a "box"...
"Where?"
"On the road."
"Shall we go there now? Any losses?" asked Sharagin, getting ready to
move fast.
"Calm down, everything's all right," said Morgultsev in hushed,
conspiratorial tones. "No losses. But one vehicle's burned out. I'll go and
sort it out myself."
When the firing stopped and it was quiet again, Yepimakhov peered out
from behind the armor, and realized at once, to his profound embarrassment,
that there was no point in celebrating victory over fear after such
cowardice.
He looked around covertly, had anyone noticed his confusion? He had no
doubt that he looked pathetic and lost. But nobody seemed to be laughing.
However, this did not make things any better. Deep contempt seared the proud
heart of the would-be hero.
"Our boys will have their firing point targeted by now and will give
the spooks a nice dose of artillery," Yepimakhov heard someone say in the
group of officers standing nearby.
"You don't say? Optimistic, aren't you?" Sharagin lit a cigarette from
someone else's and glanced briefly at Yepimakhov. He could guess why the
lieutenant did not look too happy, but showed no trace either by word or
gesture. "They came from behind that hill," he went on casually. "Do you
think anyone's still there? Those spooks would have jumped into a waiting
Toyota and disappeared. Talk about chasing ghosts in a fog...!"
Yepimakhov sat beside Sharagin immersed in his own thoughts, poking his
rice pudding with a fork.
... nothing surprising in that the kid got scared ... it would be
stranger if he hadn't ... if you're afraid, it means you're no fool ...
he'll get used to it ... people get used to everything ... I read somewhere
that the Irish say you can even get used to being hanged ...
An APC was approaching the camp rapidly along the deeply worn ruts in
the road. A major in an earphone helmet, the battalion commander of the
nearest outpost jumped down. He looked like a native of Turkmenistan.
"Where's the company commander?" he shouted furiously. "Ah, there you
are! sitting here drinking tea while one of your BMPs is on fire!"
"Why are you yelling at me?" demanded captain Morgultsev, getting to
his feet. "I know all about that BMP, I've just got back from there. The
spooks hit it with a grenade launcher. Got it right in the oil tank!"
"What fucking rocket launcher! What fucking spooks!" continued the
outpost commander, raising his voice even higher. "Over the past months, the
spooks haven't hit a single column, a single vehicle! I've got an agreement
with the leader of the local gang! So don't give me any crap, captain! I
drove past your three BMPs and saw for myself that the last one had broken
down, the men were trying to repair it ... You set it on fire yourselves!"
"Don't say that comrade major," replied Morgultsev, speaking very
deliberately. "There's no call to slander my officers like that," he went on
with growing irritation, his face turning red. "Everyone heard that shot
from the grenade launcher! "
The major was not ready to back down - "Where are your wounded? Eh? No
answer, captain? It's impossible that someone isn't at least shell-shocked
after that!"
The war of words continued. The major and captain were no longer the
only combatants, they were looking for supporters among the surrounding
officers and agitprop personnel: who had the more convincing argument?
The major pulled off his helmet, exposing a cleanly shaven head.
... there was time when I went around bald, just like that ...
grinned Sharagin.
... looks like the head of a prick! ...
The outpost commander kept shoving his hands in his pockets and then
pulling them out again, gesticulated, poking a finger at Morgultsev, and
then in the direction of the burning BMP, which could not be seen from that
spot.
"What are you smiling about, captain? Admit that you simply wanted to
write off a faulty vehicle as destroyed in battle! It won't work, youngster.
Where have you ever seen anyone attack a BMP that way?!"
"Comrade major," said Morgultsev unpleasantly. "This is my second term
of service in Afghanistan, It's happened to me three times..."
"If you needed to write off that BMP," interrupted the major, "you
could have said so to me. I'd have shown you where to drive it over a mine,
there's a whole shitload of them around!"
Explosions were heard from somewhere beyond the outpost, about one and
a half kilometers away from the camp. It was the explosives in the burning
BMP going up. The major spat in disgust:
"I had a meeting with the head of the gang only yesterday. We agreed
that the spooks wouldn't hit anything along my stretch of the road."
"Does that mean you'd rather believe a spook than a Soviet officer?"
"Listen," whispered Sharagin, "sic our political officer on to him. Let
him give this jerk a brainwashing."
"The hell with him," replied Morgultsev with a dismissing wave.
