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

Grishin

What we waited for since late November eventually happened at last. One gorgeous day — with no exaggeration! — we received our weapons, and marched to a parking lot, where the ready — to-go “darlings” APCs were waiting for us from the very early morning.

A convoy brigade began slowly stretching toward Gardez — and everything around was covered with a bluish stinking smoke. Our tents were getting smaller and smaller with every minute, and very soon they disappeared from out sight.

Goodbye, our odious home! I wish I will not see you for a long time!

After a long and dreary march on the mountain roads, we have reached the mountain named Nara that sheltered one allied garrison of the Afghan army; and I do not think that we have met any other allied Afghan garrisons during our “military” operation until we reached the border with Pakistan. The task of our operation, as being broadly explained, was to deliver food and ammunition to this garrison that was besieged by mujahidins (see “Terminology ad Glossary” — Editor); and to do so we have to endure a long march to Aligal.

Now we know that it was named “military” because the march involves not just our 56st Air Assault Brigade but also many other divisions of the 40th Army, located at different areas of Afghanistan. So, our brigade became involved in this operation because we were controlling the area of Aligal. For those who served the army, no need to explain in detail how massive and complex the tasks were.

However, we were young, and, at that time, we had not accumulated enough military knowledge to realise how hard the operation was, although our training and preparation drills this time were unusually thorough. We went through several trainings exercises across the mountains, shooting ranges, and ran so-called “equipment drills”, in which our equipment has being personally checked in detail: do we have a pair of spare footcloths in our BP (see “Terminology ad Glossary” — Editor) or not. But more significant was the fact that all of these drills were conducted under the special control of the super important inspectors that arrived from a very high-up level of the army, being the Command District of Tashkent.

But no matter how this well-intentioned thoroughness had been applied towards our preparation, all this training gave us nothing but troubles, bringing more problems to us, the young soldiers. Nobody had explained to us how to equip our BP. All drills were based on a formal “that is correct” tick which was an approval of your BP contents if has been packed according to some rules invented by someone with a higher military rank.

Unfortunately, this “someone” has hardly ever been in a fight in the mountain areas. This “someone” could hardly imagine the size of the prescribed BP. Otherwise, many unnecessary things, such as a toothbrush, an under-collar’s spare hemming, and similar sorts of items, would not have been compulsory items on that “correct list”. Of course, nobody took them at the time of military operation. A dental paste? What for? When you are marching across the mountains, every sip of water is as precious as gold…

Accordingly, to satisfy this “correct list”, we have to pack all sorts of things into BP and demonstrate them to a swaggering colonel-examiner. And if — God forbid! — something will be missing in our BP from the prescribed contents, then, no doubt, the company commander will reprimand you on the spot; and then all sorts of nonsense will follow with predictable consequences for a young soldier…

In brief, whilst we were preparing for this military operation, we got so much fed up with all of this nonsense that we could not wait for the real military action.

Eventually, we got what we wanted….

…Near Narai we stopped for two or three days; and every day we were waiting for when we will go into the mountains.

But which one is Narai, amongst these massive peaks that surrounded us, I had no idea. And honestly I did not care. If they told us to stay near the mountain of Narai, this Narai must be nearby… and to tell the truth, they did not tell us about Narai. The name of Narai I accidentally picked up when I overheard a radio conversation. How could I know at that moment that this Narai would be forever imprinted in my memory? It would be like a splinter under my heart for life…

For some reason, Hindu Kush, Panjshir, Black Mountains or some other places with more onerous and impressive military actions, have not made such an impact on my life. Amongst all rich mountain areas of Afghanistan, only Narai will be vividly remembered, engraving its image in my mind forever.

Well, let’s go back to that time, when a relatively flat area between two mountains, which hosted our armoured brigade, was the main focus of my interest.

The whole surface of this flat area was covered with some things that look like large pebbles and gray sand, or gravel. Maybe it was not gray. But low hanging heavy clouds did paint the entire surface in a gray colour. It was the beginning of snow season. In the middle of this area was something that we called “a river”: it was three metres wide, with a depth of half a metre, but with a very fierce current.

The main impression from our stay at Narai was a feeling of freezing cold; we felt damp there all the time. We also felt that our worse expectations were coming. Maybe it was an influence of neighbouring mountains: so visible after the last line of “pebbles”. The mountains did cover our horizon to the endless slopes, which we saw in a distance, but after that we could see nothing. Where do we have to go? When, why? What was waiting for us there? It was unknown. We were anxious.

