out of the way. Other paperwork can't wait for too long either. - As you wish. But at 2100, please be here at my meeting. Com-brig should be too back by then, - carefully looking at me, said San Sanych. It seemed that he figured out what the real reason for my refusal was. They went inside. I watched the grunts carrying away all that remained of Semeonov, then turned around and wandered off to my truck. Every brigade's HQ officer had his own truck. With Yurka Ruzhov, between the two of us, we shared GAZ-66 with a plywood cab. Although, most officers preferred to spend those few minutes of rest in basements, we loved our cab. We also had a personal driver, Harin Pashka, one meter and seventy tall, with broad bone, big and always twinkly face, little eyes but red hair, short, almost shaved, hairdo at the back, according to soldiers' fashion, and always waving long quiff. Naturally, Pashka was a crook and a worm, but I repeatedly observed him in gunfights: many times he pulled out the truck, with us, from under fire, for that we cared for him and trusted him. In peacetime Pashka was a leave abuser, bitter disciplinary offender, big liquor fan and a womaniser. His pregnant fiance was waiting for him back where we came from. He had another year to serve before discharge. Pashka knew practically everything that was going on in the brigade thanks to his friendship with the grunts from the HQ, communications hub and canteen. He supplied us with news, some of which he found out significantly earlier than we did, receiving his information from the comms operators. All of this gave us more time to think about it and then come forward with good advice and initiatives during the Sanych's or Com-brig's meetings, while others were only chewing on the newly received information. For that our superiors regarded us highly as competent officers. Although, we've always been on top as it is, the head start was never a burden. Walking up to our truck I noticed with satisfaction that Pashka managed to fill up the sandbags and enclosed the truck with them. Now we can breath almost freely. There was a thin puff of smoke rising from the pipe meaning that we've got heat, hot water and dry cigarettes. I came up to the door and called out without opening: - Pashka! Where are you? - I'm here, comrade Captain. Guarding. Pashka's figure emerged from the dark; I glanced at the position, he has chosen for his guard and noted to myself that he did it rather cleverly. - All right, my lovechild, what've you got to make your father happy? Did you behave? - I asked him jokingly. - Everything's fine, Vechaslav Nikolaevich. Enclosed the truck with sand, got some food too. Food was a problem, same as matrasses, linen and the BDUs. Reinforcement columns were left behind at the airport; it made no sense dragging them down with us under fire. Only the tankers, carefully guarded, carried over fuel for vehicles and power generators. Of coarse, every officer and soldier had reserves in their tanks and APCs: canned stew and meat kasha containers. But that's no real food, a paved road to stomach ulcer. That's why everyone was constantly busy hounding for nutrition. During the assault on this nice kindergarten, in its basements, we found a decent supply of food and beverages. Much of that we've already eaten and drunk, but we all knew who amassed most of it and using Pahka's personal charm or his cheeky character, periodically expropriated some from the comms operators. - Sonny, - talking to Pashka, I worked my way into the cab, - What kinds of entree and oversees brandy do you have to soften up your old and sick father? - Dutch ham, roasted lamb, sardines, I think French, and two bottles of cognac, judging from the labels, also French. - Got the hot water? - I inquired taking off my rifle, coat and other apparel. - Yep, full kettle, - reported Pashka, throwing the rifle behind his back. - Let's go, flush some on to me and then have dinner, - I have already comfortably settled in the warm atmosphere of the cab and now unwillingly stepped out into the night cold undressed. I scrubbed myself slowly and carefully, huffing and spitting out dirt and dust that clogged my nostrils and mouth. We had no steamer here so far; for that reason we gathered a lot of fresh towels and some cheap polish fragrance in the airport and periodically, stripping naked, rubbed ourselves with them. Our underwear we just chucked, putting on new pairs each time. I got back into the cab, put some cloths on and was wiping up my rifle with a piece of cloth. Meanwhile, Pashka cut up the ham and smelly lamb ribs and opened up a can of sardines. In the centre of the table he set up the sealed bottle of cognac "Hennessey". I opened it and smelled the contents. Not bad at all. Poured out some of it into plastic glasses, a bit more for myself. I lifted the