"Captain, I can hardly believe my eyes, " continued the major, cooling
down visibly. "First there's a broken down BMP on the road, and then it's
attacked by spooks. And no losses at all! Everyone's alive and well!
Congratulations, captain! Tell me, have you thought about what happens next?
This is an emergency! What am I to say to the leader of the gang? Fucking
rangers, damn your eyes! Foraging out to taste a bit of combat, do a bit of
shooting, and I have to pick up the pieces! You'll be off to Kabul tomorrow,
but I have to stay on here..."
Little by little, he lost steam having shouted himself out. Breathing
heavily, the major turned to the officers present, as though seeking their
support:
"I come driving up, but they've already taken up positions and opened
fire on several villages. I asked them who they were shooting at, and they
said that there must be spooks behind the walls. They thought someone had
fired on them, you see! So here I am, walking around without a bullet-proof
vest and trying to get those fucking rangers to stop! Their senior
lieutenant, what's his name ...
"Senior lieutenant Zebrev," prompted Morgultsev.
"That's right, Zebrev. The fusillade he started, you wouldn't believe!
And what if one of your rangers killed or wounded some villagers, hey
captain? That means the whole gang will come down to the road tomorrow and
hit a whole column in revenge! What then?!"
"Come with me, comrade major," said Morgultsev, drawing the outpost
commander away from unnecessary witnesses. They wandered around the camp,
arguing, for about five minutes. The major remained stubborn:
"No, I'll report that the vehicle went up in flames for unknown
reasons. Let a commission come and investigate the matter. And I'll put a
guard around the BMP so that none of your rangers can take a shot at it from
a grenade launcher."
The incident was not discussed in the company. Everyone kept quiet
... just like inside a tank ...
It was clear to all what had happened to the BMP. A routine occurrence
in war. Why wag your tongue for nothing?
Only Yepimakhov, through naivete and lack of knowledge of the
realities, entertained suspicions all evening, and, when night descended on
the camp, protest burst forth from the breast of the young internationalist.
He wanted to sort things out, discuss what had happened with his friend:
" I simply can't understand it, "he confided in a low voice. "On one
hand, if the spooks really hit the BMP, then everyone's a hero, right? They
could be put up for medals! But if the major's right - and you and I both
saw on our way back that Zebrev and his platoon stayed on the road and began
poking around in the BMP's engine, well that would be sabotage, wouldn't it,
it could mean prison. That would mean we're ruining our own equipment,
right? Can you imagine the scandal for the whole regiment!..."
"It's not that simple," replied Sharagin thoughtfully. "The whole
affair will be swept under the carpet, you'll see."
- who wants to go into combat with defective equipment! ... you can't
fix it, you can't write it off - get rid of it! otherwise it will fail you
in battle ...
"But if there were no spooks about, then it's dishonest ... unfair ...I
never thought Morgultsev could do something like that!..."
"You're still new here. Don't judge people. You can talk about what's
fair or unfair back home... when the war's over..."
Captain Morgultsev was equally troubled. He walked around the camp,
stopping here and there, smoking one cigarette after another.
"I sure hit a snag, damn it all to hell! Screw that obstinate Turkmeni
asshole! "
That was the story of Mogultsev's life - medals, then reprimands! From
king to peasant!
He was a lieutenant when he arrived in Afghanistan for the first time.
Nobody was asked whether they wanted to go there or not. The Motherland made
that decision for one and all.
Shortly before departure, in December '79, they spent more than a week
training in the forests of Belorussia. The cold was intense, you wouldn't
wish it on your worst enemy. It was cold like this that beat the Germans and
the French in their times. Only the Russians could take it, and even so, a
few soldiers would be out every day with frostbitten fingers, toes or ears.
The officers felt intuitively that this training was not just like
that, there was something brewing. They spent the evenings discussing their
suppositions, exchanging views. Afghanistan was never mentioned, nobody had
any idea about this country then. Iran was mentioned frequently as it was
there, out of all the countries bordering on the Soviet Union, that there
was unrest. The thought of Iran cheered everyone up. They joked that it
wouldn't be bad to fly south for the winter.
Time passed. The men began to talk of home. Time to get the tree
decorated for New Year!
"Even if we miss out on New Year, we'll celebrate on the 23rd of
February," sighed the officers.
