'll now move our vehicles up a little closer. Don't panic. When our
CO  comes out with your general,  we'll get in  the cars and leave. We don't
want your blood,  but if you stand in the way,  we'll kill  you. Understand?
You know who we are?
     - I do, you are "the dogs". I understood.
     - You don't know anything. We're no dogs we  are mahra.  We'll tear you
up if our  commander is  in danger.  That's all.Now go. And if you or any of
your grunts make a peep, you'll all die. You like that?
     - No I don't.
     - That's right.  We are here  to fight  chechens,  not each other. They
want us to storm Minutka head-on. Basically  they want us dead. But we don't
want to die. That's why Rolin is angry. Go and don't make any trouble.
     - OK, I've got  it. I've heard you guys are real madmen; but to jump at
Rolin like that, is beyond everyone's expectations. You guys are total nuts!
- Chief of the guards has already  recovered from his shock and was  walking
with us towards the exit. His face expressed both admiration and distrust at
the same time.
     All of us  came  out steaming hot. Everyone  lit  up  and was  inhaling
hungrily,  digesting  the  newly received  information.  Since  he  was  the
youngest  one of all, our  recon  unit leader  was  sent to move  the armour
closer  to the  airport.  Chief of the guards was told to give the  order to
allow that.
     - Are you nuts, men? I'll go down for this! This is crazy!
     - Do we have to tie you up or what?
     - Tie me up, kill me, do  what you want. I can't give that  order. Full
stop.
     -  OK, chill out.  We won't  move  the cars beyond your posts.  Are you
happy with that?
     - Fine by me. But if you move in, I'll have to open up.
     - OK, fine.
     We  all  knew perfectly well what  disobeying  an  order could lead to.
Especially in a war-zone, it could result in anything up to the firing squad
without court-martial  or even  an  investigation. The  Military  Law states
clearly: "An  order  must be carried out undisputedly, entirely and  in
time. After the order has been carried  out it can then be challenged."
Who can  then  challenge  that  order  after  our  entire  brigade  will  be
slaughtered on this  fing Square? Whoever lives  through, we'll be permanent
mental home clients.
     Yep, this looked like an armed rebellion. What else our open refusal to
carry out an order could be called?
     -   Slava,   what    do    think   about   leaving,   ah?    Like   the
battleship"Poteomkin". Yurka asked, inhaling hungrily. - How about
Turkey?
     -  With our APC, via the Black Sea bottom. I'd say not such a bad idea.
Don't be silly. We haven't done anything  illegal as yet. There is a statute
in  the Military Law  that if you consider  that a given order  violates The
Constitution Laws,  you have the right not to follow it*.  To lead  your men
out there now  means death. Take  Chekhoslovakia for instance. Maybe  just a
bit bigger then Chechnya  but back then preparations took  six  months. Over
here, it was  thrown together ad  hoc. Because  over there it was considered
overseas, here, on the other hand, inside the boarders, the bustards can put
down a million soldiers on both sides, no one would notice. I chucked off my
cigarette and pulled out another one. Unaccustomed to the  weaker tobacco  I
just couldn't get enough. - Look, Sashka is coming over with help!
     Next  to the  walking,  with  important look  on his face, Sashka,  was
dragging his feet under a weight of two heavy boxes, our  old acquaintance -
corporal from the hospital with a patch across his nose and two black eyes.
     - We told you to watch your manners, sonny! - Yurka and I were smiling.
- You brought it on yourself.
     - Don't  be  so ill  mannered,  young men,  or you'll die  before  your
discharge. - I added. - If had punched you a little higher, could've crushed
your skull. You are a lucky lad, my  friend, we  could've  held on until you
make your move with a pistol and cut  you open right there without a hint of
anaesthetics.
     Sashka came just in  time. For  once, his appearance distracted us from
our  bitter thoughts. I  had no  desire  to  become a criminal while  I am a
patriot in  my heart.  Nor did I want to lose all my men  at the  square and
then shoot myself. I don't think, as an officer, I could live on with such a
heavy weight on my shoulders. What I did want was  to get totally shitfaced.
Those two boxes  contained liqueur that would, at  least for a  short while,
let me  avoid making this horrible  choice. However, we can't do it here and
right now. Or they  for sure would accuse  us of  drinking on the  job.  All
present knew it well.
     - Did  you guys just declare a  rebellion?  - Sashka was alarmed. - You
stirred up some havoc. People are talking about your capture.
     - No, we just said that you  have expressed desire to lead your company
ahead of  us  at machineguns on the  square, but he  turned  stubborn.  Just
wouldn't let you go full stop. He says that he would never allow his beloved
captain to die like this. But you bastards,  says he to us, I don't  give  a
shit about. Go, perish, the whole brigade of yours with Colonel and General.
I'll  throw a medal in every one  of your coffins,  - I was again filling up
with rage. I knew that neither  Sashka nor the grunt had anything to do with
it. I just needed to take it on somebody.
     - Or Sasha, you could donate  this scumbag  to  us.  We'd write  up the
request for transfer  and he'd sign it at the gunpoint of his own pistol. In
fact I think he'd sign anything. Nobody would notice the gunshot. As for the
body,  we'll stash  it somewhere  far in the debris.  What do you scum think
about that?
     I was waiting for anyone of  them to reply, at least with  a gesture of
some kind. But  they were both speechless. My mood was gloomy and ferocious.
All my  feelings and thoughts were now  motionless, bound into  a  tightened
spring,  ready  to pop open  with a gigantic charge of energy. But they were
still speechless.
     - Sasha, did  you load up everything we talked about? - I was gradually
getting the  grip  on  myself.  But the spring was  tightening  stiffer  and
stiffer, sharpening all my senses already sharp as it is. - Let's go load it
up.
     We wondered off to our APC. I walked ahead, then corporal and Sashka at
the  tail of the  procession. Thick mud  was everywhere and the  sun already
started to  set.  I  opened the infantry hatch  and the grunt  began to load
Sashka's gifts  inside the compartment. Sashka finally  came over.  I booted
the grunt's ass, he disappeared inside the vehicle's belly and I slammed the
hatch behind  him. Then I grabbed Sashka  by his  vest, pressed him  against
APC's wall  and  drew my pistol.  He face turned white  and eyes widened. He
looked at me then at the gun.
     - Now tell me who gave the order to encircle  us. Hurry  up,  you  know
we'll either die now or later anyway.Hurry up, bitch, tell me all.
     Yurka came up behind me.
     - The ring is getting tighter. It'd be pretty difficult now to make our
way into the building. They've  dragged  in there about a company of men, no
fewer than  that.RPG gunners are  in there too. The range is damned close. -
Yurka was absolutely deadpan and ready for action.
     He said to Sashka:
     - Come on, man, tell us who said what and what's the order?
     -  Sedov came out  after you  left and ordered not  to let  out of  the
airport area. The passwords are already changed. The building  has also been
secured.  If  you  make  an attempt  to  fight  your  way  out or inside the
building, we are  to open fire without warning. He  said you're  planning to
change  sides. I was  given the order of  distracting  you, get you drunk or
something. That's all. Let go me. Still,  you're madmen. What  are you going
to do with the grunt? - Sashka was rubbing his neck.
     - Take him. He must've shitted his pants by now. What's the password?
     - I  don't know. They only told me to get you drunk and get out  quick.
What do I tell Sedov?
     -  The  truth. The grunt will confirm. So,  they'll start the onslaught
soon since you've been told to promptly get out. OK Sasha, go. Good bye.
     -  Slava,  Yura,  everything's going  to  be  fine. They'll come  to an
agreement,  you'll  see. I'll approach Sedov and Rolin and ask them to leave
you alone. Let's come with me and when it's  all over I'll let you out. Come
on guys.
     He said "whet it's all over". It could only be over after the
firing squad is done shooting.  Because I knew  now, that I would not return
fire. They  are like us, how could I  shoot back? In their eyes, however, we
are traitors.
     - Thank you Sasha, but no. Just  tell them we're not traitors, OK? Even
if we die here today, we're still not. Good bye.
     I opened the hatch and the grunt hopped back.
     - It's OK. Get out. You've heard everything?
     - Yes.
     - When asked, tell the truth, - when they wondered off, I couldn't help
myself and yelled out: - Don't be rude to strangers!
     The grunt cramped like from a punch.
     - So, Slava, let us go?
     All the way back we  walked in silence. There was  emptiness in my mind
and talking  seemed  pointless. Absolutely nothing  was up to us anymore. We
knew what to do. All that was left was to await the slaughter, like sheep.
     All our officers herded together and talked about something. The grunts
were all atop of APCs. Engines were  all started and many  guns were wheeled
towards the airport building. We  came closer to the crowd  of  officers. It
seemed  that every  one of them was talking at the same time, but no one was
listening to anybody:
     - They're really going to shoot?
     - What would you do?
     - We fought together  before,  how could they? Sons of bitches, freaks,
mothers
     - Sold mother Russia and now trying to screw us!
     - Hey, who'd go to Moscow now?
     - My father was right, your worst enemy is in Moscow. He wants you dead
first. Then comes your Air Force and only then the Germans!
     -  Yura,  Slava,  what  did  you decide?  - The  discussion  halted and
everyone was staring at us now.
     -  I, personally,  -  I emphasised "personally", -  will  not
shoot at  my own people.  Supplies  captain said Sedov ordered not to let us
out of the area and inside  the  building. The  password  has  been changed.
There is about a  company-sized element inside the  building. Now maybe even
more. I'd say, we're in deep shit.
     - So, you  say we just stand there  and  let them  shoot us like ducks?
Nice attitude, man!
     - If I wanted to  leave, I would've left by  now.  It's  only a hundred
meters to the gates. Sedov told them we want to change sides and thus refuse
to assault Minutka.
     Everyone went nuts. It would be  impossible to  describe the monologues
since  I could only leave  dots and comas. If you, my reader, can  replicate
the mood like that, you can yourself make up a speech or two. I can only say
that politicians from the past as well as the ones presently in charge, ours
as  well  as foreign, were all mentioned,  so were their  parents  and other
close and distant relatives.
     Officers of  the security  regiment were all standing on  the airport's
porch, also  herded  together. So to say: our "likely  opponents",
who were, not so long ago,  our comrades in arms. Our lives now depended  on
them.  If  they believe Sedov's  lies, we're doomed. Whatever they decide to
do, I will not fire back at you  guys. I felt sad;  if they could only shoot
me dead instantly. Or maybe I'll just shoot myself now? No, not yet, not all
has been  done; that I can do any time - it's never too late to put a bullet
in my head.

     Meanwhile, behind those closed doors our fates were being decided. Much
depends on the final decision. The  fates of Russia and Chechnya are  now in
the hands of four men, who are  now trying madly to  prove each other wrong.
Or maybe our CO is already under arrest with the general. It would be pretty
foolish  to  just  waist a  military  commander  and  a  general  without  a
court-martial. We, on the contrary, can easily be all hosed from a  pair  of
machineguns now. Investigations can be done later. Yep, if you  want  to  go
home at some stage, you shoot first and ask  questions  later.  I keep along
that  route  myself  when  meet  with  the  ragheads  and   now  feel  quite
uncomfortable  acting as target.  Occupied  by these  thoughts I didn't even
notice that I only had left one  cigarette. The taste in my mouth was bitter
from tabacco and the stupid situation  we  were in. I pulled the  last smoke
from  the  packet  and a  thought stung through my  mind:  is  this  my last
cigarette? I started puffing it slowly, striving to enjoy every bit of smoke
I breathed in. Allright, boys, I'm ready for anything now. With every breath
came calm and confidence. I'm no sheep, waiting to be throttled; I am a man,
having consciously made up his mind. I watched a small group of officers who
probably felt just as uneasy. Perhaps, they were trying to make some sort of
decision, to fire on us or not to fire at all: to kill or not to kill.

