The Torn Souls 16 страница

Yep… I could perhaps get them with my grenade launcher, but I have my doubts. Then I spotted a place from where they could easily get rid of us all! 150 meters away was a place which was neither a valley nor a corridor of rocks.

I leaned towards Kataev and struck his helmet. He comes out from IFV-1 and his eyes are laughing. I point at the place I spotted. At the same time, the gunner with a malicious smile and cackling, pointed at his gun. Good minds achieve good deeds. What a fool! Okay, it is time for you to get used to this situation as you have already been crawling over these mountains for one and a half years.

Waving to young soldiers, I shouted, so people will start to move and get their ammunition ready. Ha! Everyone differently demonstrated their readiness for military activity..

Zubyara, for example, sat down and put his gun across his knees. What a bastard!

In his sleep, he used to put his gun between his legs, and now, with the gun across his knees, he rested his knuckles under his chin and his elbows on the gun trying to pretend to be busy. What you can say?! He is the super-wise, fast-sleeping military guru!

Trying to get a response from the commander at number 147, I looked back but only silence in return. Zvonarev is chatting about something into his headset. He looks at me meaningfully, spits directly right into the hatch, raises his eyes and waves at me.

Moving towards him, I stopped near a soldier nicknamed Doughnut, a Deputy Commander of platoon, from the number of 148, who has finished what he was doing and was coming down from the IFV-1. Together we approach Seroyga, who curses a bit and gets down to business:

– We cannot get there at once. Damn! We have received instructions to proceed by foot. In front of us will go the sappers. The APC is going back. You, Bober, will follow the APC and I will follow you. Slobodyanyuk takes all the young soldiers and with 148 you will all wait here till the rest of us arrive. Any questions?

Which questions? Everything same as usual. Its okay, Serge! The salabons (see “Terminology and Glossary”– Editor) will stay behind and we will go on. But as it turns out, there were some questions.

– Yes, Gleb, you send Tkach and Boldy stay here: three Kalashnikoff machine guns to the head vehicle – it is worth it.

Thank you, my dear, you have comforted me. We went to the vehicles.

Everything is simple – destiny is set. There are not many experienced soldiers in the infantry platoon, let’s say one or two, maybe a handful, a maximum of twelve or thirteen men. And the time of service in the army is not evenly divided. The majority of us, Autumn recruits, have already left. Now a lot of younger soldiers are coming. Due to the fact that we have not got the military order for demobilization, in fact we are not even soldiers, so in fact we are civilians. But who cares about that?

Three of us decide to go together in one group, and to ensure everything will be okay, each of us takes with us two younger soldiers who we called salabons. So I took two salabons: Yuri Tkachenko and Temir Urgals.

Yuri was from Kiev, a clever and pleasant boy, of medium height but physically weak. He was really still a child. His pale eyelashes could hide nothing and he always has a wondering expression in his eyes. If he is really involved in listening to a story, his mouth is open as if he were a child.

No! You tell me, what kind of piece of shit are you, to send this child to fight for this river?! I pity him and in every possible way try to protect him. Several times during the fight operation I carried his machine gun, you see Tkach and his machine gun are the same height and I was scared that Tkach simply will fall down from the weight of his gun. The commander likes this combination of me being not only an experienced sniper but also a machine gunner.

Temir was different. He was a large, stocky strong fellow from the Ural Mountains. Witty, quick thinking, with an open and honest personality. He has enormous bright eyes that you can see under a spiky thatch of hair the color of anthracite coal. Does not look like a Tartar, more like a Chinese. He speaks without any accent. There is one problem which is his stupid nickname. Now I will tell you how he got it.

One of his old pals was bullying him, shouting at him, and eventually got on his nerves. Timur sat, closed his eyes and started to mumble in his language “Boldy…boldy… boldy” meaning “enough”. This is how his nickname became glued to him.

I approached the vehicle:

– Tkach, run to Doughnut’s APC (see “Terminology and Glossary”– Editor), leave the machine gun here! Give it to me in the hatch, quickly! And the bullets too. Come on, come on, son!

While we shuffled between vehicles, the sappers started to march and so we followed them in clouds of dust...