Fate decreed otherwise.
The AN-12 gathered height and set course for the Urals. Lieutenant
Morgultsev worked this out easily by looking at the stars. After a five hour
flight they landed in Shadrinsk. The pilots were taken off for a meal while
the paratroopers made do with dry rations with the temperature at minus 30.
They took off again, and arrived in Andizhan some four hours later, where
they remained on the airstrip for one and a half days.
By this time, there were no secrets - commanders were issued orders,
ammunition and maps ...of the Afghan capital.
The regimental HQ commander pronounced: "..Your task is to help a
friendly country, protect it from reactionary forces ... The situation is
extremely dangerous. Bands of insurgents have seized the airdrome ..."
After these words, the pilots flatly refused to fly. Flying is out of
the question in such circumstances, they said. A parachute drop - OK, but as
for landing on a strip held by insurgents - no way! Whoever heard of such a
thing! No commander would issue an order like that!
"Look, guys," squirmed the HQ commander, "I only said that to scare the
men a bit ... the airdrome is safe, everything's in our hands!"
They landed in Kabul at dawn. A strike force prepared for a lightning
victory, but there was no enemy to conquer. The enemy had gone to ground.
What was the enemy planning, how did he intend to outwit them?
Plane after plane came in, disgorging men and materiel.
A very serious operation was under way.
"So much for southern climes," grunted Morgultsev, rubbing his frozen
hands.
The Soviet units dug in, slept in their vehicles under jackets and
greatcoats. The day brought wet snow, moods slumped because of the driving
wind and a depressing feeling of uncertainty.
A cat, unusually striped in three colors, came up to Morgultsev on
frozen paws and rubbed against his muddy boots, mewing pitifully. Trying the
traditional "here kitty-kitty-kitty" routine, Morgultsev tried to pick up
the cat, but it sprang back in fear.
"Don't understand Russian, hey? Well, I don't speak your language.
Still, you're a living creature. Come on, I'll get you something to eat!"
He took an almost empty tin of canned meat from the soldiers.
Shivering, the cat flung itself on the food, frantically licking out the
sides of the can. She did not leave, but remained with the paratroopers.
"First contact with the locals accomplished!" laughed the lieutenant,
then immersed himself in rosy dreams: - We'll be through here in a week or
two, go home, and take this Afghan Murka with us! I've got to bring home at
least one souvenir!
After breakfast, he was summoned to headquarters. A real live general
was there. Morgultsev was given a military advisor who worked in Kabul, and
a map of object No.14, which his platoon was to seize.
This object turned out to be the Pul-i-Charkhi prison, a name the
senior officers had trouble pronouncing.
"Your task is to take object 14 and free political prisoners! According
to our information there are about 120 guards. Comrade Korobeynikov will
instruct you about the object. He's familiar with the layout. Comrade
Korobeynikov will deal with the political prisoners himself. Any questions?"
"No sir!"
"That hireling of American imperialism, Amin, wanted to destroy all the
prisoners in Pul-i-Charkhi," added the head of the Political Section. "The
prison's being guarded by troops loyal to him. They could start executing
the prisoners at any moment. The lives of thousands of people are in
danger!"
"If you fail, it's the military tribunal for you," promised the dour
general in parting. He fixed Morgultsev with a gimlet eye, as though not
trusting, doubting the lieutenant.
Donning medics' white coats, Morgultsev and the advisor set of on a
reconnaissance trip in an ambulance. They passed by the prison, checked out
the territory and returned to the airdrome.
Uncle Fedya - that was the soldiers' nickname for the snub-nosed,
round-faced advisor - unfolded a detailed plan of the prison, they bent over
it and discussed various tactics. Gradually, matters became clearer. In any
case, Morgultsev had seen the prison from the air when his plane was coming
in to land in Kabul. From above it resembled a wheel which had come off a
giant cart and rolled away. That was what he had thought at the time.
They warmed themselves by the fire and thrashed out the details of the
operation. The soldiers were ordered to pay close attention and remember
everything.
"You can fire at will once we're in," said Uncle Fedya. There was a
moment of silence as he looked hard at all the men, so they would realize
this was not an exercise. "No limits! Any disobedience, any doubts - shoot
on the spot. There won't be time for questions!"
"One hundred and twenty guards," calculated Morgultsev. "That's no
pushover. And we're just one platoon. Still, we're paras, we've got the
machines and we've got the guts!"