glass, looked though it at the light, shook it and smelled once more, I definitely liked the aroma. - So, Pavel, to good luck. We cheered and tipped the glasses. - Vechaslav Nikolaevich, what happened to the sniper? - Don't you know already? Glue, Semeon, Americanets and the others must've told you all about it by now. He died from the heart condition and his wounds; the rest is none of your business. Now give me the news. Isn't the war over yet? - Not by a long shot, - pronounced Pashka, - on the contrary, the order came through, to speed up the assault of the hotel "Kavkaz". They even promised us air support. And then the brigade will be thrown in to storm the Minutka Square with the Dudaev's Palace. - That's where we'll all drop dead, because it is an obvious suicide to attack a structure of this kind with only one brigade. What else? - The second batt's Chief of Staff was wounded and some artist is up there stuck with them. Shevchuk from "DDT". Ever heard of him? 3 - No, never heard of him before. What's he doing up there anyway? - Nothing really. He came to Grozny for a concert and then asked for a ride to the front line. Left all his musicians at the airport and popped up over here. Who could predict that the second batt would be then screwed like this? So now he's stuck there. Lads said on the radio he's pretty snappy, not scared at all and even rushing into battle. - Yep, now they'll throw our reserves in there to get him out and maybe even take the hotel for once. Finally medivac all our wounded to the airport and then go home. - The Moscow officer was going around taking to grunts. What's up in the brigade and how they're coping? - You should've told him to go screw himself and that's that. They won't send you any further than here. We've got our own zampolit to do this. We've all seen him in action; he's not hiding behind grunts' backs and doesn't crunch on his rations under the bed. And never throws any theatrical shit either. OK, I'll figure out later what to do with that dick. It's killing me that I can't remember where I saw him before, but I did for sure. - He says he was in the Prednestrovie at some stage. Something like this went down there. You were there too, weren't you? May be that's where you met the man? - May be so. Only I can tell you, Pashka, Pridnestravie of coarse was a lot of fun, but compared to Chachnya all that was like an innocent walk in the park. Over there, the war was more of a classic trench style, although, Bendery and Dubosary did change hands a few times. But overall, compared to this madhouse - boy-scout camp "Sunrise". Now I noticed that Pashka was wearing a rifle bullet on a piece of rope around his neck - an ancient soldiers' amulet; supposedly this very bullet was meant for you. If it was only so! These "charms" only relax you unnecessarily and flatten your sense of vigilance. I smirked: - You better hang a hand-grenade there by its safety pin, and I'll fetch it, or a mine. How about artillery round? How do you know that this bullet was cast for you? Not shrapnel or a concrete block? Go ahead, hang everything on your neck, it might be useful. Remember that grunt from the tank battalion? They found him strangled by this very rope with bullet, just like yours. It didn't save him. Thus, don't be a moron - take it off and use the bullet as intended Gabbing this way, I slowly wiped out the food on the table and leant back. Lighting up a sniper's cigarette I took a puff. The packet was a bit wet though, possibly from my sweat or humidity. - Pashka, got dry cigarettes? - Yep, - he handed me a packet of "Palmira", or, as we call it, "Bum in the mountains". Because the packet depicted some kind of hobo with a stick over his shoulder, wearing vocational panama and jellaba (just like a "spook") and a mountain gorge on the background. - Please, Vechaslav Nikolaevich. I've got more drying out on the heater. Give me yours; I'll fix them up too. I took the packet, twirled it, then lit up and stashed it in one of my pockets. - Give me paper, will you. I'll start on the sniper's report. Pashka gave me paper and sat down near: - Kozaks arrived, asking to let them fight. Even submitted letter of recommendation from the Commander in Chief, - Pashka said softly while cleaning up the remainders of my dinner. Meanwhile I was finishing off the report. - Well, if they are so anxious to fight for mother Russia - let them do it. In Moldova they fought pretty well, even captured weapons for themselves, - said I without raising my head. - Bahel said the same thing and sent them to the recon guys. All five of them. - I suppose I should go and meet them at some stage. All of a sudden, somewhere close by, a furious skirmish broke out. Both of us flew out of the cab at once. Shivering, I pulled on my coat; my mag pouch with a few extra clips was dangling on my