        7

---------------------------------------------------------------
     (c) Copyright 2001 translation by Alex Dokin (adokin[a]today.com.au)
---------------------------------------------------------------

     Anybody  needs help?  -  Doctor, captain of the  medical squad,  Zhenya
Ivanov, came  up to the  grunts.  A very bright fellow, smart,  intelligent,
toll and  skinny, with  his  head shaved,  bushy moustache  and  glasses  he
reminded me of a very popular bard Rosenboum. The grunts flipped  away  from
him.
     -  No, nobody needs nothing!  -  Pliers tried to get away, but the doc,
like any other corpseman, quickly grabbed him and pulled over:
     -  Stand still, patient, and don't  make  any  sudden movements or I'll
break you  something by mistake. OK, your bones are fine and the rest  seems
in  place. You'll  live for now. After  your untimely death  an autopsy will
reveal the reason why such a young and pretty creature passed away.
     - Let's go, shell we? - Asked Zubastik surrounding him officers.
     - Yep.
     I  gave  the order  and pointed my finger at  Pliers,  Badalov  and the
diggers:
     -  You go ahead, we'll cover  your  rear. And make it snappy,  will ya.
Don't worry if you see lots of mines, we only need one go at it, move in and
quickly back out. Is our medical team ready?
     - Yes chief! - Doc Zhenya answered for all.
     We set off one by one, glinting around and covering each other's backs,
ready to  scatter off and take security around perimeter at any moment. From
where  we  left  our carriers we  could hear nothing  besides  their running
engines.
     - Zhenya,  - I caught up with the doc,  - Yurka asked  for some tablets
against booze.
     - There is one very radical thing against booze. You know which one?
     - Not to drink?
     - Bingo! You knew, didn't you?
     - No, just a lucky guess.
     - Amazing. Usually people buy it. You couldn't have guessed, could you?
     - You see, Zhenya, being just as cynical as you are, I am trying not to
take things the hard  way. Because if I  did I'd go nuts. The rest is all up
to the Man.
     - It's a mystery how you can still maintain your sense of humour.
     -  It's simple,  really.  Turks have this wonderful expression "kysmet"
which means "destiny", that's what I use  to stay afloat.  If your fate were
to live  this long and die from  a grenade burst at such particular  moment,
you would,  trust me. Regardless of how cool you are and how many bodyguards
you have, your guts  will be dangling off a  tree eventually. Same goes  for
the rest in life.
     - You seriously believe in all this?
     -  Yes  Zhenya, I do. For example. In  your medical practise,  have you
ever  had cases  when your patient,  according  to  all signs,  must've been
already dead by now, but he's still hanging there, against all odds? You can
reject  all  laws, but he's still  here, according to the  law of fate. Have
you? Don't try telling me that  his  immune system turned out much  stronger
than  you  previously  thought. You  have  to  agree that there is something
mysterious in many medical cases.
     - I  agree, especially  there  are  lots  of cases like that  here,  in
extreme circumstances, so to say.
     - That's  right. What about when men drop all around but one soldier is
like spellbound, like bullets bounce off the guy.
     - Yeah, I've seen  something like that. Remember platoon from the first
battalion got lost and walked straight into an ambush?
     - I sure remember that one. They were all wasted from close range.
     - Three  of  them did  survive though. Two  wounded  and  one without a
scratch on him. Everyone thought the guy was hiding behind the others' backs
and nearly killed him in the  rush. But the wounded confirmed that they only
lived because of him. He  pulled the  burning track from under fire and only
having made  sure  that all others  were dead  picked up the  casualties and
drove  off. Thus,  I  think  you might be right. What about  you? Aren't you
afraid of death?
     - Of coarse I am,  Zhenya.  But maybe, I'm just prepared for  this, you
know. But  more than  the  death herself I'm  scared  of becoming  crippled.
Promise me Zhenya, that if I  ever  get onto your operating table without  a
limb or  some other crippling wound, you would serve me the  chance to leave
this world  peacefully.  I understand you can't  do it  yourself, but please
give me that chance.
     - OK, slow down. First, I think you  are heading straight for a nervous
breakdown and all this is  just  shock  talking. I've  heard, you know, what
happened at the  "North". I also know that you guys were first to refuse  to
return fire. It was your buddy the  airport chief,  who straightened it  all
out  with  our  ex-allies and  practically  forced  them come  to  the  same
decision. Therefore, take my  advice, have a drink, or  come to me  and I'll
give you some tablets. By the way, that's what we are  here for. Only do not
take  too many of  them. As for the death, everyone  is free to  do with his
life whatever he wants. There are no "no choice" situations. There is always
a choice and a  way. Maybe, it's not  the choice we would prefer,  but it is
still a choice. People create problems and people solve them.
     - You just don't get it, do you? - I wearily waved my hand, - I'm not a
schoolgirl, hysterical over her boyfriend, and it's  no breakdown. It's much
worse for those  guys at the frontline. I  am just scared of being crippled,
that's  all. I  have  a huge  respect  for  people like  that Meresjev  guy,
clutching for every  little thing in life, even when  disabled, despite  all
the  obstacles  and  shit they  are  faced with, but I don't  think I've the
character. I'd  rather use the "toy" and let my guts fly free than live like
that. OK, let's just drop it, shell we? Or we might bring the bad luck.
     -  Look Slava, the sappers are  signalling, they  must've finished over
there. Let's go, shell we.  We'll continue our little  talk some other time,
accompanied by a bottle of good cognac and cards.
     - Fine,  let's move. However, you,  bastard, still  haven't promised me
anything. For now just think about it, would you?
     - OK. I'll think about  it if  you buzz off. I can consider  it,  but I
don't have to do it. Understood?
     - Understood. Let's go.
     - Found anything? - I asked the sappers, coming over.
     -  Not  much, comrade Captain.  A booby-trapped grenade at the entrance
and  that's about it, -  they reported merrily, happy at the fact that there
wasn't much to do for them out there.
     -  OK, go check around the territory. When done, come back and  help us
load up.
     As  the grunts  heard about  the loading  up business,  they were  gone
before I could finish  my speech. Now, try to find  an idiot to carry  heavy
boxes, even for a good reason like this one.
     I looked around. Republican medical warehouses were made  up of several
big hangars and two administrative single-storey buildings. I turned  to our
surgeons:
     - Well,  gentlemen, where do you think we should start from? It's a lot
of buildings out there. I suggest we split up in small groups and search the
docks. If you find anything of use, we carry it outside  and then  load onto
trucks. Any questions, doubts or proposals I shell accept in written form in
no less than three printed copies.
     Some sneers came back instead and we all walked off.
     - Zhenya, - I asked Ivanov, - do you even know what you're looking for?
     - I sure do, - he pulled out a piece of paper with a decent list on it.
I took  a glance but couldn't work out any of it since it was all written in
Latin, - Don't bother, you couldn't read any of it.
     -  What about  you,  can  you  understand  this? It's  not really  your
writing.
     - I'll  work it  out.  We have to  look for  tranquillisers, anti-shock
stuff, anti-burns, breath relief, cardio medications, things like that.
     We  came to the gates of  the  nearest hangar. They were locked up so I
nodded to the private:
     - Go for it! Just watch for the ricochet, allright?
     Everyone  moved behind the  soldier  and  he smashed both  locks with a
short burst. We walked  into the  semi-dark dock. Long shelves with packages
were stretching for as far as we could see.
     - Hey  doc, watch for the expiry dates.  You  might  have to feed  this
stuff to us.
     - It is as darks as in  a nigger's ass in there, put some light  on it,
will ya.
     - It's  good to  know you've been places, doc,  - I noted sarcastically
and everybody cackled.
     - Zhenya,  is it really that gloomy  in there? - A  voice came from the
dark and again everyone gaggled.
     - As soon as  I catch one I'll shove you bastards one by one up his ass
and you'll see it for yourselves, - The doctor came back swiftly.
     - What if  we catch a  female one? Could we do an  extensive checkup on
her?
     - Mulatto girls are much prettier.
     - They say Korean women are nice too.
     - Even a girl from Rjasan' would do it for me these days.
     - Fellows, women of Europe are all horrible. No one is better than  our
Siberians.
     Gabbing  this way about  this and that, we moved along the endless rows
of shelves.
     - Help me up,  will ya, - Zhenya climbed up a shelf. Up there he opened
up a package and helping  himself with a torch, started digging into a bunch
of little boxes. - OK, take them down. Watch it, they ampoules.
     - Found something useful?
     - Yes, cerebrolisin.
     - What kind of disease is that?
     -  It's not a  disease,  you  moron,  it's a  medication, helps against
concussion.
     - Which means it's  only any good for the young soldiers. We, officers,
don't need that because we have no brains no more.  What  we have is one big
strong bone instead. - I was in the mood for lyrics. After  the shakedown at
the "North" and preceding it briefing I just wished I could relax a little.
     - Sometime during my third year in college, - I continued, - we had one
funny little incident. Those days we already lived in the student hostel and
rules were not as tough as they used to be during the first years. So it was
in April,  we get up in the morning, going  to  the toilet but sergeants are
kicking us  out for  the morning  jog.  It's  bloody cold outside though. We
rarely  did  any  jogging  as it  is, but  now, God knows why, they  started
kicking us out  in the cold. May  be an inspection of  some  sort arrived or
something  else happened,  I can't  remember. Anyway, one  of the  students,
named Popov, decided to bugger it. He said stuff it, I  won't go and  that's
that. Our unit  leader was not all too happy with such attitude, so he grabs
Popov and starts yelling at the guy. Popov, though, tells the unit leader to
go  screw himself.  As the one who gave an order, the unit commander, as the
law states, must see that the order is carried out and otherwise enforce  it
by any practical means  so  he punches Popov in the face. Popov, by the way,
was returning from a trip to the bathroom and had a big carafe with water in
his hand. Remember those huge, thick glass  carafes in the army  back  then?
Anyway, Popov turns around  and  hits his unit leader with that carafe right
on the head. The carafe breaks into thousand little pieces, blood mixed with
water is running down  the leader's face. He tumbles like a sack of shit, we
think that's it,  the guy's  dead.  Popov,  scared shitless, drops  carafe's
neck,  which he was still clutching, and splits off via the corridor. All of
us  kneel near the  leader, assuming the worst,  but he pushes everyone off,
jumps up and, like cougar, sprints  after Popov. Then he catches up with him
and starts kicking the living  shit  out of the fellow. We barely managed to
tear  him off the guy. We thought the leader  was in shock or something  and
that's why he couldn't feel the pain. The blood was still streaming out from
his most probably broken skull. Finally we called  for a nurse. She gave the
guy a checkup and a  x-ray. After all  this his skull was absolutely intact,
without a single crack. She couldn't even find any signs of  concussion. And
now tell me if you think he had brains. A civilian would've been most likely
dead, a first year  student seriously hurt, but a  military college graduate
was absolutely fine.
     - Yep, that's right, servicemen' skulls are tough.
     - Doc, you've seen a lot of skulls. Which ones are tougher?
