The Torn Souls 15 страница

He was already about to crawl on hands and knees along the mud wall to his APC, when Alyosha gripped his shoulder and stopped him: “How are you going to operate it? ”

Vitka had not thought about that. The vehicle had been powered down. Neither the revolving turret, nor the aiming mechanism, nor the triggers of the cannon and machine gun would be working. They would have to get the driver-mechanic from the fort to get them going, and the sniper would certainly not give them the time to do that. So all they could do was sit and wait for the shooting to stop.

It could not go on for long. If the sniper got too carried away by his game, he would be spotted by the lookout, the message would go through to the battalion commander, who would not miss the opportunity to punish at least one bearded rebel. In a few minutes the gunners would be standing by their howitzers. If by then the sniper had not taken cover behind the mountain, he would have almost no chance of escaping. The howitzers would open up, shell splinters would cover the hills, and nothing would be left alive for hundreds of metres around. The shells would be set to explode high in the air, showering large areas with flechettes (see “terminology and Glossary”– Editor), so that anyone who was hit would look like a hedgehog with its spines pointing inward. The rebels knew that, and never stayed in the field for long.

And indeed the shooting soon stopped. The friends went around the vehicle park hiding behind the mud wall just to be safe, then through the woods and into the fort by the main entrance. Vitka could not rid himself of the thought that Alyosha could have been cut down by the sniper’s bullet. For a while the image of such a terrible and senseless death had put him off wanting to smoke ganga. But only a few days later Alyosha thought up the idea of having a smoke in the shelter of Dzhuma’s lorry cabin.

But now, looking at Alyosha convulsed with laughter, Vitka was once again overwhelmed by the same terrible vision. He wanted to drop out of the cabin, to crawl and run under cover past the mud wall, back to his bunk in the platoon hut, which now seemed to him to be the safest place in the world.

– Just like the three little piggies! – he said, following a sudden new train of thought.

– What, bacha (see “Terminology and Glossary”– Editor), what’s got into you? – said Alyosha, who had by now come to his senses.

– I don’t know, – Vitka admitted honestly, realising that there was no way he could explain his thinking to Alyosha.

– Let’s eat. – Dzhuma suggested.

For a few minutes the three of them chewed dried fruit in silence.

The laughter was over, the three men fell into a gloomy reverie. It was time to go, back to their bunks to relax on their beds, to let their thoughts arise unbidden, to watch events unroll at random in their imagination.

Once safely inside his billet in the fort, Vitka was overcome with joy. He almost died laughing as he looked at the young soldiers with their cropped hair and their absurdly protruding ears. He clambered onto the top bunk to relax, lay on his back and stared at the boards of the ceiling just above him. It was all so familiar, so pleasant, so homely, that he was filled with carefree happiness. Filled with emotion, he put his hands behind his head and imagined himself on the edge of a forest. He lay on the soft grass and looked at the distant sky. It was so beautiful that Vitka arched his back with pleasure. Unexpectedly his hands touched cool metal. It was the headboard, and he clutched automatically at its thin metal tubes. One of them spun in his fingers with a short metallic creak. For anyone else it would have been no more that an unpleasant screech. But for Vitka it filled in the missing link in his imaginary forest. It was the cry of a bird! Vitka began to spin the metal tubes slowly and his forest was filled with the singing of birds. With his eyes closed he savoured the unrestrained concert: the trilling of a nightingale, the song of thrushes and finches, orioles and waxwings. Vitka did not know one bird from another, but he did not care: all he wanted was for the singing to go on.

The nearby sound of irritated voices – too far away to distract him – ruffled the edge of his dream, which covered him like a web. But then harsh reality broke in on his idyllic Russian forest. Something rough landed on his face, The birds flew off in all directions. Vitka threw off the pillow which had been thrown at him, and jumped upright on his bunk.

– Come on, pull yourself together! Let’s roll a joint, – said Kolya.

– Push off, you wanker! I was on a high and you’ve ruined it. – Vitka groaned.

He threw his head back on the pillow, and tried to doze off again, but was soon awakened by loud laughter from some of the men from the bottom bunks. Kolya noisily continued his story, of which Vitka had missed the beginning.