Meanwhile, we put up tents and almost all our time we were trying to warm them up. We collected anything that can burn on this bare stony plateau: any sticks, wooden chips and flammable rubbish. We desperately needed to get a fire going because our cold pre-packed lunches should be heated up to be edible. At night we needed a fire to make our tents a bit warmer to be able to sleep.

Of course, all of these extra responsibilities were given to us. According to the unspoken army code, we were “young soldiers” who have not yet served the army long enough; we had been solders just a little bit longer than six months, to be exact — eight months, and four of them we served in Afghanistan.

Apart of these extra duties to organise our everyday life, we, “the youngest”, should be involved in all “leisure activities” for the whole military company — the platoon commander Plotnikov did not allow us to relax. The next day after arriving at the area, the second platoon was chosen for “leisure activities”, as commander Plotnikov decided to conduct a “swimming” day.

Even before the march, we have not been famous for our cleanness: we must do some unclean tasks — do dishes, do laundry, collect and carry coal, or wood, heating up stoves in tents. But during the march we became dirty as coal miners. How we could not be!? At every camp, we were constantly starting up a fire for heating up packed lunches in the zinc cans that were left after bombing. These cans we put on a smoky diesel fuel — we do not have firewood! No wonder why, Plotnikov was not impressed with us, military miners.

Plotnikov was a cheerful, solid, thickset man, about twenty eight years old, wearing a warm pea jacket — the safe heaven! Actually, our officers were fed well, and, no wonder, he put all his energy into actions. So, we were ordered to march to “the river”.

I cannot describe how we did not want to be separated from our warm pea jacket, regardless how short and thin these jackets were. No one was keen to take off the warm winter vest together with a shirt over it, but Plotnikov does not allow us to hesitate. In a minute, all naked torsos were exposed and covered with soapsuds, using, in turn, a pitiful bar of a soap taken from a laundry. First, we should wash our hands, and then, feeling almost nothing with these hands, we should proceed to wash our skinny bodies. (I remember that I felt worse than others. While we were driving along the mountains in an armoured car, I did not take off my cap with flaps, my wounded ear inflamed with discharges glued my ear firmly to my cap).

Naked up to the waist, but wearing a cap, I immediately attracted the platoon commander’s attention. After my explanation, he, without any hesitation, ordered me to remove the cap. I lingered for a minute, and he abruptly pulled off the cap together with a crust of dried pus and blood from my ear. At that moment it seemed to me like he pulled off my sore ear.

Realizing what he had done, Plotnikov extended the disaster: to balance damage control, he hit me in my healthy ear, then he called a medical instructor of the Company, Lenya Chmyr — as it was written on his badge, and ordered him to bandage my sore ear. Now, without even being at a “battle”, my head was bandaged up and looked wounded. This is why everybody, of course, mocked me about “a bandit bullet”. But there was another disadvantage — I became a very noticeable “white dot”, which officers and “veterans” (a military slang for soldiers after their second year army service — Editor) can pick up easily if they needed someone for their bullying exercises.

This was how my fate crossed with Grishin for the last time. Among all of the “veterans”, he had no standout particularity. He drew well, and, from time to time, he made illustrations for the company combat leaflet. When he was doing this, he locked himself up in Lenin’s room and drew quickly a main part, and after that — jumped into bed. I would like to comment that before our arrival, “veterans” always feel the lack of sleep, exactly like we, the “zelenye” (see “Terminology and glossary” — Editor), felt. But even with time they cannot get rid of the bad habit.

Gene Grishin belonged to the first platoon, which together with my second platoon was located on the same floor, opposite each other, next to the Lenin room. This is why I quite often was on lookout for him. In the case of a political officer, senior lieutenant Shmygalya, a Komsomol organizer company, or “the veteran” Rinat Gabaydulin appearing, I had to warn him, so he will jump up and pretend to be drawing.

I have no idea why Gene was a calm and normal “veteran”. Maybe because of his inclination towards the arts or maybe because he was called up for the military service from Klin, a quiet small town near Moscow, were the reasons, who knows?

He never bullied us; of course, he ordered us to do some of his work remembering the “veterans” law — “if you cannot make young solders do it, then do it yourself”.

So, in accordance with this law, in December ’84, I was “hooked” by Gene Grishin and his countryman Misha Sergeev.

These two were ordered to fetch some water from the river with an enormous bucket that had a volume of one hundred litres. For two people, it was possible to do, but my “white spot” was flashing and they immediately spotted me and ordered me to follow them. You see, in the army it was a matter of principle.