     - Airborne, for sure. They hit their heads constantly against  the edge
of  the plane's  hatch and land  on  their heads sometimes too, - the hangar
shook  with  the thunderous  laugh this time,  - I'm kidding,  I'm  kidding,
everyone's skull is different. Unfortunately,  they don't  get any  stronger
with  careers.  Imagine if  that was true, how thick colonels' and generals'
skulls would be.
     -  Yeah, that's  funny,  imagine, fellows,  how  thick  must be Rolin's
skull! I say it could take a direct hit from a tank cannon.
     - He probably wouldn't even need a helmet.
     - Hey, help me  up  over here. There's more here of interest,  - Zhenya
again started to climb  another rack. - Yeah, exactly what we need! Take  it
carefully.
     We took down a box from him with cardiamin and some other stuff.
     -  It's  for  treating heart failure,  - he explained, leaping down and
dusting himself off.
     He climbed up a few more racks in this fashion, selected more boxes and
passed them down to us.  We, in turn, stockpiled them outside and  left them
all there in guards' possession.
     After  that we visited a few more hangars, smaller  than the first one,
where we  picked  up all  sorts of  stuff.  Everyone's pockets were full  of
vitamin  tablets and soldiers were  carrying  huge cans with them. All of us
were   already  crunching  on  the   tablets  and  some  were  even  chewing
anti-nicotine  chewing gum, hoping to quit smoking right about now. I loaded
up  on  vitamins too  as well as nicotine patches, zhen-shen balsam, tablets
for Yura and some other stuff.
     Everyone was in fabulous mood.  I looked at my watch and thought that I
might even make it  to the briefing.  At the thought of the briefing I  knew
that relaxation time was nearly over. We must go back.
     - Let's move it boys! The sun is setting.
     It's true, the noon was almost over.
     -  Hurry up, will ya. Get the boxes. I'm not  in  the mood to spend the
night out here.
     Suddenly,  the  noise of sporadic gunfire came over  from where we left
our armour.
     - What  the  hell!? I  thought,  for once we could do something without
interruption. Go, go, fellows! - I sprinted forward, carrying a package with
heavy drugs, given to me by Zhenya.
     To get everything out we had  to  bust a little armoured door. For some
strange reason no one has yet managed to snatch the drugs or may be we  were
just lucky. We've  got the rare medicines and I had a feeling we'd soon need
them.
     The  gunfire  soon died  away  which was very strange to say the least.
Perhaps our drivers got it mixed up or maybe, they were not the winners.
     - Come on! Move it fellows.
     - Go! Go!
     - Hold on, guys!
     - We'll fry the motherfuckers!
     - Let's just hope the carriers are fine!
     Kicking and screaming like that we scooted ahead via the school rubble.
The  school's  upper floors  at the  rear have all collapsed, having made  a
virtual  hill with its debris, all  the way down to the  warehouses.  Coming
down was easy  enough, but  running uphill, stumbling on chips of bricks and
concrete, was no  fun at all. A funny kids rhyme suddenly popped in my mind:
"...what  a  hard  work  that would  be, to  pull  a hippo from a swamp...".
Breathing heavily, falling down and  getting back up again, tearing skin off
our  hands  and  faces and  busting ampoules with medicine,  we  ran  up the
school's  second floor and dashed  down the  opposite hill. Since  I had the
smallest  box,  I  overtook  everyone  and was  the  first to  see that  our
mechanics were peacefully chatting with  some other unfamiliar soldiers next
to  the armoured tracks. I stood still in the shadow and carefully looked at
the panorama.
     Everything seemed calm. Nobody seemed to be  hiding or  slinking about.
Haven it was. I  caught my  breath and  spewed  with green  and yellow slime
again. Damn it. I've got to quit  smoking. Others came  up. All  of us, with
rifles braced, started to come down slowly. Those guys could be deserters or
may be again, escaped cons. OK, we'll see when we get there.
     Coming closer, we saw that  the  guests  were like us, "the  saviours",
"members  of  the southern adventure force". Having noticed  our arrival, my
mechanic leapfrogged  over  to me and  jerked his hand up to  his helmet  in
salute and reported:
     -  Comrade Captain,  during your absence  nothing  particular happened,
with the exception... we mistook our neighbours for ragheads and opened fire
at them...
     - And the number of casualties is...
     - None, we quickly worked it out.
     - That's good. Imagine, if you were better shooters you might've killed
each other.
     -  Comrade  Captain,  I  am a  platoon  leader of  the 125st  artillery
regiment, lieutenant Krikov!  -Junior  officer, barely  any older  than  his
subordinates, came up to me and saluted.
     "Krikov - Kryukov", it rhymed inside my  head.  Strangely enough, I was
thinking of Kryukov this morning and now see Krikov. It's all too funny.
     - When did you graduate? - Someone asked from the back.
     - This year, - proudly answered lieutenant.
     - Right, - I whistled, - Lucky  you  didn't kill each  other.  What the
hell are you doing out here anyway?
     -  We were getting some water  for  the division. When we  walked down,
there were no one here,  but  returning we stumbled  upon your backup. We've
not enough people and too many heavy water tanks. We had no choice but to do
the run without reconnaissance since every one was carrying water.
     Lieutenant was saying "us", like the decisions he was making were based
on his and his men "chinese parliament", which was most probably true. He is
very "green". I had the urge to give him a lecture, but held it in. He won't
learn anything anyway until  he  steps into his own shit.  That shit  though
could be his last. Thinking of this I spewed  again. What a moron, ha? He'll
die and his men would perish too. I could hold it in no more:
     -  Next  time,  lieutenant,  take  either more  men  or  fewer  flasks.
Otherwise, an ambush is out there waiting  for you. Get  it? - I told him in
low voice.
     The man cringed  under my look and  most probably  would say  something
daring in response  but  in the end changed his mind. So very "green" he was
that all his thoughts could easily be read  on his face.  He thought it over
for a while and then asked:
     - Comrade Captain, could you  give us  a  ride for a few blocks  to the
regiment, I wouldn't  want  to tab all  the  way back.  Spooks are  always a
problem too, wouldn't want to meet them either.
     - Sure, get in. Where do you get your water? - Stupid question, really,
in this situation. Where else but Sunzha?
     -  From Sunzha,  of course. Twice someone shot at  us. - Lieutenant was
bragging.
     - If they wanted you dead, they would've left one good sniper there and
we wouldn't be having this conversation right now. Where abouts?  - I rolled
out the map while we walked back to the carriers.
     - Here, - Krikov pointed at the spot, five blocks away from the school.
- And here is the nest the shots came from.
     - OK,  I wouldn't venture for water out here anymore, tomorrow  they'll
be waiting for us up there for sure. Did you at least shoot back?
     - Of course.
     - Fine, get in the trucks.
     We  loaded up  on  the armour and set off.  In  a few blocks lieutenant
asked to pull over.
     I gave the order to stop and APCs halted. Lieutenant and  his men leapt
off, waved us good by and walked off to the regiment quarters, crooked under
the heavy weight of their tanks and flasks. Another half an hour and we were
back at our base. Instantly Corpsemen hurried off to their tents to sort out
the spoils. I was off to my cab too where Pashka was feeding firewood to our
stove.
     - Tell me news, - I asked him taking off my gear.
     - No news. Everyone is at the briefing. Is that true we'll have a go at
Minutka soon?
     - Yeah. - I said dryly, - long briefing?
     - It's  been going on for about hour and  a half. They've  been calling
for you a few times.
     - No shit, - I walked out and lit up on the way to briefing room.
     Making my way through the mud, I came over to the HQ. Crowd of officers
and men near the entrance were having a  lively discussion. I neither wanted
to put off  my sweet cigarette  or get in  there and continue  on discussing
those suicidal plans. The question now  was how many hundreds of us will die
out there. The "enemy" at the  "North" and Moscow has  finally rejected  our
appeal for air  and artillery support and tightened the time frames. What we
now had to discuss was which battalion was to go in first. Officers tried to
tell  me  something but  I wasn't  listening to anybody. In  my  head, I was
struggling to come up with the right arguments in favour of my plan, which I
haven't even finished composing yet, but some details were already beginning
to build up. There was,  it seemed, a small chance  to reduce the  number of
casualties. Having read my  state of mind, the  officers  left  me alone.  I
nodded to  them in appreciation and tossed off my cigarette, which fell into
the mud in an arc-like trajectory. Just like the life itself,  isn't  it? As
soon  as gets atop, it slams right back down. I  was thinking how many lives
would tomorrow fall without even reaching the top. Old men invented the war.
They are already infertile  but  still lack wisdom and  surely  have  enough
ambitions for all the  young ones  put  together. Their Power lets them push
the  youth  to  die for their old ideals and, after having  satisfied  their
thirst  for  blood,  they'd  be  stealing  again  left,  right  and  forward
whatever's  left  there. We, officers, the witnesses  to their  madness, are
pretty much done too. They'll do to us what they  did to the veterans of the
afghan campaign. They'll  portray us as  idols, and  then would demote us to
the  status  of  drunks and  drug  junkies. Those  vets are  now  officially
murderers that had gashed off peaceful afghan population unable to take on a
decent force.  Now they're shut out, blamed  for everything.  Their official
diagnosis - the "afghan syndrome". Jesus, how many more of those "syndromes"
they've forgotten to mention. Every hotspot is another "syndrome". Too many,
if ask me, even for such large state like Russia.
     I  was just "winding up" myself. It is better to walk in already pissed
off and "wound up" than do it in there. Everybody's already tired of endless
useless  arguments  and constant  dead-end conversations and you are barging
in, aggressive, ready to tear to  pieces every one in your way. Your opinion
at this stage is a breath of fresh air.
     My ideas  have already begun to take shape of a final plan. We depended
heavily  though on our captured men not  being in that palace, because I was
afraid we could knock them out too.
     There is a device that sappers use for pushing mines out. It would work
for us beautifully. The thing consists of  a rocket with three  jet engines,
one  for the  flight and  two  initial boosters. When it takes off  it drags
behind it a thick hose stuffed with C4  and  only  flies  in  one particular
direction. When that hose (or gut) unwinds  all  the way,  the rocket slumps
and in  a  few seconds the gut's  C4  detonates,  making  a ditch about four
meters wide.  This  "dragon" is  employed to make  ways for  infantry inside
minefields.  Those  mines that do  not explode,  after the  detonation would
surely be pushed out on the  surface anyway. Depending on a type of terrain,
the width of the ditch could vary from one meter to four.
     Therefore,  if we got close to that fricking palace, we could  launch a
few of these  "dragons"  toward it. After that  not  much of that whorehouse
will be left standing. The most important task would be to destroy the lower
floors.  The rest would fall  soon  after, burying  them  all in there.  But
again, it  only worked well in  case only the spooks  were inside. Anyway, I
walked up to the entrance,  moved my AK behind my back,  and pushed the door
open.
     - May I come in, comrade Colonel?  - I interrupted Bahel in the  middle
of his explanation.
     All battalion commanders, their chiefs,  com-brig's  XOs and  other  HQ
officers were  looking at  the map.  A few more  men were  smoking near  the
window breach barricaded with sandbags.
     - Come in, Mironov. How was the trip?
     - Very well, comrade Colonel.
     - Please take a seat and do not interrupt us. Whatever  you have missed
you can find out later.
