The Torn Souls: An Anthology of Prose About the Soviet War in Afghanistan (1979-1989)

The Torn Souls

It was an autumn fall; a relocation of the 84th military division was postponed several times and the armed group was able to march again only in mid-November. That was the way! Three or four days to Kisima, one day there, and after one week we will be back. A day or two for unloading and then the convoy will be off again. With some luck, we will be back to celebrate New Year. Then will be holidays, and after that there will be a long-awaited replacement. And finally I will go home. I have had enough, I have done my service here…

The majority of my comrades have finished their service and gone. Only three of us were left in the third platoon from the fall of the 1982: Grisha Zubenko, Bogdan Zawadzki, and myself. Just like the famous movie’s name could be re-phrased as “Three glorious poplars in the mountains of the Badakhshan province of Afghanistan”. The three stupid experts of the glorious military service.

Grisha Zubenko, or Zubyara as we called him, is now stretched along IFV-1 snoozing, his noggin propped against the turret, the bastard… I would like to have a nap as well, but my position is in full sight of the commander of the turret model 147. I am not in the mood to start the day with a collision with the commander Seryoga. I am sitting with my legs dropping into the driver’s hutch and leaning on the turret aimlessly gazing around. So nice… The sun is hot, the day is warm. The road like a dirty stray dog zigzagging from one side to another. Heavy dust, pressed down by the night dew, does not come up higher than the tank’s skirt. Blue sky hangs heavily over my head, almost as if it could be touched.

The mountains around my head are swaying, kneeling and covering themselves with yellowish dandruff of fallen leaves. Soon this will end as we will be compelled into going down into the valley. Over there is the valley, with a couple of burnt patches which used to be green, then fucking Badakhshan, and then the beloved Kisima, the home of our 3d Division and tankmen.

Here they are: tankachi (see “Terminology and Glassary” — Editor). Obviously, they had put the guarded post for 24 hours beforehand, and now we are expected. It is nice: well done, guys. Useful welcome.

…We got up… A lovely voice of the platoon commander was crackling in the portable headphones:

— Hey you, assholes! Climb! Are you fucking mad? And push your fat-faced buddy too! Sappers will be coming soon…

What a fuck?!! What for?!

So I ask:

— What is it?

— I do not know. I heard at night by radio that we were twice attacked and maybe mined, maybe some other shit happened. Anyway, wake up, mother fuckers, and at least grab your rifles!

Well, do not overheat yourself, darling. Give me a second and everything will be all right….

I sat up and pulled my sniper rifle by its butt out of the driver’s hatch and then pushed my buddy Zubyara but he only mumbled in return. I pushed harder. The bro raised his left eyelid slightly and moaned lazily:

— Fuckin’… helll…

— It is not me, it is a platoon commander.

— Gee… platoon… — and he shut his eye again.

So that was our conversation, so meaningful…

I stood up and looked around. Everywhere I can see our tanks arranged with their main guns like a Christmas tree. We are at the head of the armored group. In front of us is only the APC (see “Terminology and Glossary”) with an officer from headquarters, three old army vehicles and two tanks with flails. I drove and stopped just as I reached the guard vehicle, I stopped looking at this direction and turned around. Our column, like a cavalry sword, got two-thirds of its blaze into the Kisima foothills and ripped its belly. It seems like everything is okay and quiet. In front of me and on the left I see neglected gardens and a small Afghani settlement with several destroyed houses, On the right are two shitty animal pens with a useless fence, and under the cliff is a river.

The place is very narrow, sandwiched between mountains and the hysterical river Kokcha with murky water roaring and rushing through. On the opposite bank, the rocks begin to grow into a mountain. Here, is a little bit, then more, then close to third bridge, they stretch out — nowhere else in the world can we see this sight — monstrous giant basalt needles, stabbing heaven.

There are also small mountains in clear visibility but they do not look small, and we are almost no distance away, only four hundred meters. Undoubtedly, from this direction, the shooting range of Allah’s faithful followers will bring no fun.

Yep… I could perhaps get them with my grenade launcher, but I have my doubts. Then I spotted a place from where they could easily get rid of us all! 150 meters away was a place which was neither a valley nor a corridor of rocks.

I leaned towards Kataev and struck his helmet. He comes out from IFV-1 and his eyes are laughing. I point at the place I spotted. At the same time, the gunner with a malicious smile and cackling, pointed at his gun. Good minds achieve good deeds. What a fool! Okay, it is time for you to get used to this situation as you have already been crawling over these mountains for one and a half years.

Waving to young soldiers, I shouted, so people will start to move and get their ammunition ready. Ha! Everyone differently demonstrated their readiness for military activity.

Zubyara, for example, sat down and put his gun across his knees. What a bastard!

In his sleep, he used to put his gun between his legs, and now, with the gun across his knees, he rested his knuckles under his chin and his elbows on the gun trying to pretend to be busy. What you can say?! He is the super-wise, fast-sleeping military guru!

Trying to get a response from the commander at number 147, I looked back but only silence in return. Zvonarev is chatting about something into his headset. He looks at me meaningfully, spits directly right into the hatch, raises his eyes and waves at me.

Moving towards him, I stopped near a soldier nicknamed Doughnut, a Deputy Commander of platoon, from the number of 148, who has finished what he was doing and was coming down from the IFV-1. Together we approach Seroyga, who curses a bit and gets down to business:

— We cannot get there at once. Damn! We have received instructions to proceed by foot. In front of us will go the sappers. The APC is going back. You, Bober, will follow the APC and I will follow you. Slobodyanyuk takes all the young soldiers and with 148 you will all wait here till the rest of us arrive. Any questions?

Which questions? Everything same as usual. Its okay, Serge! The salabons (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) will stay behind and we will go on. But as it turns out, there were some questions.

— Yes, Gleb, you send Tkach and Boldy stay here: three Kalashnikoff machine guns to the head vehicle — it is worth it.

Thank you, my dear, you have comforted me. We went to the vehicles.

Everything is simple — destiny is set. There are not many experienced soldiers in the infantry platoon, let’s say one or two, maybe a handful, a maximum of twelve or thirteen men. And the time of service in the army is not evenly divided. The majority of us, Autumn recruits, have already left. Now a lot of younger soldiers are coming. Due to the fact that we have not got the military order for demobilization, in fact we are not even soldiers, so in fact we are civilians. But who cares about that?

Three of us decide to go together in one group, and to ensure everything will be okay, each of us takes with us two younger soldiers who we called salabons. So I took two salabons:Yuri Tkachenko and Temir Urgals.