shoulder. In case of an attack on the HQ, every officer and soldier knew his area of responsibility. That's why without any extra fuss we sprinted for our little foxhole, dug about by Pahka a few days ago. Somebody was discharging long bursts, meaning that the contact was a close one. Someone was yelling from the dark: - North-east, white five-story house. Discovered an infantry detachment, about ten men in all, could be a diversion of some kind. Not much could be seen in the settling dark, except a few blurred silhouettes. Somebody started launching flares. Pashka too launched a couple. Then, in about thirty yards, I noticed rag-heads, crawling toward us. They were all dressed in nice Turkish camouflage of significantly better pattern and quality than ours. If I catch a "spook" of my size - definitely strip him. Back in Prednistrovie, we caught a "policeman" once, in May's excruciating heat. My feet were boiling and this guy was wearing these really cool boots. Back then they were a rarity, light afghan type with the reinforced base, especially for mountaineering. So I got them off him. Back then we didn't kill prisoners; they were kind of the same as us, fighting because of morons politicians. Now I have been wearing them for three years, although they lost their attractive looks but nobody makes them anymore. Maybe, someone will pull them off me just like I did, perhaps alive or maybe dead. God alone knows. I touched Pashka's elbow and showed him the rag-heads. - Let's go, - I whispered. We opened up in short bursts. In flares' light we could see the little geysers of mud and snow. The rag-heads realised that they have been discovered and fired back at us. They were definitely in a worse situation and thus were letting off long bursts, crawling backwards. Someone opened up from his under barrel launcher cutting them off. Suddenly a machinegun fired from behind us. Did they plan to encircle us? No freaking way, assholes! I felt my fatigue beginning to disappear and again, intoxicating rush of the gunfight was consuming me, the flow of blood thrusting into my head forcing out remainders of the grogginess. - Pashka, cover me, I'll do them from my launcher, - I yelled with excitement, getting the weapon ready. - Come-on my darling, don't let me down, - I muttered, shoving grenade into its black trunk. "Bang", said my launcher, spitting the grenade towards the rag-heads. Too high, I noted correcting. Another one. Gotcha. The grenade burst right in the middle of the group of crawling "spooks". Two of them whirled around, obviously wounded; the third got up on his knees holding his head and then dropped face down in the mud. - That one's cooked, - I yelled in intoxication, meanwhile spotting another target. But the rest of the reg-heads managed to hide behind the rubble and began to gush at us from their rifles. Now, the flares worked against us, clearly giving away our positions. A grenade exploded right behind us. Looks like they too have the launchers. "Issued from the same warehouse?" I thought, bitterly grinning at my sad idea. I switched to automatic now, trying to spot where the enemy fire was coming from. Somebody was running at us from behind, heavily treading. We turned around sticking our rifle barrels into the dark, ready to open up at any moment. That was Yurka Ryzhov. - Shit, man, you scared the devil out of us, - said I getting back to business. - Yep, it's definitely more fun over here than with that Moscow creep. Ragging and ragging constantly. This is not right; that document is not correctly filled in. Do not write down that the man was captured prisoner; indicate that he is being unlawfully detained by the illegitimate armed formations. He also recommended that we speed up the hotel "Kavkaz" assault, ourselves, take it in the shortest possible time and then proceed toward the Minutka Square and storm it on the march, - he stopped for a second and then added: - head on. - Stuff that. They can storm it themselves if need it so much. As for us, we need more air support, - I yelled angrily, firing back into the night. After the Yurka's news I went frantic and was hammering with long bursts, - you see, I just took one out, the other two are over there whirling, probably wounded. Judging from the shooting, we figured the reg-heads were not leaving just like that. Somewhere from behind our backs we heard "Shilka" talking, the one that was set up this morning. Well, now it'll chop them up like salad with its rapid fire and calibre. Yurka together with us, was, with excitement, picking at the rag-heads with long bursts, keeping the bastards from raising their heads. - Slava, the Moscow shithead says he saw you before in Kishineov. All of a sudden, it became crystal clear. Now I remembered everything. When back in Kishineov, without any ID papers, we were transferred