     He turned to the map  again and  moved  his pen across it,  using it as
pointer. Judging from  the  spot he was  at, we were now  storming the State
Bank. Which in turn meant that we have  already taken over  (on the map that
is) the bridges and successfully moved across the open space  under the hail
of  gunfire. I should probably ask them afterwards  how they did it. For now
I'll just seat  here quietly and listen. The time will come  for me to stand
up  and  express my  point of view, like any other present here.  First, the
lowest ranking officers will speak, then, all the way up the pyramid. It  is
done deliberately, so that the opinion of the higher-ranking officers wasn't
weighing on their shoulders. At the end, com-brig  will do the  summing  up.
He, the brigade's commander, is the  one responsible for every single thing,
he is to  oversee  the state of affairs, make decisions, give out orders and
control the way they are carried out. His chief of staff could sometimes get
a piece of the pie,  but mostly it is up to him to do all those things. Same
order is in the trenches. Battalion, company or platoon  commander is always
responsible for his  unit. He is the  one who would get all the blame if his
men didn't achieve the objective. Tribunal would be swift, it won't drag on,
I'd vouch for that. Best case scenario, he'll lose his ranks, get kicked out
of the army and go back to farming. Worst case: court martial, dishonourable
discharge, his medals taken away and then jail.
     In our country, the most fearful prefix to  your status  is  "ex-".  If
they could have a go at the ex-president, an ex-military commander's rank is
no cover for sure. If they found out you were at war, hold on to your pants,
my friend, you are as good as dead. You're now a  war criminal. The blood of
innocent  civilians  is most  definitely  on  your  hands.  We,  law-abiding
citizens  killed no  one. If any of  our  countrymen are  being  slaughtered
somewhere  in the south, so be  it. What else would you  like, Mr President,
maybe  send more of our children to the next  bloodbath? No problem, sir! We
voted for you so how can you possibly  be wrong or lie to us? Not  a chance!
Did you, my reader, think like that? Or maybe still thinking?
     Chehov once said that one must squeeze a slave out of oneself, drop  by
drop. It must be added that our rulers  should be daily squeezing big bosses
out.
     Just look at the  map. How can possibly  a republic, so small that it's
marked on the map as dot, be threatening Russia's  sovereignty?  Unless, you
feed and support this motley general,  encouraging his fiery  speeches. Come
on,  he's nothing  but  a  little Fuhrer with the chechen accent. When  they
needed Lev Trozhki dead, he was slain like  a street dog, in Mexico, with an
ice picker and without any guided missiles. I refuse to believe that this ex
soviet pilot was so smart as to get away.
     For  a  reward, they'll  serve you his  head on  a plate with salad and
mayonnaise.  Every one is worth money. If you can't buy  a guy, put a hit on
him. That's tricky though, because he might know the key combination to your
bank account in Zurich, or maybe some other dirt on you.
     We, like all fine-bred sheep, would  again go to  the voting tables and
vote for  those  who'd  send us to another  bloody  "hood wrangle", send our
children to  slaughter and force veterans  of  the Great Patriotic War fetch
empty cans from the rubbish bins.
     It's  not about communists,  democrats, socialists and other masters of
jabbering. These  guys are  only after our bread and butter. The purpose  of
war is to redirect our attention from that stealfest.
     Meanwhile the briefing went on, the plan was drafted and presented. The
time has come for us to speak up. Suddenly, San Sanych was  called by an RTO
to take  an important  phone call. All of us kept  silent, may be the  whole
thing was called off. He came back to the table horrified and  sat down with
a helpless look on his face. Com-brig could no longer hold it:
     - Just tell us, will you.
     - We are receiving intelligence  reports,  confirmed by the opposition,
that all our captured wounded are being  brought  up into the palace. We are
to be extremely careful  during  the assault.  Air support  was refused,  no
"Grads" or "Uhragans"  would be provided either and we are to use  only  our
own artillery.
     Complete silence now hung in the room. The  only ones to break  it were
the sounds of  heavy  breathing, moving chairs and  a  sudden loud crunch of
com-brig's pencil.  It seemed he didn't even notice that he broke it. He was
still holding the pieces and staring at the wall. Everyone went into stupor.
     - We can't go in without artillery or air support, full  stop. -  Broke
the silence commander of the first battalion.
     -  We  can't use  them  either. The hostages will  die. But  they'd die
regardless whether we have support or  not - Continued commander of the tank
battalion.
     - Either the spooks will finish them  off or we'd stop their sufferings
with an accidental  burst,  grenade or  mortar  shrapnel. Same difference. I
wouldn't want to be  their  murderer  in a  million  years. It's a  dead-end
situation.  - Third  battalion's commander  was thinking and talking  at the
same time.
     -  We  don't  stand  a  chance in a  world  to even  try  and save  the
prisoners. But attempting to  do  so we could lose a  lot more of  our  men.
Neither  can  we ignore  the  possibility  of  counterattacks.  -  Continued
Com-brig's artillery XO.
     Before the  pause got  too  long, Com-brig tossed  away  pieces of  his
pencil:
     -  Take a ten-minute break. Your men  are to be told nothing! After the
break everyone has three minutes to express his opinion on the subject.
     All of us poured outside  to breathe in some fresh air, take a leak and
have a smoke.  While at it, we  talked  about  all the previously  mentioned
without the commander.
     - We're totally screwed!
     - What the hell are they thinking?
     - Now,  for sure,  we'd have  to climb those  walls like  pirates  with
knives.
     -  OK,  we've got  to think men.  - It seemed  that the tank  battalion
commander was not at all concerned with all  this  hype. He spoke to the art
battalion  commanders and the com-brig's XO.  Would you be able to  get your
howitzers a little closer to the palace?
     -  I  don't  think  so.   The   bridges   won't  handle  the  load.  My
self-propelled cannons are too heavy, too slow and the  on-board  ammunition
stocks are too small. They'd have  to be resupplied constantly. We'd have to
be somewhere close, but not  too close,  dug in  position. Then, we'd  shell
over your heads and houses right where you'd want us.
     But the  tankers'  com-batt wasn't listening  to  him  anymore. He  was
mumbling something to himself:
     - Small stocks...  too slow... Revolver! We should pull a "revolver", a
carousel that is.  First, infantry goes in, then, our tanks open up. No APCs
though, their calibre's too small.
     He called for his chief of staff and  they began to draw something. The
time was  up and we all went back to the briefing. When everyone was back in
their chairs, com-brig said:
     -  Gentlemen,  all  of us  understand the  present situation. We cannot
attack like this but we cannot also not to attack. I've made  calls to Rolin
and our support units. They are giving us the carte blanche. We are to  take
the palace at any cost. Please say what you have to say:
     Silence hung about the room. The "chief tanker" took the opportunity:
     - As I understand it, we cannot use air  force and  artillery since our
POWs are in the building. Is my notion correct?
     - Yes, it is, - confirmed Com-brig.
     - How very observant, - Someone giggled at the back.
     - Our  APCs on the other hand have too smaller calibre weapons  and not
enough armour protection, thus are unable to effectively support us from the
required distance. Correct?
     -  Yes,  -  Com-brig  again  confirmed, still however  puzzled  by  the
com-bat's speech.
     - Our tanks, although properly armoured and have  large enough  calibre
weapons, lack ammunition stocks, thus would still be ineffective  since they
would run out of ammo relatively  quickly. So, as  you can see, the  problem
here is how  to restock them  rapidly.  Reloading tanks under enemy  fire is
surely a  suicide; therefore I  propose that the tanks do  it  themselves. I
also suggest a "tank roundabout" to maintain constant bombardment.
     - What roundabout?
     - Hey, he's got something there!
     - Great idea, man!
     Almost everyone grasped the general  intent proposed  by the tanker. He
walked up to the map and began to tell about his plan:
     - First, over here,  two tanks roll out across the bridge. One  of them
maintains rapid  fire; the other  backs the first one  with  rare salvos but
mostly is keeping quiet. The third one stands by in the middle of the bridge
and  is waiting for his turn.  Meanwhile,  on our side of the river, at  the
bridge's entrance, the forth tank is  awaiting action and finally, the fifth
one is reloading back up here. While, having spent all its  ammo,  the first
tank is returning  to our bank of the river to be reloaded, the one on stand
by, on the middle of the bridge, moves in position and opens up. At the same
time the third  one, that was at the bridge's entrance moves forward to  the
middle. During all these moves, the tank that was stationary and kept silent
now  opens  fire  to  keep the pressure on the  enemy and  prevent them from
destroying the  retreating empty tanks.  This way  we are  able  to maintain
constant the required density  and precision of bombardment and, at the same
time support  our infantry. We'd be acting as artillery, so to say. Although
they usually aim at plazas, we, on  the  other hand, could aim at windows, -
He finished off his speech on this funny note.
     - This is bloody great!
     - Thank you, - Com-brig shook his hand.
     - I also have an idea, - Third battalion's commander stepped forward. -
I suggest we use sewage network to get into the palace.
     - Not a bad idea.
     - That way we could save our men and maybe even free the hostages.
     - What if they set up an ambush? We'd all be dead before we knew it.
     - Not bad, but too risky.
     - It's  a pretty good  idea, but we don't  really  know where the pipes
could lead us. This and  the fact that  chechens  are already actively using
them  as the means  of  approach  and  retreat while  setting  up  ambushes.
Therefore, there  is a  good  chance that if we do decide to use  the  sewer
network we could walk into  a trap. Thanks for  the idea though.  I think we
have  to blow them up anyway so that the spooks wouldn't pop up at our rear.
Agreed?
     - Agreed. - Com-bat said with a sigh of disappointment and settled back
into his chair.
     - Any more suggestions, anyone?
     More people spoke but no one  could propose  anything more radical than
the tankers' "roundabout". Storming hotel "Kavkaz" today  was already out of
the question and it was agreed with the "North" that  we  would transfer the
task to the marines. We also came to the  decision to pull our men closer to
the  HQ  and let them  rest as much as possible for now. Equipment had to be
readied  too.  In conclusion,  our  HR  officer,  lieutenant  colonel Sergey
Nikolaevich Kazarzhev took the opportunity to speak to us.
     He was a short fellow (about a  meter and sixty-five centimetres tall),
not  skinny though but rather muscular.  He took part in the Afghan campaign
some years ago back. He wasn't like  the rest  of  the ex Political Officers
brotherhood.  He  wasn't  nasty to  other people,  nor  was he  bugging  his
superiors with  ludicrous stuff, he  was just doing his  job. He made  every
effort to  find common ground with men and was widely respected not just for
his Afghan past but also for his people skills.
     - Gentlemen,  I have just  received a phone call  from the "North". Two
Moscow commercial  banks are about to  celebrate  their  anniversaries.  The
money  that they saved  up for  the festivities,  they decided  to  spend on
supplies aid for the military personnel in Chechnya. So, tomorrow we have to
send  a truck to the "North" for the packages. Every one  of them contains a
track suite, snickers, toiletries, pack of  cigarettes, two cans of beer for
offices, two cans of cola for men and some other stuff.
     - Not bad!
     - Beer...
     - Freebee!
     - Lucky for those who'll be distributing that aid.
     - Take more, for wounded and KIAs too!
     - Yeah, get more.
     - Need a hand?
     - Which banks?
     - "Menatep"  and  "In-com",  -  shouting  through  the  noise  answered
Kazanzhev.
     - "Menatep", hmmm, sounds like NATO.
     - Cigarettes!
     - Hey, who is non-smoker? I'll buy them off you.
     - Hold on. May be they're "Astra" or "Bum in the mountains".
     - Right, they can swap the good ones in the "North".
     - Yeah, those guys can swipe anything.
     - No, they wouldn't, dare.
     - Why  would  they care?  They'd  rather  start  distributing after the
assault; more would be left for themselves.
