and break out. Otherwise we'll lose shitload of men. Drink up, - I raised my
glass and toped it without cheers. Yurka too drunk his.
Since we were under our full strength during the departure, we were
complemented by one more battalion from Novosibirsk. According to the
initial plan, we had to complete all preparations by autumn and depart for
Tadzhikistan for integrating into the 201[st] division or some
peacekeeping force; anyhow, to fight for God knows what or who. So this
battalion arrived on new, experimental BMP-3s. The machine looked great,
everything seemed thought of, - however, turned out total shit. Stuffed with
electronics like your Lexus, but made in mother Russia. Thus, at first, we
coped so much shit from it. It couldn't fire its weapons on the run:
equipment failed from vibration. All its sighting systems were electronic,
thus totally useless garbage. When it did fire, it couldn't move: something
again to do with the damned computer. Well, all in one word, - very crude
system and thus terrible. In the third battalion, twenty-four men died in
the first quarter of January because of this buggered APC. Terrible
statistics, isn't it? All because this unrefined machinery was shipped to
the Army, furthermore, to the war zone. About five of them we've lost
already. We've moved them off to a safe place and, for now, use as
machinegun nests. Although the cannon jams after it fires its first shot. Or
as taxi charter in the more or less safe neighbourhoods. I wish those snakes
that accepted this weaponry dropped dead.
Having my second drink I listened to Yura telling me about my Moscow
namesake. He was on fire after I left - at war, he said, some officers let
themselves loose and do not exercise proper behaviour code towards their
superiors; the discipline is lax and so on and on. Then, having sent all
this Moscow bullshit artists to hell, we finished off the bottle and in good
mood left for the meeting. We felt like teaching the Moscow rep a lesson in
gallantry and military science, in front of all the brigade's officers. At
war, feelings towards all representatives are always the same - nobody can
send you any further than these tranches, and their official warnings are
not like clap, they'll hang out there for a while and then fall off at some
stage. By the way, my honourable reader, - clap (gonorrhoea), is "the
officers' heyfever". Back in their college years, half of the officers'
corps managed to catch it. In the Army, compared to civilian life, this
disease is not considered shameful. Shit happens.
At the meeting, every officer knew his spot. Like all HQ officers, we
were sitting close to the Chief of Staff. The meeting room was situated in
the former children's basketball court, which had become a lounge room at
the Chechen owner's villa, where he built in a beautiful fireplace, which
we, in turn, were feeding with his own furniture. By the way, red timber
burns badly, a lot of smoke and not much heat.
Our com-brig was sitting at the head of the big dinner table. As we
could see he didn't even wash up since his return. Judging from his mood, we
figured second battalion was in deep shit. Somebody was talking behind us; I
turned around - it was our Recon CO. His face was just as dirty as the
com-brig's. I figured they went together and thus asked him:
- How did you two go? How is the second battalion?
- Totally stuffed. On the way back we drove into an ambush, one APC was
hit. Driver wounded, Gusarov, you know him? First, busted the track then
wasted us at close range. Barely escaped with our lives.
- No, I don't know him. - I shook my head. - Bad wound?
- His wrists are badly burnt, shrapnel cut his shoulder and part of his
ear is gone. If they keep his hands, he'll be fine. It's a petty though, he
is a smart fellow and I wanted to make him a sergeant.
- Listen, I'll be suggesting now that before we go out and help the
second battalion, we should ship our wounded off, or they're all goners,
your driver too, by the way. For that we have to contract the third
battalion and your lads. What do you reckon?
- Sure, count me in. While we were offloading the wounded, I remembered
that there is a republican drug warehouse here near by and our corpsemen
have nothing besides aspirin and their enthusiasm.
- OK, go on, make a suggestion. We'll work on that and snatch the drugs
from the rag-heads. Otherwise addicts and marauders would bag them anyway.
- Attention please! - Chief of Staff spoke out.
The humming in the room stopped and everyone was now looking at the
COs.
- During yesterday, our brigade was participating in the following
assaults: central train station, hotel "Kavkaz" and here. Also, while
proceeding to locations of the brigade's detachments, several HQ Groups were
fired upon and became involved in short skirmishes. As a result, our brigade
has lost, - there was absolute silence in the room, - two KIA, private
Azarov - tank battalion, sergeant Harlapidi - engineering battalion. There
have been four wounded: Chief of Staff of the second battalion, senior
lieutenant Pahomenko, first battalion company commander lieutenant Krasnov,
Private Gusarov - recon company and private Larionov - communication
battalion. Also, we found a body of private Semeonov - engineering
battalion, who was earlier declared missing in action. The man died a
terrible death, - here San Sanych looked up, faced everybody in the room and
continued without the bulletin, - his was tortured, then nailed to the cross
and his penis cut off and placed into his mouth. Horrible image, I have to
tell you, gentlemen.
The room went buzzing. Officers, despite the presence of their COs and
the representative from Moscow were loudly and resentfully discussing death
of the soldier.
- Calm down, gentlemen, - Bilich resumed his speech after pausing for a
moment, - I'll continue, I am no less disturbed by this, but let us dedicate
our emotions and rancour to the enemy, right now, there is nothing we can do
about it. Next, first battalion captured a sniper, from his own words our
compatriot, from Novosibirsk. Captain Mironov was not able to bring him
over, from his words, the latter died from his wounds and heart condition.
And again the room went buzzing with noise, this time with approval.
Those, whose eyes I met, were nodding and winking to me, approving, as I was
the one who wasted the sniper. Someone from the back of the room declared:
"his guilty conscience killed him". Officers cackled with approval. The room
was scarcely lit, actually, only the table with the Com-brig, Chief of Staff
and Karpov was illuminated, the rest was all covered in darkness. That's why
those at the back were making all sorts of comments without the fear of
being recognised. Lucky bastards.
Again San Sanych had to call for order. Slowly the buzz settled. I
inwardly was watching the faces of our Com-brig and the Moscow major. If our
CO's lips were touched by a smile after the "conscience" remark, the
representative kept cheerless expression on his face with his thin lips,
displaying his negative impression of the matter. A rat is always a rat. It
would be interesting to know if he was ever a platoon leader or a company
commander. Or straight after the college he popped up on the HQ parquetry?
I've gone through all the necessary stages, neither was I ever elevated in
rank before the right time, kissing commanding asses along the way. That's
probably why I travelled all over our country's hot spots. I have no desire
for my son to serve in the military, although my father, my uncle, father in
law and myself went to the same damned military college. If I had ever
learnt English language, wouldn't have ended up in this shithole.
Now San Sanych was telling us about our future objective, which Karpov
brought with him. The latter was erupting with self-importance; it seemed
all this was his idea and we owe him everything. The officers were listening
carefully, quietly exchanging their comments at times.
Then Karpov made his speech:
- Gentlemen! Our Allied Force Head Quarters has set up an honourable
task for you: amongst the first troops, you are to spearhead the attack on
the lair of the savage and then destroy him. The Commander in Chief himself
is keeping this operation under his control. You have proven yourselves in
the past battles and therefore, as the Commander's representative, I am
confident that the Siberians will handle their challenge with honour.
And more of that boring rant, in the worst traditions of the soviet
cinematography. If he thought his listeners would explode applauding and
give him standing ovations, he was dead wrong. There was nothing in the room
besides quiet chuckles and calm remarks. Then someone from the back clearly
and loudly yelled out "Go to hell". From the construction of the phrase I
figured who that was. Only one person in the room could express himself like
that - our tank battalion commander, Mazur Sergei Mihailovich. When we came
here, we had forty-two tanks T-72, now we have twenty-six. In ten days we
have lost sixteen tanks, mostly with their crews. That's why major Mazur had
the right to send all smarty-pants from Moscow the farthest and most often.
Everyone was waiting for the response. It came swiftly:
- Who said that? I suppose it's not a smart and honourable officer and
unlikely that he would come out and say it to my face.
But Mazur rose, and pushing away officers in their chairs, came up to
the table.
- I said that, so what are you going to do? Because of fucks like you I
have lost forty-eight men and God knows how many more I will lose because of
your hallucinations. Why won't the air force and artillery beat the crap out
of this damned square with all that's still there? And the grunts would
block the approaches and take out everyone who would try to sneak off.
That's all. There won't be as many soldiers' blood spilt though and we'd
have to spend more time.
Now everyone was watching Karpov. He was obviously confused:
- The problem is that the whole world is watching what is happening
here. All major news agencies and television stations have been registered
at the Head Quarters. If we use air force and artillery on a square of this
kind, the world community might not take it well. As you correctly mentioned
that it would take more time, but our government needs this conflict to stop
as soon as possible. Local opposition, which is on our side, would also be
against using air force and artillery to solve this problem. Maybe somebody
would wish to surrender? Moreover, we had received authentic information
that a group of well-known human rights activists headed by the Duma
politician Krylov is in one of the Dudaev's basements. Krylov is the
guarantor of Dudaev's personal safety. As a result of a massive air strike
they might get hurt.
- Screw them!
- I'll become an artillery spotter, so that the lads wouldn't miss!
- Hang the bitch!
The well-known human rights activist Krylov was called many
unflattering names. This madhouse would've gone on for a while, if the
Com-brig hadn't barked:
- That's enough! Please comment only on the subject. Orders are not to
be discussed - they are to be carried out. Other details like air and
artillery support, time frames and interactions with other units would be
discussed later on. I am listening. Please note that the hotel must be taken
within the next three days. Any suggestions?
I raised my hand.
- May I? Comrade Colonel, - the CO nodded to me and I went on, - If we
are to face an assault like that it is possible to expect that we will take
more casualties. Our wounded, however, are cramped in the sickbay as it is.
We are also running out of medicaments. Therefore, I suggest the following:
tomorrow, with the strength of the third battalion, support of the recon
company and chemical defence company we would break away to the "North"
airport and medivac all our wounded out of here. Then, in our immediate
proximity, we have the republican medical warehouse. Medicaments definitely
wouldn't hurt to have at this stage.
- This warehouse is for the local population only! - The moron moscvich
gave off a remark. - We must never do that, it would set the locals against
us!