***

No wonder that this morning Serge has become very irritated. His instinct told him that there will be nothing for free; the time to pay is coming.

We had hardly moved 50 meters when they hit us in a shower of grenades. How? From where? We had not expected it.

First, from ruins a hundred meters away the grenades flew and exploded right in the middle of the caterpillar tracks of the head tank. Then immediately from surrounding gardens came echoes of single shots from the guns of the mujahedeen, who were shooting our sappers one by one.

While a grenade was coming towards me, like a fly I jumped from the turret to the left of my tank and hid. Something inside me pushed me to not go to the opposite side.

Like a leaf, Temir stretched out next to me.

Zubov dived into my hatch and got out a machine gun. One of us who got a gun started to fire the first round of fifteen bullets towards clay huts in the village. On the top of the tank Kataev turned the turret around.

I looked into the viewport – no one there! I imagine that this bastard is hiding on the floor of the cellar, praying devotedly to his demon god. Dickhead! – Do not think you are safe, bastard! I swear I will get you, piece of shit.

There is also no one in clear sight in the gardens, only one by one they popped out, shouted and disappeared. They and we too are having fun.

From the opposite side, somewhere near the river Kokcha, intense gunfire has commenced. As I can tell from what I can hear, there are around ten gunfighters, and heavy machine guns one by one have started coughing as well, the first mortal mine is exploded. Here we go again! How can it be? Returning home was just around the corner! But what can I do?

Looking around, I can see they have hit us quite badly, mainly targeting sappers leaving for us a gentle slap on our asses. The guys and dogs who first ran to the right side have faced death. Screaming, swearing…. Like in Shanghai!

The turrets keep turning and therefore are silent. The covering tank behind us is also raising its turret targeting not the river but the gardens. It is understandable. Over there could be an anti-tank grenade-gun and you better give medicine before you get sick. Why do they have to aimed at a heavy machine gun, if the death from a grenade-gun machine faces them.

I exchanged my rifle with Zubov’s machine gun. Now you will see, fucking bastards! All of this took just seconds. Give me a moment and I will help Timur to chose his position…

I pointed out for Timur the position which was close to our IFV-1, there was a rut close by, and I directed him toward the nearest garden, promising to put my deadly spell on him if he ever will try to get up. Now it is time to get dirty.

Turning back to the gardens, I placed bipods of my machine gun on the top of our ACP-1(see “Terminology and Glossary”– Editor) and let’s go boogie-woogie.

At present, when I recall this, my memory seems like a compressed paper brick that I can unfold forever. Comprehension of the speed of events, without boiling adrenalin, is totally different. Time is always ticking differently; memory is also selective. The first memories returning to you are the most striking, the most shocking… like a gunshot, for example..

The world from the sky to the deepest essence of the earth has burst, cracked, and there is a feeling as if nirvana has come to me. Then emptiness has blown up and unbearable pain is in my ears and the raging sound of millions of cicadas has hit every inch of my body and in the end poured a hot shower of fire in my face. Around me the fighting is continuing…my body has met a familiar feeling of nausea, confusion and loss of reality. Long live all who have suffered contusions!

Alright.. all the tanks’ turrets have turned towards the river. Thank God!

I looked at Boldy and he is all right; he has not tripped up; he keeps on firing as if writing a school essay.

In the meantime, behind the river, the dirty asses “comrades” have gone really crazy. There is no doubt they are stoned, as they charge directly into our line of fire. Sanyok Kataev is really in business. All his military service he was in infantry but now he got a present – the automatic gun of the BMP-2. He keeps spraying the mujahedeens (see “Terminology and Glossary”– Editor) with bullets, considering neither the bullets nor my hearing.

Me too: without any sense of saving bullets, I am showering the enemy blindly.

I spot three mujahedeens and do not give them a chance to hide behind the wall, Kataev spotted my tracer shots. He got my idea and joined me to move them towards a rock. Together we finished off those three. I started and Sanyok finished them off.

I was just starting to enjoy the craziness of this unhealthy fun, when I heard someone calling “Paramedic! Paramedic! ” This was not good.