Of course, I made an attempt to elude them, but always gloomy Sergeev at that moment so dangerously hissed in his menacing tone that I decided to put up with them and do it. Misha compared to Gene, was tougher, he was the one who can easily give you a lesson of obedience; and because I already had one that ended up with the ringing in my ears — thanks to the platoon commander’s “educational work”, — I decided to do the job.

Filled with the water from the river, the enormous bucket was hooked by two of us with belts and we dragged it in turns (to be precise — they took turns, and I was working non-stop) towards the tents of our company.

I could not believe that on our way to the tents, Plotnikov spotted us. He immediately understood that “the young one” had been forced by the “veterans” to do their job, and after promising to give the “veterans” some problems in the near future, he “repossessed” me back.

The glances that were being cast at me by Grishin and Sergeyev were a bad omen. Now, these two have to drag this heavy and uncomfortable bucket back to the tents like “young soldiers”. In the army, any sort of defence from any officer led to a bigger problem. It was one of the soldiers’ rules.

Sadly, this is how I remembered Gene Grishin — with his angry eyes staring at me, the eyes almost colourless under the gray sky of Narai. It was less than a day before the Gene’s death — he was the very first man who died in front of me…

That evening and night, they were busy and did not have time to deal with me; but in the morning, we received an order to march into the mountains. Paradoxically, we, “young solders” were happy to do it because we were tired from a constant fatigue, bullying from crazy, bored “veterans”. However, the cases of aggressive behaviour towards comrades sharply reduced after spending time side-by-side in the mountains. For us “the youngest” — to receive the order to ambush the mujahidins all the way to the border of Pakistan, will be much more favourable than the humiliation that we experienced from our “own” people. Just leave us alone!

Indeed, better to say nothing about the Red Army methods of how to lift the soldiers’ moral spirit — the military operation that frightened us a couple of days ago, now was taken as a relief.

To tell the truth, mood has been slightly spoiled because the first, so-called “veteran” platoon was also marching with us. But at least we were glad to get rid of the demobs-idiots from the third platoon.

So, we moved into the mountains as a co-jointed column but with two platoon commanders and on top of the cake was a deputy political commissar.

Around my neck is an AK (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), which I have received upon arrival to Afghan. Unlike ordinary assault AKs used by our brigade, mine was with a non-folding wooden butt and a metal magazine. Usually this model has SSD — “silent shooting device”. However, my AK did not have it — who knows where this SSD disappeared to, but I can reassure you, it had happened before my conscription. But being in the army you have to carry a weapon, regardless of its condition. Is there any sense of this? Well, who cares about sense in the army, anyway?

Plus an additional disadvantage of the AK 7.62 was the size of the cartridges; they were shorter but thicker than the model 5.45 AK. This is why, as “a privilege” of being a “young soldier”, I should carry “two CKs” (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), which, as the regulation stated, has 900 cartridges of ammunition; some of them crammed into metal, not plastic magazines, and the weight is terribly heavy.

Also four grenades, a smoke-shell, flares, flare guns, a helmet, a flak jacket, a digging tool, cotton pants, felt boots, a waterproof cape tent, and camping food for three days (nine heavy cans and three huge packs of crackers) should be not forgotten…

In total, all of these weighed thirty-five kilograms — and was half of the size of me — and I had to carry this into the mountains! Tell me, how an ordinary fellow from Moscow, who had never been in the mountains higher than the Lenin Hills ((see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), can do it!? Plus, for the last seven months I have not had enough sleep and food. My ear was painful under the purulent bandages covering my head. Besides, I wear the heavy tarpaulin boots with puttees on my feet, which we were ordered to put on only a month ago. Nobody taught us how to use the puttee. In Fergana (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) we wore the boots, in Afghanistan we were given the ankle boots with laces and socks; and at that time, our supervisors, who provided a ceremonial check-up, did not care whether I can wind on the puttees or not. The main thing, as we were instructed, was to bring extra puttees with you, as “the way it should be”.Well, nothing more to say…

Also it is worth mentioning, after an hour of marching, your heart was beating so hard that you could hardly breathe, your legs, covered with blood, became incontrollable and disobedient to your commands, and you could not lift your head. But we should keep scrambling up and up on the endless slopes of foothills. The stops occur more often, and with each rest we tried desperately to catch our breath, but it leads to nothing — only to start moving after these breaks become even harder.