- Keep quiet, major, - cut him off Com-brig, - we've already given you
an opportunity to speak up. This war has already set them against us. There
is no way back. Mironov, continue.
- I'm pretty much done here. If my plan is approved, I offer to
personally head the convoy. Other than that we have to notify the battalions
so that they ship their wounded over at the HQ as early as possible. We
should be under way at about 9.30 and if everything goes according to my
plan, we could be back by about 17.00, leaving us enough time to start on
the medical warehouse.
- What about the hotel "Kavkaz" and the Square?
- I suggest, that during evacuation of the wounded, myself, or someone
else, would contact our front command office and discuss all available
options. If somebody is willing to take over the train station from us, the
first and second battalions could easily bust the rag-heads out of the
hotel. We can also give them the third battalion for support and clean up
operations. If we could also move the self-propelled howitzers a bit closer,
we might be able to complete the task within the previously mentioned time
frame. Only if our friends from the "North" don't shell us again, as it has
happened many times before, - I couldn't help myself and again kicked the HQ
rep.
The discussion of all "for" and "against" arguments of my plan took a
while after that. In about half an hour, our CO approved it overall. He made
a decision to personally head the convoy to the "North". He was also taking
several officers with him: myself with Ryzhov, recon CO, medical CO, third
battalion CO and Supplies XO. After brief calculation, it turned out we had
one hundred and twenty-two wounded to transfer, including all from the
battalions. Many of them refused to medivac. It's strange though, for them
this war was over, they didn't chicken out or self-inflict their wounds,
many of them were even about to be awarded medals, some could be discharged
before their term after this. But even the badly wounded refused to be
shipped out. Their COs yelled at them, some ordering, some trying to
convince them to go.
A lot of grunts were broken down crying, like they were unjustly
punished or something. A few didn't want to go because of the soldiers'
brotherhood, the real one not the imaginary kind. Some were frankly saying
that their thirst for blood isn't quenched yet for their fallen comrades.
Looking at their faces and their madly blazing eyes, you begin to understand
that these men could easily give up their own lives for their comrades. No
looking back, no bargaining with death or enemy, just stand in the path
between the bullet and his comrade without making demands for rewards or
medals. I asked myself a question that I haven't yet been able to answer,
maybe that's what this superior spirit of the Russian Soldier is, that no
army could ever break? Despite the fact, that every government in Russia
hated and dreaded its own army, trying tirelessly to break its backbone,
something that no enemy could ever do. But the Russian mahor, regardless of
his superiors' scams, has always sunk his teeth into his enemy's throat, in
spite of his furious resistance, avenging the deaths of his brothers,
himself died but killing his foe. The death of one would cause desire for
vengeance in the others and this would go on to the last soldier. The
government, knowing this phenomena, periodically makes new opponents,
because when the obvious enemies are dead, you, having tasted their blood,
can't stop any more and start looking back.
And if you did look back, you'd understand, my reader, that while you
were fighting here, at someone's obscure order, life in your country calmly
went on. Somebody even made a little fortune from this war, someone else
transferred money overseas. But your comrade, whose mutilated body you were
dragging out of the killing zone, under fire, yourself soaking in blood and
sweat, he now receives a pension from the government, for both his legs that
he lost out there, 300 rubles.
When after the third toast, he'll grab your hand and, looking into your
eyes, ask you in breaking voice: "why the hell did you pull me out of there,
why?" You will feel sick and ashamed that you saved his life. This very act,
that you were so proud of and maybe even rewarded, - will be the most
shameful and bitter act of your life.
Because your government sent you into this butchery and then, chucked
you out, the still living ones as well as all the dead. It has bedamned and
forgotten you. There was nothing there. All this was your paranoid
hallucination caused by the posttraumatic syndrome and multiple concussions.
But don't you worry. We'll fix you up in the mental home in about five
years, come on in. Whatever remains of the army, we'll disperse and
downsize, so that they don't tell anybody anything and debate our actions.
Same as witnesses after a crime, they'll remove the military after each of
their "salvaging operations". Like they did after Afghanistan, Germany, and
so on. Because they knew for sure, the Army can turn around and see that the
real enemy is right here in Moscow.
Thus, when they throw you out or lock in a God forsaken garrison, you'd
look back at your life and realise that the brightest, most memorable
moments and impressions, the taste and price of life you experienced back
there at some war. Your whole life will be now divided in two parts:
"before" and "after" that war.
Here you will be put before the choice, the infinite Russian question:
"what do I do now?"
You can try and live you life like everyone else, but you know that you
won't get far. You can try and enter the police force. By the way, they are
not ecstatic to see us there, they say we are all psychos. We can become
contract killers, our familiar business and the money's good too. To kill,
not as many people, not for some principles or vengeance but for money.
Would you do it? Does it make you sick? Some go for it.
There is a third path however - mercenary. It's true though you'd be
fighting side by side with those you were shooting at not so long ago, but
that's OK. Money doesn't smell and who knows, you might even like it and
take vengeance on the locals for your fallen friend who used to be your
enemy.
All our wounded grunts knew it only too well. Some knew; some sensed it
with their skins that all this is what a man lives for, and if they leave
now, they would never again experience it. That's why they hung in to every
opportunity to stay. To some their COs plainly lied, telling them that they
are only going out there to accompany the column and would then come back
here again. Some of them believed it while others wanted to believe, hoping
that the convoy won't be able to break out and would have to return. Some
grunts anticipated that before the medivac they would, for one last time,
fight and send a few more true believers to see their Allah for themselves.
They do like squalling "Allah akbar, Allah akbar", - so what? We too
know that he's "akbar", but they, for some reason, don't rush to meet him.
That's no good. Moreover, they are promised a heaven for the holy war with
the kafirs. Therefore, we are actually doing them a favour, sending them to
paradise, but they are resisting it like blind puppies.
This night at the HQ was pretty much sleepless. All of us, Yurka,
myself, Chief of Staff, recon CO and other officers were working on the
details for the medivac convoy. We talked to all the neighbouring units,
arranging the safe passage through their territory and interaction in case
of an ambush. Mechanics were busy getting their vehicles ready for the
transit and gunsmiths tried to adjust BMP-3s. There was enough work to go
around for everybody.
When all arrangements were made and all questions answered, only the HQ
officers were left in the room. Now the head of the Operational Department
initiated the meeting. We now were discussing our options for the Minutka
Square complex assault. At first we said everything we had on our minds
about the Allied Command and Moscow smart asses, but gradually we cooled
down and the meeting went along a calm path.
All of us came to the conclusion, that a head-on assault of the square
would be a sure suicide. But first, we had to take the bridge over the
Sunzha River overlooking the square. There, marching our men under the
deadly close range fire, we could lose them all. This bridge was right in
our path and could not possibly be avoided, unless we took a detour over
half of the city.
Suddenly, chief of the guards barged into the room.
- Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, - he started anxiously, addressing our
Chief of Staff, - the Moscow rep just left.
- What? - San Sanych couldn't grasp it at first.
- Got on to his BRDM, said that he was called in and left.
- When?
- About fifteen minutes ago. I called him on the radio, he says that he
must be at the "North" before the sunrise.
- What a moron? He'll die himself and lose his men. He should've been
riding with the convoy tomorrow morning. Idiot, nutcase, - the head of the
operational department, major Ozerov was furious.
We all knew too well what that meant - riding alone, in the dark,
through a besieged town on a light armoured APC. The end result is almost
always same - be captured by the rag-heads or catch a bullet from your own.
Every soldier knew that, not mentioning the officers. It can't be that this
screwed in the head even considered that his rank would save him!
Martial law in Grozny was in full swing, which meant that sometimes we
couldn't even medivac our worst wounded to the better-equipped hospital at
the "North".
And now this bonehead, this pimple on our asses, endangering the lives
of the grunts escorting him, just vanished into the night.
Immediately we called on the "North" and told them about their
knucklehead. It's likely he did it on impulse, trying to get to the Command
HQ before any news from here could reach them, and report that we dared to
openly debate orders of our superiors. He actually had the poor Semeonov's
body with him too. There is just no peace for him. Forgive us, private.
In the "North" they all went nuts. I can only imagine - an officer has
gone missing. An officer, who knew about, maybe only parts of, but still,
plans of the General Command. Moreover, the allied HQ staff member. Looks
like Karpov actually knew quite a bit, because a search party was organised
to look for him in the middle of the night. The radio traffic was red hot.
All detachments were reporting that the BRDM with the rep has not yet passed
through their roadblocks. Down here, we were prepared to face the music of
future allegations that we deliberately sent him away in the middle of the
night. Thus, instead of catching at least a tiny bit of sleep, we were busy
making up reports that we were never here and there or never did this and
that, and all that bullshit. God forbid for you to be accused of sabotage
towards your superiors. You can make a wooden souvenir out of your opponent,
but don't you dare giving looks to your COs. Well, there are many morons for
us to face in this life. Although, we do, feel petty for the bastard. He's
our blood, Russian. So could the grunts in his escort, get hurt for nothing.
For some reason everyone was convinced that, if the units along his route
keep silent, he is a goner. Probably a captive now, in the rag-heads' hands.
God, let him be captured dead, otherwise, a lot of our plans would have to
be changed.
Sometime about eight in the morning we received information that the
BRDM with Karpov drove into one of the OMON roadblocks that was set up right
before the dusk. As we have predicted he tried to wave his rank into their
faces. The OMON lads, of coarse, didn't give a shit about some General
Command HQ together with their major Karpov. At first, they really mistook
him for a spy. For the rest of the night they kept kicking the crap out of
him and the grunts. Before the sunrise they put him before the firing squad
a few times, hoping he makes a confession. A couple of times they even fired
a few shots over his head. In the morning everything became clear. Airborne
fellows arrived, threw a few punches around for their grunts, picked up
knocked out Karpov and the remains of Semeonov's body and left for the
"North". Karpov went back to Mozdok with the first available flight and from
there probably to Moscow. It's likely he'll be awarded a medal of some sort
and later would be, on TV or in his memoirs, recounting how he, alone, rode
through half of the whole Chechnya, or something like that. Well, good luck
to him.
