officers were working on the details for the medivac convoy. We talked to all the neighbouring units, arranging the safe passage through their territory and interaction in case of an ambush. Mechanics were busy getting their vehicles ready for the transit and gunsmiths tried to adjust BMP-3s. There was enough work to go around for everybody. When all arrangements were made and all questions answered, only the HQ officers were left in the room. Now the head of the Operational Department initiated the meeting. We now were discussing our options for the Minutka Square complex assault. At first we said everything we had on our minds about the Allied Command and Moscow smart asses, but gradually we cooled down and the meeting went along a calm path. All of us came to the conclusion, that a head-on assault of the square would be a sure suicide. But first, we had to take the bridge over the Sunzha River overlooking the square. There, marching our men under the deadly close range fire, we could lose them all. This bridge was right in our path and could not possibly be avoided, unless we took a detour over half of the city. Suddenly, chief of the guards barged into the room. - Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, - he started anxiously, addressing our Chief of Staff, - the Moscow rep just left. - What? - San Sanych couldn't grasp it at first. - Got on to his BRDM, said that he was called in and left. - When? - About fifteen minutes ago. I called him on the radio, he says that he must be at the "North" before the sunrise. - What a moron? He'll die himself and lose his men. He should've been riding with the convoy tomorrow morning. Idiot, nutcase, - the head of the operational department, major Ozerov was furious. We all knew too well what that meant - riding alone, in the dark, through a besieged town on a light armoured APC. The end result is almost always same - be captured by the rag-heads or catch a bullet from your own. Every soldier knew that, not mentioning the officers. It can't be that this screwed in the head even considered that his rank would save him! Martial law in Grozny was in full swing, which meant that sometimes we couldn't even medivac our worst wounded to the better-equipped hospital at the "North". And now this bonehead, this pimple on our asses, endangering the lives of the grunts escorting him, just vanished into the night. Immediately we called on the "North" and told them about their knucklehead. It's likely he did it on impulse, trying to get to the Command HQ before any news from here could reach them, and report that we dared to openly debate orders of our superiors. He actually had the poor Semeonov's body with him too. There is just no peace for him. Forgive us, private. In the "North" they all went nuts. I can only imagine - an officer has gone missing. An officer, who knew about, maybe only parts of, but still, plans of the General Command. Moreover, the allied HQ staff member. Looks like Karpov actually knew quite a bit, because a search party was organised to look for him in the middle of the night. The radio traffic was red hot. All detachments were reporting that the BRDM with the rep has not yet passed through their roadblocks. Down here, we were prepared to face the music of future allegations that we deliberately sent him away in the middle of the night. Thus, instead of catching at least a tiny bit of sleep, we were busy making up reports that we were never here and there or never did this and that, and all that bullshit. God forbid for you to be accused of sabotage towards your superiors. You can make a wooden souvenir out of your opponent, but don't you dare giving looks to your COs. Well, there are many morons for us to face in this life. Although, we do, feel petty for the bastard. He's our blood, Russian. So could the grunts in his escort, get hurt for nothing. For some reason everyone was convinced that, if the units along his route keep silent, he is a goner. Probably a captive now, in the rag-heads' hands. God, let him be captured dead, otherwise, a lot of our plans would have to be changed. Sometime about eight in the morning we received information that the BRDM with Karpov drove into one of the OMON roadblocks that was set up right before the dusk. As we have predicted he tried to wave his rank into their faces. The OMON lads, of coarse, didn't give a shit about some General Command HQ together with their major Karpov. At first, they really mistook him for a spy. For the rest of the night they kept kicking the crap out of him and the grunts. Before the sunrise they put him before the firing squad a few times, hoping he makes a confession. A couple of times they even fired a few shots over his head. In the morning everything became clear. Airborne fellows arrived, threw a few punches around for their grunts, picked up knocked