     - Quite! - Com-brig barked through the roar.
     The noise suddenly abated.
     - Quite! - Repeated Com-brig.  - We've  all got lots to do.  Let's  not
waste time, shall we. Questions?
     Everyone had many questions, but most of them were rhetorical. Knowing,
that answers most probably  would  be to "get  stuffed" and "go away" no one
ventured to ask any. Everybody walked away discussing the freebees.
     Yurka and I came up to Kazanzhev:
     -  Serega,  you  won't  forget  about us  when  you'll be  dealing  the
packages, won't you? The most important thing is the cigarettes. May be some
people don't smoke, you know.
     - Guys, you're not the  first  and you're not the last to  ask me that.
Give me a break, will you, have conscience.
     - Yura, what's he talking about?
     - Conscience.
     - What's that?
     -  No idea. I know kidney,  stomach, liver,  but  what  conscience is I
don't know. How about you?
     - Never heard of it.
     - Serge, we have an almost absolute monopoly on alcohol around here and
we are, by  the way, your neighbours. You can't just tell us off  and that's
it. It's not neighbourly.
     - Imagine how in good neighbourly  spirit we'll  be urinating  on  your
car's tyres and dumping on your porch. Get the picture?
     - For the whole duration of this war.
     - And  we'll keep going like that  after the war too. We'll be shitting
on your porch constantly.
     - Just imagine, Serge, you're  coming out  to go to work in the morning
and  tumble having slipped on our deifications. All  dressed up in sparkling
whites and covered in crap. Wouldn't that be a bummer?
     - And all of this because of some pissy cigarettes.
     - Idiots.
     - Slava, I thing we've heard that one before.
     -  By the  way, while  you're at the North,  find their  airport chief,
Sashka, and tell him we said "hi". Also remind him to put more cigarettes in
and something nice. Let him surprise us.
     - I don't think he even remembers you.
     - Oh, yes he does.
     - So, what's it gonna be?
     - About what?
     -  OK, so you choose to  skate on shit till you retire. Or may be you'd
just  give  us more  cigarettes and  we'll  leave  you alone. We don't fight
elderly, you know.
     - Get stuffed...
     - Yura, he has chosen the shit path.
     -  Obviously.  We're starting  tonight,  immediately.  Pashka  will  be
crapping too.
     - I wonder  if  it was the blind chance that  brought the three of  you
together from the whole SibVO and stuck you in one cab?
     - Why?  Not just  SibVO, but also UZN and Yurka, for  example,  is from
SKVO. It's  fate  you  see. Therefore, you, Srgei Nikolayevich, cannot avert
your destiny too.
     - Slipping on crap, every day of the week. But  all that could've  been
avoided...
     - If you had only agreed to give us more cigarettes.
     - And if you did, we'd always be happy to see you.
     - And we'd tell our kids how wonderful you are. But if you didn't, we'd
also tell them... what an asshole you turned out to be.
     - Idiots.
     - He's obviously not ready to commit yet.
     - Don't worry, he'll fall a few times, he'll commit.
     - So?
     - OK, we'll talk tomorrow.
     - Oh, you should've said so straight away.
     - Wonderful! Good night, Serge.
     While walking over to the cab I suddenly  realised how tired  I was. At
"home" Pashka was all smiles at the dinner table. Having pilled off mud from
our boots (it made them look like ski boots), we barged into the cab.
     -  And what  are you so happy about? Won a  prize or  something? - Yura
asked  him.  I  was silent though,  some thoughts,  pretty  important, as it
turned out, were circling in my head.
     - I heard what you did at the "North"...
     - Shut up. Shut up and never tell  anybody. Got it? Nothing happened up
there.  You understand?  - I  dryly  interrupted him.  I had  the desire  to
neither  recall nor discuss  the events. - Put  out what we've  got in  your
little stash. We'll go wash our hands.
     We left the rifles in the cab and popped out with  a pot of warm water.
Hosing  ourselves,  we  washed up thoroughly  until  the skin could  finally
breathe  again. We sat down on the  porch  to light  up, letting  the  night
breeze caress our faces. I had  the desire to just sit like this forever and
think  of  nothing. Just  sit  and  smoke with  the  heat from my  cigarette
stinging my fingers. Serenity it was. Yurka interrupted my jolly mood:
     - What was that about?
     -  So  that  he doesn't  go  around  blabbering  everybody  everything.
Whatever happened is now in the past.  No  use now to jump about, especially
for  a grunt.  Imagine if  we told him what happened, he'd be running around
telling everyone  at  the HQ. Just let him  be sad but  silent. I think when
it's all over (God help us to get through), we'll yet stand before a jury of
some kind. You'll see. What is it you sons of bitches were thinking about? A
revolt? So I suggest you shut up too.
     - Am I supposed to be scared? Cause I'm not.
     - We are not, my young friend, taking  part in the Great Patriotic War.
This fight  is  for somebody else's property. So the owner might one day ask
us if we didn't try to turn his own weapons, people and equipment, entrusted
to us for a while, against himself.  Yura, we are participants in such cheap
show that we could just laugh outloud  if it wasn't so scary. Do you, by any
chance, know why all THIS is?
     - Drop it, Slava. You'll go nuts.
     - Too late. If I'm asking these questions, I'm already nuts. - I fished
another cigarette out of the packet,  lit it from the butt and tossed it off
into the mud.
     - We shall be tossed out just like that butt when the time comes and it
will come, trust me, may be even earlier than we all think. They'll wipe the
floor with us and toss  out. And just like  you spit after you smoke they'll
spit  on us. Don't you  forget it. If  we could now show  our  teeth to  the
general, we could do it again, could we? And may  be even jump at his throat
some day.  We're too used to blood and death by now. I, for  example, cannot
sleep in silence anymore. But if you fired up  artillery or air bombardment,
I'll be asleep in a second.
     - Yeah, me too. - Quietly noted Yura.
     - Just answer me this simple dumb question. What is nationality?
     - What do you mean? - Yura  couldn't catch my drift. - You're born with
it. God has given it to you, if you will.
     - But if, for example, a chechen infant were brought to France. All his
life his parents would hide the fact that he's  chechen from him. They would
give him their surname,  good education, first in a good school and later in
a university. All cultured up in their little French surroundings. So who is
he?  OK, if it's easier  for you,  imagine it was  a Russian child. (Pity it
wasn't me). So Yura, what do think, WHO is he?
     - French, I guess, - Yura wasn't particularly confident.
     -  So, you see - nationality is not biological, it  is a rather  social
concept. Evidently, people invented this problem, this national criterion so
that they can tell other people apart and now they are using  it to  bump us
against each other. Remember the romans:  "divide and conquer"? Do you  also
remember the soviet times,  when they proclaimed  everyone equal?  They also
sent Russians to serve their term  in  the military at the outskirts  of the
empire, whereas Muslims would always get to  do  theirs in one of the Baltic
republics and Baltic people  always went to Ukraine  and  Moldova?  That was
done for a purpose, so that if a revolt breaks out they wouldn't hesitate to
shoot at strangers. And political officers would keep  that  fire burning at
all times.
     - What about patriotism? Loyalty to your motherland?
     - Motherland?
     - Yes, motherland, -  Yurka was jubilant.  The question  was in fact  a
tough one.
     - What is motherland, Yura? - I calmly asked him. -  I'm not a Jew or a
gipsy, or some nomad. Explain to me what motherland is. What do YOU mean  by
that?  Once  before,  our  soldiers called  out:  "for  God,  Tsar  and  the
country!", then "for Motherland and  Stalin!" and now what,  "for Motherland
and President!" or "Motherland and Grachin!". - I spewed.  - May be in about
twenty years from now they'll make a movie  how grunts march  at  machinegun
nests  with that idiotic cry. As Grachin once said: "the boys died smiling".
I'd like to pump a 7.62  in his belly  and see how he would smile to me. So,
what is it,  motherland? Is it the president, who fucked it al up  and  then
dipped us into this burning  shit? I don't even have a word in my file about
this. Would  motherland  that  loves  her  sons send  them to  their deaths?
Couldn't  they kill the bustards  from a distance?  You know? Of course they
could. And all of us, with the whole world,  would applaud at the  precision
of that surgical operation. They could do  anything but this. Unless  you're
on the same team with Dudaev. Patriotism? Hah.  Oscar  Wild once  said  that
patriotism  is  the bastard's last sanctuary.  The paradox is that  I really
love Russia. I  love the country but I hate the  government. So this paradox
bears  hatred for  the whole meaning of the word "motherland". It's tough to
live in a country that you hate.
     - So why do you fight? And, I think, you're pretty good at it too.
     - Stop kissing my ass,  will  you. I don't know. Maybe I'm defending my
motherland. God knows why. It's  paradox or a mental case. You see it's just
too easy here, like black and white. Like  Indians and confederate soldiers.
We're defending our homeland that they  are  trying to  tear apart. I  don't
know, I think I'm going nuts. You know  this joke when a general arrives  at
the  barracks to inspect them. He's walking around, checking things out  and
stuff. Then suddenly  he  says to the barracks'  commander: "It's too gloomy
around here, could you paint the fence in all colours of the  spectrum?" The
commander: "Yes sir!" So they walk further. General goes again: "And arrange
the beds in a chess order, I think it's kinda happier looking that way." The
commander again: "yes sir,  general sir!" So the general's finally saying to
him:  "Do  you have  your  own opinion on anything  at  all? To every single
bullshit I  propose  all  you can  say  is yes sir." But commander  suddenly
answers: "I  do have my own opinion  but  I don't have  enough years  in the
service, otherwise I would've told you to shove your orders up your ass, sir
general sir!" The story of my life, Yura. Not enough years in the service to
happily retire. Otherwise I wouldn't have had this split personality.
     - Maybe you have to go see a shrink or something?
     - Yeah, and  he's going to  explain  to me what the  word  "motherland"
means and why exactly  I'm here. And  while he's  at it, he can also try and
explain to  me  why we cannot blow the shit  out of the  oil  refinery.  But
hands,  my hands, Yura, are shaking with desire. Just in spite. To pull some
pretty ugly joke on  someone. The problem  is that I  don't think they'll be
restoring  it  out of their own  pockets. Most  probably out  of the state's
budget. By the  way, Yura, are you  aware  of the  fact  that our air force,
first and foremost, bombed the shit out of the local finance ministry?
     - I am aware of that. So what?
     -  I  can  bet you that at this very  moment  they are bombing  not the
palace, not the  spooks'  barracks, not their  ammo depots, but the  Chechen
state bank.
     - Very unlikely. - Yura wasn't sure,  - However, they could, you  know.
First the ministry and then bank.  Logically, they are letting the reg-heads
know about the assault. Bastards!
     - That's exactly what I'm talking about. So, Yura, what is motherland?
     - Get  stuffed. You  bloody  sophist. You should've  become a political
officer.
     -  My  dad  was an  ex-serviceman. Therefore  I  have  this  unshakable
antipathy  for political officers.  But  sometimes,  you know, there  can be
descent people amongst them. Rarely though.
     - OK, let's go eat. Shall we get pissed tonight?
     -  I'd be happy  to, but I don't think I can. Moreover, it  was a crazy
day. Remember we had about 500 grams of liqueur each, with only some chicken
to chase it with, and it had no effect on any of us.
     - Yep, - Yurka grimly spewed. - What a life, hah? You want to get drunk
but you  can't.  When I  come home, I'll  get  totally  shitfaced  and  dive
facedown in salad.