4
At 8.00 in the morning we began loading our wounded onto cars and
lining up the convoy. Earlier, clashing along the way, armoured vehicles
from the first and second battalions broke through to us with their dead and
wounded. Since there was not enough room in the yard for everyone, only the
worst ones were loaded up there. The rest, who were relatively OK: in clear
mind, were squashed into armoured trucks using stretchers, crutches and
whatever else could be utilised. All who could fire weapons rode on top of
APCs. Everyone knew well, that those inside armoured carriers would
inevitably die in case of a direct grenade hit or a mine explosion. Thus,
responsibility for them rested heavily on shoulders of those riding atop of
the "armour". The convoy turned out bigger than expected. In all:
fifteen APCs. Wheeled trucks were dropped in favour of the armoured APCs
since even a rifle bullet could easily penetrate their cabs, not mentioning
cumulative grenades and mines.
Luckily (or may be not), a heavy fog came down on the city. The winter
here sucks. It's cold but there is no snow; the mud is not even mud, but
rather a thick layer of muck that just swallows your boots. To free them you
have to apply loads of pressure and they come out with huge pieces of filthy
sludge on them. Vehicles had the same problem. What will it be like here in
spring? During the night, surface has been covered with a little crust of
ice and thus, we thought we could try and slip away quietly and quickly,
using the fog and frozen soil. Comms operators radioed every one of our
neighbours and the "North" that our convoy is about to leave.
One paradox was that all army units, regardless of the kind, have been
using the same radio frequencies and call signs that they did when they came
into Grozny. All of which meant that if you try to scan the radio traffic
within the range of 3 to 30 MHz, during the day, you could easily find out
where each unit is located and what exactly it is doing there. Moreover you
would know the names of the unit's leader, radio operator and all sorts of
other useful and not so useful information. By the way, our opponents were
not much smarter, keeping their frequencies and call signs unchanged for
weeks at a time. Well, we kind of, matched each other over there. Services
of the radio traffic interception and disinformation of both sides were on
top at all times. However, chechens had one unquestionable advantage - they
could speak Russian and therefore deceive us; we, on the other hand, could
not speak Chechen and thus were helpless trying to fool them.
More often than not, during clashes as well as during the breaks
between them, aborigines, having set up radio contact with our units, tried
to make propaganda conversations and of coarse threats. Since the first
clashes they started calling us "dogs". Another example would be
the Train Station assault. Back then, "spooks" fooled our
neighbouring artillery regiment, and the lads, thinking they had spoken to
us, for about 30 minutes, were thoroughly shelling us. Unfortunately these
cases were not unique. With time, through the system of codes and passwords,
we slowly stopped walking into chechen traps. After many of our men have
already been killed or injured. And no matter what, our brigade, and those
units that worked together with us, kept using old frequencies and call
signs, right to the very time of our withdrawal. Army stupidity. What can
you do? Unfortunately it was everywhere. Any suggestions from the lower
levels of the power pyramid were met with resentment.
Considering all this, we knew for sure, that our convoy's departure was
not only known to the General Command in the "North", but also
wasn't a secret to half of the rebels in town. Nevertheless, even if it was
a probable suicide, we stood by our decision. Without the proper medical
attention, men could simply die out here; moreover, they tied everybody
else's hands with their presence. They have become a burden and an extra
target. Besides, considering our next objective, we had to free up room for
future casualties. Thus, after a short hesitation, we turned our faiths over
to the good fortune and started our journey. Our path lied along the streets
of a demolished city that, with its ruins, rather depicted the old
chronicles of Stalingrad half a century ago. Death watched us from every
basement and every window. A sniper could be hiding in there or an RPG
launcher. He could've gone to the same military college as us. Or may be
fought with us side-by-side in Afghanistan, Angola or here in one of our
country's hot spots.
According to the well-developed tactics, the first and the last
vehicles in the convoy are destroyed first. Then, the rest of the column is
methodically eliminated. Reliable tactics. Very few ever escape.
- Let's move! - The instruction came from our Com-brig. He rode on the
second APC.
Recon guys were riding on their two carriers in front of the convoy.
For ten minutes everything was fine. In a couple of days after we arrived in
Grozny, our General Command ordered us to clearly mark our vehicles. For
example, our cars had letter "S" painted on their sides, meaning
Sebirian Military District.
A bitter taste suddenly appeared in my mouth, although, there was no
nervous rush as yet. That will come later. I knew that, all of us did. We
all experienced the same feelings all over again. Suddenly a popular song
motive played in my mind: "I want so much to crash into this
town!" Yep, that's right, I really do want that. Or better crash into
Mozdok, where our General Command is, which in turn, was heading our
directional command. Nobody really knew why the hell we needed them in the
first place. They always wanted to control separate detachments, over their
COs' heads, which always ended up badly for the latter.The most interesting
part was that they, in Mozdok, enjoyed the same allowances as we had over
here. There weren't many of them, but still, at least we earned them. For
instance, one day here counted as three and we'd get paid double time when
we came home; that's pretty much it. And you, my reader, thought that we
would be enjoying all the privileges of soldiers in a war zone. Yeah, right!
There is no war in Chechnya. All this is the fruit of your TV's rich
imagination.
Although occupied by these thoughts, I didn't forget to constantly look
around. So much we've destroyed here and we'll destroy yet even more.
Demolishing is not the same as building. I carefully looked at my grunts'
faces. All covered in dust, burnt by local winds, parched by the gunpowder
from frequent shooting and grenade explosions. I noticed a grunt, sitting at
the back, in his burnt through tank crew uniform and patched up head. I
looked at him again more carefully this time. Wow, this guy is one hell of a
lucky bustard. He was a driver-mechanic with the surname of German or Jewish
origin - Goldstein.
We had people of all sorts of nationalities in our brigade including
even uzbeks and tadzhiks. This tanker was driving his tank through the
Grozny entrance and the infantry were taking cover behind it. Back then, no
one of the grunts knew that you must walk <i>in front</i> of the
tank and only then it will save you. Now they know. It was a very expensive
learning curve. Since they were entering the town at night, this guy was
driving in the position "on manoeuvre", sticking his head out of
the hatchway.God knows why some sniper didn't snatch him. Others they picked
on the fly, this one was just plain lucky. He was lucky again when a rocket
slammed into his tank's right side. Goldstein was propelled out of the tank
like a cork, about fifteen meters up high and landed on a tree branch. I
thought he was gone. But he's alive, only patched up a little meaning
everything else is intact. Probably had a bad concussion. I wouldn't worry:
They'll fix him up quickly in his historical homeland. I can remember when
the conscripts arrived six months ago, he was begging not to be assigned
anywhere to do with secrets*. If it weren't for the Army, he'd be with his
relatives by now. His parents have left already, but he was still finishing
up his graduate university diploma and didn't complete it in time. In any
case he'll be discharged now and would be treated like a human being for
once.
* AD. Until recently, Jews in Russia (or anybody else) could be refused
travelling visa to leave the country if they served in the military units
that looked after classified technology. It was of particular importance to
Jews, rather that to any other nationality, as this was the time of their
mass migration to Israel. In this case, the man was drafted in the Army,
while his parents have already immigrated. Serving in the strategic forces,
for example, could've held him back in Russia for three or more years after
his discharge. End of comment. AD
That artist, who was stuck with the second battalion, is also here with
us, riding on the fifth carrier. He came over with the wounded Chief of
Staff and their three injured grunts. Some snappy fellow he turned out to
be. Everyone expected him to be untouchable and star-like, but he is
actually an easygoing chap, having been stuck in the basement for three
days, under constant fire and counterattacks, according to the witnesses, he
didn't hide at all. He acted like a real man, even attending to the wounded.
They didn't give him a weapon though - he's pretty shortsighted, God forbid
for him to get hurt. Other than that, first class fellow. When the rag-heads
offered the battalion to surrender, the grunts told them that Shevchuk was
with them. The "spooks" didn't believe it at first. The grunts let
them listen to him on the radio and chechens offered to let him out, even
guaranteed his safe passage. He refused though. He also promised (and soon
we found out that he actually kept his promise) to send wounded grunts to a
hospital in Germany. Not only from our brigade but others too, paying for
that from his own pocket and his friends'. He was purchasing them wheel
chairs and artificial limbs without the usual hype. There was no reporters
or news conferences. He organised everything nicely and quietly, like a man.
The recon guys radioed that they were fired upon and are now full time
engaged in a skirmish. Estimated opponents' force - about 20 guns. Nobody
used "Shmels" so far, only personal launchers and rifles.
We made our decision - press forward. Because of the fog we couldn't
see our enemy, they too can't see us for sure, thus firing pretty much
blindly. The Com-brig ordered to put up the smoke covers and we added black
smoke to the fog, just like crude oil in a milk container.
Coming close, our trucks fired their cannons at the reported positions.
Then BMP-3s opened up from their machineguns. Finally, we too, like in a
well-schooled orchestra, lined up with our rifles and grenades. Great
panorama, I'd tell you. From the thick black cloud of smoke, about a
kilometre wide, the spirts of tracers were gushing everywhere, grenades were
flying, leaving smoking tails behind them. A scene, that could be worthy of
an artist's effort. Emotions were running hight too. We couldn't know if our
path was clear - may be a wall along the way collapsed by itself or somebody
helped it. Or may be an antitank mine is hidden somewhere in the piles of
trash. But there was no fear, in my mind or in the eyes of the grunts that
surrounded me here. We all knew that if we fail, our wounded comrades would
die. Our decision was to go to the end: to the death or victory.
So far we were definitely lucky, the engines roared on high revs,
adding their semi-processed fuel exhausts to the thick smoke cover. Although
the convoy stretched along a wide area, Com-brig decided not to break it
down into small mobile units but still carry on as one column.
Going past this neighbourhood, we kept our speed as high as we could
squeeze out of our darling APCs. Finally we cleared it, surprisingly enough,
without any friendly fire accidents. Maybe the rag-heads retreated or for
some other reason, but nobody was shooting at us any more or chasing us. But
all of us knew that it was still too early to relax. We had to keep going
and survive.