They moved out in total darkness. The road was blocked by a portable
checkpoint with a makeshift boom, situated in the village closest to
Pul-i-Charkhi. The column stopped. The leading vehicle trained its spotlight
on an Afghan soldier who pointed a bayonet and screamed "Dry-y-y-sh!" at the
top of his lungs.
"Where the fuck did he come from?" ground Uncle Fedya through clenched
teeth. "Light out! Don't shoot! Knife him!..."
"Why's he squealing like a stuck pig?"
"He's shouting 'Halt!' C'mon, lieutenant, do it!"
Morgultsev jumped down and approached the Afghan, extending a friendly
hand:
"We're on the same side, pal! How are things, slob? What are you gaping
at?" He clapped the Afghan on the shoulder: "Come with me! Come on, let's
get off the middle of the road!"
He twisted the soldier's arm up his back with a practiced move, put the
knife to his throat:
"Look, brother, get the shit out of here. I don't want your death on my
conscience, get it? Beat it!"
The soldier fell to his knees, opened his mouth wide in terror, then
scrambled back to his feet and ran.
At Pul-i-Charkhi the road was blocked by an Afghan armored vehicle. It
was quickly knocked out of action when machine gun fire shredded its tires.
There was no return fire. Maybe the Afghans were out of ammunition.
"Get those watchtower lights," ordered Uncle Fedya, and the men did so
promptly with a hail of bullets.
"Everybody mount up!"
The day before, Morgultsev had coaxed a mobile SU-85 installation from
the regimental commander. He meant to use it to break down the massive
prison gates with no loss of time. "We could hardly do that with an armored
vehicle," he argued, "the 'plywood shield of the Motherland' would never do
that job!"
And then what happened? A fool lieutenant went off the road, panicked
and opened fire with solid anti-tank shots. With no orders to do so, the
"Sushka" hit the watchtowers.
"Stop that!" yelled Morgultsev over the radio.
"Yessir!" replied the lieutenant, but thirty seconds later recommenced
firing.
"Idiot!" swore Morgultsev, and turned to the driver-mechanic: "Wreck
those gates!"
The armored vehicle did it! So much for the slur "plywood shield of the
Motherland"! They broke into the prison compound.
"Reverse! Faster!" commanded Morgultsev. He and Uncle Fedya had it all
worked out: they reversed and crushed the wooden structure which served as
the guardhouse.
"Full forward!"
They had to ram another pair of gates in front of the building where
the political prisoners were confined. Bullets flew everywhere, the
atmosphere was total chaos. Luckily, dawn had broken. Through the triplex
glass, Morgultsev could see armed men running hither and thither. Bullets
spattered against the armor like a downpour on a tin roof.
"Start the carousel!"
The armored vehicle spun around, all barrels blazing.
"Time to go," said Morgultsev, touching Uncle Fedya on the shoulder.
They opened the hatch and leapt out.
"Go!"
The soldiers hesitated. Shooting continued, but who was shooting at
whom and where was unclear. Uncle Fedya urged them on:
"We're losing time! Get moving! " and ran towards the entrance of the
building, jumping over corpses.
"Two men stay here!"
The babble of an unknown tongue could be heard in the depths of the
corridor. They flattened themselves against the wall and when steps
approached, Uncle Fedya fired a volley of shots holding his machine gun at
waist level. Someone cried out in the dark, there was the sound of a body
falling.
"Chuck a grenade!"
As soon as the smoke cleared a little, they raced for the far end of
the corridor. Blankets hung across doorways on both sides of the corridor.
One blanket seemed to bulge so Motgultsev pressed the trigger. An old man,
covered in blood and grasping a string of worry-beads fell out into the
corridor.
"Go! Go!" shouted Uncle Fedya. He himself paused for a moment to jam a
new magazine into his gun. "Cover me!"
It must have been even more frightening for the Afghans. How could they
know how many Soviets had stormed the prison, how many were still outside,
what forces were involved in the operation and, in general, what was
happening in Kabul? That was why they did not resist for long. Overall, they
amounted to two hundred plus guards. The paras had killed a small part of
them, the rest surrendered willingly. The Afghans had no intention of
fighting to the last drop of blood.
