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

Samy

For many years, I have been carrying a heavy stone weighing upon my heart. Nobody reproaches me, but self-judgment is often merciless compared to a civic court. It is a common mistake to think that we have a power over our fate, or over someone else’s destiny particularly…

At the central outpost in Rustam Kalay, where our battalion was located, a soldier Sergeant Samenenko carried out his military service. He was a responsible, conscientious, neat chap from Eastern Ukraine. For his neatness, officers from headquarter appointed him to bring our food from a kitchen, to slice our bread, to open canned goods, and to make some tea. He was doing this job for several months. He could enter our headquarters at any time, and we were openly talking in his presence without hiding anything. He even was in charge of our personal goods that we got from a small military-run shop. Of course, he was regularly checked for cleanliness and also his secrecy. For several times, he gave us not only food, but finger food to accompany our vodka, and he proved his trustworthiness to us. So, he was a trusted person.

He was excused from guard duties, but he knew his combat responsibilities and attended classes and training in the mountains. He was not looking for a bravery medal nor was he playing chicken. An absolutely normal and reliable soldier named Semyon, or Samy, as his fellow soldiers and officers from the Communication battalion called him. We thought that it was his real mane. Newcomers also assumed the same. Anyway, Samy had a cheerful personality: when he entered a room, he cheered up everyone. The battalion commander often met him with one humoristic line citing the famous Rosenbaum’s: “Semyon, lets put it under her…” I do not remember that Samy had ever been scolded.

However, one day something incredible happened — Semyon got drunk! He was staggering through our outpost answering “Fuck you all” to any question or comment. It was a real scene!

Occasionally, from time to time, we had some soldiers who got drunk and tough rules were applied on the spot. Those who were caught for heavy drinking, received a hard but easily understanding treatment to make sure that this misbehavior will be wiped out not only in a soldier-in trouble, but also in others who considered to do it. The inventive pack of treatment included a heavy rack-sack packed up with stones, marching up and down in the mountains and icy spring water. All of this activity would definitely ruin the appetite to misbehave again. Knowing consequences, every soldier accepted the punishment without complains. Perhaps, also Samy has prepared himself for the hard treatment. I cannot recall to whom this idea came first, but officers decided to punish him according to the army statute: arrest — sending him to the headquarter’s army prison, and detained him in guba (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor).

— He is a good chap, he will get his treatment tomorrow and everything will be back to normal, — Viktor Lazarenko, Chief Technical Assistant, said.

— There is no sense to take him to Kabul, will arrest him here, let him sit for a week — he will get wiser, — Company Commander suggested.

— This is a not good decision, what other soldiers will say? He was trusted more than others, so his punishment should be more severe. And forget about cages, it will not happen under my rule, — Battalion Political Officer gave his point of view.

— You are correct. A whole battalion is watching what we are going to do, including officers, who want to know how we will deal with the soldier — confidante. By the way, comrade Captain, you also should deal with the sergeant who brewed this alcohol. Tell him, If he wants to put a home brew on our table, he should hide it better from soldiers.

— He hides from others, but this is our Samy…

— To get rid of this home brew, let Samy sleep it off. Tomorrow, in front of the battalion, I will arrest him and with a “yellow ticket” will send him to a headquarters’ Glasshouse.

This is how Battalion Commander summed up decisions and thus ended our discussion.

The next day I saw Samy was stitching the authorized tag of imprisonment to his uniform, without which he might not be accepted to the headquarter prison located in Kabul. He was guiltily hiding his eyes, avoiding looking at anyone. His drooping shoulders, depressing posture — all was saying: “I am guilty, it is better to punish me here. Let me do marching through the mountains, but do not disgrace me — I am no worse than others!” My heart sank. I had never seen such deep and sincere repentant soldier.

— Are you getting ready?

— Yes, Sir!