Recognisance party ahead of us, radioed in that they reached first of
our neighbouring roadblocks. That's better. Now the airborne units will walk
us through their territory. They are OK soldiers, but not persistent enough
and too cocky. They can't tenaciously assault the same target for a long
time. They push furiously at first, but gradually, run out of steam. They
act well as a supporting force, but on their own, of not much use. They have
been trained to storm a structure, destroy it and get out of there. They are
not prepared for these long and backbreaking battles. But our mahra is a
different thing all together. In excruciating heat, rain or snowstorm, we'll
carry on anywhere: in the arctic, deserts or swamps. We'll die but complete
the objective.
On the roadblock, airborne guys were waving us and smiled, showing
their teeth on the same parched faces as ours. It was a delight to see that
we are not alone here in this hostile land.
Their com-bat promised to send a party to sweep the area where we were
ambushed.
In case they'd find spooks there, he'll register them as his kills, we,
in turn, would write them down as ours, indicating the approximate number of
the enemy infantry destroyed. Some funny guy at the "North"
managed to calculate how many of the enemy we have knocked down here in
Chechnya. Turned out that during the 10 days of fighting we have wiped out
the entire Chechen population twice around. It's strange, it's only been 10
days, but seems like not less than six months. If you believe reports of the
Red Army commanders during the Second World War, the army of the Wermacht
was destroyed about 100 times. As for us, we don't have to free half of
Europe this time, but according to the reports we are ahead of any army.
Thus, my reader, listening to the news bulletins, multiply our losses by
three and divide enemy losses by two, then, you'd have a more or less clear
picture of what is going on.
The airborne lads tried to offload their wounded onto us, but we could
hardly squeeze our own asses on the "armour". Inside the vehicles
our own wounded were piled up like logs. If they wanted to come with us, no
problem, but they'd have to use their own trucks and their own escort. We
won't be waiting for them either as every second is counting. What are you
saying? We're bustards? Fine, we're bustards, but you still medivac your own
men. We have neither the time nor desire to argue with you. We understand
you perfectly. If we start arguing now, you might even convince us or
prepare your own cars. You should've thought about it beforehand. You had
all night for that. Cheers men, good-bye. No, don't bother trying. Where did
you send us? OK, stand still, we'll be coming back, talk to you then.
We watched our Com-brig talking to their com-bat. Of coarse we couldn't
hear anything, but we could observe the gestures they were using in their
conversation, thus reading who sent who and where. When they were done
myself and the grunts cackled simultaneously. But no one dared to yell
anything upsetting or make a gesture of that kind. We understood what
position they were in, but your wounded you medivac yourself. We're all a
bit foxy, like the Jews, enjoy solving our problems with somebody else's
help, but not the problems of this magnitude.
We cleared the airborne zone of responsibility and now entered the area
where for about ten blocks we would be moving along the zone for which the
spooks were responsible. And they were obviously controlling it. OK,
mutherfuckers, we'll medivac our wounded and take care of you. Let's
concentrate on the medivac for now. I raise my hand and the grunts start
carefully watching surrounding us rubble. Talking, screaming or instructing
makes no point - the roar, fumes and dust from the carriers in front of us
are making any attempt bound for failure. If you open your mouth trying,
it'll be crammed with turd. Another beauty of riding atop of APC is that it
is shaking violently as it moves and if you relax your jaws for a second you
can lose your teeth or bite your own tongue off. There was a gag that some
dumb ass, not from our garrison of coarse, bit his tongue's tip off like
that, but the corpsemen sewed it back. He was discharged afterwards. I've
heard so many of these gags during my commission that I can write a book
now. Especially I like that fact that nothing ever happens in our garrison,
but our neighbours - are a constant mess. But they are of the exact same
opinion about us.
The grunt next to me shouted something, pointing his finger at the top
floor of a building near by and firing his rifle in that direction. My
reflexes kicked in at once. My rifle let off a few bursts before I
consciously stopped and actually looked there. A pair of binoculars that lay
on the window frame was blasted to pieces. If you want to live, you shoot
first and then think and look. Everyone finds out this formula after his
first gunfight. I'm yelling out and waving to stop the shooting. Gradually
it fades out. I'm not angry at the grunt. In our line of business it's
better to overcook than undercook.
The carriers are speeding forward without slowing down. Recon party
radios in to report they are again taking fire. This time from three
directions simultaneously. Now, they are waiting for our approach, as they
can't handle the clash on their own. Com-brig called the neighbours for
assistance to try and hammer the rag-heads in the rear, meanwhile we are
speeding ahead to help out our scouts.
The last APCs in line have retarded a bit so that in case of an ambush
we don't become completely trapped. As we approached the intersection, the
avenue, where our recon party took their turn, was barricaded with bricks,
two neighbouring streets were also blocked, and thus we are either to break
through or to retreat. If we do decide to retreat, there is no insurance
that we wouldn't walk into another trap. Com-brig has made his decision:
break through. Ryzhov and myself both completely upheld his choice.
Those who could fire weapons leapt off the "armour" and the
carriers rolled back covering us. First, we wanted to push the spooks inside
the block and then, under fire, try and dismantle the barricade. Hiding
behind the piles of trash we shot back. Both sides exchanged fire furiously.
Suddenly a grenade exploded somewhere close to me - pieces of a blasted
grunt flipped into the air and landed 5 meters away from me with dull sound.
In a couple of seconds another soldier died the same terrible death. In the
heat of the gunfight I had no time to look who that was. Next to the second
body, three other grunts were whirling on the asphalt, screaming with pain
and pressing fingers against their wounds. Their coats were soaking in
blood. We thought at first that somebody was using a launcher, but then
another grunt shifted a brick and noticed an F-1 grenade, lying under a pile
of rubbish without its safety pin. Now everything was clear.
Smart sons of bitches the spooks turned out to be. They cleverly chose
the spot for their ambush and also considered that we would dismount and
confront them. Our future positions, imposed by them, they booby-trapped
with hand-grenades. In a gunfight you have to move around a lot: tumble,
spin and hide behind the rubble. That's where they placed these nice toys -
F-1 grenades without safety pins. You shift the brick on top of it, its
guard lever flies off and here you go, in 6 seconds it bursts. Shrapnel
cover an area of about 200 meters. No one mine will have the same effect.
Now we had to solve this dilemma -either pull back or try and
counterattack to bust the rag-heads out of the apartment block. Not much
choice. Neighbours radioed that they are on their way and called for air
support. That is exactly what we don't want. A soldier has many enemies at
war, but one of the biggest is his own air force. Doubtfully they'll ever
get the rag-heads, but to drop a few bombs on their own positions is a done
deal. That's why we asked our rushing reinforcements to call off the
"sky raiders". They'll stuff it up anyway. Instructions to storm
the building were passed along the chain. We also told the "boxes"
to open up from everything they have, keep going like that for 10 minutes
and then cease fire and wait for further instructions.
Every grunt and officer has his personal first aid kit, which contains
an ordinary set of medications, like painkillers, anti-radiation pills and
the likes. There are also drinking water tablets that can be used in any
water except the seawater. Drop it into a puddle if you like, it'll roil for
a second or two and you can drink it now without fear of catching some
disease. It'd have a chlorine stench though.
Every detachment has so called anti-fear tablets. When soldiers are
dog-tired and can't move their feet any more, not mentioning attacks, their
will is paralysed. Then their CO gives the order to hand out these tablets.
The grunts eat them, rest for a while and spring to their feet. No one knows
where the strength comes from and where the fear goes.
Now we didn't have those tablets as well as the need for them. After a
few gunfights, where the spooks were prevailing in every aspect and every
little thing we gained was paid for dearly in efforts and losses, now men
were experienced and confident and the rag-heads were getting a decent
response for once. They no longer bullied carelessly, doped and squalling
something about their Allah. First time it's actually quite scary, charging
like spellbound, unafraid of bullets.
At last our carriers opened up. Cracking salvos of their cannons and
machineguns, at first, muffled short barking bursts of BMP-3s, but they
caught up quickly with the old well-proven two-s. We also didn't fall behind
with our rifles and launchers.
APCs hit hard for ten minutes and then stopped as was agreed. The high
pitched ding from the shooting was still in our ears, but now we had to
attack. Our opponents had a lot more problems with their sense of dimension.
Our shells were bursting in their tight nests, causing them to go crazy with
terror. They were also still in awe from the air strikes. Now was the right
time for the final move.
This time nobody raised the grunts off the ground with his own example,
like it used to be here during the first days. Every one of them sprung up
by himself, some with the ancient "hoorah" other just yelling out
from fear and excess of adrenalin, all were running ahead like one. When you
plunge into attack like this, something medieval wakes up inside you. It
seems you are watching yourself from aside, observing the gunfight, noticing
every little thing. May be the common grudge and fear at this moment bear
this collective ability?
While we were clearing the open space of about 100 meters, we were met
with rare and disorganised gunfire. No one of our men was hit, but the
grunts, on the run and from the waist, were discharging long bursts at the
broken windows where the deadly gush of lead was coming from.
At last we crash into the doorway of this once apartment block, others
are storming the remaining four entrances of the "khruschevka".
Human reflexes are such that you always notice what's on your
right-hand side first and then move to the left. Spooks made a good use of
this fact and when we barged into a block they always stood to the left of
the entrance. While we were automatically checking out everything on the
right-hand side, they had a few seconds to shoot us in the back. Some time
has passed before we learnt to toss a hand-grenade before walking inside and
looked first to the left of the doorway.
The sunlight started to break through the fog but here inside the
building it was still dark from the shooting. Dust, mixed with gunpowder and
some other chemicals hung in the air, abstracting the view.
Together with some fifteen grunts we ran into the block. I glanced at
the grunts with my side-vision. Looks like there are no cowards amongst
them. All experienced. Two flats on the first floor, meaning that we should
expect the same structure further up. Three grunts took guard on the
staircase between the first and second floors, covering us from possible
attacks from above. The rest are fetching safety pins from their
hand-grenades. "Ready". Nocking down the door, it's not even
locked but blasted by explosions, barely hanging off the frame. Our boots
ram it down completely this time. I yell out: "Let's go!!!"