Hundreds of hands protruded from the bars of the cells, someone waved a
long piece of cloth - an unrolled turban, someone managed to reach a window
and stick out his hand.
Morgultsev should have felt himself a victor or, to be more precise, a
liberator, someone who had saved thousands of human lives. However, he felt
nothing of the kind. On the contrary, he was suddenly scared: swarthy,
bearded strangers watched the Soviet officer from behind bars. Morgultsev
shivered.
They'd saved them! Freed them! But who were these people? Against whom
had they rebelled? What were they punished for? Maybe they were real
criminals? How can anyone tell? Their language is incomprehensible and they
all look suspicious. We've saved and freed them, but what now? No question
of fraternizing with them! Damn it, what kind of friends were they, anyway?
No, let them stay locked up for the time being. It will be safer that way.
Let those who are in the know sort it out and decide which ones to release
and which ones to keep in the slammer! It's not my job. We've done what we
were ordered. If something like this had happened back home - if, for
instance, revolutionaries had to be rescued from prison ... well, that would
be another mater. That would be a sacred duty! But here ...
"Don't let anyone out!" he warned his men. "Are any of our people
wounded?"
"Not in our unit, comrade lieutenant.
"Where's the third unit?"
"No idea, comrade lieutenant," shrugged the soldier.
The third unit had plunged into a sewage pit. When they drove into the
prison yard, the second armored vehicle had veered sharply to the right and,
not knowing where to go in the dark and general confusion, landed straight
into the evil-smelling muck. The exhaust fumes fed back into the cabin and
the men started to choke. They were discovered by chance and just in time.
Someone saw the turret protruding from the pit.
"Shitheads!" railed Morgultsev. "Not paratroopers, but real shitheads!"
The taking of Pul-i-Charkhi lasted less than one hour - 54 minutes, in
fact. Morgultsev had marked the time on his "commander's" watch.
"Object 14 secured," he reported by radio.
Uncle Fedya went off to Kabul, came back with Afghan "comrades" and
began sorting out the prisoners.
Morgultsev's platoon received orders by radio from headquarters: "Stay
and guard the object. You'll be brought food and ammunition."
They posted sentries, took over the warmest building which was heated
by an oil stove as their quarters and draped blankets over the broken
windows.
Morgultsev warmed himself in the sun, the first he had seen since
arrival, drew on a cigarette.
"Comrade lieutenant! There's a whole bunch of journalists arrived, they
say they're from Soviet television. Should we let them in?"
"Sure, why not?"
"There's a whole lot of Afghans, too."
"What Afghans?"
"About three hundred of them by the looks of it."
"So-o-o," drawled Morgultsev. "What do they want here, I wonder?"
He refused flatly to admit anyone into the prison, contacted
headquarters and waited a long time for explanations. Better be safe than
sorry!
"I'm not going to accept the responsibility. Send someone from HQ! Then
I'll let them in."
"The television crew has to film the taking of Pul-i-Charkhi," said the
colonel who arrived eventually.
"No problem. I'll go whistle up my guys."
"You don't understand, comrade lieutenant. The prison was taken by
Afghan soldiers from units that rose against the bloody regime of that
traitor Amin."
"What do you mean, comrade colonel?"
"I think I've made myself quite clear, lieutenant!"
They made Morgultsev come down from the watchtower he had climbed to
watch the filming - there should be no accidental appearance of a Soviet
officer in the film. He sent a couple of soldiers for the armchair out of
the prison governor's office and had himself a front row view of the
proceedings.
"Just try convincing someone that we took Pul-i-Charkhi after this,"
said one of the men in bitter disappointment. "Nobody will believe it for a
moment!"
"Too fucking right!" agreed Morgultsev, equally put out.
They never saw Uncle Fedya again. It was said that he was killed
several months later. Where? Under what circumstances? Nobody knew for sure.
Maybe they're lying and maybe he really was killed. He's a KGB man, after
all. You'll never get the truth out of them.... decided Morgultsev.
In the first years of the war, asking questions was dangerous, people
were afraid of everything. Once, when Morgultsev was in hospital after being
wounded, he sat drinking spirit with a captain. A black-haired, swarthy
Tatar or Tadjik. He remembered that the captain had a very long nose which
was broken in several places.
They drank a lot. With alcohol-induced frankness, they swapped
information about where they had been, what they had done in Afghanistan.