The sappers have their own combat paramedic. I knew him when I was in a field hospital. Insigne Stepan, our paramedic, is also going with them to help.

I am calling out to Zubov:

– Give me a full machine gun box!

This dick is so tight-ass, he gave me only a belt. I am not arguing because there is no time for it. Returning to him the empty belt, I reloaded my gun and run to the sappers. Hearing heavy breathing behind me, I turn around and... what the hell! Timur is coming towards me, dragging his gun – his ”bitch”  – behind him. What the fuck are you doing! Stay there! Kill you, bastard! Bloody hell, but this fool is already here; I cannot send him back.

And here is also a complete mess. Two wounded are already treated and waited when Stepan fwill apply his death magic on the third one. I see where he is now! Leaning backwards to the vehicle, another soldier is hosing bullets somewhere towards the mountains. Between the vehicles is a complete chaos. Covered with blood, two soldiers are trying to drag a third one, who is shouting, crying and resisting them. He is trying to reach his dead dog, whose half–crashed body was lying in a pool of blood. Everything is a complete mess. No clue which blood is it- human or animals? Who is crying? Who is wounded? But there is no time for emotion…

Between the APCs, I see two sappers, wounded but not mortally. The resistant one worries me; he is completely covered with blood. To restrain his convulsions, I throw myself on top of him and use wadding to cauterize his wounded leg. At the same time, not letting him move, I inject anti-shock promedole (see “Terminology and Glossary”– Editor) with into his other leg. There is no time for bandaging.

He tries to kick me, but the wound is such a mess that I cannot see what to fix, where it is nerves, bones, or blood vessels. Doctors will fix it later.

These two who had held him, now drag this fellow to Stepan, but the kid has lost his mind and screams, yells, crying for his dog “Darling Dusya! Darling Dusya! Darling Dusya! ”.

Come on, sleep, brother. I will take care of your dog. Lifting the animal, I run behind the tank. Such a huge dog, just enormous! Boldy comes to help me: he jumps up, grabs the tail and a leg of the dog; and two of us can move the dog to a safe place. What a clever Tatar man! Spotted immediately which leg is not hurt… But this mate of mine has dropped his gun! What a moron!

Meanwhile, the tanks so enthusiastically showered cartridges towards the rocks that, in my opinion, the shallow Kokcha-river produced some waves that in agony climb the river banks. On the ground, the previously spotted unfriendly valley was ironed so tidy that Afgan’s kalashnikovs (see “Terminology and Glossary”– Editor) stopped making its mortal noise after only three outbursts. Then the iron of death transformed into a pointed hose of Armageddon that reached the highest and therefore the most hidden placed amongst the rocks with no way to escape. As a result, the enemy’s machine gunners were silenced. The heavy machine gun also went to sleep.

I can imagine how these brave Afghanis were looking for any tiny cracks to crawl into it, but it was pointless, there was no place to hide…

The tankmen are famous for a very methodical approach and seldom do things spontaneously. Their fists are small but heavy, if they are involved in a fight, any wish to resist will vanish into the air quickly.

And finally, the pair of “crocodiles” (see “Terminology and Glossary”– Editor), had arrived. They circled above with hushing noises sending their unguided rockets and left off with a sense of honestly delivered international duty. What can I say – the elite! I always envied pilots.. I guess, I should have paid more attention to a saying my Mom kept telling me during my childhood: “Those who are studied will fly, but whose who are not – will cry”.

***

But the battle is still on…Sappers rushed at once to the hot spots trying to finish the business as soon as possible: there was not much time to do scrupulous de-mining: a battalion of wounded soldiers needed be transported immediately to the landing points as helicopters will be there in a matter of minutes. A column of armored vehicles showed off as well and after sending few lines of rockets towards the bare mountains, left in a hurry, speeding up to Kisima.

We did not leave; we stayed on the same spot as before- fifty meters from the outposts of the tank, but when we will be marching back, we will be the first, leading the march. We get used to it and are not surprised any more.