Yuri was from Kiev, a clever and pleasant boy, of medium height but physically weak. He was really still a child. His pale eyelashes could hide nothing and he always has a wondering expression in his eyes. If he is really involved in listening to a story, his mouth is open as if he were a child.

No! You tell me, what kind of piece of shit are you, to send this child to fight for this river?! I pity him and in every possible way try to protect him. Several times during the fight operation I carried his machine gun, you see Tkach and his machine gun are the same height and I was scared that Tkach simply will fall down from the weight of his gun. The commander likes this combination of me being not only an experienced sniper but also a machine gunner.

Temir was different. He was a large, stocky strong fellow from the Ural Mountains. Witty, quick thinking, with an open and honest personality. He has enormous bright eyes that you can see under a spiky thatch of hair the color of anthracite coal. Does not look like a Tartar, more like a Chinese. He speaks without any accent. There is one problem which is his stupid nickname. Now I will tell you how he got it.

One of his old pals was bullying him, shouting at him, and eventually got on his nerves. Timur sat, closed his eyes and started to mumble in his language “Boldy…boldy… boldy” meaning “enough”. This is how his nickname became glued to him.

I approached the vehicle:

— Tkach, run to Doughnut’s APC (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), leave the machine gun here! Give it to me in the hatch, quickly! And the bullets too. Come on, come on, son!

While we shuffled between vehicles, the sappers started to march and so we followed them in clouds of dust…

No wonder that this morning Serge has become very irritated. His instinct told him that there will be nothing for free; the time to pay is coming.

We had hardly moved 50 meters when they hit us in a shower of grenades. How? From where? We had not expected it.

First, from ruins a hundred meters away the grenades flew and exploded right in the middle of the caterpillar tracks of the head tank. Then immediately from surrounding gardens came echoes of single shots from the guns of the mujahedeen, who were shooting our sappers one by one.

While a grenade was coming towards me, like a fly I jumped from the turret to the left of my tank and hid. Something inside me pushed me to not go to the opposite side.

Like a leaf, Temir stretched out next to me.

Zubov dived into my hatch and got out a machine gun. One of us who got a gun started to fire the first round of fifteen bullets towards clay huts in the village. On the top of the tank Kataev turned the turret around.

I looked into the viewport — no one there! I imagine that this bastard is hiding on the floor of the cellar, praying devotedly to his demon god. Dickhead! — Do not think you are safe, bastard! I swear I will get you, piece of shit.

There is also no one in clear sight in the gardens, only one by one they popped out, shouted and disappeared. They and we too are having fun.

From the opposite side, somewhere near the river Kokcha, intense gunfire has commenced. As I can tell from what I can hear, there are around ten gunfighters, and heavy machine guns one by one have started coughing as well, the first mortal mine is exploded. Here we go again! How can it be? Returning home was just around the corner! But what can I do?

Looking around, I can see they have hit us quite badly, mainly targeting sappers leaving for us a gentle slap on our asses. The guys and dogs who first ran to the right side have faced death. Screaming, swearing…. Like in Shanghai!

The turrets keep turning and therefore are silent. The covering tank behind us is also raising its turret targeting not the river but the gardens. It is understandable. Over there could be an anti-tank grenade-gun and you better give medicine before you get sick. Why do they have to aimed at a heavy machine gun, if the death from a grenade-gun machine faces them.

I exchanged my rifle with Zubov’s machine gun. Now you will see, fucking bastards! All of this took just seconds. Give me a moment and I will help Timur to chose his position…

I pointed out for Timur the position which was close to our IFV-1, there was a rut close by, and I directed him toward the nearest garden, promising to put my deadly spell on him if he ever will try to get up. Now it is time to get dirty.

Turning back to the gardens, I placed bipods of my machine gun on the top of our ACP-1(see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) and let’s go boogie-woogie.

At present, when I recall this, my memory seems like a compressed paper brick that I can unfold forever. Comprehension of the speed of events, without boiling adrenalin, is totally different. Time is always ticking differently; memory is also selective. The first memories returning to you are the most striking, the most shocking… like a gunshot, for example.

The world from the sky to the deepest essence of the earth has burst, cracked, and there is a feeling as if nirvana has come to me. Then emptiness has blown up and unbearable pain is in my ears and the raging sound of millions of cicadas has hit every inch of my body and in the end poured a hot shower of fire in my face. Around me the fighting is continuing…my body has met a familiar feeling of nausea, confusion and loss of reality. Long live all who have suffered contusions!

Alright… all the tanks’ turrets have turned towards the river. Thank God!

I looked at Boldy and he is all right; he has not tripped up; he keeps on firing as if writing a school essay.

In the meantime, behind the river, the dirty asses “comrades” have gone really crazy. There is no doubt they are stoned, as they charge directly into our line of fire. Sanyok Kataev is really in business. All his military service he was in infantry but now he got a present — the automatic gun of the BMP-2. He keeps spraying the mujahedeens (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) with bullets, considering neither the bullets nor my hearing.

Me too: without any sense of saving bullets, I am showering the enemy blindly.

I spot three mujahedeens and do not give them a chance to hide behind the wall, Kataev spotted my tracer shots. He got my idea and joined me to move them towards a rock. Together we finished off those three. I started and Sanyok finished them off.

I was just starting to enjoy the craziness of this unhealthy fun, when I heard someone calling “Paramedic! Paramedic!” This was not good.

The sappers have their own combat paramedic. I knew him when I was in a field hospital. Insigne Stepan, our paramedic, is also going with them to help.

I am calling out to Zubov:

— Give me a full machine gun box!

This dick is so tight-ass, he gave me only a belt. I am not arguing because there is no time for it. Returning to him the empty belt, I reloaded my gun and run to the sappers. Hearing heavy breathing behind me, I turn around and…what the hell! Timur is coming towards me, dragging his gun — his “bitch” — behind him. What the fuck are you doing! Stay there! Kill you, bastard! Bloody hell, but this fool is already here; I cannot send him back.

And here is also a complete mess. Two wounded are already treated and waited when Stepan fwill apply his death magic on the third one. I see where he is now! Leaning backwards to the vehicle, another soldier is hosing bullets somewhere towards the mountains. Between the vehicles is a complete chaos. Covered with blood, two soldiers are trying to drag a third one, who is shouting, crying and resisting them. He is trying to reach his dead dog, whose half-crashed body was lying in a pool of blood. Everything is a complete mess. No clue which blood is it — human or animals? Who is crying? Who is wounded? But there is no time for emotion…

Between the APCs, I see two sappers, wounded but not mortally. The resistant one worries me; he is completely covered with blood. To restrain his convulsions, I throw myself on top of him and use wadding to cauterize his wounded leg. At the same time, not letting him move, I inject anti-shock promedole (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) with into his other leg. There is no time for bandaging.