Fate had landed them both in Kabul in December 1979. After a bit of beating
about the bush, they agreed tacitly not to hold back.
"I took Pul-i-Charkhi prison," confided Morgultsev. "What about you?"
"I took the palace..."
"Amin's palace?!" Morgultsev almost choked. He glanced at the captain
who sat there, head bowed and staring at the floor. He didn't even look up
when he affirmed: "Exactly."
There were all sorts of rumors about Amin's palace. It was said that
the Ninth company of the Vitebsk division stormed the palace, others said
the KGB had sent a special task force.
They shared the last of the spirit, clinked glasses: "Cheers!", then
breathed out almost simultaneously, tossed down their drinks and sniffed
black bread as a follow-up.
"I was in the Muslim battalion," continued the captain. "Ever heard of
it?"
"Sure," lied Mogultsev. He decided not to ask for details. It was
probably some kind of special unit. "And you saw Amin himself?"
"Yes ... only he was dead..."
"..?..."
The captain remained silent, weighing the pros and cons of saying any
more.
"He was lying on the floor in just his undershirt and shorts, there was
a large red spot over his heart. We had to make sure he was really dead. But
when we tugged his left arm, it came off..."
Morgultsev broke out in a cold sweat. "Why is he telling me this? Why
did I tell him about the prison? I should have kept my stupid trap shut!"
He could not fall asleep, the words of the captain from the "Muslim
battalion" were very frightening:
"It was like we were on a platter in front of them during the storming,
they could have shot us to pieces with no trouble. It was a miracle we broke
through, especially when we realized what had happened. After all, we'd
killed a head of state! They loaded us into a plane, we thought we were done
for. Who knows what they might decided to do with us?...They could simply
poison the lot of us. Why leave witnesses? The unit was dissolved and we
were all assigned to different places..."
Over breakfast Morgultsev felt as if his head would burst at any
moment, his eyes refused to stay open. Morgultsev greeted the captain, but
he turned away and pretended not to recognize him. "Talked too much!"
Morgultsev decided that from now on he would keep his tongue on a padlock.
There was no need to boast and brag about the prison!
Morgultsev was put up for the "Red Banner" order for his part in the
taking of Pul-i-Charkhi. He was promoted to senior lieutenant ahead of time.
Then it seemed as though someone had jinxed him! Everything started falling
apart in his hitherto quite successfully unfolding life, as if he had
slipped on the top of a hill and rolled down the slope. First, his wife left
him. She had found someone else while Morgultsev was serving in Afghanistan.
Not someone from the unit, but a civilian who took her away from Vitebsk.
Morgultsev started drinking heavily, received frequent reprimands from
the battalion commander, found no pleasure in his work. The Political
Section subjected him to psychological pressure, pestering him to mend his
ways.
He was young and hot-tempered, telling people where to go in no
uncertain terms, was too quick to resort to fisticuffs before considering
whom he was telling to fuck off or whose nose he was punching. Then he
landed in real trouble: the "grandpas" beat him up within an inch of his
life.
It took a few years for things to improve. He married again, had a
daughter. Then he asked to be posted back to Afghanistan.
He never discussed his family problems, but everyone knew anyway. Who
got divorced or married, who had remarried, who had children and where -
there are no secrets in the army.
Morgultsev had a picture drawn by the son of his first marriage pinned
to the wall in his room. Once a month he sent the boy short letters and
asked officers going on leave to post the boy a small package of presents
once they were in the Soviet Union. The drawing was full of birdlike
airplanes dropping icicle-bombs, burning tiny tanks with swastikas on their
armor which were being crushed by tanks bearing red stars, and people with
machine guns ran between them. In the right hand corner Morgultsev's son had
written: "I drew this myself Dad plees send me chooing gum" ....
+ + +
The days flew by unnoticed, running into weeks and months. Raids,
combat, injury and death of soldiers and officers - he adapted himself to
the Afghan rhythm which turned every severed life into something prosaic;
death could be tragic, accidental, heroic, but it no longer horrified
Sharagin as it had in the early months; death became a routine occurrence
and was accepted as one of the inevitabilities of war.
Sharagin fished out two new stars from a glass of vodka when they were
"washing down" his promotion to senior lieutenant. He was due for a reward.
Morgultsev signed the orders, glanced slyly at Sharagin and asked
off-handedly:
"Do you like sweaty women and warm vodka?"