– … and I said to Yakub that I won’t share another joint with him. And don’t you dare either! Do you hear me, you drivers? Don’t you dare smoke with Babay.

For nearly a year Kolya had supervised the company’s drivers. He had handed over his duty a month earlier, but even though he was now waiting to be demobbed, he still issued orders to them all.

– Why are you buggering me about? – said the offended Babay. – Just because you are the guy who thinks he can mess with everyone?

– I’m not messing you about, Yakub.. You’re such a midget I’m really afraid for you. A couple more little puffs and you’ll be so stoned we won’t be able to bring you back down to earth. When our replacements arrive we’re all supposed to go home together. How could I go home without you? No one would be able to hold you down once we’d gone. Without us you’d be flying around here forever. – Kolya answered in all seriousness.

Those who were waiting to be demobbed roared with laughter. Looking down from the upper bunk Vitya saw Alyosha trying to hold Babay down.

He realised that the others were also half stoned.

– Guys, look! Viktor’s woken up. Come down, Vitka, let’s hear some of your usual bullshit! – Alyosha called him, – I’m sick of these lorry drivers, talking so big that you would think they were helicopter pilots.

– Hang on, Vitka will tell you something about flying. Remember how he flew with Sinitsky! – yelled Kolya cheerfully, – Come on, Viktor, tell us about that war.

Vitka smacked his lips, and gave his best imitation of Leonid Brezhnev (see “Terminology and Glossary”  – Editor) television, reciting in his nasal voice from his wartime memoir “Malaya Zemlya: “I didn’t keep a diary during the war, but I still remember clearly every one of those 1458 days”... No! To hell with him! I’d rather tell you a joke! Listen!

– Once upon a time there was a bear who grew cannabis in a clearing in the middle of a forest...

He didn’t finish. The whole barrack room broke into hysterical laughter:

– A bear growing cannabis!... Hold Babay down, or he’ll fly away!!!

Vitka waited for about a minute until the audience calmed down, then continued: “Every day the bear came to the clearing, to see how his plants were growing. When they were nearly ripe, he saw that someone had cut down some of the plants. Holding a cudgel, he set an ambush to catch the thief. A hare trotted into the clearing, cut down some cannabis, took a quick drag, got stoned, and started to leave. The bear bashed him over the head, the hare shook himself and said: Wow, that was something else! I’d better nick the whole crop straight away! ”

Vitka was met with a resounding silence, which lasted for several seconds. He thought that his joke had fallen flat. Then Kolya suddenly doubled up with laughter, then Sultan, then Alex, then Oleg. The young soldiers at the other end of the barrack room, expecting trouble, panicked and jumped off their creaking bunks.

– That was something else! Wow, that was something else. Ha-ha-ha!

– Nick the whole crop! I’m going to kill myself laughing!

– Think, guys – a bear growing cannabis!!

The demobees ( see “Terminology and Glossary”– Editor) heaved, groaned and scrambled down from their bunks. Even Vitka was affected and joined the general hysteria.. He peered over the top bunk and nearly fell off. Only Babay looked blank, turning his head from side to side with a dazed smile. When Kolya saw that Babay had entirely missed the point, he whispered through his tears:

– Bash him too: then he’ll be as stoned as the hare!

Something clicked in Babay’s head. He too began to laugh, panting and yelping and repeating: Nick the crop! Nick the crop!

The laughter went on and on. We gradually calmed down a bit, and Vitka tried to tell another long-drawn-out joke about the Lilliputian who picked up a bit of hash on Gulliver’s hand. But just when he got to the point where Gulliver, tired of waiting for the idiot to get enough together for a proper smoke, tells him to sort himself out somewhere else and rolls the cigarette for himself, someone else burst out: “Nick the crop right now! I” and the boys collapsed with laughter all over again.

It took them at least half an hour before they finally calmed down a bit.

– How about some music, guys? –said Kolya. Alyosha backed him: – Why not? Come on Vitka, give us one of our tunes!