out Karpov and the remains of Semeonov's body and left for the "North". Karpov went back to Mozdok with the first available flight and from there probably to Moscow. It's likely he'll be awarded a medal of some sort and later would be, on TV or in his memoirs, recounting how he, alone, rode through half of the whole Chechnya, or something like that. Well, good luck to him. 4 At 8.00 in the morning we began loading our wounded onto cars and lining up the convoy. Earlier, clashing along the way, armoured vehicles from the first and second battalions broke through to us with their dead and wounded. Since there was not enough room in the yard for everyone, only the worst ones were loaded up there. The rest, who were relatively OK: in clear mind, were squashed into armoured trucks using stretchers, crutches and whatever else could be utilised. All who could fire weapons rode on top of APCs. Everyone knew well, that those inside armoured carriers would inevitably die in case of a direct grenade hit or a mine explosion. Thus, responsibility for them rested heavily on shoulders of those riding atop of the "armour". The convoy turned out bigger than expected. In all: fifteen APCs. Wheeled trucks were dropped in favour of the armoured APCs since even a rifle bullet could easily penetrate their cabs, not mentioning cumulative grenades and mines. Luckily (or may be not), a heavy fog came down on the city. The winter here sucks. It's cold but there is no snow; the mud is not even mud, but rather a thick layer of muck that just swallows your boots. To free them you have to apply loads of pressure and they come out with huge pieces of filthy sludge on them. Vehicles had the same problem. What will it be like here in spring? During the night, surface has been covered with a little crust of ice and thus, we thought we could try and slip away quietly and quickly, using the fog and frozen soil. Comms operators radioed every one of our neighbours and the "North" that our convoy is about to leave. One paradox was that all army units, regardless of the kind, have been using the same radio frequencies and call signs that they did when they came into Grozny. All of which meant that if you try to scan the radio traffic within the range of 3 to 30 MHz, during the day, you could easily find out where each unit is located and what exactly it is doing there. Moreover you would know the names of the unit's leader, radio operator and all sorts of other useful and not so useful information. By the way, our opponents were not much smarter, keeping their frequencies and call signs unchanged for weeks at a time. Well, we kind of, matched each other over there. Services of the radio traffic interception and disinformation of both sides were on top at all times. However, chechens had one unquestionable advantage - they could speak Russian and therefore deceive us; we, on the other hand, could not speak Chechen and thus were helpless trying to fool them. More often than not, during clashes as well as during the breaks between them, aborigines, having set up radio contact with our units, tried to make propaganda conversations and of coarse threats. Since the first clashes they started calling us "dogs". Another example would be the Train Station assault. Back then, "spooks" fooled our neighbouring artillery regiment, and the lads, thinking they had spoken to us, for about 30 minutes, were thoroughly shelling us. Unfortunately these cases were not unique. With time, through the system of codes and passwords, we slowly stopped walking into chechen traps. After many of our men have already been killed or injured. And no matter what, our brigade, and those units that worked together with us, kept using old frequencies and call signs, right to the very time of our withdrawal. Army stupidity. What can you do? Unfortunately it was everywhere. Any suggestions from the lower levels of the power pyramid were met with resentment. Considering all this, we knew for sure, that our convoy's departure was not only known to the General Command in the "North", but also wasn't a secret to half of the rebels in town. Nevertheless, even if it was a probable suicide, we stood by our decision. Without the proper medical attention, men could simply die out here; moreover, they tied everybody else's hands with their presence. They have become a burden and an extra target. Besides, considering our next objective, we had to free up room for future casualties. Thus, after a short hesitation, we turned our faiths over to the good fortune and started our journey. Our path lied along the streets of a demolished city that, with its ruins, rather depicted the old chronicles of Stalingrad half a century ago. Death watched us from every basement and every window. A sniper could be hiding in there or an RPG launcher. He could've gone to the same military college