We move out from the doorways, hiding behind the concrete walls. In
three flats, grenades detonated almost simultaneously, probably about eight
of them. My head feels like a church bell, smoke and dust is coming out of
the blasted doorways. Move, move and don't stop now. Checking left, now
right. Tonnes of dust in the air, can't see shit. Squeezing off two long
bursts from the waist. We don't need no prisoners, not enough food for
ourselves. Move! Move! Kitchen: nobody there; bathroom: the door is slightly
open, screw it, another two bursts from the waist, the bathtub could be a
nice hide from the shrapnel. I node to the grunt next to me, covering my
rear. He jerks the door open and I pull the trigger slowly moving my rifle's
barrel sidewards. It is convulsing in my arms like a living organism and
flushing the bathtub with a deadly flow. The smashed off pieces from the tub
are flipping in the air. Meanwhile other grunts are firing into next rooms
dark with dust and smoke. Built-in wardrobes and shelves are also checked
thoroughly. That's all with this two bedroom flat. Let's move on to the
upper floors.
The grunts guarding the staircase, indicate that they have just spotted
some movement in one of the second floor apartments. Other grunts come out
of their flats and join us. Those who guarded the staircase move up one more
floor. I don't have to give out any instructions here, every grunt knows his
manoeuvre too well. No need to yell at anybody. All of us work together like
a well-tuned mechanism. Everyone covers everybody else's back.
We repeat the same process on the second floor. We barge into the room
tripping on a dead body ripped apart from a grenade explosion. That one's
cooked. Moving along. There's nobody here. Three more levels to go, rooftop
and the basement. Move! Move!
Grunts report they discovered two more stiffs in the neighbouring flat.
Screw them. Moving along. I look at my watch: it took us seven minutes to
check two floors, we have to speed this whole thing up.
On the third floor, when we knock the doors down, somebody inside the
flat yells out without accent: "Don't shoot, don't shoot!" I raise
my fist. Grunts hold back. I shout: "Come out slowly, hands behind your
head".
Wauling, a filthy chap is coming out, bristling with hand-grenades and
a chechen knife (dagger welded together with stiletto), looks Russian.
Smearing dirty tears on his face and weeping he's squalling that he was just
drafted, he's just an ordinary con and nothing else, never killed anyone of
ours. I notice some five personal dog-tags hanging around his neck. Earlier,
they were only given out to officers, now, since we arrived in Chechnya,
everyone gets a set. It looks like a little metal plate shaped like oval,
about five santimeters in length and three wide. Along its length the plate
is broken in two parts, upper part has "VS SSSR" stamped on it,
the lower one has a letter and a six-digit code. Every soldier has his own
code. The plate is cast from a stainless alloy. First they started using
these plates after an experimental rocket fell down onto some committee and
burnt it completely. At war every soldier wears it, jut like American GIs,
except they also have their names and blood type printed there.
I noticed that this "ordinary con" wore these dog-tags around
his neck. There were a lot of scumbags bumming around Chechnya, which were
surely due for jail time in Russia. Here they were like brothers to the
local bandits. As locals told us, to prove their loyalty they tortured
soldiers even worse than the chechens themselves. I grabbed him by the
dog-tag chains, coiled them onto my fist and twitched the shaking con
towards me. Grunts knew well what was going to follow. Some spooks collected
personal numbers of soldiers they have killed.
- What is this, asshole? - I asked him and kept pulling the chains.
- I found them, I swear. I didn't kill nobody. They forced me to, - he
squalled weeping.
I shoved my rifle in his chest and pulled the trigger. Bullets ripped
it open smearing my pants with his blood. The body jerked backwards, the
neck snapped but it was still hanging by the dog-tag chains. It seemed the
souls of the dead soldiers wouldn't let their murderer go free. Barrel still
stuck in the con's chest I asked the grunt next to me:
- Cut the chains, will you.
He stripped the knife from the dead con and sliced the chains with one
quick move. The no longer hanging body dropped to the ground with a thud.
Grunt reached his hand out with the dagger offering it to me. I shook my
head and he stashed it in his boot. I rose, put the dog-tags into one of my
pockets and gave an order:
- Get your hand-grenades ready and let's move.
Again explosions roared and we barged inside other flats. There we
found five more dead bodies. Without any further ado we squeezed off a few
bursts into each one of them just in case. One of the "deceased"
suddenly came alive and tried to draw his rifle - cross fire coming from
three directions simultaneously nearly chopped him to pieces.
All of a sudden we heard a grenade explosion and a rifle burst. We
quickly finished off checking the apartment and popped outside. The gunfight
there was in full swing. Rag-heads from the upper floors were attempting to
break through to downstairs. Three grunts were keeping them up there; two
more soldiers, covering the basement entrance, hustled up to help them. We
too quickly got into the skirmish. Here on the narrow staircases we were too
crowded. To add to the confusion, spooks started throwing hand-grenades
down. Huddled down here together we couldn't possibly hide from them. Thank
God, the morons threw them at the very moment they were pulling safety pins
out, thus giving us time to push them away onto the lower floors.
We also returned fire as best as we could. Two of the grunts were
blasting off grenades from their under-barrels, the other four spraying the
spooks from their rifles, keeping them at bay. Meanwhile something blew up
there with a terrible boom. Ceiling collapsed in one of the kitchens on the
third floor. Five grunts quickly dived into the breach and now the gunfight
shifted to the fourth level. Coming up, from the point blank range, we
wasted the rag-heads in the back. We were afraid of coarse to waist our own
grunts, but this time we were lucky. After the clean up, twelve more bodies
were left up on the fourth floor. Not bad at all, if according to the
Regulation the ratio should be one defender to three or four members of the
assaulting team. On the fifth floor nobody greeted us except for two dead
bodies. With caution with we came up the roof. There is nobody there too,
meaning that we are the first ones up here and have to help out other storm
groups in the neighbouring blocks. I split my men, myself choosing the block
Ryzhov went into. Walking on the roof we could here the gunfire in every
block.
Carefully we are opening the hatchway. Judging from the noise, the
shootout is in between the first and second floors. We are starting the
clean up from the fifth floor down. Voices and gunfire are coming from the
two-bedroom flat, apparently the shooting comes from the inside. OK,
assholes, let's roll. Hand-grenades at stand-by, at the nod of my head, the
door is smashed open, we throw the grenades in and take cover. Burst; move,
move; one of the grunts stays here guarding the staircase, I turn left:
burst into an empty corner and burst dead ahead. The grunt on my right
already checked the right hand side discharging a burst into the right
corner. We finish off two wounded by the window. Next to them lies an RPG-7
rocket grenade launcher, fine toy. We take the launcher and the seven
remaining rounds for it with us.
Downstairs, the spooks apparently realised what happened and doubled
their efforts attempting to fight their way out of the trap. Our grunts on
the other side also figured that the help is near and pressed with renewed
energy. We came down to the forth floor. Shooting off the doors and tossing
in grenades. In two flats we discover a few more of the rag-heads' stiffs.
No idea whose job that was, someone else's or ours, but what does it matter
anyway. Move, move, downstairs, tempo, tempo. Hold on fellows, we're close.
The spooks disparately tried to move upstairs and blow us off. No way,
I'm yelling out:
- Yurka, stay down, I'll meet them up here.
We hear the treading and fire from the RPG and the under-barrels,
ducking behind the concrete to cover from shrapnel. One of the grunts
screams with pain. A shrapnel piece ricocheted in his arm. Two men stayed
behind to give him first aid. The remaining grunts and myself fire into the
dense blur of smoke and dust after the explosion. No one is shooting back.
- Slava, don't shoot, we're coming up.
- Let's move, boys, slowly. May be some son of a bitch is still there,
- I yell to my grunts.
We're slowly moving downstairs, ready to open up at even a slightest
suspicion of movement. On the staircase between the forth and the third
floors we stumble on the torn apart bodies of our resent foe. The BDUs on
some are still burning. Nostrils are tingling from the stench of parched
human flesh, cotton and something else, terribly stinky. I'm labouring not
to vomit. Suddenly, from the dark, grunts' faces are emerging from the
downstairs. We're all happy and hugging.
- Still alive, demon? - We couldn't get enough of each other, like
lovers after a long break-up.
- How did we bust the shitheads, ha? Hammered the crap out of them! -
Yurka was wound up. Despite the cold, everybody was steaming hot.
- I grabbed some scumbag back in there. Squalled he was just a con, but
had dog-tags dangling round his neck. Here they are, - I pulled a bunch of
dog-tags out of my pocket, - I sent him off to meet his victims.
- You did the right thing. They dug in well in here. With machinegun
and all. Not even one approach. But thanks to you
- OK, let's go. You owe me a drink. - I fetched a packet of cigarettes,
my home ones, "TU-134", the sniper's smokes were long gone. It's a
petty, they were really nice, - have some, the NATO threat.
Happily chatting this way, though still in the heat of the gunfight, we
walked out on the street. Following us, grunts helped my wounded lad out. He
walks by himself though, his arm patched tightly, meaning that he'll live.
Out here, the clash was also over. Apparently, the spooks retreated
from their other positions, realising that we would've taken care of them
too if they hadn't. The barricade was also nearly dismantled. From that
direction our neighbours were coming up.
- Slava, look. What the hell is that? - The approaching grunts had some
tanks, they wore like backpacks, carrying metal pipes in their hands
attached to the tanks by rubber hoses.
- I think it's flame-throwers. I've never seen them live, but heard
that some units got them off the emergency reserves and dragged them over
here. Probably a marvellous tool.
Meanwhile all our grunts left the building and the newly arrived
soldiers, with jokes, approached the basement windows and having tossed a
pair of hand-grenades in there first, started pouring from their
backpack-type flamethrowers, which these devices did turn out to be. Bravo.
Streams of flame, human hand sized and about 10 meters in length, widening
as they left the pipes were flowing into the basements. At once we felt the
stench of burnt kerosene and something else of the kind.
- First class gadget. I wish we had more of them. We'd smoke the snakes
out for sure. We should throw the idea at our commander to ask for them in
the "North". Since they are sending us to storm "The
Minutka", might as well give us these, - I said, watching with
admiration as grunts having finished off our building are preparing to fry
some other structure.
- I've heard, in Afghan, there was a flame-throwing tank, but turned
out useless in the mountains and was taken off the production line, - Yura
said climbing our APC.
