such conversations. Let the reflexes work for now. - True, let the nerve system labour. I feel for the boys though. Lots of them will probably stay here forever. - "Nineteen year olds forever", like Baklanov wrote. - OK. Let's go or you'll start it again. We came up to the cab, tossed the butts out and walked in. While we were out, Pashka cleaned up and was already in bed. - You're not on the guard duty tonight? - No. I'm on tomorrow during the day. - Wow, what a fluke? Who's going to guard my sleep tonight? - It's your sleep, so you guard it. - You're being an asshole again, Pasha. I guess we should make you dig a foxhole... for your horse and you together. - Together? - Yep, that's right. You let your tongue run free too often these days. - How big would the horse's hole be? - Three meters high. - Three meters? There are no such horses. - Sure there are. Have you been to Moscow? There is statue of Yuriy Dolgorukiy there. His horse is about that big. So you'll be digging a foxhole for his horse and himself if you don't keep your mouth shut. Understood? - Yeah, sure. - Grumbled Pashka, turning away. He knew we could make him do it if he got to us. All we took off was our boots and socks. The rest we kept on and only loosened our belts a little. My AK was on the floor, next to my bed, Yurka hung his on the wall above his head. A few hand-grenades went under my pillow. I chambered a round in my captured suppressed Makarov, put it back on "safety" and stashed it under the matrass on the same level as my waist. Now we can try and catch some sleep. Pity, I didn't get pissed tonight. Yurka, bastard, got in the way, but I'll get back at him tomorrow. I unscrewed the light bulb above my head and everything sank into darkness. To sum it all up for today I declared: - At ease, boys. So one more long day of this war was over. God and fate allowed me to stay alive this one more day. Let's hope they won't change their minds later. All my life in the past didn't mean much any more because tomorrow we would have to go and try that suicidal assault at the Minutka. God, please give me guidance! After this appeal to God I finally fell asleep. 8 --------------------------------------------------------------- © Copyright 2001 translation by Marta Malinovskaya and Konstantin S.Leskov --------------------------------------------------------------- We split a bottle of vodka among all the officers including companies' commanders, gobbled some ice-frozen canned beef. Meanwhile, our artillery finished pounding Chechen positions. The roar of bombers ceased two minutes later. Silence fell interrupted only by an occasional riffle cracking and machine gun fire. "Comrade lieutenant-colonel!" A soldier emerged from the battalion commander's APC. "Order from the "twenty second" (it was the brigade commander's code): five-five-five". "Tell him: understood!" Battalion commander ran to his vehicle. We followed him. Tank crews and officers of the second battalion also rushed to their armored vehicles. A block before Minutka square our reconnaissance unit soldiers stopped us and told that they succeeded in pushing the "dukhs" from the bridge on our side, but the Chechens consolidated their position in the middle of the bridge and on the other bank. It seemed like the bridge was not mined, but I would not bet on it. Infantry jumped from the APCs and waited for a command hiding behind the vehicles and ruins. Tanks had arrived. It was agreed that infantry would go ahead with tanks following fifty meters behind. The Battalion Commander was in the head of his advancing unit, breaking all instructions to stay behind during the attack. My buddy Yura and I had no choice but to follow him. Sneaking through destroyed buildings, covering short distances in each run, we reached the bridge. Our scouts were barely holding the violent push of the "dukhs". A fortified stockade made of concrete blocks had been erected in the middle of the bridge. "Dukhs" were pouring our bank heavily with lead from behind of it not allowing us to raise a head. Chechen mortars started covering us with shells. At first they fired randomly, shells went into water, but after some corrections they started to explode closer and closer and hit our bank. In addition "dukhs" began shooting at us from grenade launchers. Reverberation was unbearable. The bellow of mortar shells increased. Bullets were constantly knocking at concrete blocks, which served us as a cover. There were first casualties. In the first company, where Yura and I were, a shell exploded very close to us, and a large fragment of it tore a half of soldier's head off. The body was lying belly down, a half of the neck was absent and another half bent to the right under the weight of what was left of the head. Blood was gushing from the devastated artery staining the wall red. Another soldier crawled to the