over the front line back and forward; this degenerate was there in the Staff Office. Then his Office was reassigned to the Moldova Republic. Although he stayed there in the same department and rank. Our personal folders then fell into the Moldovans' hands. At the end, all of us were pronounced war criminals. I came to him asking to return my folder, but he bluntly refused, motivating that I am, in fact, a war criminal and he wouldn't want to be my accomplice. Then he suggested I leave immediately or he'd call the guards and arrest me on the spot. The son of a bitch changed colours quickly, but apparently, eventually had to run for his life too. In a few months, they declared an amnesty and I am, for now, not a criminal anymore. The rag-heads started hammering our positions with renewed energy. Somebody screamed from behind us after the next burst. Shit, someone was hit. We saw a flash in the dark and redirected our fire over there. In a couple of minutes somebody in there screamed and something made a noise. For a few more minutes, in excitement, we kept going in the enemy's direction, but there was no response. Apparently the rag-heads retreated having got enough. We had no particular desire to go and check the area. We'll find out when the sun rises. - Apparently the original owner came for his liquor, - jested Yura. - The moron must've forgotten what Karl Marks wrote in his "Capital" on the second page first paragraph. - What did he write, Vechaslav Nikolaevich? - Pashka enquired from the dark. - A very simple phrase - was yours, now is ours. Expropriation of the expropriators. If they hadn't screwed around, we wouldn't have come here in the first place. - Anything left to drink? - Ryzhov wondered. - Sure, don't you worry; haven't you had a drink with the faceless shit? - I replied. - We have, but he is too fussy. We didn't offer him any cognac but rather had Vodka. The son of a bitch wondered if we, by any chance, had any spoils left. - Moscow motherfucker, - I spewed into the mud, meanwhile, in complete darkness, filling up empty magazines, feeling the rounds with my fingers. - All seems quiet. Let's go back. I still have my report to finish and San Sanych's meeting to attend. - OK. Pashka you stay here and guard, if you spot anything - call out, we'll come and rescue you form the evil Chechen, - Yura jested. We got out of the foxhole and, shaking off the dirt from our BDUs, started for the cab. Around us in the darkness, officers were walking, to their trucks to prepare for the meeting. - Hey people, who was shot? - I yelled into the night. - The comms driver, Larionov. He's OK though. The shrapnel only punctured the skin but the bones are fine. He is in the sickbay now. He'll live, - a voice answered me from the dark, sounded like the Arms XO Cherepkov Pavel Nikolaevich. - Soon, there won't any more room in the sickbay to put the wounded. We should try to break out the blockade and ship them all out, or we'll lose them, - said loudly Yura, returning to the cab. - We should look into it and discuss with our COs, - I picked up his idea. - Let's have a drink and then go listen to the rant of the Moscow pimp, - said Yurka, casting his rifle in the corner, - for I am sick of doing it alone. According to their perception, we can't fight for shit; we have to inspire men, make them imagine that all this is the Berlin assault and the Dudaev's Palace is the Reichstag. Bloody paranoia. If it were up to them, these bastards would lay us down like rails for their cheap glorious speeches, - Yurka was heating up more and more, that however didn't keep him from pouring out Vodka and opening sardines cans. - Alright, Yurok, stop it. Let's drink up and later on the meeting, we'll bonk the asskisser. Don't worry too much. Whatever they cook up, we are the ones who will be carrying it out. With the present air support and artillery back up, we're stuffed anyway. He can go and screw himself. OK, - I lifted the glass to my eye level and looked at the colours play, - let's go, to us, the good guys, and death to the morons. - Yeah right, start holding your breath, - Yurka just wouldn't cool down and, it seemed, was boiling even more. - Fight them all you want they'll win anyway. It looks like they are intentionally working for the Chechens, to kill as many our men as possible. - OK, Yura, stop yelling, we have to think of the way to get the wounded out of here. They won't give us a break until we step out anyway. And during the assault we'll take in more casualties for sure, now you do the maths. If you ask me, tomorrow morning we have to fetch the recon guys from the third battalion with whatever they still have that we can ride on, and break out. Otherwise we'll lose shitload of men. Drink up, - I raised my glass and toped it without cheers. Yurka too drunk his. Since we were under