Vitka himself had already been feeling for some time that he needed to play. He jumped off the bed, picked up the guitar standing at its head, and began to tune it up. The ancient instrument was past its prime and hard to tune. The tuning pegs kept sticking, the strings kept cutting into his finger pads. Nevertheless, even an inadequate instrument made a great difference to their boring life. Only five men from the entire troop could strum out even a few chords, so Vitka, who did have a certain skill, was regarded for a long time as the only capable guitarist around. But then he was displaced by a young soldier from the Second Company who had a genuine musical education, He was a professional, he could play the accordion as well as the guitar, he knew many songs, both funny and sad; for three months he had been giving concerts every evening for the benefit of the senior soldiers. All those months Vitka had been resting, waiting for his finger pads to heal. Then people got sick of the new musician’s songs, which were all about civilian life, and demanded a return to their old favourites, the ones which Vitka had learned from tapes of the “Cascade” (see Terminology and Glossary”–Editor) ensemble.

– What shall we sing, Kolya? – Viktor asked as he picked out the first chords and flexed his fingers.

– What about “Tracer” to get us going? – suggested Soltan: it was Kolya’s favourite song.

Without waiting for any other ideas, Vitka started to play:

“... The blue sky is over our heads, and our hands can reach out to the stars! ”

Several voices joined the chorus. Kolya, carried away, shouted out:

“Just listen to the tracer as it flies

And drones through the silent night. ”

Then Vitka went straight into “Dawn”: slow and sad. No one objected. Most of the boys fell quiet, some joined in gently. Yakubzhon screwed up his narrow eyes, whispering the strange Russian words:

“… and in the morning, along unseen paths

We’ll again explore the Afghan land. ”

Suddenly Alyosha broke in forcefully. The words of the song had bitten into him for two long years: now they struck a chord with what he was thinking at that moment, and he poured out all his frustration at the endless waiting:

“The guitar speaks of the frozen dew,

Of young girls and their golden hair.

Guitar, you can end your song without sadness!

After all, you and we both

Serve in Badakhshan”.

Vitka realised that he had hit the mark. All the demobees in the corner had been hooked by the music. Sometimes a musician catches the mood of his audience and instinctively plays what they want to hear. Then each feels as if he is part of the music. Each takes part in creating the song, whether or not he has a good voice or a good ear, whether he remembers the words or not, even if he does no more than accompany the simple tune with a primitive mumbling. That’s just what happened now. Stimulated by the drug, their minds could produce ready answers to barely formulated questions: there was no need to think, to analyse, to ask where the song should go next. His eyes on his listeners, his hands and fingers functioning automatically, his voice reproducing the practised words, the player could guide the disorganised chorus into the right pitch, and pin down the outburst of emotion called up by the song. When they came to the last verse, Vitka could see tears in the corners of the eyes of the listeners, and he put his whole soul into the final phrases.

“The horizon expands

As the soldier goes home,

We will walk with our friends

Towards the plane.

Until it lifts us

Over the land,

And strikes out towards

Our homeland at last”.

He saw the faces of his friends changing as he sang. The coarse soldier’s faces that had got on his nerves for two whole years suddenly became the faces of twenty year old boys. Their shorn heads made them look particularly young and naï ve. Could you call them warriors? Hell, they were no more than schoolboys, greenhorns who still know nothing about life. They were merely pretending to be grown up: behind their coarseness and cruelty they hid half-formed young souls, pining for their distant homes, their families and their homeland. What did they know of the realities of adult life, these boys who had been torn from their everyday life at the age of eighteen and hurled into a strange and incomprehensible land? How would they live when they got home and came up against the realities of civilian life? Now they only thought of one thing: how they would soon be out of this crazy Afghanistan, of which they were so heartily sick. They would forget everything they had learned here. In no more than a few days, a couple of weeks at most, they would be back in the Soviet Union, face to face with an incomprehensible new life. How would they live there? How would he be received?

“No”, – thought Vitka. It was not a matter of “they” and “I”, but “we”, all of us! Here we had all become to resemble one another, regardless of where we came from, our upbringing, our way of life and our education. Now we all know the same things, and are ignorant of the same things. We know how to place our feet carefully on the stones as we climb a hillside in the dark. We can march for dozens of kilometres over the mountains carrying thirty kilograms of weapons and ammunition. We know how to apply a tourniquet to stop the blood, how to dress a wound and inject a painkiller. We know how to kill a man! But we don’t know anything about how people live outside the army, what they think about, how they talk, how they sing. Our former life is an unreal dream. Will our present life also seem like a dream one day?