dead, not to help, but to take off a chain with his personal number from the torn neck and to pull documents from the inner pocket of the uniform. When this guy turned the dead on his back, corpse's hands trembled grasping his assault rifle as if he did not want to part with it. I switched my attention back to "dukhs". Chechens accumulated more force on their side. An APC arrived to support them. We heard clanging and engine roar from the back. It was ours tanks. They could have come earlier. The front tank spat out a shell without good aiming. The projectile flew far above "dukh's" heads and exploded somewhere behind them. Second shot came closer. It scattered a crowd of "dukhs". Several bodies remained still on the ground. Few more were screaming and squirming in pain. Mortar shelling ceased, as well as automatic rifle fire. Battalion commander ordered: "Second company! Podstwolniks ready! Fire! First and third companies forward!" He jumped out of his hiding place and, ushering other people, ran ahead being bent almost to the ground. We followed him screaming and cursing on top of our lungs. Yurka and I blended with this rushing wave. Grenades from the podstwolniks rustled over our heads. Shrapnel from the exploded grenades clicked and banged on the bridge and on the other bank of the river. Tank cannons thundered behind us. Their shells dispersed Chechen infantry. "Dukhs" backed up from the bridge and hid behind a burned tank. Mortar shelling resumed. The howl of flying missiles drove me crazy even more then the noise from explosions. It I felt the air vibrating, hitting my eardrums, already callous from explosions. My will was paralyzed. The howl of falling shells made me feel that I knew which one was sent to hound me. I could almost imagine it falling down on me and tearing me into hundreds of pieces and scattering them around. I forced myself back to reality. The second company pulled closer to us. Radio told us that the first and the third battalions arrived and were ready to support us with fire during the bridge takeover. A minute later, the cannons of BMPs which belonged to two fresh battalions joined the chorus of tanks and Kalashnikovs. Rifle's voices of the first battalion sounded like dogs' barking, accompanied by more substantial large caliber shots of the third. "Dukhs" almost stopped responding. The opposite bank was cloaked in dust from shell and grenade explosions. It seamed as if we could feel this thick air with our hands. Teeth were grinding dust. My throat was sore from the gas from burned explosives and some other crap in the air. My eyes were watered. But horror of the first minutes of the battle started to pass away. Blood was pounding in my temples, sweat was dropping from under the helmet. I unbuttoned my coat and weakened the buckle of the armored vest. Then I rolled over to my back, fished out a pack of cigarettes, matches and lit the cigarette. Yurka, who was next to me, reached out his hand asking for a smoke. I shared my cigarette with him. Talking in this hellish roar was absolutely impossible. I inhaled cigarette smoke and did not feel its taste; just bitterness mixed with gunpowder gases and nicotine. My experience told me that in five-ten minutes this cacophony would end and we would have to attack running, crawling on that bridge. I don't want to! I want to lie down and stare at the sky. A fragment of a prayer came up to my mind. I could not remember it all. The most important - go onward and survive. Following our Battalion Commander's order, the fire shifted deeper into the "dukh's" defensive line. BMPs calmed down to avoid hitting us. Chief shouted, "Forward! Hurraaah!" People sprinted forward from their hiding places. I ran too. "dukhs" opened fire. Someone screamed on my right. Ahead of me a soldier stumbled on invisible obstacle and was thrown back with his arms wide spread. His Kalashnikov fell under my feet, I stepped on it and almost slipped. Passing I glanced on the body. The groin was torn. Pants swelled from blood, open eyes were looking at the sky without blinking. "Gone", a thought flew in my brain. I felt terror again. A taste of blood in my mouth returned. Dreadful, very dreadful. My legs felt as if were made of cotton. I screamed something unintelligible. Yelled, screamed from horror. Lord God, help! Help me to survive! We were not too far from the bridge. Here it is, littered with fragments of concrete, bricks, wrapped in barbed wire. Thirty men ahead of us got out on the bridge. The other side opened heavy fire. First ten people fell down, two of them were still moving, trying to crawl back. The rest backed up and hid behind the ruins of the former "dukh's" stockade. I flopped down too and crept behind a piece of concrete, stuck out my automatic and gave a short burst in the direction of "dukh's" bank, then looked back. All other officers