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