     - Yep, salad it is. Up to your ears. Just watch the air supply.
     So we laughed. When you ask yourself questions that you cannot possibly
answer, all  you can do  is relax, go with flow and hold on to your partner.
As we made our way inside the cab, Pashka has  already set up the table  and
placed an open bottle of vodka in the middle.
     - Any more cognac left?
     - Yes.
     - So put it out, will ya. Cheer up, man.
     Yurka looked at me reproachfully.  It was pretty clear - no  one  could
tell if we ever  get another  chance to  drink it  later, but  his look  was
articulate  enough to blame me  for  having  a go at  the fellow for  my own
rotten thoughts.
     Pashka  left the Vodka where it was and pulled out the cognac. I opened
the bottle and poured it out into almost full glasses. I had a raging desire
to get drunk.
     - Let's go! - I lifted my plastic cup.
     Others  followed my example  and  bumped  their  "cups" together.  They
rustled and the dark liquid inside them waved when we cheered. I capsized my
glass and  heavy  syrupy liquid streamed down my stomach and spread  out  in
there with worm sensation. I closed my eyes for a moment. The next moment we
started eating. This meal was a silent  one. There was nothing we  could say
or do. Everything was already decided and signed off. So what's the point? I
could probably draw a  request for discharge but the thought  of that  never
even occurred to me at that stage.
     We were chewing quickly and  when the warmth inside my stomach began to
disappear I poured out  whatever  was  left of cognac. Yurka quickly grabbed
his cup:
     - Are we  just  having a drunken orgy or we actually have a reason? Any
toasts anyone?
     - No, we are just having a meal, but if you feel like saying something,
be my guest. But please make  it  short, I don't  usually  like  to  have my
cognac warm or vodka for that matter.
     - I would like to make a toast,  -  began Yura, - to  God. He's been on
our side so  far and I think I'm  speaking for everyone at this table when I
say  that I hope he won't leave us now and that we somehow  make  it  out of
this shithole...
     - So  that in a few years we could  get ourselves into a new one... - I
barged in the middle of his toast and continued for him.
     - May be we will,  but  we're here now and  maybe tomorrow will have to
storm Minutka, so I  ask God to  give us strength and bring us luck. To good
fortune!
     - Yura, do you realise that you're in the army now?
     - Yeah, so?
     - So, so. In the army we have this thing called subordination. But you,
over your commander's head, are speaking directly  to God. That might  go on
your permanent record.
     - Get stuffed  idiot! - Yurka exhaled air from his lungs and  pumped in
the cognac.
     Both,  Pashka and myself did the same. Something moved  inside my head.
Am I really  getting pissed?! What a wonderful feeling. I was afraid I could
spook this delicate state away and  was thus just sitting there  motionless.
The alcohol was actually having effect on me and it was growing too.
     - Slava, are you alright?
     - Yeah,  yeah,  I'm fine - I  opened my eyes,  - Bastard, you scared it
off.
     My head was back to normal by now:
     - Shit, man!
     - Scared what off? - My partner asked me stupefied.
     - The grogginess, you moron. I'm sitting there, enjoying myself and now
you've destroyed it.
     - I just  saw you  with that thousand  mile look in your eyes, I though
you  choked or  something. Sorry, man, won't  happen again. You might  still
catch it, you know.
     - Yeah, you try to catch it, - I was really annoyed, - But I can surely
try again.
     I picked up  the  bottle  of  vodka that Pashka left  on the  table and
poured it out in cups. Yurka and I weren't chasing it with food anymore. May
be now, mixing the two, I could get a little pissed. I stood up holding  the
cup in front of me.
     - The third one.
     - The third one, - said Yurka.
     - The third, - echoed us Pashka.
     Having stood  like this  for a while we drunk the  vodka in silence and
almost simultaneously sat back in our chairs and started slowly getting back
into the meal.
     -  Is that true we'll have to take Minutka head-on? - Pashka asked with
his mouth full.
     - Yes, sonny boy, it is, - I answered. I knew he couldn't stand when we
called him "sonny". And sure enough it enraged him this time:
     - I'm not your sonny boy! I'm about to have my own sonny.
     Then he added:
     - Or maybe daughter. So please don't call me "sonny boy".
     -  You  don't have to have a genius IQ  to make  one, Pasha, it's a ten
minute job, but a  lifetime of heavy labour afterwards.  Look  at  you,  for
example, we tried really  hard to make a person out of you, but yet achieved
nothing.
     - Why is it nothing? - Pashka was getting furious.
     - You drink too much; respect for elders is a bit of a problem too. And
we treat you like  family,  you know. I think we should try and  be stricter
from now on. What do you think Slava?
     - Yep, I  guess we should use something more radical this time. Why did
you  get  the sentry all  drunk  back on the train? A pissed  guard with  an
assault rifle is a criminal. Which makes you, my friend, an accessary.
     - Accessary to what?
     - To a criminal act, dummy. Back in 1937 you would've been charged with
sabotage and next step would've  been  the firing squad. All nice and quick,
according to the martial law.  ...A lead stamp in the back of the head, 9 mm
in diameter. -  I touched his occiput,  which executioners usually aimed  at
and Pashka twitched.
     - That is a really dumb joke, Vechaslav Nikolaevich.
     I lit up. Yurka and Pashka followed my example.
     - Right, Pasha, - I started, - while we're absent...
     - And where would you go? - Interrupted me Pavel.
     - Down the basement, to hide, -  I came back at him. - Don't  interrupt
senior citizens, would you. We'll most probably go with the battalions. You,
son of  a  bitch, are responsible for the cab and everything inside  it. You
guard it with you life. If anything happens, you... - I stopped him, already
opening  his  mouth, with  a gesture,  -  You will return all  of it to  our
families. You've got  it? As for the cab,  if  anything happens to it,  I'll
screw  your head off and make it look like you were born like this. Did  you
understand everything I just said?
     - Yeah, yeah. It's a hundredth time you're  telling me all this. By the
way, there isn't much to guard in there besides your dirty socks.
     - By the way you might want to wash them then.
     - Yeah, right, - Pashka snorted.
     -  You  will, I'm  telling you. You'll be washing them and crying while
doing it.
     - Even if  I  do cry, it  will  be  because the  stench  from  them  is
unbearable.
     - Pasha, - Yura  interrupted his  speech,  - we  now have this  ritual:
whenever we've got to go about our dangerous  business, we  tell you what to
do with our dirty stuff. But since you're not so keen on  taking on the task
of washing it, you might as well be busily praying  God so that he guides us
through successfully, so that you, in turn, wouldn't have to wash  the stuff
in case something happens.  By the  way, have you forgotten what  they smell
like, our socks?
     - Yeah, like  I  ever  knew! When  I  was  "green", I'd never wash  the
"vet's" socks. I'm not about to start now. - Pashka was boiling.
     His anger only encouraged us.
     - Pasha, you know when a person is dying; his last will is the law. You
might've heard about it.
     - Yeah, so?
     - So, - my tone turned declamatory. - Our last will, when we  die,  you
must wash our socks, press them and return  to our  families. One pair  from
each of us you may  keep for yourself. As a memory.  You  might want to hang
them on the wall above you bed.
     - But you're not dying yet.
     - But what if...
     - I'm not going to wash nothing! - Pashka turned grim.
     -  OK, OK,  we're  joking, man. Don't be sad. Better yet pour  out  the
remains, will ya.
     He thoroughly poured out last of the  vodka equally amongst three cups.
We patiently waited until last drops  fell into  his glass. We were actually
counting them.
     - Twenty-two, - said Yura, breaking the silence.
     - I've heard somewhere that it is possible  to squeeze out thirty-three
drops from any bottle. - I added to the conversation.
     We picked up our plastic cups.
     - Welcome to the brand new day. What's it going to be? - Asked us Yura.
     - Fuck knows. - Pashka answered for everyone.
     -  Whatever  happens let it be. And let's drink to that, shall  we.  To
good fortune and her majesty fate! - I said the toast.
     - That's right! - Yura supported me, - To fate and fortune.
     Then he added, almost to himself, but we all heard him clearly:
     - We must be  prepared for death.  Although, let us hope to avoid it, -
and drank his share.
     - What you just said is right. We must be prepared so that the death is
not fully unexpected. We must finish the deeds we have started and not  make
any big debts so that our families don't end up  having to pay them off. Let
us hope to avoid all this, - I repeated his words and finished off my cup.
     Pashka  drank  his  too and  we ate some more out of  the almost  empty
plates  and cans in silence. Then we  lit up again but now  in  a definitely
better mood than before. The coming day did not seem so dark anymore.
     - What was it you  were talking about, the  deeds and  stuff? -  Pashka
asked me, taking a deep puff out of his cigarette.
     - Jesus said it right before his death,  talking to his father. He knew
he was about to die  and he  was scared. So just in case he asked him not to
do it. - I explained to him. - When you've got time, read The  Bible, Pasha.
You'll find a lot of interesting stuff in there.
     - Ah, a book... - stretched Pashka.
     -  Read,  Pasha, read.  Wisdom of centuries of generations is in  books
like that. You see, you can't just live according  to your own  experiences.
What would you teach your son? Which life examples are you going to tell him
about? Whose  life? Yours? But you haven't seen much  besides  the  constant
booze.  Is that what you'd teach him? How to drink? Or  how to get a  sentry
pissed? - Yurka obviously had a philosophical twirl up his ass.
     - Yura, don't twist his brain, - I interrupted  his lecture. - At least
he won't become a schizophrenic.
     - Why is that?
     - Back in the military college I had a girlfriend, she was majoring  in
medicine. So she told me once that on a psychology lecture she heard that if
a person does not read books, it is very unlikely  that he or she would ever
suffer from schizophrenia. Because when you read a  book you do in your mind
everything  the characters do. You  suffer,  love, hate, and fight like they
do. This way his or her personality is replicated onto yourself and then you
have got your personality also deviated. Then something else happens which I
can't remember because it was all medical terms.
     - Hmmm, you're right, you know. Pashka is certainly  unlikely to suffer
from  schizophrenia. But alcohol  poisoning  is definitely a possibility.  -
Yura signed off on his resume.
     -  If, while we're absent, they'll be  dispensing the  aid, you come to
the brigade's political officer,  lieutenant colonel Kazartsev and tell  him
we  sent you. Then you pick up the aid for  yourself and us. If we come back
and you, bastard, drank our beer, you'd better hang yourself.  You know  our
sizes, don't you? I'll write  them down once again,  just in case. The  most
important thing is  the cigarettes, he  should give you more of those. If he
forgets, remind him that he promised them to us. Understood?
     - Yep. How much more cigarettes?
     - I don't know, but we hope a  lot. Don't worry, you'd be smoking  them
too. Have we ever deprived you of anything?
     - Nope, never.
     - You see. We're struggling to feed you  and you,  bastardo, don't even
want to wash our socks! - Yura started the "socks" talk again.
     - I'm not going to wash your socks! - Pashka exploded.
     - Don't  you yell  at  officers or I might  want to mess up that pretty
little face of yours. - Said Yura to his  rage. - We'll pop out for a  leak.
You clean up in here, will ya, and think about the socks. Air out the cab so
that we could get some sleep, I can't see the palm of my hand.
     - I'm not going to wash your  socks! - Not as loud as before, but still
as angry, Pashka said through his teeth.
     - Why are you winding him up? - I asked Yura, lighting up  and standing
next to him.
     - Bored, - simply said Yura.
     - No, it seems something is eating you on the inside.