were slightly behind. That meant that I would be in charge here. Trying to over cry thunder of the battle, I yelled that someone should drag the wounded back from the bridge. Soldiers ahead of me nodded showing that they understood. Two of them crawled forward and the rest opened fire to cover them. Seeing that the help is coming, the wounded tried to crawl in our direction, but seemingly, were not able to move well. Battalion commander appeared from behind and wheezed in my ear, "You are a good runner, Slava." "I would run back even faster", I answered. "Isn't it creepier than it was at the airport of Severny here?" "Exactly. I only wish not to let them blow up the bridge." "For that, Slavyan, we need to take over it as soon as possible," and he shouted again. "Forward! Forward, guys!" Soldiers started getting out of their hiding holes despite the danger of being killed by bombs. Battalion commander jumped from behind of a concrete slab and ran forward. I followed him. The advance guard got on the bridge again. Those who were retrieving the wounded rose and joined the others. I got on the bridge, it was whistling and roaring around. "Dukhs" shifted the mortar fire. Strong thunder came. I fell then sat up examining myself. Everything was fine, except I couldn't hear a thing. I flapped at one ear with open palm as if knocking the water out. It didn't help. Deaf curtain separated me from the world. It had to be a concussion. A strong air wave whipped my eardrums and popped them outside in, nothing terrible. It would pass over. I looked where the shell exploded. I remembered four people running ahead of me. Where were they? Right there. Devastated bodies of four soldiers were lying on the bridge. Apparently, they had taken all shrapnel as if they guarded me from it, at least so far. I felt sick and through up partially from the concussion, partially from the view of mutilated bodies. My fear contributed to it. I spat some bail out. Surprisingly, deafness passed over with vomit. I started to hear sounds. People ran by me. Some fell and moved no more. I was sitting like a fool by the puddle of my own puke feeling good. I was alive! I had nasty bitter taste in my mouth and was thirsty. I found my flask and took a sip. I spat it out immediately because me friend Pashka had filled it with brandy. I exhaled and made another sip. Head slowly cleared. All right, let's get out of here. I could not leave the battle field with concussion, that would be dishonest. I looked again at the remains of the soldiers, who took my shrapnel. Forward! Forward! Thoughts were mixed up still. I got up as if breaching through a thick cotton pad . It was difficult to keep upright. But I kept telling myself that everything was fine. It would pass over in an hour. It was not my first concussion. You cure it with shameless vodka drinking. Everything would be all right. Forward! I stubbornly made several steps then stopped and looked around. Soldiers were lying down ahead of me, in the middle of the bridge. Like a scarecrow, I was standing behind them and shaking. It was my luck that I still had not been shot. I found a spot where I could stand upright without problem. Then on half-bent, still infirm legs, I ran toward my comrades. Forward. Forward... About ten meters short from them I flopped down and started to crawl. After reaching ours positions, I leaned against a concrete fragment. Soldiers, who were just ahead of me, looked back and shouted something, but my brain refused to comprehend. Judging by their approving and encouraging gestures, it was something good. They figured that my hearing was impaired and lifted their thumbs up. I nodded and yelled back: "It's just a concussion" Tanks began to shoot above our heads. Hostile fire faded and we went forward again. Now I was dragging myself somewhere in the middle of the attack group. I was afraid of firing because I could shoot our own guys. Soldiers of the first battalion had already taken over the bridge. It was ours at last. From now on, the main task was to keep it. I looked back. "Dukhs" employed strong mortar fire to force the first battalion to move back. There were only soldiers from our battalion on the enemy's bank. The bridge was covered with corpses, I counted about fifty . Fifty died for hundred and fifty meters of bridge. It was a horrible math. Companies of the first battalion took the wounded with them. "Dukhs" continued pounding bridge with shells and, at the same time, started to shoot at us. They released a smoke-screen, which was a sign of their coming attack. There was enough smoke even without it. Chief's order was spread: "Get podstwolniks ready. Fire!" We started to shoot at the swelling black cloud with grenades. Some soldiers, who did not have podstwolniks, sprayed the smoke with long bursts from their semiautomatic weapons. I heard screaming of