as us. Or may be fought with us side-by-side in Afghanistan, Angola or here in one of our country's hot spots. According to the well-developed tactics, the first and the last vehicles in the convoy are destroyed first. Then, the rest of the column is methodically eliminated. Reliable tactics. Very few ever escape. - Let's move! - The instruction came from our Com-brig. He rode on the second APC. Recon guys were riding on their two carriers in front of the convoy. For ten minutes everything was fine. In a couple of days after we arrived in Grozny, our General Command ordered us to clearly mark our vehicles. For example, our cars had letter "S" painted on their sides, meaning Sebirian Military District. A bitter taste suddenly appeared in my mouth, although, there was no nervous rush as yet. That will come later. I knew that, all of us did. We all experienced the same feelings all over again. Suddenly a popular song motive played in my mind: "I want so much to crash into this town!" Yep, that's right, I really do want that. Or better crash into Mozdok, where our General Command is, which in turn, was heading our directional command. Nobody really knew why the hell we needed them in the first place. They always wanted to control separate detachments, over their COs' heads, which always ended up badly for the latter.The most interesting part was that they, in Mozdok, enjoyed the same allowances as we had over here. There weren't many of them, but still, at least we earned them. For instance, one day here counted as three and we'd get paid double time when we came home; that's pretty much it. And you, my reader, thought that we would be enjoying all the privileges of soldiers in a war zone. Yeah, right! There is no war in Chechnya. All this is the fruit of your TV's rich imagination. Although occupied by these thoughts, I didn't forget to constantly look around. So much we've destroyed here and we'll destroy yet even more. Demolishing is not the same as building. I carefully looked at my grunts' faces. All covered in dust, burnt by local winds, parched by the gunpowder from frequent shooting and grenade explosions. I noticed a grunt, sitting at the back, in his burnt through tank crew uniform and patched up head. I looked at him again more carefully this time. Wow, this guy is one hell of a lucky bustard. He was a driver-mechanic with the surname of German or Jewish origin - Goldstein. We had people of all sorts of nationalities in our brigade including even uzbeks and tadzhiks. This tanker was driving his tank through the Grozny entrance and the infantry were taking cover behind it. Back then, no one of the grunts knew that you must walk <i>in front</i> of the tank and only then it will save you. Now they know. It was a very expensive learning curve. Since they were entering the town at night, this guy was driving in the position "on manoeuvre", sticking his head out of the hatchway.God knows why some sniper didn't snatch him. Others they picked on the fly, this one was just plain lucky. He was lucky again when a rocket slammed into his tank's right side. Goldstein was propelled out of the tank like a cork, about fifteen meters up high and landed on a tree branch. I thought he was gone. But he's alive, only patched up a little meaning everything else is intact. Probably had a bad concussion. I wouldn't worry: They'll fix him up quickly in his historical homeland. I can remember when the conscripts arrived six months ago, he was begging not to be assigned anywhere to do with secrets*. If it weren't for the Army, he'd be with his relatives by now. His parents have left already, but he was still finishing up his graduate university diploma and didn't complete it in time. In any case he'll be discharged now and would be treated like a human being for once. * AD. Until recently, Jews in Russia (or anybody else) could be refused travelling visa to leave the country if they served in the military units that looked after classified technology. It was of particular importance to Jews, rather that to any other nationality, as this was the time of their mass migration to Israel. In this case, the man was drafted in the Army, while his parents have already immigrated. Serving in the strategic forces, for example, could've held him back in Russia for three or more years after his discharge. End of comment. AD That artist, who was stuck with the second battalion, is also here with us, riding on the fifth carrier. He came over with the wounded Chief of Staff and their three injured grunts. Some snappy fellow he turned out to be. Everyone expected him to be untouchable and star-like, but he is actually an easygoing chap, having been stuck in the basement for three days, under constant fire and counterattacks, according to the witnesses, he didn't hide at all. He acted like a real man, even attending