"Are you kidding?!"
"Then you'll be going on leave in winter."
"Why winter?" protested Sharagin, disappointed. "Come on...!"
"Someone's got to go. Zebrev's already been. It's too early for
Yepimakhov, he's still got to get into the swing of things here. So you'll
have to be the one. It's your turn..."
"Can't we make it a bit later? Like closer to spring?"
"Later-shmater! Dismissed, comrade senior lieutenant!"
"In that case, I'm going into town tomorrow!"
... what else? I can't go home empty-handed!.
"I don't want to know anything about that," answered Morgultsev,
covering his ass just in case.
Once over the border, back in the USSR, Sharagin fell into conversation
with an officer in a jeans outfit as they waited by the military ticket
office. Sharagin had spotted him as an "Afghan" from afar.
...stone-washed jeans like that are sold only in Afghanistan ...One
look
at his face and you can tell straight away that he's an army man ...
To an outside observer, the officer and Sharagin looked like twins.
Oleg had bought his first-ever pair of jeans.
The officer was hoping to get on the same plane. They were lucky enough
to be admitted on the next flight. Sharagin followed his companion's advice
and decided to do the unthinkable: draw money off his bank account and take
his family to the seaside.
He and Lena had so much catching up to do, all the feelings that could
not be fully expressed in letters, the anxieties, the warmth - all this they
would relive. It would be better to do all this by the sea rather than in
the parents' apartment. Afterwards, there would be time to visit relatives,
spend a week or two with his mother and father, go fishing with his
grandfather. He had almost a month and a half - plenty of time for
everything!
"You'll always find a place to stay. If push comes to shove, you can
rent a room. The main thing is to have money!" urged the jeans-clad officer
over a beer.
Lena had never been on vacation by the sea. For that matter, neither
had he. As for Nastyushka, all she had seen was a stream in the village.
"The sea is like hundreds of rivers," Oleg told her in an effort to
explain.
"Wike two or free livers?"
"More. Lots and lots of rivers. And you can't see the other side."
The money seemed to melt like snow. He had to overpay for their
tickets. It was not the vacation season, nobody flew south at this time of
year, but there was a ticket shortage nonetheless!
... it could only happen in our country! ...
Taxi to the airport, taxi from the airport - just as well he was
earning double all those months in Afghanistan. He'd never dreamed of
anything like that before!
... why regret the expense? I'll earn as much again!..
For the first time in his life, Oleg felt himself a free man.
...because you can't earn a lot back home ... If someone has a lot of
money, he'll start to feel independent and go his own way ...
Previously, Oleg had always felt dependent and without any rights.
... "I know no such other country," a drunken captain had sung once,
parodying the Soviet national anthem, "where a man can be so ...at ease!
attention! eyes right!"
The money gave an illusion of freedom, the chance to choose, inspired
confidence.
Admittedly, they were turned away from the hotel because they had no
prior reservation. Oleg tried to offer a bribe, but he did not have the
knack and it didn't work. Moreover, the hotel manager turned out to be a
very self-righteous citizen and reacted to the offer of money as to a
personal affront. Lena and Nastya hovered outside - the uniformed porter
would not let them into the vestibule.
"You picked the most expensive hotel, of course they don't have any
free rooms," comforted Lena, searching for some justification. "Why, only
foreign tourists live here!"
"To hell with them! We'll try the private sector!" Sharagin flagged
down a passing cab.
"Take us along the waterfront, chief. I'll pay double! If there's a
good restaurant on the way, we'll stop there for lunch. And we need to find
a room, too, but it's got to have a sea view."
"You're on, boss!"
They breezed along and chose the most expensive restaurant. Lena gasped
when she saw the check: all that money, and for what? But Oleg was beaming
with pleasure as he counted out the money and added a bit on top.
Lena could not contain herself any longer:
"Why did you give him more? He overcharged us by about three times
anyway!" She was unaccustomed to throwing money around, she was more used to
stretching every penny from payday to payday. When they were first married
they could barely make ends meet, had to borrow ten rubles here and there at
times, yet here was Oleg now, behaving like a millionaire.
"That was a tip," explained Oleg expansively. Seeing that Lena was
upset by such profligacy he gave her a hug: "Sweetheart, don't think about
the money, we'll have this much again! We'll have everything! We've got our
whole future to look forward to!"