wounded coming from the cloud as well as from the our side. They were followed by clanging of tracks from behind the smoke-screen. It was either a tank or a BMP. It began to pound our positions. Random rocks and concrete fragments provided bad cover from shells. Roar came from the above. Those were our planes. It looked as if the sky opened and poured down bombs. Have you ever been under bombing? No? God blessed you. Bombs, five hundred kilos of metal and explosives each, are approaching the ground with debilitating howl. The roar of mortar shells is a sweet serenade in comparison with it. Aviation bomb howl paralyzes the body with horror, makes every cell of your body resonate. Thoughts go away and you are lying just like a piece of meat, trembling from fear and awaiting your death. Everything human leaves your body, you become a trembling beast. People said that many of our soldiers had been killed by our own aviation, but I myself had not been under friendly fire yet. First bomb exploded far ahead. Apparently, it induced panic among Chechens, because their fire from behind the smoke-screen stopped. A shook wave came from the explosion. It engulfed us with horrible thunder and hot air. It felt as if this roaring atmosphere was going to rip off my uniform, break my ribcage, tear my mouth and cheeks. Eardrums would collapse. Blood was already dripping out of my ears. A hail of small stones descended on us. Someone was yelling. I looked there. A soldier was rolling on the ground, holding hands on his eye. Blood was streaming between the fingers. A paramedic was crawling toward him. Soldiers who were next to the wounded grabbed the unfortunate and pressed strongly against the ground. One gave him a water bottle, another ripped his uniform to bare a forearm. Then he took a tube with painkiller from a medical kit and made an injection. I did not watch the rest. Judging by the noise, pilots were about to make a second barrage. That terrible, paralyzing howl started again. It was increasing. Following my instincts, I squeezed myself into earth and listened the silence that followed. Everybody was waiting where, whose chance would be to meet with Madam Death. An explosion happened unexpectedly close, on the left flank of our battalion. A hail of stones showered us again. It was strange, but after all these blasts, my hearing restored. The world of sounds rushed into my brain. A buzz in my head had not passed yet, but I tried not to pay any attention to it. I looked in the direction of the explosion. There was a huge crater, about ten meters in diameter. Around it... Scattered around it were body parts of our soldiers who happened to be close to epicenter. Smoke was rising from the crater. There was an acrid smell, a mixture of explosives, charred meat and burned wool. It made me sick again. Like a wave, nausea came and rolled back. I tried to remember how many people were there. It turned out that at least a platoon and a half. About fifty people. Oh, my God! We had lost hundred people already and still had not strengthened our grip on this bank! I heard Battalion Commander shouting obscenities into a radio set. He was not using any code names, screw the discipline! He was simply yelling into the microphone: "Recall those plains! Recall those Goddamn plains, you whore! These faggots killed half of my battalion! Recall immediately! I cannot hold it with my people! Why? Ask those bastards who don't give a shit where they drop their bombs! Thank them for me! Recall those perverts! I need support! I'm starting to dig in. Dukhs will attack in a moment. Did you recall the plains? Good job! I'm not sure, but I think I have more than a hundred "two-hundredths" and about sixty "hundredths". What am I to do with them? Get me some help! I need paramedics and evacuators. Some of my wounded are non-transportable. If no help comes, I'm out of here. Get me some support and not like this one from the air, you jerk. The real support! They promised vaunted paratroopers and marines! Where are those scoundrels? Ask Severny where they are! Ask Khankala. I'm done talking. Fuck off! Come here and you'll see why I've got no time to waist on you!" "Dukhs" opened massive dense fire at us and at the opposite bank. Mortars and BMP cannons hit us again. Their podstwolniks, Kalashnikovs and machine guns did not idle either. With infuriating noise, bullets and shrapnel plunged continuously into asphalt in front of our weak shelter grinding bricks and concrete fragments. Squeaking of ricocheting bullets was exasperatingly loud. The air became hot from the amount of metal bodies in it. I heard again the shouts and moaning of freshly wounded. Mechanic clanging came from behind. We looked back. Two our tanks drove on the bridge and started shooting. "Dukhs" cut their zeal and transferred all fire on them. Now it was our turn to attack. Chief