to the wounded. They didn't give him a weapon though - he's pretty shortsighted, God forbid for him to get hurt. Other than that, first class fellow. When the rag-heads offered the battalion to surrender, the grunts told them that Shevchuk was with them. The "spooks" didn't believe it at first. The grunts let them listen to him on the radio and chechens offered to let him out, even guaranteed his safe passage. He refused though. He also promised (and soon we found out that he actually kept his promise) to send wounded grunts to a hospital in Germany. Not only from our brigade but others too, paying for that from his own pocket and his friends'. He was purchasing them wheel chairs and artificial limbs without the usual hype. There was no reporters or news conferences. He organised everything nicely and quietly, like a man. The recon guys radioed that they were fired upon and are now full time engaged in a skirmish. Estimated opponents' force - about 20 guns. Nobody used "Shmels" so far, only personal launchers and rifles. We made our decision - press forward. Because of the fog we couldn't see our enemy, they too can't see us for sure, thus firing pretty much blindly. The Com-brig ordered to put up the smoke covers and we added black smoke to the fog, just like crude oil in a milk container. Coming close, our trucks fired their cannons at the reported positions. Then BMP-3s opened up from their machineguns. Finally, we too, like in a well-schooled orchestra, lined up with our rifles and grenades. Great panorama, I'd tell you. From the thick black cloud of smoke, about a kilometre wide, the spirts of tracers were gushing everywhere, grenades were flying, leaving smoking tails behind them. A scene, that could be worthy of an artist's effort. Emotions were running hight too. We couldn't know if our path was clear - may be a wall along the way collapsed by itself or somebody helped it. Or may be an antitank mine is hidden somewhere in the piles of trash. But there was no fear, in my mind or in the eyes of the grunts that surrounded me here. We all knew that if we fail, our wounded comrades would die. Our decision was to go to the end: to the death or victory. So far we were definitely lucky, the engines roared on high revs, adding their semi-processed fuel exhausts to the thick smoke cover. Although the convoy stretched along a wide area, Com-brig decided not to break it down into small mobile units but still carry on as one column. Going past this neighbourhood, we kept our speed as high as we could squeeze out of our darling APCs. Finally we cleared it, surprisingly enough, without any friendly fire accidents. Maybe the rag-heads retreated or for some other reason, but nobody was shooting at us any more or chasing us. But all of us knew that it was still too early to relax. We had to keep going and survive. Recognisance party ahead of us, radioed in that they reached first of our neighbouring roadblocks. That's better. Now the airborne units will walk us through their territory. They are OK soldiers, but not persistent enough and too cocky. They can't tenaciously assault the same target for a long time. They push furiously at first, but gradually, run out of steam. They act well as a supporting force, but on their own, of not much use. They have been trained to storm a structure, destroy it and get out of there. They are not prepared for these long and backbreaking battles. But our mahra is a different thing all together. In excruciating heat, rain or snowstorm, we'll carry on anywhere: in the arctic, deserts or swamps. We'll die but complete the objective. On the roadblock, airborne guys were waving us and smiled, showing their teeth on the same parched faces as ours. It was a delight to see that we are not alone here in this hostile land. Their com-bat promised to send a party to sweep the area where we were ambushed. In case they'd find spooks there, he'll register them as his kills, we, in turn, would write them down as ours, indicating the approximate number of the enemy infantry destroyed. Some funny guy at the "North" managed to calculate how many of the enemy we have knocked down here in Chechnya. Turned out that during the 10 days of fighting we have wiped out the entire Chechen population twice around. It's strange, it's only been 10 days, but seems like not less than six months. If you believe reports of the Red Army commanders during the Second World War, the army of the Wermacht was destroyed about 100 times. As for us, we don't have to free half of Europe this time, but according to the reports we are ahead of any army. Thus, my reader, listening to the news bulletins, multiply our losses by three and divide enemy losses by two, then, you'd have a more or less clear picture of what is going on. The airborne lads tried to offload their wounded onto us, but we could hardly