He tries to kick me, but the wound is such a mess that I cannot see what to fix, where it is nerves, bones, or blood vessels. Doctors will fix it later.

These two who had held him, now drag this fellow to Stepan, but the kid has lost his mind and screams, yells, crying for his dog “Darling Dusya! Darling Dusya! Darling Dusya!”.

Come on, sleep, brother. I will take care of your dog. Lifting the animal, I run behind the tank. Such a huge dog, just enormous! Boldy comes to help me: he jumps up, grabs the tail and a leg of the dog; and two of us can move the dog to a safe place. What a clever Tatar man! Spotted immediately which leg is not hurt… But this mate of mine has dropped his gun! What a moron!

Meanwhile, the tanks so enthusiastically showered cartridges towards the rocks that, in my opinion, the shallow Kokcha-river produced some waves that in agony climb the river banks. On the ground, the previously spotted unfriendly valley was ironed so tidy that Afgan’s kalashnikovs (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) stopped making its mortal noise after only three outbursts. Then the iron of death transformed into a pointed hose of Armageddon that reached the highest and therefore the most hidden placed amongst the rocks with no way to escape. As a result, the enemy’s machine gunners were silenced. The heavy machine gun also went to sleep.

I can imagine how these brave Afghanis were looking for any tiny cracks to crawl into it, but it was pointless, there was no place to hide…

The tankmen are famous for a very methodical approach and seldom do things spontaneously. Their fists are small but heavy, if they are involved in a fight, any wish to resist will vanish into the air quickly.

And finally, the pair of “crocodiles” (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), had arrived. They circled above with hushing noises sending their unguided rockets and left off with a sense of honestly delivered international duty. What can I say — the elite! I always envied pilots… I guess, I should have paid more attention to a saying my Mom kept telling me during my childhood: “Those who are studied will fly, but whose who are not — will cry”.

But the battle is still on…Sappers rushed at once to the hot spots trying to finish the business as soon as possible: there was not much time to do scrupulous de-mining: a battalion of wounded soldiers needed be transported immediately to the landing points as helicopters will be there in a matter of minutes. A column of armored vehicles showed off as well and after sending few lines of rockets towards the bare mountains, left in a hurry, speeding up to Kisima.

We did not leave; we stayed on the same spot as before — fifty meters from the outposts of the tank, but when we will be marching back, we will be the first, leading the march. We get used to it and are not surprised any more.

But I have a feeling that something is not finished. Kind of feeling that I forgot to return a favor and this was bothering me! I don’t want to do a big return of favor, as I had in the beginning of my military service. No, I am a different now, I am almost home but I need something smaller, something that only can satisfy my itchiness. I waved to Bogdan, who picked up his rifle, jumped out of his car. We left young solders on out spot, and we waited for a while when a continuous stream of moving armored vehicles will be broken up into a small shattered window to be able to cross the road. We were heading towards the kishlack(see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), well, let say, the remains of kishlack, the destroyed Afgany’s settlement.

Yep… a good job done by tanks… This bare land is used producing a bare minimum for living, but now, as far as you can see, no sign of life is left, nothing alive and some bits of house stamps like rotten dragon’s teeth were sticking out from this dead land.

We spotted him immediately. This son of sneaks was still, laying next to a funnel and already spreading stinking odor of his dead body. I remember that I was surprised when mentally assessed how well thought-out his position was. His position was not in kishlack as we always presumed they are, but 30 meters away down the hill. From our position we would mistakenly think that he is in the middle of kishlack but it does not matter now… his trick did not work. He could not destroy our tank, only minor damage has been done. Soon his dissembled body will be buried in pieces.

We went closer to the body. Buried his snout in the dust, I can see his right arm together with a shoulder are dissembled from the body. His left arm is twisted up. One leg is missing from the knee, only a rubber shoe is visible, by the way, the common Soviet black rubber shoe with pink velvet inside. This devoted believer to Allah is completely chopped in pieces, burned, covered with blood and shredded pieces of clothes and skin…so tiny and pitiful…Only when he is dead.

I turned the body on its back with a gun barrel. We are standing and blatantly staring at the body. Other guys popped out from tanks’ manholes and also looked towards us wondering what was in front of us.

And in front of us on the ground we saw human remains — a body of an inexperienced human cockerel, only twelve years old, maybe a little bit older, with open eyes filled by pale yellow dust to the point that it looks like he was wearing dusty glasses. His facial features reminded me of Mephistopheles in his adolescence, a kind of prototype for a medieval image of little devils. An inhuman face of an animal nationality…. Devils bustard! Why did your Mother brought you into this world, dead meat?!

And then I cannot explain what got into me. In the past nothing even close to this had happen and I cannot re-call that other guys had experienced something like this… I got mad… I picked up my gun and started to shoot. I kept shooting this ugly face till the very last bullet. Take it all, bastard! Now, these pieces can be buried, these leftovers of a devoted martyr for jihad, a twisted seeker of the Islamic state, mothers fuckers!

Zubyara heavily approached me from behind and took PC mine. Patting my shoulders, he said softly in his native Ukrainian:

— Lets go, brother, he had got enough….

Indeed, he got too much enough! With all of these we left….

Near the machines is a boiling pot. The young soldiers are preparing their positions. The platoon commander is rushing to a commander to make his report. I looked around, my comrade Yurets together with the rest of the young soldiers are hectically shoveling to prepare a stand point under the brisk shouting of Slobodyanyuk. But where is Timur? Timur has not been seen around. What a..?!

Here he is! I can see him sitting under a tree and saying something to — or crying over — the dead dog. It cannot be right! I came closer… It turns out he was singing! He was sitting down on his haunches and with a twig shushed away flies and, at the same time, was murmuring something special in his own language to the dog, unrecognizable to others, but distinctively very sad.

I looked attentively and to my surprise — the dog was breathing! What a cool dog! The breath of this dog was shallow, irregular, occasionally intermittent, but the injured body was not yet giving up life! I looked at the wounds… A terrifying line of razor was visible from the neck to the belly, forming a deep wound with visible edges and unrecognizable parts of this body: you cannot identify where the impact occurred and where not. The wound was a mess… a mixture of dust, blood, curled fur in the chest glued with dried blood. The heat already did its job….