ordered again: "Forward!" We left our wounded waiting for assistance and rushed ahead. It was so smoky that we could not see a thing on that square. We spread in a chain, shooting randomly from hips into the smoke. Eyes were watery from gunpowder gases. Forward! Only forward! I was screaming together with others. Some were shouting "Hurrah!" some cursing, "Sons of the bitches! Death to sons of the bitches!" I simply screamed with my mouth wide open "Aaaaah!" It helped to stay cool. Adrenaline was raging in blood. I could have head the world record in running beaten. Suddenly an automatic fire came from the behind of the smoke screen. Chechens shot the same way as we were doing, long bursts from hips. Apparently, they had allowed us to come closer deliberately. We dropped down. It was suicidal to lie on the open square. I rolled over, then again. Aha, here was a chunk of some wall. I flattened myself against it bruising my shoulder. Then I began firing back. The distance between us and the enemy was no more than fifteen meters, but they had unquestionable advantage. They were hidden behind the walls whereas we were with butts up in the middle of the square. My assault rifle clicked and shut up, it was out of ammunition at a wrong time as usual. The attached clips were empty too. I raised the barrel of my Kalashnikov and put a grenade into the launcher. It would be better to shoot from the knee, but I had no choice. I pressed the trigger with my left hand finger. Detonator exploded and grenade flew toward the enemy. It went too far. I corrected the aiming. Another grenade went into the launcher and the trigger was pulled. While the grenade was flying, I swiftly detached the empty clip and pushed the paired new one in. Thunder came from the behind. I looked back. Fuck! "Dukhs" hit both our tanks. They were engulfed in flames. Cartridges were cracking. Soon shells would explode. Yes, a moment later, deafening explosion thundered, followed by another one. Tanks' towers flew off. Almost synchronously, they slowly, very slowly went up in the air and, turning over and over, flew in the opposite directions. The first tower fell into the water with a loud splash, the second dropped on our side of the river. What was left of tanks continued to burn. The body of the first one split right in the middle. Cartridges were still bursting in flames. Rabid from their victory, "dukhs" switched their attention and fire to us. Mortar shells started to gather their crop again. Soldiers had to dig in under this hurricane fire. The luckiest ones appeared to be those who found themselves spots with asphalt destroyed by tanks' or BMP's tracks. There was mud there, in which a soldier would dig in up to his ears. Our ranks were dwindling with every second. Many were wounded. Sun could not break through the dense smoke. I was hoping to hear shooting from the other side of the square where, according to commanders' plan, paratroopers and marines were supposed to attack. But there was nothing going on there. So it was just us, a pity handful, no more than a hundred and fifty people, battling on the open space with well-fortified enemy. Shouts and bursts of automatic fire came from behind again. I turned back and saw first battalion trying to cross the bridge. With doubled efforts, we began to pour bullets and grenades on "dukhs". But the guys did not succeed in their attack and rolled back once more. Our ranks shivered. The feeling of emptiness and futility of our efforts enveloped us and crushed our will. Fear, dark fear smashed under its immense weight everything human in our souls. The instinct of self-preservation worked. Without any order, we began to retreat. Not to run, but to retreat, snapping back with bursts of automatic fire and sparse shots from the launchers, carrying our wounded, leaving our dead. Leaving them, however we knew that if we did not pick them up by tonight, "dukhs" would come and mutilate their bodies, would dismember them. They would cut off noses, ears, and private parts and would throw them, together with the body remains into the Sunzha River to feed fish. Please, forgive us, guys! We retreated to our former positions, where our own aviation bombed us. Suddenly we heard a shout: "Daddy is wounded!" Everybody turned and saw Battalion Commander to a shelter, his left arm hanging like a piece of rope. His left foot stampeded, he fell on his side. Soldiers ran to him and pulled him out from under the fire into a temporary shelter. Officers of the battalion began to show up, crawling and rolling on the ground. I hurried too. I saw my buddy Yura among them. Alive! I had lost him from my sight since the beginning of the fight. Major Ivan Genrihovich Kugel, a battalion commander deputy came as well. A paramedic was trying to stop Chief's hemorrhaging using rubber band and sterile bandage. Battalion