     - Nothing is  eating  me on the inside. I just can't get that speech of
yours about the motherland out of my head. What's motherland?
     - Oh, so you've got it now too. So what is motherland?
     - As I said before, get stuffed!
     - No, no, no. Don't tell me to get stuffed. You answer the question.
     - You should've asked about the meaning of life.
     - No Yura. Nobody knows that for sure, but  you should  know about  the
motherland.
     - You're right about  one thing  though.  Motherland and government are
two totally different things.
     - No, motherland and state.
     - Yeah, it's OK when your country is  of only one culture, like Israel,
for example.
     - But what about the States. It's  like a bloody  Babylon in  there and
they're  all  fine, all understand  each  other. No one  wants  to create an
independent state on the  territory of, say, Texas. Why?  Because  they have
work over there. If you're not a bum, you live like a human being.
     - That's right. By comparison, we're like walking backwards.
     - OK, let's just drop this subject shall we. No use would come  out  of
it anyway and Pashka's already gone bananas.
     -  Yeah,  that's  for  sure. Let's shoot?  - Yura pulled a  few  signal
rockets out of his pocket.
     - Let's do it! - I took a couple from him.
     Having split up, we  walked some distance away  from each  other,  then
lifted the  rockets  and  fired  them,  jerking the  trigger  cords.  Almost
simultaneously  two claps  boomed in the  air and  the hissing rockets raced
into the  night skies. Once at the end of  their  journeys  they popped open
with lights and slowly started their descend back down  to earth. The guards
also periodically launched  these  rockets,  thus everything around here was
illuminated by  this dead  artificial  light. All things had unusual,  funny
looking  sharp shadows. When you fire those rockets it  seems like Christmas
back home. Every time,  on the New  Year's eve, I brought home some of these
rockets from  the garrison and  after the  midnight we all  came  out of the
house and launched them. We  were so happy,  me and my son. The same feeling
of happiness for  some  reason  overwhelmed me right now.  I chucked off the
empty  shell and picked up  another rocket. Without waiting for Yura I fired
it into  skies again. Heavy smell of  the  burnt  gunpowder hung in the air.
Yura was catching up fast.
     - Let's go get some sleep? - I asked Yura after the last rockets faded.
     - Let's have the last cigarette and that's  it for today. - My  partner
said back to me.
     We lit up and just sat there in silence.
     - You think they'll send us together? - Yura broke the silence.
     - I don't know. Maybe. Who knows.
     -  They might  stick  us  into  the second battalion until  they find a
replacement for their chief of operations.
     -  Nah,  they've got plenty of  good company commanders there.  Really,
there is no shortage of people  in our brigade, who  would like to become  a
chief of Ops.
     - Not really, but not many of them have enough experience to be one.
     - You think they'll let you command the Ops?
     - Maybe. It  won't be you, that's  for  sure. You are  the  interaction
officer.
     - Yep, we'll see.
     - Imagine the  guys in battalions are now  busting their balls, getting
equipment and people ready. Verifying the details of the  operation,  people
and ammunition. Isn't it wonderful we  no longer have to do  this? The worst
position in  the army is  a company commander. They are running  around like
crazy dogs.
     - That's  right.  There is  a good joke about it.  Only it's about  the
Navy, but still pretty relevant.  They summon this old  submarine captain to
the HQ of submarine operations and tell him: "We would like to introduce new
privileges to  the sub  crew  members.  What  do you  think about that?" The
captain, old sea dog, says "Fine, I think it's about time".  So the HQ chief
again says "we would like to increase you wages, housing quota, holidays and
family leave. We are thinking when the shore-based servicemen find out about
it,  they'll die of jealousy.  What do  you think?" The captain says: "Yeah,
that's right, but still,  when the first  one of them dies, could you put me
in his spot."  Same goes for us, whatever privileges they promise company or
platoon leaders, we must stay away from these posts.
     - OK, let's go. Tomorrow is going to be a hard day.
     - Yeah, who knows when we'd be able to catch a descent sleep. You know,
Slava, you're such a bastard.
     - Why is that?
     - With your dumb motherland questions. My head is spinning.
     -  But I've let it all out  and feel  much  better  now. Let the others
suffer. You, for example.
     - That's what I said, bastard.
     - Don't worry about it  too much. Take  it easy and forget  for now. If
we'll live through, we'll talk afterwards. In the nearest future, I think we
might have to lay off such conversations. Let the reflexes work for now.
     - True, let the  nerve system labour. I feel for  the boys though. Lots
of them will probably stay here forever.
     - "Nineteen year olds forever", like Baklanov wrote.
     - OK. Let's go or you'll start it again.
     We  came  up to the cab, tossed  the butts out and  walked in. While we
were out, Pashka cleaned up and was already in bed.
     - You're not on the guard duty tonight?
     - No. I'm on tomorrow during the day.
     - Wow, what a fluke? Who's going to guard my sleep tonight?
     - It's your sleep, so you guard it.
     - You're being an asshole again, Pasha. I guess we  should make you dig
a foxhole... for your horse and you together.
     - Together?
     - Yep, that's right. You let your tongue run free too often these days.
     - How big would the horse's hole be?
     - Three meters high.
     - Three meters? There are no such horses.
     -  Sure there are.  Have you  been to Moscow? There is  statue of Yuriy
Dolgorukiy  there.  His horse  is about  that  big.  So  you'll be digging a
foxhole for  his  horse  and  himself if you  don't  keep your  mouth  shut.
Understood?
     - Yeah,  sure. - Grumbled Pashka, turning away.  He  knew we could make
him do it if he got to us.
     All we took off was our  boots and socks. The rest we  kept on and only
loosened  our belts a little. My AK was on the floor, next to  my bed, Yurka
hung his on  the  wall above his  head. A  few hand-grenades went  under  my
pillow. I chambered a round in  my captured  suppressed Makarov, put it back
on "safety" and stashed  it under the matrass on the same level as my waist.
Now we  can try  and  catch  some sleep. Pity, I didn't get  pissed tonight.
Yurka,  bastard,  got in the  way,  but  I'll get back  at him  tomorrow.  I
unscrewed the light bulb above my head and everything sank into darkness. To
sum it all up for today I declared:
     - At ease, boys.
     So  one more long day of this war was  over. God and fate allowed me to
stay alive this one more day.  Let's  hope they  won't  change  their  minds
later. All my life in the past didn't mean much any more because tomorrow we
would have to go and try that suicidal assault  at the Minutka. God,  please
give me guidance! After this appeal to God I finally fell asleep.

        8

---------------------------------------------------------------
     (c) Copyright 2001 translation by Marta Malinovskaya and Konstantin Leskov
---------------------------------------------------------------

     We  split a bottle of vodka among all the officers including companies'
commanders, gobbled some  ice-frozen canned  beef. Meanwhile, our  artillery
finished pounding Chechen positions. The roar of bombers ceased  two minutes
later. Silence fell  interrupted only  by an  occasional riffle cracking and
machine gun fire.
     "Comrade  lieutenant-colonel!"  A soldier  emerged  from  the battalion
commander's  APC. "Order  from  the  "twenty  second"  (it  was  the brigade
commander's code): five-five-five".
     "Tell him:  understood!"  Battalion  commander ran  to  his vehicle. We
followed him. Tank crews and officers of the second battalion also rushed to
their  armored vehicles. A block  before  Minutka square our  reconnaissance
unit soldiers stopped us and told that they succeeded in pushing the "dukhs"
from the bridge on our side, but the Chechens consolidated their position in
the  middle of  the bridge and on the other bank. It seemed like the  bridge
was not  mined, but I would not bet on it. Infantry jumped from the APCs and
waited  for  a command  hiding  behind  the  vehicles  and  ruins. Tanks had
arrived. It was agreed that infantry  would  go ahead  with tanks  following
fifty meters behind.
     The Battalion Commander was in the head of his advancing unit, breaking
all instructions to stay behind  during the  attack. My buddy Yura and I had
no choice  but to follow him. Sneaking through destroyed buildings, covering
short distances in  each run,  we reached the bridge. Our scouts were barely
holding  the violent  push  of  the "dukhs".  A fortified  stockade  made of
concrete blocks had been erected  in the middle of the  bridge. "Dukhs" were
pouring our bank heavily  with  lead from behind  of  it not allowing us  to
raise a head. Chechen mortars started covering us with shells. At first they
fired  randomly, shells  went  into water,  but after  some corrections they
started to explode  closer and closer and  hit our bank. In addition "dukhs"
began shooting at  us from grenade launchers.  Reverberation was unbearable.
The bellow of mortar  shells increased. Bullets were constantly  knocking at
concrete blocks, which served us as a cover.
     There  were first casualties.  In  the  first company, where Yura and I
were, a shell  exploded very close to us, and  a large fragment of it tore a
half  of soldier's head off.  The  body was lying belly down,  a half of the
neck  was absent and another half bent to the right under the weight of what
was  left of the head. Blood was gushing from the devastated artery staining
the wall red. Another  soldier crawled to the dead, not to help, but to take
off  a chain  with  his  personal number  from  the  torn neck  and to  pull
documents  from  the inner pocket  of the uniform. When this guy  turned the
dead  on his back, corpse's hands trembled grasping his assault rifle  as if
he did not want to part with it.
     I  switched  my  attention  back to "dukhs". Chechens  accumulated more
force  on their  side. An APC arrived to support them. We heard clanging and
engine roar from the back. It  was ours tanks. They could have come earlier.
The front tank spat out a shell without good aiming. The projectile flew far
above  "dukh's" heads and exploded somewhere behind  them. Second shot  came
closer. It  scattered a crowd of "dukhs". Several bodies  remained  still on
the ground. Few  more  were screaming and squirming in pain. Mortar shelling
ceased,  as  well  as  automatic rifle  fire. Battalion  commander  ordered:
"Second  company!  Podstwolniks  ready!  Fire!  First  and  third  companies
forward!" He jumped out of his hiding place and,  ushering other people, ran
ahead being bent almost to the ground. We followed him screaming and cursing
on top of our lungs. Yurka  and  I blended  with this rushing wave. Grenades
from the podstwolniks  rustled  over our  heads. Shrapnel from  the exploded
grenades clicked  and banged on the  bridge  and  on the  other bank  of the
river. Tank  cannons thundered  behind  us. Their  shells  dispersed Chechen
infantry. "Dukhs" backed up from  the  bridge and hid behind a burned  tank.
Mortar shelling resumed. The howl of  flying  missiles drove  me crazy  even
more then the noise from explosions. It I felt the air vibrating, hitting my
eardrums, already  callous from explosions.  My will was paralyzed. The howl
of falling shells made me feel that I knew which one was sent to hound me. I
could almost imagine it falling  down on  me and tearing me into hundreds of
pieces and scattering them around. I forced myself back to reality.
     The  second  company pulled closer to  us. Radio told us that the first
and the third  battalions arrived and were  ready  to  support us with  fire
during  the  bridge  takeover.  A  minute later, the  cannons  of BMPs which
belonged  to   two   fresh  battalions  joined   the  chorus  of  tanks  and
Kalashnikovs.  Rifle's  voices of the first  battalion  sounded  like  dogs'
barking, accompanied by more substantial large caliber shots of the third.
     "Dukhs"  almost stopped responding.  The opposite bank was  cloaked  in
dust from shell and grenade explosions.  It seamed as if we could feel  this
thick air with our hands.  Teeth were grinding dust. My throat was sore from
the gas from burned explosives and some other crap in the  air. My eyes were
watered. But horror of the first minutes of the battle started to pass away.