Vitka struck the final chord, slowly ran his fingers over the strings, and ended the song. All fell silent, not wishing to break the mood of sadness. So he decided to continue in the same mood and began to play “The Cuckoo” by Cascade, assuming that someone would pick up the words “I often remember my home”. But Alyosha put his fingers on the strings and asked:

– Vitya, how about the one about the cigarette, eh?

It was an old joke. The first time Alyosha made the request, Vitka spent twenty minute trying out one song after another with him, but could not find one which even mentioned a cigarette. Alyosha could not remember what the song was about, nor the tune, nor even a single line of the verse. He could only click his fingers and repeat: “Well, that one … There’s something about a cigarette in it. ”

In the end, after much trial and error, Vitka wormed out of Alyosha the information that the song was about a friend who did not return from battle. It was the well-known song by Vysotsky (“Terminology and Glossary”  – Editor), and cigarettes barely figured in it: but for some reason it was just those words that Alyosha remembered, and when Vitka got to them, Alyosha shook his head in embarrassment and began to join in. So now, as he began to perform the song “about a cigarette” for his friend’s benefit, Vitka waited for Alyosha to join in. Alyosha was not much good at singing, but he waited patiently, looking into Vitka’s eyes. When Vitka arrived at the verse Alyosha was interested in, he nodded, stopped singing himself, and Alyosha took over:

Spring has broken out from the prison of winter,

And I called out to my friend – by mistake:

“Leave us a fag! ” But the answer was silence.

He never came back from the fight.

The others listened in silence. Now Vitka was launched on his favourite hobbyhorse. He played the songs by Vysotsky that were closest to him: “In the mountains you can’t trust the rocks, nor the ice or the cliffs”, “The sunset glittered like a shining blade”, and his favourite, about stars falling from the sky:

They told us to climb up the mountain,

To fire without sparing a shot.

But another star flashed down from above

That seemed to be aiming for you.

I had thought that our troubles were over,

That we’d managed to get off scot free.

But that crazy star came down from the sky,

And hit you right in the heart.

The last chord died away in the silent barracks. Vitka slowly laid the guitar aside, unable to sing any more. All sat with their eyes cast down, not looking at one another. It was Kolya who broke the mood. He shook his big head with its dark hair and its crude crew cut, rose in a businesslike way and gave the order:

– Stop snivelling! Stand up! Follow me, quick march!

They all got off beds, stamped off to the door past the now silent younger soldiers. Outside they rolled a couple of joints, handed them round and afterwards returned to their barracks in a more cheerful mood.

– Come on, Sultan, – said Oleg, – put your tape recorder on.

– Yes, don’t put on “Cascade”, put on the tape with the various songs, and Jakub will sing us his song about the fly with one wing.

Yakub drew his head into his shoulders in embarrassment. He loved singing Russian songs, but barely understood the words, and made up his own versions, such a muddle of more or less similar words that he made his listeners fall about laughing. With his Tajik accent he would mangle the Pugacheva’s (“Terminology and Glossary”  – Editor) song by: “Without mine you me love, me fly with one wing”.

Sultan rummaged for his tape recorder in his bedside table, rewound the tape, and started it from the beginning, where the “Jolly Fellows” (“Terminology and Glossary”  – Editor) are singing a song about their aunt: ”Oh, auntie, you’re wasting your time, Looking out of the window in tears. ”

The lively rhythm of the music cheered everyone up, and they soon started to stamp their feet in time as they sat on their bunks, and swayed from side to side. Vitka kept himself under control, sprawled back against the bed head and looking sideways at his friends. He already knew what would happen next: the dope would take over, and all the pent up emotions would break out. He did not have to wait long. The “Jolly Fellows” began a new song, and Kolya suddenly jumped into the aisle between the bunks and began dancing to the music and singing:

We wander all across the land, come winter storm or rain,

We sleep just where we find ourselves, we eat what comes to hand.