- Such morons, ha? They could've figured that we'd have to take towns
at some stage instead of clashing in the mountains or in the open all the
time. Bloody Moskovites; what can you possibly get from them, except a urine
sample, and that one will be hopeless too, - I spewed and tried to settle
comfortably on top of the "armour".
- Attention! All ready?- Then the order came through, - Move! On the
march!
As we set off, APC underneath me jerked sharply trying to shake us off
the "armour", but clinging to each other and to every extending
part on the APC's surface, we held on. Internal forces are lucky in that
respect: they have the BTR-80s. Very smooth piece of machinery, moving fast
and soft. We, on the other hand, have bulldozers.
As we approached the flame-throwers' roadblock, we again greeted each
other shouting.
The rest of the journey was pretty uneventful, although we were
prepared for any surprise. Now first outposts and roadblocks of the
"North" airport were coming into view along the way. Whole
regiment guarded the airport. When rumours came that spooks planned to
assault it, another airborne battalion was fetched to help the defences.
- One battle is over and another one begins, the longer and harder one
and more important too, - I said to Yura.
The mood was changing from the merry, since we came back all OK, to
more grim and serious. We had to attend the briefing with the High Command
representatives. The latter were itching to send us to our deaths.
5
- Regardless of the briefing's outcome I'll drink myself stupid
tonight, - my good mood was totally gone by now and I was grimly watching
the airport sentry. They have already managed to wash up and some even
changed into brand spanking new BDUs.
I looked at my blood-splattered pants, my filthy coat, burnt and even
twice shot through by shrapnel. In peace life, a first police patrol would
pick me up for sure dressed like this. A total tramp.
- I agree Slavian, we should get wasted today. Moreover, I owe you one,
- Yurka, on the contrary, was in a fabulous mood.
- Where are you planning to get the liqueur? From under the bench? - I
and Ryzhov, before the Grozny campaign, chipped in and bought three boxes of
Vodka as well as seven litres of pure ethanol that I swapped for a
camouflage set from the comms operators in commemoration of our old
friendship. Thus, I would be very surprised if he found alcohol in any other
place.
- Where else? Spooks closed their stashes and our Voentorg never comes
out beyond the "North"
- Listen, near the field hospital, there is a Voentorg trading spot.
Let's try to get some beer down there (fallen off the truck of coarse). What
do you think? - Beer was a terrible temptation. Right now, right here, I
even imagined its tight, bubbly, cool flow streaming down my throat and
heavily bumping against my stomach walls on its way down. And I would drink
it right from the bottle, no glasses, hate them. May be it's my unfit family
upbringing, but I just like it like that and there is nothing I can do about
it.
- Good idea. We've got about twenty minutes, while they are offloading
the wounded. The problem is if they actually have beer and if we've got
enough dough? - He said, dumping everything from his pockets, including the
useless here money and counted it.
- I've got some more, - said I, pulling out some crumpled paper nodes,
- get cigarettes too, preferably something nice.
- Like a rich life, don't you? - Ryzhov sneered.
- Yeah, rich life, sure. When right before your eyes people live like
moguls, - I looked at "the royal court" regiment's HQ with a sigh.
- Wait until we walk into the hospital with all its women, - Yurka was
clearly tormenting me.
- I'd either rape ten of them at once or put a bullet in my head.
The hospital was situated in the airport's left wing, in the
ex-restaurant building. Rumours had it that this restaurant used to belong
to some relative of Dudaev's. Along the way we met some doctors and actually
female nurses. At war, any woman is a goddess.It's not just about sexual
deprivation. Looking or simply talking to them you don't harden up as fast.
That thin wire that connects you back to the "normal" life doesn't
break as quickly. We have no women in our brigade, maybe that's probably why
we are so drawn to them. But first desire, of coarse, is purely sexual. Why
don't we have mobile brothels with us? In the past wars were gradual and
rigidly positioned. People had respect for their opponent. They had fine
moving canteens, mobile brothels, champagne and whites. How times have
changed? Not for the better, if you ask me, although, medical science is
definitely on top. So far none of the incoming wounded here has died.
- We're home! - Com-brig first leapt off his carrier.
Everybody else followed him, warming up their numb legs and bums.
Surgeons and nurses ran over and started offloading our wounded and dead.
The latter are to be placed in wooden and then in zinc coffins, soldered in,
meshed, to make it more comfortable to carry, and sent home to their parents
as "Cargo-200". With the coffins, parents will also receive death
notifications and thanking notes for their sons' wonderful upbringing.
That's about it. After the funerals they'll have commemorative salvo fired
into the air in their honour, with dummy rounds, by military college
students or young soldiers. Both types are potential candidates for the same
"elegant" burial in the nearest future. The God of War demands new
sacrifices and opposing sides supply them in full.
Then parents or wife of the dead soldier will be paid ten-year salary:
the whole five million rubles. During the next six-month they'll have
visitors and after that, as it is customary, they'll be left to themselves.
When mother or wife comes to the authorities for help (no matter which,
military or civilian), first, they'll nicely talk to her and then tell her
that there is no money or prospects for help at this stage. And if she
persists, they'd state the following: we, personally, did not send your son
(or husband) to this war. Go ask for help those who did and please do not
come here again because people who sent your son to his death must've
forgotten to allocate money for your pension, your licking roof, telephone
and so on. You can, my reader, complain all you want; there will be nothing
done. The power hungry would say about you: "This is that woman who
lost her son (or husband) in that war". That will be said jokingly, so
that you weep, my reader, and run away never to come back here again. Even
if they throw something at you for the New Years Eve or The Army Day. Now
think if it's worth sending your son into that butchery because of some sick
old Head Commander. Think well. By the way, during the Chechen campaign, he
had a grandson of the drafting age, but for some reason, I have never seen
him there, even on civilian visits.
Meanwhile our wounded were being offloaded and carried into the
hospital rooms. We followed them. Nobody was paying any attention to us.
Ryzhov and I were staring at the women. No point in flirting anyway, they
have already been shared and allocated long ago. Our appearances also didn't
help. We were searching for the semi-legal Voentorg trading spot or any
local crook that can sell us liqueur and cigarettes. History of the war
shows that there have always been some niggling criminals who make money
reselling small wanted goods. Nothing really law-breaking, on the contrary,
they are doing more good supplying men with those little things from the
"normal" life that they are deprived of. The problem is money. For
some it's war, for others it's their darling mother. May be that is what it
should be? No, I don't think so; my upbringing and poor life experience
wouldn't let me do this.
We were hanging around the hospital asking grunts where we could get
some beer and cigarettes. But since this was a medivac hospital, as a rule,
soldiers never stayed here for longer than a day and thus knew nothing. But
suddenly we noticed a corporal, with a mug, wider than two of ours put
together. He wore new camouflage fatigues and standing next to the window
was leisurely puffing a ciggi. That mug expressed vanity and
self-indulgence. It seemed nothing around concerned him. He did not look
wounded at all.
I pushed Yurka in the ribs when he was flat out staring at a nurse
rushing to attend to some matter and fortunate enough to walk past us.
Judging by the hungry expression on his face, he's already raped her about
ten times and kept going.
- OK, that's enough. We are here with a peacekeeping mission. Remember?
You better look at that panorama, - I showed him the mighty worrier, - I
think his body can be used to plug ten machinegun nests at the same time. It
seems he represents the whole might of Russia's armed forces. What do you
think Yura?
I deliberately talked in loud voice for the grunt to hear us. Yurka
read my plot and kept going.
- Yeah man. You're right. We lack lads like this one in the recon unit.
They need some kind of human shield. Or better yet in the storm group,
pulling wounded out of the killing zone.
The soldier slowly moved his eyes onto us without even turning his
head. We didn't wear any insignia, like many other officers. Snipers have
this bad habit of picking officers first. Some kind of sad hatred they have
for us. Well, everyone has his own thing and for them it's professional and
even well paid.
- Sonny, - politely and smoothly started Yura, - what would you say if
we invited you down for a visit, so that you, prick, could see the war for
yourself? Otherwise, you'll just come home with a metal thingy on your
chest, having actually never seen it.
All of this Yurka was telling quietly, thus passing surgeons didn't
even pay attention to us. Some fellow soldiers are standing here, chatting
peacefully, no trouble.
- Get stuffed, - the grunt mumbled leisurely without his head even
moving. There was so much scorn in his voice that it made me sick.
Momentarily the grudge inside me was alive. I know that in moments like this
I exercise very little control and can do a lot of stupid things, but the
thoughts come to me later.
- Turn around, scum, when a line officer is talking to you, and
apologise immediately, - I too tried to keep my voice down, but the words
were boiling inside. No one soldier ever dared to insult me, no matter what
state they were in. In my being a green lieutenant I had to calm down a
drunken sentry once. And here, this supply sergeant piece of shit dared to
offend two of us.
The fat skunk turned his head and jokingly stared at us in silence,
with his appearance obviously laughing at us. Both of us figured that words
here were useless and we had to act. There was a niche near by, where
hospital personnel kept their cleaning gear. From two sides simultaneously,
we fast picked up the young man under his arms and shoved him into the dark
and humid closet. At once I grabbed him by the throat to keep him from
screaming and Yurka thrust his rifle in the guy's belly and pressed it real
hard. Even in this meagre lighting we could see that the lad went pale. His
eyes were popping out and screams were bursting out of his throat, but I was
holding them tight in there, squeezing his throat stiffer, only allowing him
to breath. I leaned over to his ear and whispered:
- I will now let go my hand a little, if you, scumbag, promise to be a
good boy and give us your apologies quietly. Beer and cigarettes too, I'm
sure you've got some. If you agree, blink once, if not, I'll just strangle
you right here and my friend will shoot your balls off. I'm sure no one
would care, we'll write you off as a battle loss. And if you try to move a
muscle, we'll keep our promise with the neck and balls. Or we can load you
up on the truck and exchange with the rag-heads for beer and cigarettes.
Besides, you freak, we are offering you the same deal anyway. Get it,
asshole? - I squeezed his throat harder and Yurka pushed his AK a little
more in.