I remember that a leg was also broken. It was obvious no need to turn the dog for a further examination, no need to torment the animal. Without any doubt the dog was at the end of his unfortunate life. But as a four-legged soldier of the de-mining division, he deserved a better option to die rather than on the sidelines of this god forgotten road. As usual in this situation, I wanted to inject him with promedol (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), but then changed my mind — who knows how the dog will react? So, we gently put him on the cape and carried him to my 149 division, absolutely sure that we will bury the dog this evening.

We did not have time to have a rest. When a platoon commander arrived, the orders were followed one after another, and this bedlam was going on until we reached Kishim almost in the dark. But the order was given — no light or bonfire. Why? It was a mystery to me because after such a fruitful day, a single Allah soul could not be found in the whole area. Everything was combed, no fleas! The order was a complete nonsense!

But dinner time was fast approaching. We put the BMP’s ejectors under the cans of porridge and stewed meet and started to wait… it is indeed a long procedure of heatting up the dinner. Whilst waiting, I decided to have a stroll to see how the dog, Dusya, was doing… Surprise! He was alive! He even moved his tail to greet me! I called Tatar Timur and together we carefully moved the dog to a better place. Indeed, the dog felt much better: he was holding his head, his eyes were sharp and he was curious towards the things around him. At the same time, I spotted a deep sadness that seemed to be nested in the bottom of his eyes. So much understanding and anguish in his eyes….We fetched water for him from the jar — he gulped it at once.

I did find a couple of cans “Buckwheat with chicken broth.” This valued porridge, you know, can beat everything to hell. I throw these cans on the ejector, and went to get more, I whispered a couple of nice words to the guys….

“Yes, Glebych, no question, dear, take few more!”

I put everything together, tested how hot it is — just right! — and put the food, the size of just about the entire helmet, in front of Dusya, in the hole dug up by Temir.

Food, as they say, is a life….

The poor dog was working on the food so hard that I understood — it is time to call a military nurse and doctor Stepan. It was not easy. After a long conversation on the radio with a number of people, I was connected to Stepan who hectically was fixing wounded soldiers in different locations and therefore was constantly on the move. In the beginning of our conversation, when he realized the nature of my call, he swore at me in any possible and impossible way (I want to say, that Stepan was a professor in this department), and after both of us got enough satisfaction from a heated argument, finally he instructed me to boil plenty of water and promised to come.

Considering the order of no fire under any circumstances, we found the way out how to boil water and our superior just scratched his head observing how enthusiastically and clever this challenge was overcome. The platoon commander only shook his head, watching this circus.

Finally Stepan arrived dragging his sack, full of medicine supplies. The dog was examined on the spot. I ask:

— Well?

— Yes, there is a lot of sewing that should be done: the leg, body… then look at the breast as you can see his dick is coming out but what a hell? It is not official, I suppose, we can try…Okay, lets do it! Come on — time is everything now!

So, we began…

We took Temir, a lantern, the Stepan’s medical kit, water and started to mend our Duxya.

The first step was to clean the numerous wounds, then to inject anesthetic. After this, we disinfected and covered in penicillin this poor pal, injected intramuscular painkillers, and flooded with iodine his entire wounded body.

Stepan spread the curved needle around with antiseptic conventional army harsh thread and says:

— What are you looking at? Grab the clip and go ahead!

— Gee! Should I to do sewing?

— Who else?

Well, it was not the right time to get myself into an argument with Stepan, thanks that he came at all. So, we began to sew. Stepan worked, shouted and cursed in such a highly professional manner, that at the end of surgery I could not laughed any more. I wonder, where he learned to swear so professionally? I cannot imagine the place….

Dusya was laying motionless… Only when nerves sometime distorted the skin, then Stephan had his go and vocalized a possibility to sew his dick to the tail. Oh, some funny stuff like this, until I could not cope any more, tiring from unstoppable laugher.

Serge, a platoon commander, also spend the whole evening with us, laughing until he could not continue to do it and convulsions spread over his body exhausted from laughing. Of course, what else can you expect from him, a lieutenant, on this cool day?

His platoon demonstrated its best — well done guys! He, himself, had the chance to show off his bravery in front of the entire platoon by seizing weapons from the enemy. He saved wounded soldiers. Nobody was killed and casualties of his platoon were zero. Even the dog survived and his surgery was much more entertaining compared even to a show of Raikin, an iconic comedian of the Soviet era.

They were laughing, good for them, but I kept sewing nonstop like a lady running the alteration clothes workshop, and could not say a word to Stepan: if I say one word, he will cover me with more than ten times of swearing. It is better to keep my mouth shut.

One side of the dog’s body was fixed and now surgical yellow powder was drying up on the stiches. We moved to the chest. Muscles on the chest were well formed, massive and heavy with four holes but all small — rather splinters. But who knows will this dog see the next day? Only the “Fate Dog” card will tell what will be next. In this harsh environment with a minimum of equipment, limited water and surgery performed by a soldier, the fate of this poor dog can be predicted only by the cards.

Towards the end of fixing the dog’s entire body, platoon commander Sergei said:

— You know, this dog is one of us… he is a fighter!

— What do you mean?

— You see, he did not cover his ass. All his wounds are on the frontal part of his body.

Well noticed, Serge! Indeed, all wounds were located on the chest. It means that this dog was facing a danger and did not turn away.

Stepan straightened:

— All right, guys, stop this baloney….

After treating wounds with crashed antibiotics, bitsilin, analgesics and tight bandages,, we went for cigarettes and I asked Stepan:

— What do you think?

— Oh, Glebych….he is a beautiful dog.

And a third round of swearing was ready to erupt in his throat but I interrupted him first:

— I’m talking about his health…

— To put him to sleep will be mercy as I told you before.

— Put yourself to sleep, mother fucker…

— Come on, don’t be like a virgin girl. Think of what a life he will have from now if he will stay alive: no work, no play, no fucking bitches… But, I did what I could and now I am off… Good bye!

With these last words he climbed into the platoon commander’s car and left.

When he left, I also did not wander around. I went to the trench of Tkachev, covered myself with a military coat and slept until morning, remembering only one thing: how my young solders, returning from duty, were quietly coming to and going from the trench. Really, I am turning into a bloody hell Mother Teresa… hmm…

The night passed quietly, and in the morning a young tank driver ran from a nearby post with a blunt question: “Who is a doctor here?”. This is a result of the gossiping between communication seeking engineers, who last evening had great pleasure to enjoy a master class of swearing via military radio and spread the news that the dog is alive. I said to this young salabon (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) to get fucked and I went to see the dog. It is obvious that he is on the road to a recovery.