But I have a feeling that something is not finished. Kind of feeling that I forgot to return a favor and this was bothering me! I don’t want to do a big return of favor, as I had in the beginning of my military service. No, I am a different now, I am almost home but I need something smaller, something that only can satisfy my itchiness. I waved to Bogdan, who picked up his rifle, jumped out of his car. We left young solders on out spot, and we waited for a while when a continuous stream of moving armored vehicles will be broken up into a small shattered window to be able to cross the road. We were heading towards the kishlack(see “Terminology and Glossary”– Editor), well, let say, the remains of kishlack, the destroyed Afgany’s settlement.

Yep… a good job done by tanks... This bare land is used producing a bare minimum for living, but now, as far as you can see, no sign of life is left, nothing alive and some bits of house stamps like rotten dragon’s teeth were sticking out from this dead land.

We spotted him immediately. This son of sneaks was still, laying next to a funnel and already spreading stinking odor of his dead body. I remember that I was surprised when mentally assessed how well thought-out his position was. His position was not in kishlack as we always presumed they are, but 30 meters away down the hill. From our position we would mistakenly think that he is in the middle of kishlack but it does not matter now... his trick did not work. He could not destroy our tank, only minor damage has been done. Soon his dissembled body will be buried in pieces.

We went closer to the body. Buried his snout in the dust, I can see his right arm together with a shoulder are dissembled from the body. His left arm is twisted up. One leg is missing from the knee, only a rubber shoe is visible, by the way, the common Soviet black rubber shoe with pink velvet inside. This devoted believer to Allah is completely chopped in pieces, burned, covered with blood and shredded pieces of clothes and skin... so tiny and pitiful…Only when he is dead.

I turned the body on its back with a gun barrel. We are standing and blatantly staring at the body. Other guys popped out from tanks’ manholes and also looked towards us wondering what was in front of us.

And in front of us on the ground we saw human remains – a body of an inexperienced human cockerel, only twelve years old, maybe a little bit older, with open eyes filled by pale yellow dust to the point that it looks like he was wearing dusty glasses. His facial features reminded me of Mephistopheles in his adolescence, a kind of prototype for a medieval image of little devils. An inhuman face of an animal nationality.... Devils bustard! Why did your Mother brought you into this world, dead meat?!

And then I cannot explain what got into me. In the past nothing even close to this had happen and I cannot re-call that other guys had experienced something like this …I got mad.. I picked up my gun and started to shoot. I kept shooting this ugly face till the very last bullet. Take it all, bastard! Now, these pieces can be buried, these leftovers of a devoted martyr for jihad, a twisted seeker of the Islamic state, mothers fuckers!

Zubyara heavily approached me from behind and took PC mine. Patting my shoulders, he said softly in his native Ukrainian:

– Lets go, brother, he had got enough....

Indeed, he got too much enough! With all of these we left....

***

Near the machines is a boiling pot. The young soldiers are preparing their positions. The platoon commander is rushing to a commander to make his report. I looked around, my comrade Yurets together with the rest of the young soldiers are hectically shoveling to prepare a stand point under the brisk shouting of Slobodyanyuk. But where is Timur? Timur has not been seen around. What a..?!

Here he is! I can see him sitting under a tree and saying something to – or crying over? – the dead dog. It cannot be right! I came closer.. It turns out he was singing! He was sitting down on his haunches and with a twig shushed away flies and, at the same time, was murmuring something special in his own language to the dog, unrecognizable to others, but distinctively very sad.

I looked attentively and to my surprise – the dog was breathing! What a cool dog! The breath of this dog was shallow, irregular, occasionally intermittent, but the injured body was not yet giving up life! I looked at the wounds... A terrifying line of razor was visible from the neck to the belly, forming a deep wound with visible edges and unrecognizable parts of this body: you cannot identify where the impact occurred and where not. The wound was a mess.. a mixture of dust, blood, curled fur in the chest glued with dried blood. The heat already did its job....

I remember that a leg was also broken. It was obvious no need to turn the dog for a further examination, no need to torment the animal. Without any doubt the dog was at the end of his unfortunate life. But as a four-legged soldier of the de-mining division, he deserved a better option to die rather than on the sidelines of this god forgotten road. As usual in this situation, I wanted to inject him with promedol (see “Terminology and Glossary”– Editor), but then changed my mind – who knows how the dog will react? So, we gently put him on the cape and carried him to my 149 division, absolutely sure that we will bury the dog this evening.