Sultan was the next to break out. Picking up the guitar, he followed Kolya out, stood beside him, and now they both stamped their boots on the floor together. Sultan pretended to play the guitar. Alyosha grabbed a gun off a sentry coming off duty, lengthened the strap, and hung the gun over his shoulder as if he were a musician with an electric guitar, holding it low down as if it were a bass instrument. He picked out chords with his left hand on the barrel of the gun, and drummed with his right hand on the body of the gun. Babay appeared beside him, rattling away with imaginary drumsticks. The four of them were imitating the “Jolly Fellows” whom they had seen a couple of times on television. They shouted out the words of their favourite song, assaulted the non-existent strings of their imaginary instruments in a frenzy and stamped their feet in time:

We’re strolling players, we’re always on the road.

Our little wagon, the open field, is what we call our home.

The music was beginning to make them weep a little. Vitya looked at the bowed heads of his friends, their eyes turned in upon themselves, and understood that they were feeling much the same as he was. It was true: the words of the song applied to him too. They were the strolling artists, travelling the mountain roads day after day! What was their armoured personnel carrier if not a little wagon in which they bedded down for the night wherever they happened to find themselves? They ate well enough if they were not too lazy to lug an extra few tins of food.

Vitka suddenly felt very sad. He felt with every fibre of his being that he was surrounded by real friends, such as he would never in his life find again, that once he had got over the first intoxication of homecoming he would miss these guys, with whom he had shared so many bad times and so much happiness. Demobilisation – they had wanted it, they had dreamed of it for ages, they had waited for it passionately. Suddenly it took on a different aspect: demobilisation meant the inevitable parting with friends.

In a few days they would have to say goodbye. Some would go off in the first contingent, leaving the others to await the next draft, and they would say goodbye to their friends beside the helicopter. Some of them – Kolya perhaps, or Sultan, or Oleg, would go aboard, turn round on the ramp, wave goodbye, and disappear forever. Even if they all set off at once, somewhere along the way – at the airport, at the station – the moment would arrive when they had to part! They would embrace one another, turn round, and go off. Of course one could glance back, wave, and realise that one would not see many of them again in this life. “Jolly Fellows” continued meanwhile:

“We’ll arrive and depart in winter, in summer, and the fall,

As the children dream once more of our little painted wagon”.

Vitka was finally overcome by his emotions. The boys were stamping their feet and shouting at the top of their voices, and he sat on his bunk, his head drooping lower and lower.

Our tour is coming to an end, he thought. None of the locals, especially not the children, are going to dream of our little green wagons. But we will certainly dream of this savage incomprehensible country, the high mountains, the green valleys, the clean fast-flowing rivers, the flowering gardens of Bakharak, the summer heat, the dusty roads, the autumn winds, the dust storms, the cold of winter. We’ll have much to talk about back home, about the exotic beauty of this country. Perhaps we will even remember it with affection.

But for the moment he wanted one thing only: to get out, never to see all that beauty ever again. He did not need money, or jeans, or souvenirs! To hell with the photo albums, the home-made tie pins, the dress uniforms specially stitched and ironed, the remodelled forage caps, the ballpoint pens, the Japanese watches that could play seven different tunes, the shiny souvenir cartridges, all of these stupid things which the soldiers prepared for the ritual of demobilisation. It was all superfluous. If you still had your arms and your legs, if you had not gone too far off your head - that was enough to be thankful for. I will make my way home in my worn out uniform and my worn out boots, and I certainly won’t ever ask to come back. All I need is to get a few photos through the frontier, and hope to see some of these guys again, who are stifling their homesickness by fooling about, stamping their feet in time to “The Jolly Fellows”!

Viktor lay back on the pillow on someone else’s bunk, closed his eyes, and collapsed into sleep as if he had jumped off a high cliff into the unknown emptiness on a mountain slope.

“Home! ” he thought as he fell asleep.

“Home!!!. Go West! Home …”

Gleb Bobrov

Bobrov, Gleb Leonidovich was born in 1964 in the city of Krasny Luch in the Lugansk region. He completed his army service in the 860th separate motorized rifle regiment, located in Afghanistan (Badakhshan Province, Faizabad). Gleb Leonidovich was awarded the DRA medal “For Courage”. He is a member of the Writers’ Union of Russia. Currently, he is the Chairman of the Board of the Union of Writers of the Independent State of Lugansk. He lives in the city of Lugansk.