squeeze our own asses on the "armour". Inside the vehicles our own wounded were piled up like logs. If they wanted to come with us, no problem, but they'd have to use their own trucks and their own escort. We won't be waiting for them either as every second is counting. What are you saying? We're bustards? Fine, we're bustards, but you still medivac your own men. We have neither the time nor desire to argue with you. We understand you perfectly. If we start arguing now, you might even convince us or prepare your own cars. You should've thought about it beforehand. You had all night for that. Cheers men, good-bye. No, don't bother trying. Where did you send us? OK, stand still, we'll be coming back, talk to you then. We watched our Com-brig talking to their com-bat. Of coarse we couldn't hear anything, but we could observe the gestures they were using in their conversation, thus reading who sent who and where. When they were done myself and the grunts cackled simultaneously. But no one dared to yell anything upsetting or make a gesture of that kind. We understood what position they were in, but your wounded you medivac yourself. We're all a bit foxy, like the Jews, enjoy solving our problems with somebody else's help, but not the problems of this magnitude. We cleared the airborne zone of responsibility and now entered the area where for about ten blocks we would be moving along the zone for which the spooks were responsible. And they were obviously controlling it. OK, mutherfuckers, we'll medivac our wounded and take care of you. Let's concentrate on the medivac for now. I raise my hand and the grunts start carefully watching surrounding us rubble. Talking, screaming or instructing makes no point - the roar, fumes and dust from the carriers in front of us are making any attempt bound for failure. If you open your mouth trying, it'll be crammed with turd. Another beauty of riding atop of APC is that it is shaking violently as it moves and if you relax your jaws for a second you can lose your teeth or bite your own tongue off. There was a gag that some dumb ass, not from our garrison of coarse, bit his tongue's tip off like that, but the corpsemen sewed it back. He was discharged afterwards. I've heard so many of these gags during my commission that I can write a book now. Especially I like that fact that nothing ever happens in our garrison, but our neighbours - are a constant mess. But they are of the exact same opinion about us. The grunt next to me shouted something, pointing his finger at the top floor of a building near by and firing his rifle in that direction. My reflexes kicked in at once. My rifle let off a few bursts before I consciously stopped and actually looked there. A pair of binoculars that lay on the window frame was blasted to pieces. If you want to live, you shoot first and then think and look. Everyone finds out this formula after his first gunfight. I'm yelling out and waving to stop the shooting. Gradually it fades out. I'm not angry at the grunt. In our line of business it's better to overcook than undercook. The carriers are speeding forward without slowing down. Recon party radios in to report they are again taking fire. This time from three directions simultaneously. Now, they are waiting for our approach, as they can't handle the clash on their own. Com-brig called the neighbours for assistance to try and hammer the rag-heads in the rear, meanwhile we are speeding ahead to help out our scouts. The last APCs in line have retarded a bit so that in case of an ambush we don't become completely trapped. As we approached the intersection, the avenue, where our recon party took their turn, was barricaded with bricks, two neighbouring streets were also blocked, and thus we are either to break through or to retreat. If we do decide to retreat, there is no insurance that we wouldn't walk into another trap. Com-brig has made his decision: break through. Ryzhov and myself both completely upheld his choice. Those who could fire weapons leapt off the "armour" and the carriers rolled back covering us. First, we wanted to push the spooks inside the block and then, under fire, try and dismantle the barricade. Hiding behind the piles of trash we shot back. Both sides exchanged fire furiously. Suddenly a grenade exploded somewhere close to me - pieces of a blasted grunt flipped into the air and landed 5 meters away from me with dull sound. In a couple of seconds another soldier died the same terrible death. In the heat of the gunfight I had no time to look who that was. Next to the second body, three other grunts were whirling on the asphalt, screaming with pain and pressing fingers against their wounds. Their coats were soaking in blood. We thought at first that somebody was using a launcher, but then another grunt shifted a brick and noticed an F-1 grenade, lying under a pile