Young soldiers of my group reported: “The beast slept, drank, and waved his tail. Stepan checked him in the morning and left…”

Well done! I like when an army’s Grandpa, sleeps but service is carried on!

I came closer to the dog. What a joy… His tail was playing drums on the dusty ground, his tongue was licking my hands. I checked his both sides — he was healing. I looked under his belly and spotted a new bandage on the leg. Ha! Somebody yesterday suggested to put him to sleep….

I sat next to him and wanted to pull his ears, but a warning muffled roar stopped me at once. A seriously dangerous eyes warning, a slightly elevated lip, and dangerously opened teeth — all were convincing. Why? My hand dropped immediately.

The dog was huge. His resemblance to an ordinary Shepherd was minimum because ordinary Shepherds have a long but sturdy body. This one was a tall specimen with powerful backbones and wide jaws; anyway his head was too big to be an ordinary Shepherd. Definitely he was a half-breed. His body was covered with a short, dense coat, almost creamy, with brown dark stripes on the top. A tough cocky look… and now, as turns out, he is not a weak character.

I sat down blatantly and moved my hands away like a teenager on a first date, who received a slapping for an unwanted kiss. The dog put his head on my lap and looked faithfully into my eyes and moved the tail once again. What crap! Slowly I opened my palm and moved my fingers close to the red open mouth. He licked my fingers! I scratched his throat and his dark eyes softened, lips opened and, I can bet on this, this dog smiled! A strange creature, this Dusya: an appreciation for scratching but a roar for patting.

Twenty minutes later, we even did not heat up our food, two army tracks arrived with a de-mining commander and his boys. They immediately showered me with questions: “How…?” “When…?” “What…?” “Do you…?” Everything okay, dudes, relax!

All of us proceeded to Dusya.

As soon as Dusya saw his comrades, he began whining with his tail thrashing the canvas. He tried to get up but even with all our effort to hold him, he could not and kept falling back. Our guests patted him, stroked, kissed… guys in vain, but when they arrived they looked so harsh! We had a chat about Dusya…

Actually the dog’s nickname was Dick. Dusya was a soft affectionate name given by his owner Fedor who brought the dog to military service in May from a civil life somewhere near Boronezh where both of them lived. His owner, Fedor, was also wounded and yesterday was transported to a hospital. Guys said, he was lucky because he can count all his bones.

Whilst we were talking, I spotted that a military helicopter called “The Eight” started to land. Interesting, whom this beau will pick up? Who is a big dude here? It turned out that de-miners have arranged the famously established service for transportation of Dusya. Wow, this style I understand!

Towards the end of our chit-chat, I asked about some strange behavior of my patient-why he does not like patting? They all laughed.

— Say thank you! You are lucky that he did not chop off half of your fingers! No one can touch his head, except Fedor. Better not even think of doing it!

Well, we all have cockroaches in our heads…

The helicopter landed. Dick was lifted on a stretcher and loaded inside. A couple of engineers jumped on board. “The Eight” in three circles elevated from the ground, joined his second mate, formed a pair and took towards the mountains. In a few minutes it was just a dot behind the rocks.

Wish you well, Dusya…

The rotation was conducted without any necessary entertainment. We did not stay in the position of our regiment, no… we had rested on the banks of a river that was located not far from a de-mining platoon location where I know many guys…

After a good deal of oversleeping, uncounted visits to banya (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), and stuffing our bellies, to the point if disgusting, with properly cooked food, one evening I decided to make a visit together with Baldy to the Corps of Sappers.

When we arrived, a familiar noise welcomed us: I have met many friends from an Autumn enlisting. All were happy that we arrived just in time for baked potatoes or marihuana cigarettes, if you wish… No desire for potatoes, neither for dope. I came to see Fedor.

But it turns out that he was transported to Kunduz, a less dangerous place, if you can say it. Well, let’s make a visit to Dick… and again — bummer! Now Dick has a new owner, the fellow who is famous for his skeptical and unfriendly character, so-called the Ensign Trubilin, nicknamed by guys as Truba in short…

He is a unique military and personal legend of the Sapper Regiment. He is a head of Military service dogs nursery, in common parlance — the kennel, and also, as I was told, a rare idiot. His nickname was chosen by his fate as well as his surname. However, this man has one good quality — he loves dogs to the Moon and back. For dogs he was a devoted teacher, nurse, doctor… well… everything, but for a human being… better not to say it.

I was told a story when after arriving to the regimen and taking the position, Truba almost killed a young soldier — Ryzhu — for serving hot food to dogs. You see, the dogs cannot eat hot food as it affects their senses. So, Truba saw that a young, newly conscripted private nicknamed Ryzhu, placed a plate of steamy food in front of a dog. Without any words, Truba grabbed a shovel and run towards poor Ryzhu. God heaven that Ryzhu spotted him in time! The whole regiment observed how for a half an hour with a roar: “Ugandoshu” (“Kill you” — Editor) Truba chased Ryzhu around the camp and enjoyed Rychu’s maneuvers and zigzag rabbit tricks! After this incident, Trubilin bluntly reported to a commander about the incident and demanded that Ryzhu must stay at least within the distance of a gun-shot from the kennel; and modestly concluded his report, pointing out that if this bastard Ryzhu will ever appear near the animals, he, Guard Ensign of the Soviet Army, in spite of serving the Constitution of the USSR, will personally rip Ryzhu apart. The incident was ended.

To make the story short, Ensign Trubilin did not give a shit about others but I decided to try my luck and for a moral support I came with a couple of guys who claimed to be friends with him.

Approaching the kennel… I saw Ensign Trubilin who was sitting and reading something in the gazebo. He reminded me of a dark thundercloud, puffed and full of anguishing words, ready to explode. He was a guy in his middle age, short but heavily built, with such a spotlessly shaved fat face that the blue color of a lower part of his face was vividly contrasted to the olive skin of his body. His facial features echoed Southern origin, not obvious but traced in his face. His heavy eyes were sharply pointed towards me and he frowned but did not put down his readings

I felt like a pioneer leader in front of a superior member of the Communist Party: “Good morning, let us appeal to your decision and allow us to do so and so… We heard about your kindness and generosity and so on…” In short, we were like little girls asking Mommy’s permission to take candies. Trubilin reluctantly asked something and we answered, and after so-called friends of his were sent back empty-handed, he and I entered the kennel.

As soon as Dick saw us, he went crazy, the poor guy. He cannot stand up on his back legs, but tried to pull all his body, neck, legs towards us. He tried stretching to us and to get as close as possible to us in a puppy style, without losing face, but he did it with dignity. However, apparently, in few minutes his fire ended. He ran out of strength. He got tired and even his breath became difficult with a stuck out tongue.