commander was intermittently losing and gaining consciousness. He breathed hard. Something was croaking in his chest impeding ventilation. He was pale, big drops of sweat were constantly rolling down his face leaving gray traces on his dusty skin. "Why did you drag your butts up here?" he asked after opening his eyes. "Go, work. Don't leave people. Fuck off. While I'm here, my deputy is Kugel. Get out! Work, you shitheads, work!" He closed his eyes again and passed out. We turned to the paramedic. "How's he? Will he make it out?" "Leg arteries are punctured. Large blood loss is dangerous. I don't know, I need to get him to the hospital." "Save him! Listen you! Save the Chief or I'll make holes in you!" Vanya Kugel yelled at the guy. "Don't swear at him, Ivan! Let's carry him out," Commander of the first company said. "Take him and try to break through! We'll cover you up!" Ivan said. " Try! Carry Daddy out!" And then loudly to cover the roar of fight, "Listen to my order! I'm in command while Battalion Commander is incapacitated! First company has to break through and carry him out. We all will cover them! Dig in and fight until the last one! Radio operator, where the hell are you?" "There's no operator, the guy's killed, " one of the soldiers shouted. "Tune companies' transmitters on brigade's frequency and tell that in five minutes we'll try to carry our Chief out. Tell them to meet us and cover with fire. Is it clear? Forward! Forward!" First company went back under terrible fire, directed at the exposed bridge. They were carrying Battalion Commander, who was unconscious and three other wounded. They could not take any more with them. Only thirty-three men were left of the company, slightly more than a platoon. We were shooting, shooting, changing clips and shooting again. I looked over my shoulder. Five men from the first company lay still on the bridge adding their bodies to already so many fallen. The luckier ones had reached the middle. Just a little bit more, guys! Press forward! "Dukhs" were furiously shooting at us and at the first company. I hoped we had enough munitions to respond. Don't worry, sons of the bitches, we'll talk to you in a little while, you damn bastards! Suddenly my soul calmed down in peace. It happens when the decision has been made and you understand that this it is the final one. There is only an end of the story ahead and, unfortunately, you have no influence to change it. All you have to do is to sell your body and soul as high as possible. I did not want to die, but I had no fear of death any more, just absolute calmness. My head was clear. Thoughts were precise. Reflexes were sharp. Some kind of invigorating sense came, similar to that of gambling. Who would win? We were the good guys and they were the bad. Everything was simple. I remembered our boot camp song: We have everything we need, Frozen vodka goes with meet. Our girlfriends are the best, So is my AKMS! Let's make war, bastards! 9 --------------------------------------------------------------- © Copyright 2001 translation by Konstantin S. Leskov --------------------------------------------------------------- Everybody around me was slowly digging in. That's right. An infantry soldier will bite asphalt, but hold the position. I did not have a sapper's spade. A dead man was lying three meters from me. A spade in a slipcase was attached to his belt. I rolled to him and tried to unfasten the case. It did not work out. Bullet whistled close to me. Instinctively, I ducked. However it is known that the bullet, which you can hear, is not yours, I duck anyway. With a jerk, I turned the body over, unbuckled and pulled off the belt. Rolled back to my place. As soon as I found cover, a bullet pierced the dead body and made it shiver. They could have hit me, fucking souls. Explored my site. Asphalt was crashed in several places. I started to scoop its pieces out with a spade and put them in front of me. Here is earth mixed with stones. Not paying attention to my ground to blood fingers, I was continuing digging and building a parapet. Soil was cold. My chest and belly had already been in a small trench. Head and legs were still on the surface. I was completely dirty, ripped off the skullcap from under the helmet. Head was steaming. Hot, very hot. Heard clanging and roar from behind again. Looked back. Tanks had roped their burnt colleagues with wire hawsers and tried to pull them aside. "dukhs" began to shot at them with mortars and grenade launchers over our heads. We stopped digging and opened fire at the Chechen fortifications. With dread I heard dry click of my Kalashnikov. Shit, no ammo whatsoever. Only seven grenades were left for the launcher. Kaput! A water bottle and a clip bag were hanging from the dead soldier's belt. I weighted the bag. Oho! Heavy. We'll live for a while then. I pulled out three clips