our full strength during the departure, we were complemented by one more battalion from Novosibirsk. According to the initial plan, we had to complete all preparations by autumn and depart for Tadzhikistan for integrating into the 201[st] division or some peacekeeping force; anyhow, to fight for God knows what or who. So this battalion arrived on new, experimental BMP-3s. The machine looked great, everything seemed thought of, - however, turned out total shit. Stuffed with electronics like your Lexus, but made in mother Russia. Thus, at first, we coped so much shit from it. It couldn't fire its weapons on the run: equipment failed from vibration. All its sighting systems were electronic, thus totally useless garbage. When it did fire, it couldn't move: something again to do with the damned computer. Well, all in one word, - very crude system and thus terrible. In the third battalion, twenty-four men died in the first quarter of January because of this buggered APC. Terrible statistics, isn't it? All because this unrefined machinery was shipped to the Army, furthermore, to the war zone. About five of them we've lost already. We've moved them off to a safe place and, for now, use as machinegun nests. Although the cannon jams after it fires its first shot. Or as taxi charter in the more or less safe neighbourhoods. I wish those snakes that accepted this weaponry dropped dead. Having my second drink I listened to Yura telling me about my Moscow namesake. He was on fire after I left - at war, he said, some officers let themselves loose and do not exercise proper behaviour code towards their superiors; the discipline is lax and so on and on. Then, having sent all this Moscow bullshit artists to hell, we finished off the bottle and in good mood left for the meeting. We felt like teaching the Moscow rep a lesson in gallantry and military science, in front of all the brigade's officers. At war, feelings towards all representatives are always the same - nobody can send you any further than these tranches, and their official warnings are not like clap, they'll hang out there for a while and then fall off at some stage. By the way, my honourable reader, - clap (gonorrhoea), is "the officers' heyfever". Back in their college years, half of the officers' corps managed to catch it. In the Army, compared to civilian life, this disease is not considered shameful. Shit happens. At the meeting, every officer knew his spot. Like all HQ officers, we were sitting close to the Chief of Staff. The meeting room was situated in the former children's basketball court, which had become a lounge room at the Chechen owner's villa, where he built in a beautiful fireplace, which we, in turn, were feeding with his own furniture. By the way, red timber burns badly, a lot of smoke and not much heat. Our com-brig was sitting at the head of the big dinner table. As we could see he didn't even wash up since his return. Judging from his mood, we figured second battalion was in deep shit. Somebody was talking behind us; I turned around - it was our Recon CO. His face was just as dirty as the com-brig's. I figured they went together and thus asked him: - How did you two go? How is the second battalion? - Totally stuffed. On the way back we drove into an ambush, one APC was hit. Driver wounded, Gusarov, you know him? First, busted the track then wasted us at close range. Barely escaped with our lives. - No, I don't know him. - I shook my head. - Bad wound? - His wrists are badly burnt, shrapnel cut his shoulder and part of his ear is gone. If they keep his hands, he'll be fine. It's a petty though, he is a smart fellow and I wanted to make him a sergeant. - Listen, I'll be suggesting now that before we go out and help the second battalion, we should ship our wounded off, or they're all goners, your driver too, by the way. For that we have to contract the third battalion and your lads. What do you reckon? - Sure, count me in. While we were offloading the wounded, I remembered that there is a republican drug warehouse here near by and our corpsemen have nothing besides aspirin and their enthusiasm. - OK, go on, make a suggestion. We'll work on that and snatch the drugs from the rag-heads. Otherwise addicts and marauders would bag them anyway. - Attention please! - Chief of Staff spoke out. The humming in the room stopped and everyone was now looking at the COs. - During yesterday, our brigade was participating in the following assaults: central train station, hotel "Kavkaz" and here. Also, while proceeding to locations of the brigade's detachments, several HQ Groups were fired upon and became involved in short skirmishes. As a result, our brigade has lost, - there was absolute silence in the room, - two KIA, private Azarov - tank battalion, sergeant Harlapidi - engineering battalion. There have been four wounded: Chief of Staff of the second battalion, senior lieutenant Pahomenko, first battalion company commander lieutenant Krasnov, Private Gusarov - recon company and private Larionov - communication battalion. Also, we found a body of private Semeonov - engineering battalion, who was earlier declared missing in action. The man died a terrible death, - here San Sanych looked up, faced everybody in the room and continued without the bulletin, - his was tortured, then nailed to the cross and his penis cut off and placed into his mouth. Horrible image, I have to tell you, gentlemen. The room went buzzing. Officers, despite the presence of their COs and the representative from Moscow were loudly and resentfully discussing death of the soldier. - Calm down, gentlemen, - Bilich resumed his speech after pausing for a moment, - I'll continue, I am no less disturbed by this, but let us dedicate our emotions and rancour to the enemy, right now, there is nothing we can do about it. Next, first battalion captured a sniper, from his own words our compatriot, from Novosibirsk. Captain Mironov was not able to bring him over, from his words, the latter died from his wounds and heart condition. And again the room went buzzing with noise, this time with approval. Those, whose eyes I met, were nodding and winking to me, approving, as I was the one who wasted the sniper. Someone from the back of the room declared: "his guilty conscience killed him". Officers cackled with approval. The room was scarcely lit, actually, only the table with the Com-brig, Chief of Staff and Karpov was illuminated, the rest was all covered in darkness. That's why those at the back were making all sorts of comments without the fear of being recognised. Lucky bastards. Again San Sanych had to call for order. Slowly the buzz settled. I inwardly was watching the faces of our Com-brig and the Moscow major. If our CO's lips were touched by a smile after the "conscience" remark, the representative kept cheerless expression on his face with his thin lips, displaying his negative impression of the matter. A rat is always a rat. It would be interesting to know if he was ever a platoon leader or a company commander. Or straight after the college he popped up on the HQ parquetry? I've gone through all the necessary stages, neither was I ever elevated in rank before the right time, kissing commanding asses along the way. That's probably why I travelled all over our country's hot spots. I have no desire for my son to serve in the military, although my father, my uncle, father in law and myself went to the same damned military college. If I had ever learnt English language, wouldn't have ended up in this shithole. Now San Sanych was telling us about our future objective, which Karpov brought with him. The latter was erupting with self-importance; it seemed all this was his idea and we owe him everything. The officers were listening carefully, quietly exchanging their comments at times. Then Karpov made his speech: - Gentlemen! Our Allied Force Head Quarters has set up an honourable task for you: amongst the first troops, you are to spearhead the attack on the lair of the savage and then destroy him. The Commander in Chief himself is keeping this operation under his control. You have proven yourselves in the past battles and therefore, as the Commander's representative, I am confident that the Siberians will handle their challenge with honour. And more of that boring rant, in the worst traditions of the soviet cinematography. If he thought his listeners would explode applauding and give him standing ovations, he was dead wrong. There was nothing in the room besides quiet chuckles and calm remarks. Then someone from the back clearly and loudly yelled out "Go to hell". From the construction of the phrase I figured who that was. Only one person in the room could express himself like that - our tank battalion commander, Mazur Sergei Mihailovich. When we came here, we had forty-two tanks T-72, now we have twenty-six. In ten days we have lost sixteen tanks, mostly with their crews. That's why major Mazur had the right to send all smarty-pants from Moscow the farthest and most often. Everyone was waiting for the response. It came swiftly: - Who said that? I suppose it's not a smart and honourable officer and unlikely that he would come out and say it to my face. But Mazur rose, and pushing away officers in their chairs, came up to the table. - I said that, so what are you going to do? Because of fucks like you I have lost forty-eight men and God knows how many more I will lose because of your hallucinations. Why won't the air force and artillery beat the crap out of this damned square with all that's still there? And the grunts would block the approaches and take out everyone who would try to sneak off. That's all. There won't be as many soldiers' blood