The grunt's eyelashes were flipping like butterflies near a light bulb:
- I'm sorry, please forgive me, sirs my mistake I promise won't happen
again, I'm giving you my word, - tears were falling down his face but I kept
my grip on his fat throat.
- What about the second part? - Asked Yurka, hinting at the beer and
cigarettes.
- No problem, right away, - The soldier hustled up and reached his
hands somewhere behind his head and produced a six-pack of
"Holsten" and a pack of "LM" or as we called it -
"Cop's love".
At last, we let the punk breath freely. I slapped him leniently on his
cheek, pulled crumpled five thousand rubles from my pocket and shoved it in
the weeping grunt's hand:
- Do not ever be rude, young men, and maybe you'll even live through
all this. There is the money for your goods, so that you don't tell anybody
that we are thugs. By the way, lend us a few bags for the groceries, will
you?
The grunt turned around and again in the dark started searching for
something in the buckets. Nice hide he's got here. Something banged inside
buckets, something metal, like a pistol. Is he really planning a trick? I
drew my rifle and pressed it hard against the junction of his scull and
backbone. There is pain spot there and if you hit it, a person can collapse
unconscious. In a moment Yurka too thrust his rifle against the man's
kidneys.
- Sonny, stop this, - I again spoke in a smooth voice, - or you,
scumbag, decided to die like a hero. If that's the case, then go ahead, try.
With my left hand I fetched my narrow stiletto and set it on his
throat. Cold blade, for some reason produced more result than my
Kalashnikov. Something metal banged in there again, he must've dropped it
back in the bucket. Removing the stiletto I jerked him towards me and
pressed the barrel under his chin. The grunt put his hands up, and his left
one he was holding a bag off some equipment. With my left hand I searched
behind his head and found a pistol. Wow! Makarov with a silencer! Bravo!
Probably swiped it from some wounded scout or a Special Forces guy. I
punched him in the nose with the pistol grip. He fell on the floor in a
rumpled heap. We left him there, picked up our bags and walked away.
Out on the street, the unloading was almost over and the Com-brig was
gathering up our officers to go to the briefing. We stashed the bags inside
our APC and told the driver that if we come back and they're gone he'll be
castrated and left out here to die. The grunt nodded and carried on
undressing passing women with his eyes. Walking behind our CO, we were
slowly puffing good cigarettes and discussing our arguments against the
head-on frontal assault of the bloody square.
- Let's do this: first - airforce, then artillery, tanks, rockets and
after they're all done, mahra goes in, what do you reckon? - Asked Yurka,
enjoying his cigarette and observing all the almost peaceful life around
here.
- And better yet: napalm bombs, so that everything would burn alive and
loud disco music for the spooks to sacrifice their lives to Allah with happy
thoughts, - I was experiencing peace of mind and almost sexual satisfaction
from the surrounding atmosphere and my cigarette. How little do we actually
need? Good smoke, tranquillity and women walking past.
Suddenly, we saw an officer whose face we instantly recognised. We were
taking the airport together. His regiment was then left here to guard it.
Lucky bustards.
- Yura, Slava, you're alive! What a delight! We've heard about your
deeds here and about Karpov too. We thought you guys wasted him, but all was
then cleared. He's surely an idiot. He is to receive The Order of Fortitude.
- So, you thought we killed the mother?
- No, not really, but here everybody knows he is a rat.
Yurka and I cackled loudly:
- Sasha, we saw him for the first time and gave him exactly that
nickname. Rat is rat. You better tell what the HQ has in store for the
Minutka Square and us.
- Fellows, listen to this: marines and some airborne units tried to
take it on the fly, then lost about thirty men and backed off. Now is your
turn.
- Get out of here!
- Yeah, that freaking peacemaker is there too. Radios to us all the
time with statements. Listen to the joke: he's up there, inside one of the
Dudaev's bunkers with his delegation committee and everybody has just
forgotten about them. No food, no water, no nothing. They start to wander
what to do. Suddenly he makes a suggestion: "Let's all convert to
Islam". His friends ask him: "Would it help?" He says:
"Not really, but we could make a soup out of the shreds!" -Sashka
cracked up.
We grinned at his joke and the news.
- Guys, I work here in supplies now, come on over at some stage. Now
I've got to run; somebody beat the shit out one of the grunts in the
hospital.
With our jaws dropped from surprise about Sashka's new appointment, we
picked up our pace to catch up with the rest of our group. We cared not for
the hospital grunt's health. I bet his skull is fine. Nosebleed is nothing,
probably tripped over something in the dark. Could anybody possibly punch
such a wonderful young lad? I don't think so. As for the officers: he
must've dreamt them while splayed out dazed. With his excess weight and high
blood pressure it all could've been much worse. He must go on a strict diet,
dear doctors. Or better yet, give him to us for a week. You won't recognise
the fellow then.
Some officer came out and said that General Rolin is busy at this stage
and will be free to meet with us in about ten to twenty minutes. They are on
the telephone with the Defence Minister. Fine, let them talk. I'm pretty
sure, nothing good will come out of that conversation. Meanwhile our
Com-brig left to radio the brigade's HQ to see how they are hanging.
We saw Sashka returning and called him:
- How is the busted up grunt, Sasha?
- He's telling some bullshit that two officers beat him up. He wet his
pants while unconscious. His description, - he stared at us with suspicion,
- sounds like you two.
- Sashok, you don't seriously think that we could bust up the soldier.
Personally, I only squeeze throats, - I started.
- And I usually shoot nuts off. You know us too well, - supported me
Yurka.
We gazed at him upset, as to demand that all accusations be dropped at
once.
- I sure do. Mad cranks. I've seen a lot of you two. You wouldn't care,
for yourselves or for anybody else. So, did you bust him?
- Sasha, - I again spoke in the smooth voice, half-hugging him, - my
dear man. Please explain to us, as you have put it, "mad cranks",
what for did you run back to the hospital? We never noticed anything
merciful about you. Even when we brought over our casualties, you,
apparently, were so busy, that had totally forgotten to come and greet your
friends.
- Which, by the way, came to your rescue when the ragheads pinned you
down badly at the edge of the airfield, - continued Yurka, - and (somehow I
don't feel comfortable reminding you this) you swore by all saints that you
will never forget about your saviours.
- And now, my dear friend, you are about to sell off your guarding
angels like bad meat at a discount price. - I picked up from Yura. - We, on
the contrary, never even mentioned the fact that your lad was dropping
liqueur at sky-high prices, and, son of a bitch, even tried to threaten us
with a pistol. So, Alexander? I reckon your guy just hit his mug against
something, a?
- What did you do him for?
- He told me bluntly to get stuffed, and didn't apologise. Get that.
- I'll teach the bustard manners.
- Sasha, since we have found common ground, I could now make you an
offer to get us some of that humanitarian aid.
- But you've snapped it already.
- Shameless lies, false allegations and groundless attacks, - Yurka
stated with style, - we never stole anything, we bought it for five bucks.
Or five thousand rubles. It was dark in there, rubles or dollars, all in the
same pocket. Is that true Slava?
- It's the truth. I've paid him off myself. I reckon that your sidekick
is trying to hide some of that illegally made profit from you. By the way,
we only bought one piddling six-pack of itsy-bitsy beer cans, you know, and
a pack of cigarettes, and you, after all this, refuse to gear us up
properly.
- Just imagine, - Yura was unstoppable, - if we were killed in action
(God forbid of course) you would naturally be sad. Because you never gave us
three sticks of good salami, Vodka of the well-known Moscow brand
"Crystal", a few bottles of good cognac, surely some cheese for it
and a few more bits and pieces. And we will visit you in your dreams
reaching our hands out to you and yell, - we started grabbing him like
vampires, - "you, cheap bastard!"
- Yeah, Sasha, - I interrupted, - I might survive without a pair of
beer packs and good cigarettes, but it would be nice of you to throw in some
dry fish for the beer and
- That's enough. Please give me some water, ma'am, cause I'm so hungry
and have no roof for tonight, - Sasha copycatted us. - If you two hadn't
saved my life, you would've been eating free food in the brick by now.
- That's why, during that gunfight I said to Slava: "Hey, look at
that officer dying there for nothing. Let's save him and he, when highly
appointed, will be feeding us for the rest of the war." Slava, confirm
please.
- God, strike me by lightning if it's not true. Hey, that would be
cool, for a week or two, to rest up in the brick. Food three times a day,
clean sheets, steam-room. - I closed my eyes stargazing. - Nirvana! Sasha,
could you send us to that prison of yours and your scumbag will change his
confession in exactly two weeks from now. Let's say he mistook us for
somebody else and they'll let us free. By then the war could too be over.
Think about it Sasha. I'll buy you a drink for that.
- You're naturally delirious. Spooks don't call you "dogs"
for nothing. You are obviously mad and dangerous.
- We are about to go and see our Commander in Chief now, listen to him
trying to talk us into the Minutka assault. So, I'm thinking to suggest that
he takes his own regiment off the airport guard duty and throw it at the
Square. Meanwhile we would pull security here. Then, after you guys take the
Square, we might move on. How about that, Sash? By the way, have you tasted
all the girls around here?
- No, they are all taken. No chance.
- Don't be stingy and give us one. We'll return her, don't you worry!
- You are mad, mad I tell you!
A deputy assistant emerged from the HQ and called us in.
- Sasha, we'll be there for about forty minutes, so, don't forget that
humanitarian aid, we talked about or we'll come to you in your dreams. Tell
your lad that if he's ever rude to us again, he won't get off this easily.
Wait for us and we'll be back, you'll see, -- I cited a line off a
well-known poem. - And dear, don't forget the beer, the rest is a must.
Yura even blew him a kiss.
- We'll meet again, darling!
Sashka, spewed aside, clearly showing his attitude towards our giddy
behaviour. Passing grunts were watching this whole scene with surprise.
We walked into the airport tailing the rest of the group, hurriedly
finishing off our cigarettes and chucking off the butts. At war we usually
smoke, concealing cigarette in the fist. That way sniper wouldn't see the
flash. This habit worked around the clock, night and day. It makes cense
like this. If your habits are different throughout the day, it is easy to
make that one fatal mistake.