of rubbish without its safety pin. Now everything was clear. Smart sons of bitches the spooks turned out to be. They cleverly chose the spot for their ambush and also considered that we would dismount and confront them. Our future positions, imposed by them, they booby-trapped with hand-grenades. In a gunfight you have to move around a lot: tumble, spin and hide behind the rubble. That's where they placed these nice toys - F-1 grenades without safety pins. You shift the brick on top of it, its guard lever flies off and here you go, in 6 seconds it bursts. Shrapnel cover an area of about 200 meters. No one mine will have the same effect. Now we had to solve this dilemma -either pull back or try and counterattack to bust the rag-heads out of the apartment block. Not much choice. Neighbours radioed that they are on their way and called for air support. That is exactly what we don't want. A soldier has many enemies at war, but one of the biggest is his own air force. Doubtfully they'll ever get the rag-heads, but to drop a few bombs on their own positions is a done deal. That's why we asked our rushing reinforcements to call off the "sky raiders". They'll stuff it up anyway. Instructions to storm the building were passed along the chain. We also told the "boxes" to open up from everything they have, keep going like that for 10 minutes and then cease fire and wait for further instructions. Every grunt and officer has his personal first aid kit, which contains an ordinary set of medications, like painkillers, anti-radiation pills and the likes. There are also drinking water tablets that can be used in any water except the seawater. Drop it into a puddle if you like, it'll roil for a second or two and you can drink it now without fear of catching some disease. It'd have a chlorine stench though. Every detachment has so called anti-fear tablets. When soldiers are dog-tired and can't move their feet any more, not mentioning attacks, their will is paralysed. Then their CO gives the order to hand out these tablets. The grunts eat them, rest for a while and spring to their feet. No one knows where the strength comes from and where the fear goes. Now we didn't have those tablets as well as the need for them. After a few gunfights, where the spooks were prevailing in every aspect and every little thing we gained was paid for dearly in efforts and losses, now men were experienced and confident and the rag-heads were getting a decent response for once. They no longer bullied carelessly, doped and squalling something about their Allah. First time it's actually quite scary, charging like spellbound, unafraid of bullets. At last our carriers opened up. Cracking salvos of their cannons and machineguns, at first, muffled short barking bursts of BMP-3s, but they caught up quickly with the old well-proven two-s. We also didn't fall behind with our rifles and launchers. APCs hit hard for ten minutes and then stopped as was agreed. The high pitched ding from the shooting was still in our ears, but now we had to attack. Our opponents had a lot more problems with their sense of dimension. Our shells were bursting in their tight nests, causing them to go crazy with terror. They were also still in awe from the air strikes. Now was the right time for the final move. This time nobody raised the grunts off the ground with his own example, like it used to be here during the first days. Every one of them sprung up by himself, some with the ancient "hoorah" other just yelling out from fear and excess of adrenalin, all were running ahead like one. When you plunge into attack like this, something medieval wakes up inside you. It seems you are watching yourself from aside, observing the gunfight, noticing every little thing. May be the common grudge and fear at this moment bear this collective ability? While we were clearing the open space of about 100 meters, we were met with rare and disorganised gunfire. No one of our men was hit, but the grunts, on the run and from the waist, were discharging long bursts at the broken windows where the deadly gush of lead was coming from. At last we crash into the doorway of this once apartment block, others are storming the remaining four entrances of the "khruschevka". Human reflexes are such that you always notice what's on your right-hand side first and then move to the left. Spooks made a good use of this fact and when we barged into a block they always stood to the left of the entrance. While we were automatically checking out everything on the right-hand side, they had a few seconds to shoot us in the back. Some time has passed before we learnt to toss a hand-grenade before walking inside and looked first to the left of the doorway. The sunlight started to break through the fog but here inside the building it was still dark from the shooting. Dust, mixed with gunpowder and some