***

We did not have time to have a rest. When a platoon commander arrived, the orders were followed one after another, and this bedlam was going on until we reached Kishim almost in the dark. But the order was given – no light or bonfire. Why? It was a mystery to me because after such a fruitful day, a single Allah soul could not be found in the whole area. Everything was combed, no fleas! The order was a complete nonsense!

But dinner time was fast approaching. We put the BMP’s ejectors under the cans of porridge and stewed meet and started to wait … it is indeed a long procedure of heatting up the dinner. Whilst waiting, I decided to have a stroll to see how the dog, Dusya, was doing.. Surprise! He was alive! He even moved his tail to greet me! I called Tatar Timur and together we carefully moved the dog to a better place. Indeed, the dog felt much better: he was holding his head, his eyes were sharp and he was curious towards the things around him. At the same time, I spotted a deep sadness that seemed to be nested in the bottom of his eyes. So much understanding and anguish in his eyes.... We fetched water for him from the jar – he gulped it at once.

I did find a couple of cans “Buckwheat with chicken broth. ” This valued porridge, you know, can beat everything to hell. I throw these cans on the ejector, and went to get more, I whispered a couple of nice words to the guys....

“Yes, Glebych, no question, dear, take few more! ”

I put everything together, tested how hot it is –just right! – and put the food, the size of just about the entire helmet, in front of Dusya, in the hole dug up by Temir.

Food, as they say, is a life....

The poor dog was working on the food so hard that I understood – it is time to call a military nurse and doctor Stepan. It was not easy.. After a long conversation on the radio with a number of people, I was connected to Stepan who hectically was fixing wounded soldiers in different locations and therefore was constantly on the move. In the beginning of our conversation, when he realized the nature of my call, he swore at me in any possible and impossible way (I want to say, that Stepan was a professor in this department), and after both of us got enough satisfaction from a heated argument, finally he instructed me to boil plenty of water and promised to come.

Considering the order of no fire under any circumstances, we found the way out how to boil water and our superior just scratched his head observing how enthusiastically and clever this challenge was overcome. The platoon commander only shook his head, watching this circus.

Finally Stepan arrived dragging his sack, full of medicine supplies. The dog was examined on the spot. I ask:

– Well?

– Yes, there is a lot of sewing that should be done: the leg, body... then look at the breast as you can see his dick is coming out but what a hell? It is not official, I suppose, we can try... Okay, lets do it! Come on – time is everything now!

So, we began..

We took Temir, a lantern, the Stepan’s medical kit, water and started to mend our Duxya.

The first step was to clean the numerous wounds, then to inject anesthetic. After this, we disinfected and covered in penicillin this poor pal, injected intramuscular painkillers, and flooded with iodine his entire wounded body.

Stepan spread the curved needle around with antiseptic conventional army harsh thread and says:

– What are you looking at? Grab the clip and go ahead!

– Gee! Should I to do sewing?

– Who else?

Well, it was not the right time to get myself into an argument with Stepan, thanks that he came at all. So, we began to sew. Stepan worked, shouted and cursed in such a highly professional manner, that at the end of surgery I could not laughed any more. I wonder, where he learned to swear so professionally? I cannot imagine the place....

Dusya was laying motionless… Only when nerves sometime distorted the skin, then Stephan had his go and vocalized a possibility to sew his dick to the tail. Oh, some funny stuff like this, until I could not cope any more, tiring from unstoppable laugher.

Serge, a platoon commander, also spend the whole evening with us, laughing until he could not continue to do it and convulsions spread over his body exhausted from laughing. Of course, what else can you expect from him, a lieutenant, on this cool day?

His platoon demonstrated its best – well done guys! He, himself, had the chance to show off his bravery in front of the entire platoon by seizing weapons from the enemy. He saved wounded soldiers. Nobody was killed and casualties of his platoon were zero. Even the dog survived and his surgery was much more entertaining compared even to a show of Raikin, an iconic comedian of the Soviet era.