All of us walked into the boardroom where we met the Commander in
Chief, General Rolin and our general Zaharin. In the past his surname was of
Armenian origin, but after the fall of the Union it was suggested to him
that he change it. That's how he turned from Avakian to Zaharin (his wife's
surname).
Sandbags plugged all windows in the meeting room. The poor light didn't
reach the corners where all people looked like shadows: Comms officers,
deputies and the rest of the General's aid as well as a few of those who
couldn't miss the opportunity to kiss his ass.
- Please be seated, gentlemen, - Rolin rose and shook Bahel's hand then
simply nodded to the rest of us.
- I have just spoken to the Defence Minister Grachin. At the high
level, - Rolin emphasised the words "high level", - we came to the
decision to assault the Minutka Square structure. I was appointed head of
the operation and you would be carrying out this complex and demanding task.
At the end of the speech his voice turned exultant. I wonder if he and
Karpov had the same teacher in the academy, although, he's not from Moscow.
Hell knows "who is who" in their HQ.
- Our operative group, together with the General Headquarters, has
devised a plan, which was successfully signed off by the Defence Minister.
General Zaharin has just familiarised himself with it. I'm also asking you
to listen carefully here. Correct completion of this task will allow us to
eliminate the rebel forces, led by Dudaev, in the shortest possible time.
They are all now concentrated in the Government Bank Building and in the
so-called Dudaev's Palace, - he pointed his finger at the map laid out on
the table. (Judging from the expression on Zaharin's face, he was not overly
impressed by this plan), - The rest of the buildings, around the assaulted
area, are not important and of not particular interest to us.
It was amazing that a military officer, planning such a blood bath,
treated structures surrounding the assault area with such neglect.
Obviously, the rebels would defend those houses not mentioning the two
bridges, which are for sure fortified and densely mined.
In the Army, we've got three objectives: immediate, next and major. We
always start at the immediate one, then, come to the next and after that
arrive at the main. If people start with the main target, moreover,
mentioning names such as Dudaev's, that is politics. Politics means death to
soldiers. Because these morons never think of people's lives and
consequences, all they're interested in is the result and the timeframe,
regardless of the cost. Jesuitical axiom.
We all stared hard at the map. It turns out that we had to cross both
bridges in almost parade style. What if we didn't make it over? Or only
parts of the assaulting force would cross. The spooks will for sure blow up
the bridges. What's then? Then, those who did make it across, the quicker
ones, ragheads will slaughter like sheep before our own eyes. No one of us
liked this adventure. We are professional soldiers and learnt to risk our
own lives and lives of our men back in college. But to perish foolishly like
this - please, let me out of here. All faces in the room turned grim.
Everyone understood that if we don't stand up for ourselves now, gloomy end
of the Micop Brigade would soon seem like an innocent walk in the park. This
was not even the Central Train Station. This was their President's Palace,
symbol of their national pride. The only solution seemed a nuclear bomb drop
or a long and laborious air assault.
From inside the shadows, emerged the so-called Chief of Staff of the
allied HQ, Colonel Sedov. No one knew much of him, but wars often promote
great men as well as losers to the top of the military ladder. I,
personally, couldn't hold anything against Sedov, but if it was he, who
devised this plan in the first place, he wasn't a loser then, he was a
criminal in ranks. Sedov began to speak. His conduct was well schooled. He
didn't seem threatened by Rolin at all and it probably wasn't his first time
in a company like this. Judging from his parched face and military posture,
I figured he was a line officer. OK, let's see what he's got to say.
- General and gentlemen, - started Sedov, - our opponent concentrated
his chief forces in the Minutka Square area.
"Tell me something new" - I thought to myself.
- That's why to finally break his resistance, demoralise him and flush
out of town, you are to carry out plan, signed off by the Defence Minister
and approved by the Commander in Chief, - now it seemed like Sedov was
admiring himself in the mirror. His was irrupting with pride,
self-importance and the fact that this plan was his idea - now all doubts
about the authorship were gone - he did it.
- You are to quickly capture the bridges over the Sunzha River on the
run and dash through the square, then, capture and destroy enemy infantry
inside the Bank building and Dudaev's residence, so-called Palace, - Sedov
continued to sing.
"Hello my baby, how are you today?" - breezed through my
mind.
- To carry out this assault, several airborne elements, marines and the
Leningrad regiment will complement your brigade. You will also have
artillery and air back up.
The most interesting part was that no one indicated unit numbers of the
supporting force and the amount of back up we would supposedly receive.
Would that be one air-wing or an artillery division? Altogether, the plan
seemed raw and superficial. In case of failure, we would obviously take the
full blame. Nice future!
- The time for the assault was designated two days from now. During
these two days you are to promptly take hotel "Kavkaz", then
reassign it (to whom!?) and move out to the Square, - Sedov, it seemed, had
it all figured out nicely and naturally we should've too, thus right now
scooting out of here and capture the Square. Absolute foolishness!
- General, gentlemen, I'm finished. Any questions please? - Judging
from his tone, he must've thought that only degenerates and morons could ask
questions - what can you possibly expect from siberian mahra?
- What are the estimates of the enemy force at the Minutka complex?
Their armament, mine fields around the square and bridges? - Quietly but
sharply asked our Com-brig, emerging from the shadows.
- The amount of the rebel force does not exceed three to four thousand
men (I like the precision. Who cares? One less thousand or one more
thousand). Their armament consists of standard issue small arms plus GP-25s,
RPG-7 grenade launchers and light company mortars. (How about darting around
a flat square under the shower of mortars?)
- What about the bridges?
- We do not have any precise information whether the bridges are mined
or not. All approaches are heavily defended with nests and blocks without
any possibility for proper reconnaissance at this stage. However, we are
constantly working on it. Also our local supporters constantly inform us.
We all smiled at this statement. A chechen would rarely sell another
chechen, but to bust a non-believer is always a delight.
- You are all laughing vainly, - Sedov turned nervous, - recently in
Moscow a question was raised from the local opposition's initiative, whether
this invasion and senselessly violent actions have caused this republic an
irreparable economic damage and set its people against us. Partisan movement
is growing stronger by the day (really?). Because of that, there is a
notion, that we under no circumstance kill the rebels but only disarm them
and let go home. In their majority they are only frightened peasants. The
spring is coming so is their crop season. Otherwise they'll all die of
famine.
- So the hell with them! - I let it out in the mortal silence. Everyone
instantly burst laughing and I attracted attention of both Rolin and Sedov.
Yurka nudged me, but it was too late by then.
- You must've missed the point, comrade - Sedov looked at my shoulder
flashes and seeing no stars continued, - By the way, why aren't you wearing
your proper insignia?
- Scared of snipers, comrade colonel, - I replied modestly, although
was close to making a huge scene.
- It's all horseshit. Do you think that snipers are interested in your
stars? I don't think so. How would you lead your men if you don't have your
insignia?
I was just about to burst into a long and unflattering speech about
shoulder stars and my opinion about his lousy plan. I am no hero, but at
war, you figure out quickly that there is no deeper shit than this, well,
may be only if you're wounded. Other than that - screw them all. You want to
fire me - be my guests!
But Bahel outpaced me; he must've guessed what is going to follow and
thus quickly spoke:
- Comrade general, we'll work out later why captain Mironov is not
wearing his stars. That was me who allowed my officers to take them off. I
am for now more worried about the forthcoming operation. The timeframes you
have set for us would not allow our brigade, which has been engaged in heavy
fighting for weeks, to rapidly, without proper preparation, redeploy and
carry out your assignment (Bahel emphasised the word "your"). I
recommend you immediately give the order to commence sustained air and
artillery strikes at the square network. That must continue on until the
time comes for us to move into the area. Two hours before the assault,
airborne reconnaissance units must capture the bridges and keep all attempts
to blow them up at bay. By the way, could you tell us exactly which airborne
units would act as our aid? In my opinion, frontal assault of the Minutka
Square is a senseless suicide. I will not follow orders, which would
literally mean running my men past a firing squad.
- Do you understand what you are saying, colonel? - Rolin was furious.
- I will make a phone call to Grachin and have you court-martialed! I will
have you arrested on the spot! You'll be on the first plane to Moscow! You
know how many men would want to take up your spot?
- If it would save my men from slaughter I volunteer to write my letter
of resignation immediately! - Now Bahel was enraged. -You are afraid to
blast the shit out of this f...ing square from the air, but at the same time
you are OK to drown in blood a few thousand soldiers! You better think of
that first before you think of your public image
- Shut you mouth, traitor! - Rolin erupted. - You are out of your god
damned mind, colonel. You're a coward. I'll grind you into powder in five
seconds. And you What are you all looking at? Get the hell out of here!
No way, general, we'll tear up anybody for our commander if he only
tells us to.
- We uphold our CO's opinion that this is a sheer suicide to storm the
square without preparatory air and artillery runs, - somebody from our group
summarised the situation.
- Does everyone think like that? - Rolin squinted and looked around
heavily. - Out! Get out! Guards! Get them all out of here! Disarm them!
Convoy the traitors to the brick!
We only huddled closer in response. Silence set about the room. Mortal
Silence The door opened and two privates and an officer entered, ready to
carry out any order their commander gives them. All of us prepared for the
worst possible outcome. General Zaharin suddenly interrupted the silence -
what a brave man.
- Let's all not make any rush decisions. We will let the officers go
breath some fresh air for now and ourselves stay in here and discuss
possible solutions to fix this situation. Let's keep our cool and not make
any sudden moves. We all understand that a frontal assault would be
dangerous, but together we must find the ultimate solution, - and now
addressing us, - go gentlemen, wait outside, nothing is going to happen; I'm
giving you my word.
- Go, - The Com-brig told us dryly.
We left the room. All of us were quivering. The guards were following
us closely. Someone grabbed their chief and whispered:
- If you bitch, even think about arresting our commander, I'll kill
you. Get it?
- What about my orders? - He asked in scare. His grunts kept away by
the walls.
- You want to live?
- Yes!
- If you are given the order to arrest him, we'll ambush you. During
the ambush you'd give him up quietly. Understood? This way we'll let you and
your grunts live. Did you understand everything I just said?
- Yes!
- We