Blood was pounding in my  temples, sweat was dropping from under the helmet.
I unbuttoned  my coat and  weakened the  buckle of  the armored vest. Then I
rolled over to my back, fished out a pack of cigarettes, matches and lit the
cigarette. Yurka, who was next to  me,  reached  out his hand  asking for  a
smoke.  I shared my  cigarette with him.  Talking  in this hellish roar  was
absolutely impossible. I inhaled cigarette smoke and did not feel its taste;
just bitterness mixed with gunpowder gases and nicotine. My experience  told
me that in five-ten minutes  this  cacophony would  end and we would have to
attack running, crawling on that bridge. I don't want to! I want to lie down
and stare at the sky. A fragment of a prayer came up to my mind. I could not
remember it all. The most important - go  onward and  survive. Following our
Battalion  Commander's  order,  the  fire  shifted  deeper into the "dukh's"
defensive  line.  BMPs  calmed  down to  avoid hitting  us.  Chief  shouted,
"Forward! Hurraaah!" People sprinted forward from their hiding places. I ran
too. "dukhs"  opened fire.  Someone  screamed  on  my right. Ahead  of me  a
soldier stumbled  on invisible  obstacle and  was thrown  back with his arms
wide spread. His Kalashnikov fell under my feet,  I stepped on it and almost
slipped. Passing I  glanced on the body.  The groin was  torn. Pants swelled
from blood, open eyes were looking  at the  sky without blinking.  "Gone", a
thought  flew in my brain. I felt terror again. A taste of blood in my mouth
returned. Dreadful, very dreadful. My legs felt as if were made of cotton. I
screamed something  unintelligible. Yelled, screamed  from horror. Lord God,
help! Help me to survive!
     We were  not  too far from  the  bridge.  Here  it  is,  littered  with
fragments of concrete,  bricks, wrapped in barbed wire. Thirty men  ahead of
us got out on the bridge. The other side opened heavy fire. First ten people
fell down, two  of them were still moving,  trying to crawl  back. The  rest
backed up and hid behind the ruins of the former "dukh's" stockade.
     I flopped down too and crept behind  a piece of concrete, stuck  out my
automatic and gave  a short  burst in the  direction  of "dukh's" bank, then
looked  back.  All  other officers  were slightly  behind. That meant that I
would be in charge here. Trying to over cry thunder of  the battle, I yelled
that someone should drag the wounded back from the bridge. Soldiers ahead of
me nodded showing that they understood.  Two of them crawled forward and the
rest opened fire to cover them. Seeing that the help is coming, the  wounded
tried to crawl in our direction, but seemingly, were not able to move well.
     Battalion commander appeared from behind and wheezed in my ear,
     "You are a good runner, Slava."
     "I would run back even faster", I answered.
     "Isn't it creepier than it was at the airport of Severny here?"
     "Exactly. I only wish not to let them blow up the bridge."
     "For that,  Slavyan,  we need to take over it as soon as possible," and
he shouted again. "Forward! Forward, guys!"
     Soldiers  started  getting out of their hiding holes despite the danger
of  being killed by  bombs.  Battalion commander  jumped from  behind  of  a
concrete slab and ran forward. I followed him. The advance guard got  on the
bridge  again.  Those who  were retrieving  the wounded rose and joined  the
others. I got on  the  bridge, it was whistling and roaring  around. "Dukhs"
shifted the  mortar fire. Strong thunder came. I fell then sat  up examining
myself. Everything was fine, except I couldn't  hear a thing. I  flapped  at
one ear with open palm as if  knocking the water  out.  It didn't help. Deaf
curtain separated me from the world. It had to be a concussion. A strong air
wave  whipped my  eardrums and popped them outside  in, nothing terrible. It
would pass over. I looked where the shell exploded. I remembered four people
running ahead of me. Where were they? Right there. Devastated bodies of four
soldiers were  lying on the bridge. Apparently,  they had taken all shrapnel
as if they guarded  me from it, at least so far. I felt sick and  through up
partially from the concussion, partially from the view  of mutilated bodies.
My fear contributed to it. I spat some bail out.
     Surprisingly,  deafness  passed  over  with vomit.  I started  to  hear
sounds. People ran by me.  Some fell and moved no more. I was sitting like a
fool by  the puddle of  my  own  puke feeling good. I was alive! I had nasty
bitter taste in my mouth and was thirsty. I found my flask and took a sip. I
spat  it out immediately because me friend Pashka had filled it with brandy.
I exhaled and made another sip. Head slowly  cleared.  All  right, let's get
out of here. I  could not leave the battle field with concussion, that would
be  dishonest.  I  looked again  at the remains of the soldiers, who took my
shrapnel.
     Forward!  Forward!  Thoughts  were  mixed up  still.  I  got up  as  if
breaching through a thick cotton pad . It was difficult to keep upright. But
I kept  telling myself that  everything was  fine. It would pass  over in an
hour. It was  not  my first  concussion.  You  cure it with shameless  vodka
drinking.  Everything would be all right. Forward! I stubbornly made several
steps then stopped and looked around. Soldiers  were lying down ahead of me,
in  the middle of the bridge. Like a  scarecrow,  I was standing behind them
and shaking. It  was my luck  that I still had not been shot. I found a spot
where I could stand upright without problem. Then on half-bent, still infirm
legs,  I  ran toward my comrades. Forward. Forward... About ten meters short
from  them  I  flopped down  and  started  to  crawl.  After  reaching  ours
positions,  I leaned against  a concrete fragment.  Soldiers, who  were just
ahead  of me,  looked  back and shouted something, but  my brain  refused to
comprehend.  Judging by their  approving and  encouraging  gestures, it  was
something good.  They figured that my hearing was impaired  and lifted their
thumbs up. I nodded and yelled back:
     "It's just a concussion"
     Tanks began to shoot  above  our heads. Hostile  fire faded and we went
forward  again. Now  I was dragging myself somewhere  in the  middle  of the
attack  group.  I was afraid  of firing  because I could shoot our own guys.
Soldiers  of  the first battalion had already  taken over the bridge. It was
ours  at last.  From  now on, the  main task was to  keep it. I looked back.
"Dukhs" employed strong  mortar fire to  force  the first battalion to  move
back. There were only soldiers from our battalion on the enemy's  bank.  The
bridge was covered with corpses, I  counted  about  fifty .  Fifty died  for
hundred and fifty meters of bridge. It was a horrible math. Companies of the
first battalion took the wounded with them.
     "Dukhs" continued pounding bridge with  shells  and, at the  same time,
started to shoot at  us.  They released a  smoke-screen, which was a sign of
their coming  attack. There was enough smoke even  without it. Chief's order
was spread: "Get  podstwolniks  ready. Fire!" We  started  to  shoot  at the
swelling  black  cloud  with  grenades. Some  soldiers,  who  did  not  have
podstwolniks,  sprayed the  smoke with long  bursts from their semiautomatic
weapons. I heard screaming of  wounded coming from the cloud as well as from
the our side.  They  were followed  by clanging of tracks  from  behind  the
smoke-screen.  It  was  either a  tank  or  a BMP. It  began  to  pound  our
positions. Random  rocks and  concrete fragments  provided  bad  cover  from
shells. Roar came from the above. Those were our planes. It looked as if the
sky opened and poured  down bombs. Have you ever been under bombing? No? God
blessed  you. Bombs,  five hundred kilos  of metal and explosives  each, are
approaching the ground with  debilitating howl. The roar of mortar shells is
a  sweet  serenade in comparison with it.  Aviation bomb  howl paralyzes the
body with horror,  makes every cell of your body resonate.  Thoughts go away
and  you  are lying  just  like  a  piece of  meat, trembling  from fear and
awaiting  your  death.  Everything  human leaves  your  body,  you become  a
trembling beast. People  said that  many of our soldiers  had been killed by
our own aviation, but I myself had not been under friendly  fire yet.  First
bomb  exploded  far  ahead.  Apparently,  it  induced panic  among Chechens,
because their fire from behind  the smoke-screen stopped. A  shook wave came
from the explosion. It engulfed us with  horrible thunder  and  hot  air. It
felt as if this roaring atmosphere was going to rip off my uniform, break my
ribcage, tear  my  mouth and  cheeks. Eardrums  would  collapse.  Blood  was
already dripping  out of  my  ears. A hail of small stones descended  on us.
Someone was  yelling.  I looked there. A  soldier was rolling on the ground,
holding  hands  on  his eye.  Blood  was  streaming  between the fingers.  A
paramedic was  crawling  toward him. Soldiers  who were next to  the wounded
grabbed  the unfortunate and pressed  strongly against the  ground. One gave
him  a water bottle, another  ripped his uniform to bare a forearm.  Then he
took a tube with painkiller from a medical kit and made an injection. I  did
not watch the rest. Judging by the noise, pilots were about to make a second
barrage.  That terrible,  paralyzing howl  started again. It was increasing.
Following  my  instincts,  I  squeezed  myself into  earth and listened  the
silence that followed. Everybody was waiting where, whose chance would be to
meet with Madam Death.
     An explosion  happened unexpectedly  close, on the left  flank  of  our
battalion. A hail of stones showered us again. It was strange, but after all
these blasts, my hearing restored. The world of sounds rushed into my brain.
A buzz in my  head had not passed  yet, but I tried not to pay any attention
to it. I looked in  the direction of the explosion. There was a huge crater,
about ten  meters  in  diameter. Around it... Scattered around it were  body
parts of  our soldiers who happened  to be  close  to  epicenter.  Smoke was
rising  from the crater. There was an acrid  smell, a mixture of explosives,
charred  meat and burned wool. It made me sick  again. Like a  wave,  nausea
came and rolled back. I  tried to  remember how  many people  were there. It
turned out that at  least a platoon  and a  half. About fifty people. Oh, my
God! We had lost hundred people already and still had  not strengthened  our
grip on this  bank! I heard Battalion Commander shouting obscenities  into a
radio  set. He was not  using any  code names, screw  the discipline! He was
simply yelling  into the microphone:  "Recall  those  plains!  Recall  those
Goddamn plains, you whore! These faggots killed half of my battalion! Recall
immediately!  I cannot  hold it with my people! Why? Ask those  bastards who
don't give a shit where  they drop  their  bombs!  Thank them for me! Recall
those perverts! I need support! I'm starting to dig in. Dukhs will attack in
a moment. Did  you recall the plains?  Good job! I'm not sure, but I think I
have more than a hundred "two-hundredths" and about sixty "hundredths". What
am  I to do with them? Get  me some help! I  need paramedics and evacuators.
Some of my wounded are non-transportable. If no help comes, I'm out of here.
Get me some  support  and not like this one from the air, you jerk. The real
support!  They  promised vaunted paratroopers and marines! Where  are  those
scoundrels? Ask Severny where they are! Ask Khankala. I'm done talking. Fuck
off! Come here and you'll see why I've got no time to waist on you!"
     "Dukhs"  opened massive dense  fire  at us  and  at the opposite  bank.
Mortars and  BMP cannons  hit us again. Their podstwolniks, Kalashnikovs and
machine guns  did  not  idle either.  With infuriating  noise,  bullets  and
shrapnel  plunged continuously  into asphalt  in  front of our weak  shelter
grinding bricks and concrete fragments. Squeaking of ricocheting bullets was
exasperatingly  loud. The air became hot from the amount  of metal bodies in
it. I heard again the shouts and moaning of freshly wounded.
     Mechanic clanging came from behind. We looked back. Two our ta