Meanwhile, other dogs joined Dick’s noisy entertainment. On this occasion, Truba decided to give me a tour around the kennel. We started a conversation. Indeed, he is, what we called a heavy metal soul, but this man was a magician with his dogs.

With obvious pain in his voice, Truba tells me about the Dick’s health situation.

— He cannot stand up on his leg. One leg he cannot raise. His chest is also still a mess, there are discharges continuously coming out. I think, some piece of metal is still inside…

I suggested:

— How about to call for Stepan right now? Let’s see what he can do…

Trubilin looked at me like I am a child in cuckoo land who has one leg shorter than the other and answered:

— The dog has the best treatment, every day a chief medical officer is checking on him and giving him all necessary injections, I give him injections too but… he needs different… he needs his Fedor…

— But how Fedor will help?

— He is missing Fedor, and this is the root of his sickness. By the way, I already asked Stepan if any more can be done… You, pal, saved Dick. You sewed him well but now his health is affected due to a different reason.

Here we go! They said that Truba is a beast… Hm…

Meanwhile our four-legged friend stretched out on the yellow grass and squinted his eyes enjoying a psychedelic song, mumbled in Tatar by my nuker, my military shadow Boldy.

January 1985 was the most depressive time. This endless and eventless time could be crowned on the top of all months of my entire military service. Before New Year nothing much happened, except for two trips to the God forgotten place called Baharak. During the first trip we sat at the “point” without even thinking to pick out our noses behind the gate. The second trip was even worse. It was such a boring trip! Hiding in dugouts, we were doing nothing, except playing fools and entraining ourselves with our own dicks, constantly masturbating to kill boredom. The only one attempt to get to the mountains, was not successful because our new battalion commander had no balls for it. He was a replacement. A sissy boy, I would say!

I remember celebrating the New Year on duty by smoking marihuana to the stage when the word “mama” cannot come out from my tongue. When our duty finished, we again stoned ourselves to the stage of complete dummies… meaningful time, nothing more to say…

Only one thought was bumping in my head:” Where is my replacement”. I see, due to the shitty weather condition, helicopters could not pass the clouds… what was left for us? Only waiting…

At that time I visited Dick almost every day. My friendship with Truba has been cemented and the sappers were puzzled how I managed it. I do not know how it happened. We had a common interest talking about dogs, I guess, and this was enough for our friendship. In my opinion, Trubilin knew nothing except the dogs’ life and, as I understood, he had no desire to expand his horizon of knowledge towards anything else. He could talk days and nights about his four-legged friends, he knew everything about them, he loved them dearly and dogs loved him too, obeying not only a verbal command but a slight gesture.

During this time our kid was constantly medically treated. He did not die, of course, but the significant breakthrough did not happen either. Discharges kept coming out from his chest; he could not stand up on his paw, but, at least, started to move this paw and it was a progress. Continuously new problems were chasing him: if not diarrhea, then a King’s evil had happened.

This pal had only one joy in his life — a time when a letter arrived from Fedor. Fedor was writing to a whole division, but unopened letters were delivered to the kennel and placed into Truba’s hands. Once I had a chance to see this ceremony. I was moved to a core…

Trubilin ceremoniously placed a letter in front of Dick to sniff who immediately fell on the belly and froze,; then Truba opened the letter and slowly, with the pronunciation of a TV news reporter, announced the text. Our Dick has turned into a statue. The shaking ears were elongated upward. An unreal reaction! But the letter’s content was crap as usual, something like: “Hey guys, I am ok, from day to day just waiting to be back, everything is annoying… Doctors are freaks, food is shit, nurses are bitches… How is Dick? I shake your paw. Fedor”. The end….

After announcing the contents of the letter, Truba placed the open letter in front of the dog. Dusya stretched, reached the piece of paper and several times inhaled this treasured scent of his owner and froze again… It seemed that he wanted to absorb literally the smell of Fedor to the last bit…. Then turning around he hobbled to a far corner of his kennel, laid, stretched his body and closed his eyes. I can swear on the Bible that I saw tears coming from his eyes…

I wanted to give him hug, but Truba stopped me without words. By this time, I, like his dogs. was also trained to have a clear understanding of his gestures. Trubilin picked up the letter, folded it and, gently pushing my back towards the exit, pointed to the way out of the kennel.

I asked:

— Comrade Trubilin! But Dick’s sadness will be deeper without a human touch.

In reply, I got the telegraphic but gravely gloom answer:

— Yes. The depression. But it keeps him alive…

The military salute. Keep in touch!

That is all. As I said — we became friends…

By the end of January, the weather finally turned to dry, sunny days. One morning, after the routine “Get up!, the youngest were outside for morning exercises, but I was still in bed, enjoying an unofficial military prerogative for military gurus, or “grandpas” as we said. My comrade Zubov, with firing insane eyes, jumped towards me. He threw me like a doll out of my bed to the floor and shouted:

— They are coming! Coming!

When he sat on my bed and stopped shouting, we distinctively recognized the noise of helicopters’ propellers. Forgetting about my underwear, in a second I was outside. Who cares! Other “grandpas” were the same and this entire ground was flooded with soldiers in their underwear like on a beach… Rio de Janeiro, far out! My dear Autumn conscripted brothers, finally this day has arrived! We hugged each other, we cried, we shouted something unrecognizable and non-comprehensive. It did happen! Wow! We all saw how a cavalcade of six helicopters MI-6, as we called them “cows”, heavily pregnant with newly conscripted meat, got closer to us every minute.

We got dressed and went to look at the replacements.

The newcomers were located in two tents that we usually use for a quarantine. All dembelya, (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) turned immediately into A+ disciplined pupils. It was common sense that we will go in the first round, but with any mistake a possibility to meet March here was also very vivid.

On the same day I remember that we were sitting in front of the smoking room not far from the place where Sasha Moskovchenko, a political intelligence second commander, conducted classes. I will not go in details of what kind of classes he conducted, but I can assure you, that if Regiment Commander could hear what Sasha was bullshitting, to say at least, he would have a heart attack.

Sasha could not give a shit about how he carried on these political studies, same as the entire army. He put his dick on this military service a long time ago. He gibberishes on everything to everyone. He used to pull a young fellow out of a class and started to humiliate him to the point when the chosen one could not remember his own name, neither his biography.

So, whilst we were enjoying Sasha’s performance, some bloke was coming to us. I looked at him closer… this was Fedor! At last…

After Moskovchenko’s permission to leave the class, I went to greet him.