spilt though and we'd have to spend more time. Now everyone was watching Karpov. He was obviously confused: - The problem is that the whole world is watching what is happening here. All major news agencies and television stations have been registered at the Head Quarters. If we use air force and artillery on a square of this kind, the world community might not take it well. As you correctly mentioned that it would take more time, but our government needs this conflict to stop as soon as possible. Local opposition, which is on our side, would also be against using air force and artillery to solve this problem. Maybe somebody would wish to surrender? Moreover, we had received authentic information that a group of well-known human rights activists headed by the Duma politician Krylov is in one of the Dudaev's basements. Krylov is the guarantor of Dudaev's personal safety. As a result of a massive air strike they might get hurt. - Screw them! - I'll become an artillery spotter, so that the lads wouldn't miss! - Hang the bitch! The well-known human rights activist Krylov was called many unflattering names. This madhouse would've gone on for a while, if the Com-brig hadn't barked: - That's enough! Please comment only on the subject. Orders are not to be discussed - they are to be carried out. Other details like air and artillery support, time frames and interactions with other units would be discussed later on. I am listening. Please note that the hotel must be taken within the next three days. Any suggestions? I raised my hand. - May I? Comrade Colonel, - the CO nodded to me and I went on, - If we are to face an assault like that it is possible to expect that we will take more casualties. Our wounded, however, are cramped in the sickbay as it is. We are also running out of medicaments. Therefore, I suggest the following: tomorrow, with the strength of the third battalion, support of the recon company and chemical defence company we would break away to the "North" airport and medivac all our wounded out of here. Then, in our immediate proximity, we have the republican medical warehouse. Medicaments definitely wouldn't hurt to have at this stage. - This warehouse is for the local population only! - The moron moscvich gave off a remark. - We must never do that, it would set the locals against us! - Keep quiet, major, - cut him off Com-brig, - we've already given you an opportunity to speak up. This war has already set them against us. There is no way back. Mironov, continue. - I'm pretty much done here. If my plan is approved, I offer to personally head the convoy. Other than that we have to notify the battalions so that they ship their wounded over at the HQ as early as possible. We should be under way at about 9.30 and if everything goes according to my plan, we could be back by about 17.00, leaving us enough time to start on the medical warehouse. - What about the hotel "Kavkaz" and the Square? - I suggest, that during evacuation of the wounded, myself, or someone else, would contact our front command office and discuss all available options. If somebody is willing to take over the train station from us, the first and second battalions could easily bust the rag-heads out of the hotel. We can also give them the third battalion for support and clean up operations. If we could also move the self-propelled howitzers a bit closer, we might be able to complete the task within the previously mentioned time frame. Only if our friends from the "North" don't shell us again, as it has happened many times before, - I couldn't help myself and again kicked the HQ rep. The discussion of all "for" and "against" arguments of my plan took a while after that. In about half an hour, our CO approved it overall. He made a decision to personally head the convoy to the "North". He was also taking several officers with him: myself with Ryzhov, recon CO, medical CO, third battalion CO and Supplies XO. After brief calculation, it turned out we had one hundred and twenty-two wounded to transfer, including all from the battalions. Many of them refused to medivac. It's strange though, for them this war was over, they didn't chicken out or self-inflict their wounds, many of them were even about to be awarded medals, some could be discharged before their term after this. But even the badly wounded refused to be shipped out. Their COs yelled at them, some ordering, some trying to convince them to go. A lot of grunts were broken down crying, like they were unjustly punished or something. A few didn't want to go because of the soldiers' brotherhood, the real one not the imaginary kind. Some were frankly saying that their thirst for blood isn't quenched yet for their fallen comrades. Looking at their faces and their madly blazing eyes, you begin to understand that these men could easily give up their own