and examined them. Full. Three clips thirty shots each - ninety. Not too much, but it's the best we have. When there is no fish, even a dick is meat. I loaded the automatic, took an aim, and gave a short burst at barely visible shadow. It disappeared. Might be hit, might be not. Switched to single shots just in case. Started to dig in again. Suddenly, piercing screams of "dukhs" came from ahead. They cannot talk quietly even in normal life, on the war they scream so that ears get blocked. I heard a familiar clang. A tank and a BMP rolled out. Very nice. Retreating was impossible because of risk being shot in the back and a success of advance was also futile. It is very uncomfortable wrestle with a tank on the open square. Different weight categories. Ivan Kugel shouted something, but, because of distance and shooting, I could not hear anything. I only heard the result: popping of our launchers. It's hard to get a tank with a small launcher grenade, especially when it is coated in "active" armor. It's a good thing for tanks, the "active" armor. A number of square boxes are lain next to each other on the hull. There is a high-temperature-activated explosive inside each of them. When a cumulative shell or a "Mukha" grenade hits a tank, it produces a narrow stream of heat, which normally penetrates steel shields. When "active" armor is used, explosive blasts and breaks the direction of the stream. The tank remains intact. The enemy tank, which was moving in our direction, was decorated with those boxes like a Christmas tree. The bastards came prepared to meet us. A grenade launcher shot popped on the left flank. Judging by the sound, someone used "Mukha". Cumulative grenade precisely hit the junction between hull and tower. Explosion thundered. Smoke went up from the tank. Then flame. Deafening blast came next. Tower was ripped off and thrown back. It fell on "dukh's" positions. A wall collapsed in a cloud of dust. We heard yells. Flame was raging in the tank. Ammunition was cracking inside it's belly. We ourselves exploded with joyful exclamations and shouts. Aha, bitches, you have seen! What a shot! What a great shooter! I wouldn't spare a Star of Hero for such a shot! Great job! "Dukh's" BMP rolled back and began shelling us. Projectiles blasted in front of us, then behind our backs. Shrapnel hit several soldiers, but did not kill them, just wounded. To our luck, their crew was bad at aiming. An anti-aircraft cannon, installed on the BMP might have tear our humble fortifications into pieces. Two our tanks stopped at the beginning of the bridge ready to open fire. The third one was moving to our, or "dukh's", bank shooting randomly. Infantrymen were hiding behind it. They were launching grenades into the enemy over the tank and our heads. Great! "Dukh's" BMP retreated far back and disappeared from the view. Our tank came closer, stopped and shot "dukh's" positions at almost point-blank. Infantry ran from behind it. It was our first company, which returned, and a part of the first battalion. More infantry was running on the bridge. Those were first and third battalions. They told that Combat died. Unconscious, he kept shouting out orders, was restless, then calmed down and passed away. All soldiers and officers were shaken by the news. Alexander Petrovich had been an embodiment of courage, a colossus, something eternal and unshakable. He had been an axle of the battalion, and he was not with us anymore. It was hard to believe it had happened. We had used to losing close friends on the war, but him... No I could not believe it. I did not want to believe. Everybody around looked devastated. Petrovich was not only a commander, but for his soldiers and officers he was a teacher, big brother, "Batya", "Papa". Sad, too sad. The arrived brought more ammo. It was quickly distributed and loaded into empty clips, grenade bags, leaving the "novices" the pleasure of shooting at the "dukhs" and digging trenches for themselves. Shelling the enemy positions, tank backed up without turning the tower. Another one started from "our" bank its cannon firing as it was moving toward us. Its place was immediately occupied by the third one. Tank "carousel" was working. The fun was about to begin. Adrenalin raged in blood again. Steam was rising from skin. Excitement of battle came back. I looked at the nearest soldiers. The same effect. Only half an hour ago all of thought how to sell our lives as dear as possible, now everybody seemed to have the same hunter's heat. Cornered rabbits, we turned into mature wolves. No! Not wolves. Chechens are wolves. They have a wolf under the Moon on their flag. They call us dogs. We ARE rabid dogs. Hold on, dirty wolves, we are coming! Tear you apart, bitches! Rip your guts off for everybody! For Combat! For those kids, who left on the bridge and for those who lay on this shitty