Nastyusha woke first, rousing Mummy and Daddy who lay entwined in
sleep. Oleg held Lena clasped close to him all night.
"Daddy, le's go to the liver!" entreated Nastyusha. The sea foamed and
stormed, dark clouds scudded across the sky, blotting out the sun and the
few people out and about cast curious glances at the unseasonably tanned man
accompanied by a pale-skinned woman and child.
For some reason, Oleg recalled a childhood episode:
Oh, to cross the river clinging to his father's shoulders! Nothing is
frightening when you're with Dad! If only his father were always like this!
Vital, happy, joking and laughing. Not only when he'd had a bit to drink. He
and his friends drank a lot. They were lying on the grass surrounded by
sliced vegetables, sausage and lots of bottles. Some of the men were
accompanied by their wives, some were alone. The officers were relaxing.
Oleg sat nearby fishing, but seeing everything and listening to the adults.
Mama hinted tactfully that maybe it was time to stop drinking, that the men
had overdone things a little, all of them unsteady on their feet, speech
slurred. Mama was upset when the men decided to go for a swim: the water's
not at all warm, you'll catch colds, and why take the child with you?! Never
mind. A future officer needs toughening up. They threw off their clothes and
plunged into the water as though on command, splashing and laughing. One
dived under water and the others guffawed: "He's gone down to spawn!" They
say that a drunk thinks the ocean is no more than knee-deep. The water's not
all that cold, honest, Mum! Oleg, jump on! His father squatted down. Climb
on so you'll be comfortable. Someone broke into song: "From the taiga to the
British seas/ the Red Army can whip anyone at all!" Dad slicing through the
water like a torpedo boat. We'll make it across, hey son? You're not scared?
No? Then off we go! But it was not easy to swim with his son on his back.
Father trod on the bottom, standing on tip-toe, the water already up to his
chin. The current pulled strongly to the right. Oleg shone with happiness.
Mama's worrying over nothing! Wave to her! We're perfectly all right! The
others had climbed out and were wringing their shorts in the bushes, jumping
about on one leg, unable to get the other one in, trying to warm up because
the breeze was quite stiff. They waved their arms around, lit cigarettes,
downed a shot of vodka. Dad kept moving forward stubbornly, then suddenly
went under! Oleg slid off his back, plunged under water, began thrashing
about because he was not yet able to swim properly. Mama shouted from the
river bank, someone ran into the water, swam out to help.
... if only I don't drown!..
And Dad, where was Dad? Oleg was caught by the current and swept along.
Dad was choking and no longer swimming. His face was strangely twisted and
he seemed to be moaning. Cramp...Oleg floundered like a puppy, barely
managing to keep his head above water. He swallowed a lungful of water and
began coughing convulsively. But rescue was near. Somebody reached him,
began pulling him back to shore. And Dad made it back somehow...
Everything's fine! The boy's safe! No tears, please! It wasn't
anybody's fault! These things happen. Who could know that there was a deep
spot which couldn't be crossed on foot? Like dropping into a pit ... Pour
the man a penalty glass and give the boy a good rubdown...
... I must teach Nastyushka to swim! next vacation!..
As bad luck would have it, it began to rain. They ate in a cafe, bought
some fruit at the market. It seemed to Lena that Oleg forgot himself again,
he didn't even haggle over the prices, as if he felt ashamed of chaffering
over one ruble, he just flung money around without a thought! Yet a ruble
here and a ruble there added up to a tidy sum in the end! The traders can
tell at a glance, who has money and who hasn't, and set their prices
accordingly. Lena kept her peace, understanding that Oleg was doing this for
her, for Nastyusha, that he enjoyed giving them a treat, and if she were to
protest that he was throwing away money needlessly, she would only ruin his
pleasure. He would come to his senses soon enough. In a few days' time he
would see what was in his pocket and stop spending carelessly. He would
realize that at this rate, they would be left without funds for the return
journey. Still, they had been to the seaside! Who could say when they would
do this again?
The first home leave in wartime flashes by before you know it. The
heart of an officer fluctuates too much between home and duty, there are too
few victories at his back and too many future expectations. Sharagin felt
torn. Moreover, he had not expected to see his family quite so soon. His
parents were equally amazed, nobody had been expecting him earlier than in a
year's time, if not more, after his departure for Afghan