lives for their comrades. No looking back, no bargaining with death or enemy, just stand in the path between the bullet and his comrade without making demands for rewards or medals. I asked myself a question that I haven't yet been able to answer, maybe that's what this superior spirit of the Russian Soldier is, that no army could ever break? Despite the fact, that every government in Russia hated and dreaded its own army, trying tirelessly to break its backbone, something that no enemy could ever do. But the Russian mahor, regardless of his superiors' scams, has always sunk his teeth into his enemy's throat, in spite of his furious resistance, avenging the deaths of his brothers, himself died but killing his foe. The death of one would cause desire for vengeance in the others and this would go on to the last soldier. The government, knowing this phenomena, periodically makes new opponents, because when the obvious enemies are dead, you, having tasted their blood, can't stop any more and start looking back. And if you did look back, you'd understand, my reader, that while you were fighting here, at someone's obscure order, life in your country calmly went on. Somebody even made a little fortune from this war, someone else transferred money overseas. But your comrade, whose mutilated body you were dragging out of the killing zone, under fire, yourself soaking in blood and sweat, he now receives a pension from the government, for both his legs that he lost out there, 300 rubles. When after the third toast, he'll grab your hand and, looking into your eyes, ask you in breaking voice: "why the hell did you pull me out of there, why?" You will feel sick and ashamed that you saved his life. This very act, that you were so proud of and maybe even rewarded, - will be the most shameful and bitter act of your life. Because your government sent you into this butchery and then, chucked you out, the still living ones as well as all the dead. It has bedamned and forgotten you. There was nothing there. All this was your paranoid hallucination caused by the posttraumatic syndrome and multiple concussions. But don't you worry. We'll fix you up in the mental home in about five years, come on in. Whatever remains of the army, we'll disperse and downsize, so that they don't tell anybody anything and debate our actions. Same as witnesses after a crime, they'll remove the military after each of their "salvaging operations". Like they did after Afghanistan, Germany, and so on. Because they knew for sure, the Army can turn around and see that the real enemy is right here in Moscow. Thus, when they throw you out or lock in a God forsaken garrison, you'd look back at your life and realise that the brightest, most memorable moments and impressions, the taste and price of life you experienced back there at some war. Your whole life will be now divided in two parts: "before" and "after" that war. Here you will be put before the choice, the infinite Russian question: "what do I do now?" You can try and live you life like everyone else, but you know that you won't get far. You can try and enter the police force. By the way, they are not ecstatic to see us there, they say we are all psychos. We can become contract killers, our familiar business and the money's good too. To kill, not as many people, not for some principles or vengeance but for money. Would you do it? Does it make you sick? Some go for it. There is a third path however - mercenary. It's true though you'd be fighting side by side with those you were shooting at not so long ago, but that's OK. Money doesn't smell and who knows, you might even like it and take vengeance on the locals for your fallen friend who used to be your enemy. All our wounded grunts knew it only too well. Some knew; some sensed it with their skins that all this is what a man lives for, and if they leave now, they would never again experience it. That's why they hung in to every opportunity to stay. To some their COs plainly lied, telling them that they are only going out there to accompany the column and would then come back here again. Some of them believed it while others wanted to believe, hoping that the convoy won't be able to break out and would have to return. Some grunts anticipated that before the medivac they would, for one last time, fight and send a few more true believers to see their Allah for themselves. They do like squalling "Allah akbar, Allah akbar", - so what? We too know that he's "akbar", but they, for some reason, don't rush to meet him. That's no good. Moreover, they are promised a heaven for the holy war with the kafirs. Therefore, we are actually doing them a favour, sending them to paradise, but they are resisting it like blind puppies. This night at the HQ was pretty much sleepless. All of us, Yurka, myself, Chief of Staff, recon CO and other