other chemicals hung in the air, abstracting the view. Together with some fifteen grunts we ran into the block. I glanced at the grunts with my side-vision. Looks like there are no cowards amongst them. All experienced. Two flats on the first floor, meaning that we should expect the same structure further up. Three grunts took guard on the staircase between the first and second floors, covering us from possible attacks from above. The rest are fetching safety pins from their hand-grenades. "Ready". Nocking down the door, it's not even locked but blasted by explosions, barely hanging off the frame. Our boots ram it down completely this time. I yell out: "Let's go!!!" We move out from the doorways, hiding behind the concrete walls. In three flats, grenades detonated almost simultaneously, probably about eight of them. My head feels like a church bell, smoke and dust is coming out of the blasted doorways. Move, move and don't stop now. Checking left, now right. Tonnes of dust in the air, can't see shit. Squeezing off two long bursts from the waist. We don't need no prisoners, not enough food for ourselves. Move! Move! Kitchen: nobody there; bathroom: the door is slightly open, screw it, another two bursts from the waist, the bathtub could be a nice hide from the shrapnel. I node to the grunt next to me, covering my rear. He jerks the door open and I pull the trigger slowly moving my rifle's barrel sidewards. It is convulsing in my arms like a living organism and flushing the bathtub with a deadly flow. The smashed off pieces from the tub are flipping in the air. Meanwhile other grunts are firing into next rooms dark with dust and smoke. Built-in wardrobes and shelves are also checked thoroughly. That's all with this two bedroom flat. Let's move on to the upper floors. The grunts guarding the staircase, indicate that they have just spotted some movement in one of the second floor apartments. Other grunts come out of their flats and join us. Those who guarded the staircase move up one more floor. I don't have to give out any instructions here, every grunt knows his manoeuvre too well. No need to yell at anybody. All of us work together like a well-tuned mechanism. Everyone covers everybody else's back. We repeat the same process on the second floor. We barge into the room tripping on a dead body ripped apart from a grenade explosion. That one's cooked. Moving along. There's nobody here. Three more levels to go, rooftop and the basement. Move! Move! Grunts report they discovered two more stiffs in the neighbouring flat. Screw them. Moving along. I look at my watch: it took us seven minutes to check two floors, we have to speed this whole thing up. On the third floor, when we knock the doors down, somebody inside the flat yells out without accent: "Don't shoot, don't shoot!" I raise my fist. Grunts hold back. I shout: "Come out slowly, hands behind your head". Wauling, a filthy chap is coming out, bristling with hand-grenades and a chechen knife (dagger welded together with stiletto), looks Russian. Smearing dirty tears on his face and weeping he's squalling that he was just drafted, he's just an ordinary con and nothing else, never killed anyone of ours. I notice some five personal dog-tags hanging around his neck. Earlier, they were only given out to officers, now, since we arrived in Chechnya, everyone gets a set. It looks like a little metal plate shaped like oval, about five santimeters in length and three wide. Along its length the plate is broken in two parts, upper part has "VS SSSR" stamped on it, the lower one has a letter and a six-digit code. Every soldier has his own code. The plate is cast from a stainless alloy. First they started using these plates after an experimental rocket fell down onto some committee and burnt it completely. At war every soldier wears it, jut like American GIs, except they also have their names and blood type printed there. I noticed that this "ordinary con" wore these dog-tags around his neck. There were a lot of scumbags bumming around Chechnya, which were surely due for jail time in Russia. Here they were like brothers to the local bandits. As locals told us, to prove their loyalty they tortured soldiers even worse than the chechens themselves. I grabbed him by the dog-tag chains, coiled them onto my fist and twitched the shaking con towards me. Grunts knew well what was going to follow. Some spooks collected personal numbers of soldiers they have killed. - What is this, asshole? - I asked him and kept pulling the chains. - I found them, I swear. I didn't kill nobody. They forced me to, - he squalled weeping. I shoved my rifle in his chest and pulled the trigger. Bullets ripped it open smearing my pants with his blood. The body jerked backwards, the neck snapped but it was still hanging by the dog-tag chains. It seemed the souls of the dead soldiers