I remember that in such a moment, the political officer came to me — by that time, he already disliked me: he failed to convert me into a snitch — and in his usual manner he begins to “encourage” me with something like: “you are a useless fart”, “a piece of shit in this world”, and “people like you are just a waste in this world”.

Yep… he can talk — why not? He wears the light “Afghan” ankle boots. His BP (see “Teminology and Glossary” — Editor), as I can assess, has a packed food ration only for 2 days, and a very economical supply of ammunition. Indeed, he is definitely enjoying his weight deficiency, as I can observe.

His “political propaganda” did extend my sufferings but I did not bother to reply back. I simply could not do it, because, at this point, I was not a human, I became an exhausted mule dragging a half-dead body up to the hill. All I can think of is to have a little break at this moment, but I know, there will be no stop in the near future: our company commander Pikunov, nicknamed “Rex”, already rushed ahead with his platoon of “dembels” (See “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), and definitely they will not be slowing down because of some emaciated soldiers. Moreover, he has a mission, he knows where he is going and why. We do not. We are not required to know about it — we should just do, and keep doing, until we will get the next order.

…And this happens at the moment when I almost gave up walking, and, it seemed to me, I will crash on the ground any minute. I did not care anymore if the political officer will go into pieces from his anger.

Climbing to a hill with a round peak, we formed a sort of semicircle, in which I was in the centre among the first platoon “veterans”. Ahead of me was Kravchenko, behind me was Grishin and someone else, from their platoon, was on the right, Vova Mordvinov was a little bit further on. He is (together with the Belyiy and Pakhomov) from our year’s conscription, but for some mysterious reason they were directed to serve with “dembels”.

In parallel to us, a chain of “young” soldiers from Afghan government troops kept climbing. Suddenly I heard that someone from the top of the hill cried out to the “dembels”. My first impulse was to take to the right — it was a short cut, even though I had to go through some low bushes, — but somehow I have got an idea that our soldiers will be gathering together somewhere ahead. So I kept walking behind Cravoy, who proceeded walking strictly step-in-step, as he was taught, behind a soldier, who, in the same manner, followed a sapper with a probing rod.” They called the dembels to have a rest!!!” — the idea flashed across my mind.

The last thing I remember (everything that followed after slipped from my memory, as I only remember fragments of sensations, sounds of this event) was that somewhere, very close to the right and a bit behind me, a powerful explosion blows the earth… I feel that something hits me in the face… I was falling…

Darkness covered my eyes together with a terrifying burst from machine guns that fire from everywhere but a heart-rending cry suppressed all sounds, it was not even a human cry, it was a heart-rending yell of a wounded animal.

I still have no idea what happened, and what was going on around me. When I opened my eyes, I spotted one of the Afghani soldiers, or “greenhorns” as we named them, who was firing franticly not far from me.

“I should open fire too” — this thought came to my mind and I pulled off the gun belt from my neck. But when, somehow, I realised that shooting was coming only from us, nobody was actually shooting towards us. I think this realisation came to the “greenhorn” as well.

And then a fallen deafening silence was cut by the cry, scream and howl, which can be heard more distinctly in the cold air. I do not know how to describe it, but it was an inhuman sound which I had not heard before and I did not hear after.

I turned around towards this cry — there was a something like an earth-gray creature lying on the ground and moving in an absolutely unnatural way. I remember, how I tried to compose my thoughts to comprehend a jerking leg with bloody scraps hanging above the place where there should be a knee.

It takes seconds. Plotnikov, and someone else, runs up to him and I understand that Gene Grishin is lying on the ground. Running towards Gene, the platoon commander briefly asked me why my face is blooded — but, I did not feel anything — and making sure that it was scratched from small stones, he rushed to Grishin. Plotnikov already was there, trying hastily to apply a bandage in order to stop the bleeding and fix a tourniquet to his leg. “Scheinin, do you have a belt?” — he shouted towards me.

But I am still in a stupor of dismay. I do not understand why he needs my belt — a narrow canvas strap for keeping cotton pants. Having no time for explanations, the platoon commander pulls up my bulletproof vest, pea jacket and takes the belt out.

All this time Grishin keeps furiously resisting helpers, trying to get up and look at his leg. Plotnikov tries to hold him but this effort is useless. Gene is screaming horrifyingly. In my head is a terrible non-stop ringing and I feel sick but through the cotton wool in my ears and my head, I realize what he is crying: “Kill me, kill me!”. This cry as well as these words can make you mad but it affected me differently — I had unexpected clearness in my mind, emotionally I did not feel better.

