus of friendly drunk voices, with a compulsory falsetto in it, the wrestling, the shooting competition made the atmosphere, indeed, more relaxed. But with such easy access to a weapon – the weapon is hanging on the backs of our beds – you have to be alert ( of course, if you are in condition to do so! ) and keep your eyes open.

Then the next stage of celebrations is when the attempt of a pale-faced battalion deputy to stop a “disgrace”, is met with laughter; he usually is sent far away with swearing words applicable to the current situation. The unstoppable wild laughter reached its culmination after the announcement of the awardees by the battalion commander, whose surname was also included on this list. This was especially funny because he did not have a single military expedition into the enemy camp. Maybe his heroic act was the act of a senior soldier-internationalist to remain constantly “on base”. But we were too young to understand these nuances, or in our youth, we did not want to understand this..

Youth is not only fervor and daring, and hot blooded overconfidence. It is also a snotty stupidity, ridiculous actions with no self-control, anger without brakes, bordering sometimes close to crimes. It is a feeling of embarrassment that will embrace you tomorrow.

My dear reader, I re-read everything that was written above, and realised that you can get a false impression that we were “half-drunk” when in battle with the enemy. No, no and no!

During our military service we had strict discipline. In two years I have never seen any officer from our platoon-company, or even battalion, who was drunk during military action.

Although I do have plenty of examples of looseness and neglect that were treated without courtesy. Which examples, you ask?

Let them stay in my memory.

* * *

I do not know why, but for the second week, the Deputy commissar, Captain Kostenko Y. is in charge of our battalion.

To consider the time of my service in the army, I am “the oldest” in the battalion because of my army service of two years and two months. Everyone, who was served with me already left, but I am still here, with uncertainty wether my personal replacement will arrive or not.

I CANNOT STAND IT ANYMORE! I HAVE HAD ENOUGHT! My chest already has three large bruises from my rifle belt and when I try to take a deep breath it is painful. Thanks to the bulletproof vest, I have no holes in my chest.

It is still a vivid memory when (just before the announcement of my replacement), I, together with my colleague – Nikolayvich, were wounded during the march of our column. For many months we enjoyed the silence of the hospital room. Eventually Nikolayvich was transported to another hospital in Russia because his wound was not healing properly. I recovered, but for a long time I learn how to read again with “Bukvar” (see “Terminology and Glossary”– Editor).

I think whilst I was in the hospital, someone offered a better deal for my replacement by giving him a tasty bait, and he was hooked.... now I have to wait for him or maybe for another one to resurface.

My commander keeps nagging me about training the soldiers but he knows something as he asked for a bottle of vodka as a reward for the news.

No problem! Just tell me when!

In desperation, I decided to visit the Deputy commissar with only one purpose: to find out the destiny of my replacement and how long I should wait? It is already too much for me to wait another month or two. I know that my replacement is somewhere, but he is definitely lost in the bureaucratic tunnels of the army machine. Luckily, I was able to get a flight with another commander to the headquarters and I decided to take a ride with him on the chopper, which, as I was told, will be here to pick us up in an hour or so.

Of course, this trip will cost me a great deal of my home brewed vodka. The “cooking vodka” process has been going on under my bed for 10 days and the longer you keep it under your bed, the stronger the vodka will be.

I rush to my barracks and grab my documents and Communist Party membership card from the metal box. My friend runs towards me, holding in his hands a new uniform. I dressed up, fix the laces on my bertzy (see “Terminology and Glossary”– Editor). – hallelujah! – I am ready.

With the deepest feeling of satisfaction from my brand new outfit, I walk out to the porch, where Dimych sits there having a smoke. Knowing Dimych through shoulder-to-shoulder actions on numerous battlefields, I started the conversation on what had happened during the last two years.

– Listen, Dimych, do you know that other guys already received their replacement but not me. Maybe I need to take a few expropriated guns for bribery? It seemed to be working well for Misha, remember him? One week ago we went to find his replacement and took all his wooden crafts and he got his replacement.

Misha, indeed, was gifted. He has a talent for woodcarving. We used to laugh when we saw him bringing wood from anywhere and carve something out of boards, roots and logs. I think he would not be ashamed to present his works at any art exhibitions.

– You know, commander, it is a good idea! I know a few people who bring something to the top admin and they got positive results. I do not think that these people remember the surnames of those who were awarded with medals for bravery. We always were as a team, brigade number 55, but not a particular person. Now it is imperative for you to be a particular person.

I agree with you. Go and bring me something attractive and interesting, something irresistible.. Dimych left...

The commander of the first platoon came to me. He has the same first name as me, and blond curly-hair like I have. People very often confused us from behind. Today he is on duty, although he should have a rest until one o’clock, but he also does not sleep this afternoon. Our life is strictly scheduled: from day to night, from one action to another. So he is un-rested knowing that any minute his substitute will come, and maybe this chopper, that I am waiting for, accidentally brings his replacement? And besides, we drank chifir last night – no way to get sleep!

Dimych– a capable guy! – returned with a bakshih (see “Terminology and Glossary”– Editor) suitable for my occasion. I place the gun, “present-to-be”, into my bag and I fill up the empty “Astra” holster pistol with cigarettes.

The noise of flying choppers from the southeast became distinctively louder. Starting in Gardez, they fly at maximum heights, and after they pass Tera-Pass, they usually descend and fly for twenty kilometres across the desert. Before Barakinsky Hills the choppers sharply soared up and one by one come to us to land.

At this moment a whole battalion came out and looked upwards. If our looks would be bullets, then the helicopter would land riddled with holes, like a sieve, I’m not talking only about the intensity erupting from the eyes of the ones who wait for their replacement...

Each arriving chopper for us is a break from the monotonous routine; it brings to us a “weekend spirit” with its news and mails. It is a special day of talking to the arriving vacationers and convalescents, and seeing the commissions and inspectors. Unfortunately, by air is the only way to reach us. No one can reach us by road, this is why cars never paid us a visit. Well, just for curiosity, the ‘”smart-asses” should try, I am sure, then there will be no further need for an. explanation as to why it is not a realistic approach.

The wall encircling the battalion has two special passages: one is for officers who have the right to pass through, and another one much closer to the landed chopper, is strictly for the senior battalion commanders. Brownian motion ((see “Terminology and Glossary”– Editor) of solders begins from the arrival of the board to the battalion’s location and back.

– Come on, jump-in! Good luck! – Sanka waved to me, and then responsibly adjusted a “duty” armband on his arm.

Throwing my AK ( see “Terminology and Glossary”– Editor) on my back, I jump aboard and the ladder is removed and machine immediately took off from the ground. A gesture was given to me to indicate that my weapon must be put in a box. It is an awkward feeling to sit without my gun, it was always with me giving me a feeling of a warming protection, Now, without it, I feel naked like in banya (traditional Russian style of steam-water bath – Editor). I sit down on the bench. Whilst we were gaining necessary altitude, the second chopper landed. After a couple of minutes, a tandem of choppers took the direction towards Kabul, trying to avoid the green strips below on the land.

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