wouldn't let their murderer go free. Barrel still stuck in the con's chest I asked the grunt next to me: - Cut the chains, will you. He stripped the knife from the dead con and sliced the chains with one quick move. The no longer hanging body dropped to the ground with a thud. Grunt reached his hand out with the dagger offering it to me. I shook my head and he stashed it in his boot. I rose, put the dog-tags into one of my pockets and gave an order: - Get your hand-grenades ready and let's move. Again explosions roared and we barged inside other flats. There we found five more dead bodies. Without any further ado we squeezed off a few bursts into each one of them just in case. One of the "deceased" suddenly came alive and tried to draw his rifle - cross fire coming from three directions simultaneously nearly chopped him to pieces. All of a sudden we heard a grenade explosion and a rifle burst. We quickly finished off checking the apartment and popped outside. The gunfight there was in full swing. Rag-heads from the upper floors were attempting to break through to downstairs. Three grunts were keeping them up there; two more soldiers, covering the basement entrance, hustled up to help them. We too quickly got into the skirmish. Here on the narrow staircases we were too crowded. To add to the confusion, spooks started throwing hand-grenades down. Huddled down here together we couldn't possibly hide from them. Thank God, the morons threw them at the very moment they were pulling safety pins out, thus giving us time to push them away onto the lower floors. We also returned fire as best as we could. Two of the grunts were blasting off grenades from their under-barrels, the other four spraying the spooks from their rifles, keeping them at bay. Meanwhile something blew up there with a terrible boom. Ceiling collapsed in one of the kitchens on the third floor. Five grunts quickly dived into the breach and now the gunfight shifted to the fourth level. Coming up, from the point blank range, we wasted the rag-heads in the back. We were afraid of coarse to waist our own grunts, but this time we were lucky. After the clean up, twelve more bodies were left up on the fourth floor. Not bad at all, if according to the Regulation the ratio should be one defender to three or four members of the assaulting team. On the fifth floor nobody greeted us except for two dead bodies. With caution with we came up the roof. There is nobody there too, meaning that we are the first ones up here and have to help out other storm groups in the neighbouring blocks. I split my men, myself choosing the block Ryzhov went into. Walking on the roof we could here the gunfire in every block. Carefully we are opening the hatchway. Judging from the noise, the shootout is in between the first and second floors. We are starting the clean up from the fifth floor down. Voices and gunfire are coming from the two-bedroom flat, apparently the shooting comes from the inside. OK, assholes, let's roll. Hand-grenades at stand-by, at the nod of my head, the door is smashed open, we throw the grenades in and take cover. Burst; move, move; one of the grunts stays here guarding the staircase, I turn left: burst into an empty corner and burst dead ahead. The grunt on my right already checked the right hand side discharging a burst into the right corner. We finish off two wounded by the window. Next to them lies an RPG-7 rocket grenade launcher, fine toy. We take the launcher and the seven remaining rounds for it with us. Downstairs, the spooks apparently realised what happened and doubled their efforts attempting to fight their way out of the trap. Our grunts on the other side also figured that the help is near and pressed with renewed energy. We came down to the forth floor. Shooting off the doors and tossing in grenades. In two flats we discover a few more of the rag-heads' stiffs. No idea whose job that was, someone else's or ours, but what does it matter anyway. Move, move, downstairs, tempo, tempo. Hold on fellows, we're close. The spooks disparately tried to move upstairs and blow us off. No way, I'm yelling out: - Yurka, stay down, I'll meet them up here. We hear the treading and fire from the RPG and the under-barrels, ducking behind the concrete to cover from shrapnel. One of the grunts screams with pain. A shrapnel piece ricocheted in his arm. Two men stayed behind to give him first aid. The remaining grunts and myself fire into the dense blur of smoke and dust after the explosion. No one is shooting back. - Slava, don't shoot, we're coming up. - Let's move, boys, slowly. May be some son of a bitch is still there, - I yell to my grunts. We're slowly moving downstairs, ready to open up at even a slightest suspicion of movement. On the staircase between the forth and the third floors we stumble on the torn apart bodies of our resent foe.