square. For our horror and for the bombing. For everything! The commander of the first battalion was in charge. He was talking on a radio for long time and then started to loudly give away orders. The roar of the battle did not allow to hear him, soldiers conveyed his commands by chain. The order was that after two tanks finish shooting, we would break through. The object of attack is the building of the State Bank. He had also said that on the other side of the square Marines, Paratroopers and motorized infantry from St. Petersburg were ready to attack. Let's make a stalingrad to "dukhs"! Everybody felt good. It is much better to fight as a mob, especially when somebody else will hit the enemy in the back. We increased small arm fire. "Dukhs" snapped back. They understood that our attack was imminent. Their tank had been burnt, BMP was a toy against our tanks. Now they were shaking in terror. It was their turn to sweat! One tank finished, another rolled in. We saw a fresh inscription on its cannon, "Catch!" People laughed over the crew's joke. Nobody knew how many shells the tank had, everybody was counting. "Ready!" command came. We put ourselves together, took weapons in the ready. Pockets were full with loaded clips, heavy launcher's grenade bag was bouncing against the leg. The order "Onward! Storm!" sounded like a song. With the last shot of tank we charged from our trenches and ran forward. Thunder roared behind. Bridge was invisible behind a dense cloud of shots and exhaust gases. Our tanks and BMPs were driving across to our side of the river. That meant that stuff was also pulling close to its battalions, which, bunched together without knowing who where, were charging toward the enemy's positions with shouts and bellowing. We were not met with flowers. Long automatic bursts streamed on us. Mortar shelling resumed. However, their aiming was wrong, or may be we were running too fast, and the shells were falling far behind without inflicting any damage. From the covered behind a wall BMP, a machine gun opened fire at us. Soldiers fell. Front ranks backed up. The rear ones pressed from behind pushing them under the bullets. We reached our first goal - a barricade of blocks, concrete slabs and bricks. It was five meters high and fifty meters long. It must have taken a lot of time to bring all this construction junk here. It was solid. Direct hit of a tank shell would not destroy it. But we were infantrymen! We climbed those slabs, encircled the structure from the flanks. The fire contact was so dense that we and "dukhs" were shooting each other point blank in long bursts, which interrupted only when a clip was empty or when the owner of the gun was killed. I ran, sweat was pouring down. Right in front of me, in an improvised gun port, a dushman popped up, his face distorted from fear and rage. He fired from his automatic at us. Still running, I raised my Kalashnikov and gave short burst in his direction. He noticed new danger and transferred fire on me. I ducked. A momentum of running body pushed me on my right side. From this hellishly uncomfortable position, I shot at the "dukh". Apparently, I got him, since he disappeared and did not show up any more. It is a very rare situation in such a fight when you see the face of your foe. I could not look closer. Shot means dead, fuck off. The most important was to survive and take this fucking square. "Dukhs" intensified their fire from behind the barricade. The pace of attack slowed down. Mortar shells and grenades began to explode among us. By radio we demanded tank's support. They hit "dukh's" structure with direct shots and "dukh's" rear with plunging fire using high-explosive shells. In contrast to the conventional shells, these fougasse projectiles explode not at the moment when they hit the ground, but a short time after. When it happens, shrapnel consists not only of the metallic parts of the shell itself, but also of stones and other sediment particles, which penetrate the body and kill just like the metal fragments. These shells are good to destroy enemy's fortifications mowing down everything inside. We rolled back. Shrapnel and brick fragments were flying on us, gathering their part of death crop to the God of War. Medics carried the wounded and killed from the square. Those beside them helped to evacuate their comrades. "Mukha" grenades flew in our direction from behind the barricade. Feeling that we had stampeded, "dukhs" tried to counter attack. Under the cover of their grenade launchers, they charged from their shelters, squeezed out from narrow slots, made by our tanks' shells. With screams "Allah akbar!" they rushed on us. Many had green bands on their foreheads. I had been told that those were suicide fighters or something. I had not asked "dukhs" themselves about it. If I catch one, I would definitely ask, if I would have enough t