They were laughing, good for them, but I kept sewing nonstop like a lady running the alteration clothes workshop, and could not say a word to Stepan: if I say one word, he will cover me with more than ten times of swearing. It is better to keep my mouth shut.

One side of the dog’s body was fixed and now surgical yellow powder was drying up on the stiches. We moved to the chest. Muscles on the chest were well formed, massive and heavy with four holes but all small – rather splinters. But who knows will this dog see the next day? Only the “Fate Dog” card will tell what will be next. In this harsh environment with a minimum of equipment, limited water and surgery performed by a soldier, the fate of this poor dog can be predicted only by the cards.

Towards the end of fixing the dog’s entire body, platoon commander Sergei said:

– You know, this dog is one of us… he is a fighter!

– What do you mean?

– You see, he did not cover his ass. All his wounds are on the frontal part of his body.

Well noticed, Serge! Indeed, all wounds were located on the chest. It means that this dog was facing a danger and did not turn away.

Stepan straightened:

– All right, guys, stop this baloney....

After treating wounds with crashed antibiotics, bitsilin, analgesics and tight bandages,, we went for cigarettes and I asked Stepan:

– What do you think?

– Oh, Glebych.... he is a beautiful dog.

And a third round of swearing was ready to erupt in his throat but I interrupted him first:

– I’m talking about his health...

– To put him to sleep will be mercy as I told you before.

– Put yourself to sleep, mother fucker..

– Come on, don’t be like a virgin girl. Think of what a life he will have from now if he will stay alive: no work, no play, no fucking bitches.. But, I did what I could and now I am off.. Good bye!

With these last words he climbed into the platoon commander’s car and left.

When he left, I also did not wander around. I went to the trench of Tkachev, covered myself with a military coat and slept until morning, remembering only one thing: how my young solders, returning from duty, were quietly coming to and going from the trench. Really, I am turning into a bloody hell Mother Teresa…hmm...

***

The night passed quietly, and in the morning a young tank driver ran from a nearby post with a blunt question: “Who is a doctor here? ”. This is a result of the gossiping between communication seeking engineers, who last evening had great pleasure to enjoy a master class of swearing via military radio and spread the news that the dog is alive. I said to this young salabon (see “Terminology and Glossary”– Editor) to get fucked and I went to see the dog. It is obvious that he is on the road to a recovery.

Young soldiers of my group reported: “The beast slept, drank, and waved his tail. Stepan checked him in the morning and left... ”

Well done! I like when an army’s Grandpa, sleeps but service is carried on!

I came closer to the dog. What a joy.... His tail was playing drums on the dusty ground, his tongue was licking my hands. I checked his both sides – he was healing. I looked under his belly and spotted a new bandage on the leg. Ha! Somebody yesterday suggested to put him to sleep....

I sat next to him and wanted to pull his ears, but a warning muffled roar stopped me at once. A seriously dangerous eyes warning, a slightly elevated lip, and dangerously opened teeth – all were convincing. Why? My hand dropped immediately.

The dog was huge. His resemblance to an ordinary Shepherd was minimum because ordinary Shepherds have a long but sturdy body. This one was a tall specimen with powerful backbones and wide jaws; anyway his head was too big to be an ordinary Shepherd. Definitely he was a half-breed. His body was covered with a short, dense coat, almost creamy, with brown dark stripes on the top. A tough cocky look …. and now, as turns out, he is not a weak character.

I sat down blatantly and moved my hands away like a teenager on a first date, who received a slapping for an unwanted kiss. The dog put his head on my lap and looked faithfully into my eyes and moved the tail once again. What crap! Slowly I opened my palm and moved my fingers close to the red open mouth. He licked my fingers! I scratched his throat and his dark eyes softened, lips opened and, I can bet on this, this dog smiled! A strange creature, this Dusya: an appreciation for scratching but a roar for patting.

Twenty minutes later, we even did not heat up our food, two army tracks arrived with a de-mining commander and his boys. They immediately showered me with questions: ”How…?. ”, “When..? ” “ What…? ” “Do you…? ” Everything okay, dudes, relax!

All of us proceeded to Dusya.

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