The Torn Souls

It was an autumn fall; a relocation of the 84th military division was postponed several times and the armed group was able to march again only in mid-November. That was the way! Three or four days to Kisima, one day there, and after one week we will be back. A day or two for unloading and then the convoy will be off again. With some luck, we will be back to celebrate New Year. Then will be holidays, and after that there will be a long-awaited replacement. And finally I will go home. I have had enough, I have done my service here...

The majority of my comrades have finished their service and gone. Only three of us were left in the third platoon from the fall of the 1982: Grisha Zubenko, Bogdan Zawadzki, and myself. Just like the famous movie’s name could be re-phrased as “Three glorious poplars in the mountains of the Badakhshan province of Afghanistan”. The three stupid experts of the glorious military service.

Grisha Zubenko, or Zubyara as we called him, is now stretched along IFV-1 snoozing, his noggin propped against the turret, the bastard... I would like to have a nap as well, but my position is in full sight of the commander of the turret model 147. I am not in the mood to start the day with a collision with the commander Seryoga. I am sitting with my legs dropping into the driver’s hutch and leaning on the turret aimlessly gazing around. So nice…The sun is hot, the day is warm. The road like a dirty stray dog zigzagging from one side to another. Heavy dust, pressed down by the night dew, does not come up higher than the tank’s skirt. Blue sky hangs heavily over my head, almost as if it could be touched.

The mountains around my head are swaying, kneeling and covering themselves with yellowish dandruff of fallen leaves. Soon this will end as we will be compelled into going down into the valley. Over there is the valley, with a couple of burnt patches which used to be green, then fucking Badakhshan, and then the beloved Kisima, the home of our 3d Division and tankmen.

Here they are: tankachi ( see “Terminology and Glassary”  – Editor). Obviously, they had put the guarded post for 24 hours beforehand, and now we are expected. It is nice: well done, guys. Useful welcome.

.... We got up.. A lovely voice of the platoon commander was crackling in the portable headphones:

– Hey you, assholes! Climb! Are you fucking mad? And push your fat-faced buddy too! Sappers will be coming soon...

What a fuck?!! What for?!

So I ask:

– What is it?

– I do not know. I heard at night by radio that we were twice attacked and maybe mined, maybe some other shit happened. Anyway, wake up, mother fuckers, and at least grab your rifles!

Well, do not overheat yourself, darling. Give me a second and everything will be all right....

I sat up and pulled my sniper rifle by its butt out of the driver’s hatch and then pushed my buddy Zubyara but he only mumbled in return. I pushed harder. The bro raised his left eyelid slightly and moaned lazily:

– Fuckin’… helll...

– It is not me, it is a platoon commander.

– Gee... platoon….. – and he shut his eye again.

So that was our conversation, so meaningful...

I stood up and looked around. Everywhere I can see our tanks arranged with their main guns like a Christmas tree. We are at the head of the armored group. In front of us is only the APC ( see “Terminology and Glossary”) with an officer from headquarters, three old army vehicles and two tanks with flails. I drove and stopped just as I reached the guard vehicle, I stopped looking at this direction and turned around. Our column, like a cavalry sword, got two-thirds of its blaze into the Kisima foothills and ripped its belly. It seems like everything is okay and quiet. In front of me and on the left I see neglected gardens and a small Afghani settlement with several destroyed houses, On the right are two shitty animal pens with a useless fence, and under the cliff is a river.

The place is very narrow, sandwiched between mountains and the hysterical river Kokcha with murky water roaring and rushing through. On the opposite bank, the rocks begin to grow into a mountain. Here, is a little bit, then more, then close to third bridge, they stretch out – nowhere else in the world can we see this sight - monstrous giant basalt needles, stabbing heaven.

There are also small mountains in clear visibility but they do not look small, and we are almost no distance away, only four hundred meters. Undoubtedly, from this direction, the shooting range of Allah’s faithful followers will bring no fun.

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