— Hey, bro! How are you?

— Fine….

— When you arrived?

— In the morning.

— How is your leg?

— Okay… Let’s go.

— Let’s go!

A very talkative guy….

To say the truth, I did not know him well. We even did not greet each other before the Dusya’s story, but now according the army tradition, I was his Godfather as I saved his life… I never understand this tradition. What will be different if somebody else will pull you out from the direct line of fire? Where is a heroic act? To save your brother was a daily routine of military assaults…. But, the tradition is, of course, a holy cause and according to the rules, I was his Godfather, and the savior should be awarded with a good dinner…

They went to the kennel, approaching a gate…. when suddenly I stood up in shock and nearly fainted: on a cape, at the gate, Dick was laid down motionlessly with the recognized contour of a dead body… Dick was dead… Our Dick… I remember a sudden emptiness flooded into my chest, a spasm clicked my neck not letting the air in or out. An enormous pain froze my heart. I felt bad, really bad.

Next to Dick, Trubilin stood up lowering his head and looking lost and weak-where is his mask of a cool master and an emotionless order machine? — together with some guys from autumn’s conscription. All kept silent.

— Well, let’s do it? — the invitation to join then for burying Dick registered in my brain. They all were waited me. Composing myself, I told Fedor to bring a young solder to dig the grave. Fedor immediately echoed: “Ryzha…”, spitted his cigarette out and went to find Ryzha. I went to Trubilin.

It did happen unexpectedly and suddenly…

In the morning together with the replacements, Fedor arrived. Immediately after reporting to his superiors, he went looking for Truba and after finding him, both of them went to the kennel. Truba said that this morning Dick was not himself, unsettled, he definitely sensed that Fedor was somewhere very close to him.

When they were approaching, Dick sensed him and began to howl loudly. He got off a leash and for a good five minutes these two were hugging and kissing each other. Right in the same place, where Dick was now.

Trubilin says that dog was not just screaming, he cried, shouted in a voice like a man. Trubilin even tried to mimick this sound being emitted by a dog: “Ah-ah Ah-ah-ah!”

Fedor sat on the ground. Dick placed his chest to Fedor’s knees and put his head in his hands… and became quiet.

When exactly he died, nobody knew but when it was noticed, of course, there was a great deal of reviving, massaging, injecting, even CPR was applied….

But it was the end of Dick’s road. He got what he wanted — to meet his master, his pal, his best mate. He said goodbye to Fedor and left this world.

Standing in front of me the tough man, Ensign Trubilin, was crying like a baby without even wiping his eyes. The strong, stern man, a real tough cookie was vulnerable and helpless. He has done so much! So much… And this was the end… Nothing you can change or amend, only accept this and keep living as you can.

Urgaliev came closer. They picked up a cape and carried Dick to his grave dug on top of the hill, about thirty meters away from an outpost of a tank’s regiment.

The hill offers the very best view that can be found at our regiment’s location. Deep down, at the bottom of hills, the Kokcha river makes a sharp bend which forces her turbulent water to rush further down for its unsettled journey through the mountains and hills. Straight across, the river washed away the cliff and formed picturesque caves displaying its glory. On the both banks of the river, reeds, never frozen during a winter, marched as soldiers.

In the very far distance, the sparkling white hats of Hindu Kush mountains loomed sending its brilliance all the time during winter and summer. If you look a little bit right, glowing overweight glaciers of Pamir were illuminating their shiny icy pinnacles.

From the opposite side, a surging pinnacle covered half of the sky. Very soon Dick, this coming spring, your master Fedor will be flying to this desired direction that seems in front of you and so close, but in real life — an eternity of waiting to reach…

Fedor composed himself well. He got down on his knees and said, “Goodbye, Dick”. He kissed his eyes and stood aside. Large round teardrops like beads were hanging on his eyelashes, nose and rolling down to his cheeks, his lips, He did not move. He stood and looked at the dog weeping silently.

No one interrupted…

Then I came to Dick, I put my hand on the massive head the first and last time…. Goodbye Dick, goodbye friend, the best friend ever…

Trubilin pulled his small gun Stechkin (see “Terminology and Glossary”? Editor) out of his jacket’s pocket and made three shots, saluting in the air….

Temir monotonically murmured the same favorite song of Dick. He always sang this song to him…

…It is only when you feel a real pain from your torn soul compressed in your chest to the point that you cannot take a breath, that only then you start to look around and notic what others do, what they talk and sing.

In the early autumn of 1994, I arrived in Voronezh, a home town of a great Russian writer Ivan Ivanovich Evseenko, who invited me to stay at his house. This friendly family loves a literature, music. It was a house full of cats….

Despite my busy schedule, I had time to visit museums. The museums in Voronezh, unlike in my city Lugansk, are presented very well.

Once I was walking on the central New Moscow street and suddenly, from behind I heard “Glebych!” I turned around… and I saw a man with a clean shaved face, dressed in the latest fashioned brick-and-lilac jacket and trousers with a matching t-shirt in a black color, with fashioned shiny shoes and gold chains reflecting the sunshine. Wow! What gloss! What glamour! The figure of a typical underground New Russian, with a compulsory attached Beretta gun, BMW with dark-windows and an openly displayed muscled security, opened his arms and was ready to give me his greeting kiss… wow-wow… hold on! The last thing in my life that I wanted is to be kissed by a criminal representative of the new Russian economy… Sorry, it is too much for me…I stopped him with a polite but distant “Hello!”

The guy was seeking my eyes, twittering around me, trying to look into my face. He could not understand why I would not recognise him, nor praise him for his success or envy his money. I do not know him! I have not seen him in my life at all and that’s it!

With visibly evaporating self-confidence, the guy kept trying to reach my heart:

— How are you, Glebych? What business brings you to us? Where you are staying? How things are going?

I could not get it… He definitely knows me. I put my brain in a high speed trying to recall in which situation I could see him… But I failed… and our short conversation for the next two minutes reminded me of a reprise of two clowns in a circus but clearly demonstrated to the guy that I indeed did not recognize him. A resentment quickly appeared in his eyes but was immediately gone.

— Hey, bro, have you not recognised me? I am Lyoha Ruzhy! From the de-mining battalion…Remember — Ryzha!?

Ah-ah-ah! Well, of course, now I remember! We cuddled to broken bones! Forgive me, my brother, my wounded head plays with me from time to time.

Hugging, we started on a new tone of what, where, how… I could not resist to sarcastically pull him down:

— So, my friend, you joined the trend too? — I pointed at his “New Russian” fashioned outfit.