The groundsheet that was placed under Gene, immediately became wet with his blood. Plotnikov eventually managed to bandage the leg but to do more was not possible. The Grishin’s lower limb was covered with blood.

They turned Grishin over and then Plotnikov sweared helplessly and hopelessly…the second leg of Grishin was ripped off. While Plotnikov was tightening his stump, heavy bleeding occurred, the cause of which was not understandable; even more, at that time, Plotnikiv did not pay much attention to it, thinking that the second leg was the real problem. None of us knew that before climbing into the mountains, Grishin placed the grenade into his pocket and this inexplicable action cost him his life.

Apparently, when he heard voices of friendly troops from the pinnacle, he walked towards the right — through the bushes that I had just passed but I did not yield for the first impulse to cut my way to the top of the mountain.

Actually “walked” will not be quite the right word to use for his action. He just made only one step to the side. The step, as it often happened at war, has determined his fate. He stepped right on the mine buried by a mujahidin in the bushes. This “mine” was actually a can from our own dry ration. It was stuffed with blasting material and was a trip-wire mine. The mine exploded, and the grenade detonated in Gene’s pocket, and he lost his leg.

But Plotnikov does not know anything about all of this at that time. He tried hard to stop the second wound bleeding and he had no idea how serious it was. For the platoon commander it was more important to figure out how to send Grishin to the hospital as quickly as possible. The choppers have already been summoned. Plotnikov together with the soldiers from the first platoon picked up the groundsheet with Grishin on it, who was calmed down after a promedol injection. The groundsheet was dragged to some nearby hill, where the “Eight” (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) will soon be landing: an orange smoke appeared in the distance.

After returning from the operation, we found out that Gene was not taken to the hospital. He did not make it. He lost a lot of blood, the tourniquet proved to be useless….

In later years I realised how one step in one split second, or a tiny instinctive motion can change your entire life. But on that day it was very new to me and to Gene who went in the same direction as I was going. He stepped towards the mine a few seconds earlier. But it could have been MY mine….

However, all of these thoughts will occur later, much later, even, probably not in Afghanistan. Over there, I hardly had time to think about it, but the destiny of events will give me a lot of such occasions. And, unfortunately, it will be very soon.

Back then, after the feverish bustle, some strange silence unexpectedly covered everything. All this time I was motionless. Nobody looked at me.

I remember how I tried to move and my legs obeyed me badly. My face is aching and when touching it, it seems to be covered with some blisters. But I need to move forward — I feel that something did happen on the hill, strengthed by the despondency of the incident.

Struggling, I am making my way to the hill and see over there a pit covered with something looking like a plank. I notice what looks like a manhole was in the dugout. In my somnambulistic state I am approaching it, I just want to sit there for a second, and then I hear the Mordvin’s voice:

— Hey, Penguin! What are you doing!? Don’t go here! Let the sappers examine everything around first.

I obediently sit down on the edge of the pit and wait.The sappers arrived soon, they examined the bottom of the pit, and found two more homemade antipersonnel mines hiding there…

For the last half an hour, fate saved me twice from paying a heavy price like Grishin did. Thanks to my guardian angel and to Mordvin who looked after me with his warning.

We moved less than 15 metres, when someone spotted a strange object on the road. After a closer examination, it turns out to be a half-ripped jackboot with remains of a human leg. That was all that left from Gene Grishin’s leg…

Someone, who picked up the terrible thing, got himself into an awkward situation. No doubt, it was useless to carry, but to throw it away was even harder. Whilst the decision-making process was going on, the stern voice of the platoon commander switched on to the reality: “Why the hell have you stopped again, go ahead, the second company!”

A ringing in my head was still bothering me. Chmyr cleaned my wounds, pored iodine on half of them, and now the bandaging on my head does not look so foolish. However, the ringing in my head, the aching face, the heaviness of my backpack — all of these have merged into one continuous rhythm of movement. We kept walking for some time…

As it turned out, we should not have climbed to the mountain, as I overheard from a traffic platoon radio. We should go lower…

The next few days I could hardly remember: it was like one endless day, in which flashes of light outlined some actions.

This whole military operation was my “first Aliheyl” (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) that was divided into two parts: before the death of Grishin and after.

Much later, when I returned home, from time to time the incident with Gene Grishin was haunting me in my dreams with the realistic screaming: “Kill, kill me!” in his inhuman voice. And only then, I understood that my life was slashed into the unmatchable parts: BEFORE the death of Grishin and AFTER.