He got embarrassed and began to excuse: “You know… everyone is looking for life”, “now it is time for change”, and so on…

I understood: no need for excuses.

It is time to celebrate our reunion…

Two of us sat in a BMW but inside the car a heavy silence was a third passenger between us. In contrast to the past, we have nothing in common. His full of shit crew were mumbling about something meaningless and stupid. We drove for a long time. The driver was an illiterate half wit who obviously did not love his car. His driving was unprofessional and erratic: with no need he presses the gas giving to the poor car 5000 rmp, and then suddenly puts on the brakes. He did it all the time! Idiot! I got tired to see how disrespectful he was to the people from the other side of his tinted window. He was changing lanes without any signal, horning, beeping and torturing the transmission constantly. Maybe he got an idea that he should be the only one on the road and other people should be removed as an obstacle to his driving? It was typical, nothing new in this department, I had already seen this kind of behavior many times and it was no novelty for me.

Finally we have arrived. I did not know Voronezh at all. This typical city from the Soviet era, was presented by numerous unified and faceless suburbs, in which buildings were arranged in a way of marching solders. The ugliness of these Soviet buildings was contrasted to a soft beauty of the traditional houses you can find in some parts of Voronezh.

Members of the gang started their official ceremony of farewell. Slightly hugging each others, they mimic a kiss with their cheeks touching both sides of a face. It reminds me of the way how rhinos head butted among themselves. May be they adopted this cult farewell from rhinos?

Clearly embarrassed of his mates, Lyoha came closer to me. The latest 325 BMW like a black shadow, sped to a traffic light and again burned tires in an attempt to reach the green light, but suddenly changed its mind and brakes howled. Driving back at full speed, the car stopped at the point where the short journey started. Indeed, this is a good car but with a shit driver. I have got my satisfaction and sarcastically looked at Lyoha. The poor guy completely lost in his embarrassment, trying to find some excuses:

— Well, what can you do with these guys?!

Yep, indeed… what?

We decided to have a drink and went to a pub nearby specifically designed for this type of people. Apparently Lyoha was known in this place and received a full stream of respect. We sat in the corner and for a while we enjoyed food specially made by a chef and numerous drinks, until time for a topic “Do You Remember” arrived. And then Lyoha asked:

— Do you remember Fedor?

Of course I remember him! He is my bro! I am his army Godfather!

And Lyoha started to tell the story but it would be better if he kept silent!

Fedor already started to do crazy things in the regiment. With these “clicks” in his head, he left the army in some month of summer. When he returned home, he had a severe alcohol problem, drinking non-stop. However, his parents were taught enough to pull him out of this miserable existence. He enrolled to a university, got married, a child was born. However, when his army friend visited him, Fedor lapsed again with his drinking problem. Seeing this, his wife grabbed the child and left to the village she came from, forgetting to withdraw from a university where she was studying and even applying for a divorce.

The kid started to drink seriously in a dangerous way. He dropped his university and parents could not change the situation for the better. Lyoha said, that during that time, he visited Fedor quite often and was stunned to see with what kind of people, Fedor was socializing. They were the complete rubbish of the human race, total losers, outsiders of any social ends, “dead meats”. Lyoha told me that Fedor even sold his bravery medal “Red Star” for a cheap bottle of home brewed alcohol!

In the beginning of 90s, Fedor decided to make a visit to his son. Before the trip he got blatantly drunk, which he added to during the trip. Delusional by consumed alcohol, he got off at a wrong station and went the wrong direction, got lost and froze to death somewhere in the middle of vast fields, not even close to the village where his son lived. His body was found only in the spring fall when show melted and farmers started unearthing soil in the fields. His burial was simple. This was the end of Fedor’s life.

I could not believe what I heard but Lyoha assured me

— His grave is located in the St. Nicholas cemetery. His father erected a huge monument for him….

— Let’s go there!

— Not now, Glebych… Relax…

How can I be relaxed after what I have heard? Have you, Lyoha-asshole, forgot our army code? I will remind you then! In five minutes, squashed up, we were sitting in an old taxi that was taking us to Fedor.

St. Nicholas cemetery was huge and we walked a bit until we reached the grave…

I saw his grave monument at once. In black marble Fedor looked strange. He was wearing his parade uniform with his beret on. During our army service, we wore this uniform no more than twice. It is obvious, that enthusiastic young Fedor sent to his parents a photo from his army training and this photo became a prototype for his grave monument designed by a famous architect. I knew another Fedor who was wearing a different uniform and had a higher rank.

Thank God that Lyoha left me alone: he decided to visit some relatives’ graves while he was here. He pointed out to the monument and moved into a different direction looking for other graves.

I recalled the last time I saw Fedor. That is right, I had not seen him since Dick’s burial and in my memory Fedor stayed as an unhappy crying kid on the hill conquered by tanks.

You can say, he had proud parents… mother and father… Forgive us, fools, Lyoha and myself, for questioning the glorified memory of your son. You are very wise. You knew your son’s heart. You looked to the very bottom of his tormented soul… and you had the wisdom to understand all of it and forgive him.

A twisted spasm crashed on my face, my eyes became cramped and watery…

I felt that my heart is melting, that I am softening and my skin of thick army roughness is peeling. My animal brutality of war is gradually disappearing and I am becoming a different person, not a quite boy with Kalashnikov, neither an insane army machine with a dancing machine gun.

Washed in the cruelty of war, drenched in my own tears, my eyes became clear, they received a crystal vision of the life in front of me, and all of these overwhelmed me…Thank you, my Lord! It was your blissful touch I felt! It was you who brought me here.

I looked again at the marble Fedor. At the bottom of the stellar, Dick was laid down stretching out in his full length. He was carved with remarkable accuracy: the smallest details, even individual hairs have been recreated. It was a masterpiece of drawing and of marble carving.

Without any doubt, it was Dick, or Dusya, as we gently called this half-bred Caucasian Sheppard, the beautiful, strong, and healthy creature. He placed his powerful head on outstretched paws, his ears attentively pricked with eyes looking directly at the bottom of your soul.

I am not Temur, I do not know Tatar, and I cannot sing…. And you don’t need any song now, brother… Above you is standing your master. He is handsome, strong and confident as if he never cried in his life. You waited for him too long but at last you two have met…

Now you are together for ever. Nobody — Trubilin or Stepan neither the Hindu Kush or Pamirs or vodka-animal — could separate you, pull apart you, place you on different banks of the same river. You are together now… Side by side…

…It is all good now… You both have a rest… Sleep well, boys… Everything is good… It is time for you to switch off the lights.

Life is good…