He looked up and I saw in his eyes, a fear as if he was sentenced to death. I wanted to crack a meaningful joke about cleaning in the headquarter prison, but restrained myself, turned and walked away. After all, he should talk to Battalion Commander, who can turn back his fate, because Battalion Commander knew — Samy might be an idiot, but not a scoundrel. Yes, Battalion Commander, Gennady Ocheretyany, knew it as well, but some small military-bureaucratic machine began to twirl, and no one could stop it.

Who took Samy to the headquarter prison, I do not remember. A week later I was again talking to him. He looked like a beaten dog, an emaciated and haggard soldier who stood next to his dear APC (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) and did not want to leave it for a single moment, although there was a lot of time before signing off from the army…no need to show off…

I do not know what kind of slip up happened among officers-in-charge, but a regimental ceremony that nominated awards for our officers and soldiers, has been postponed. Senior Lieutenant S., whose name was on the list of the ceremony, suggested:

— Comrade Major, due to the spare time in this moment, allow me to proceed with the urgent submission of two soldiers’ characteristics to the Communist Party Committee that is located at the nearest outpost. (Before to be considered for Communist Party membership, the candidates have to submit their characteristics. — Editor).

— Why you did submit them before?

— Nobody told me to do so. Since the ceremony has been postponed for two hours, I will be back in thirty minutes! With your permission, lunch could be taken then too…

— Okay, proceed. But do not be late…

— Could I go too? — Samy asked.

I noticed how unbearably it was for him to be here, not far from the place of his punishment, and the civilian “could” in his question also unpleasantly scratched my ear. All of this was evident that the guy was not himself. Instead of answering, I simply waved him off with my hand. This outpost was within the suburbia line of a town, with a bitumen road of ten minutes driving each way. Although the road is very old, the day is clear. What could happen? Let him blow the cobwebs…

But a war is a war and anything could happen… and the next thing that did happen was an ambush… Classic and contemporary themes of the unexpected.

In the beginning of our trip we drove impressively in style. We had the mood of celebration because it was not every day that Orders-for-Bravery were handed out! Our hands were off the weapons. The radio communication was not on. A gun fired suddenly from some cliffs overhanging above the road. Everyone who was sitting on the APC, or “the armor ”, dropped down into the hatches, frantically grabbing their weapons and checking themselves for wounds. Speeding fast, the APC missed a turn, behind which a man with a grenade launcher was kneeling. But nobody could fire at him — everyone was inside of the APC!

The bloodcurdling yells simultaneously came out from both mouths — the driver and the commander, as soon as they caught a figure of dushara (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), an Afghan’s fighter, targeting at them at a close range. Seemingly moving in a slow motion, everything looked unreal. In the oncoming direction, local vehicles known as burbahayki (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) with natives, were approaching the APC, on both sides of the road heavily loaded donkeys were being dragged by their owners.

The gunner operator slowly turned the turret around. Samy, who did not even have a weapon, finally understood what his commander had yelled, turned the radio on. The dushara’s shot came exactly in the back of winch hatch. Cumulative jet pierces went through the entire APC, including its right engine. On the way, it cut off both hands of Samy. The driver, shell-shocked by a grenade explosion, has lost the ACP control. The machine rolled into a roadside ditch and stopped.

Whilst a wounded dushara was twisting on the road, another two men popped out from behind green bushes. Both of them have the launchers and grenades in barrels! Now they definitely will try for a direct fire to burn the staggered ACP! Samy spotted them from his side and compressing his own pain, screamed:

— Dusharas!… you have dusharas on the right!!! — and pointed with remains of his hands from which blood unstoppably gushed.

His gesture was understood by the commander and the gabber, thanks to the re-activated radio communication. The gunner turned the turret and with a very long salvo of coaxial machine gun, both dusharas were literally split apart. After that, he began firing from a heavy machine gun, towards the green bushes from which dusharas popped out. Blanked by this fire, the commander stuck out his head and assessed the situation.

— Get ready for the fight!!! Let’s fire at everything that moves on the hill!!! Do-o-o-o it!!!

From this shouted voice, a mechanic came to his own senses. He switched off the right engine and started the left. Roaring with only one engine, the machine jumped and reversing, crawled backwards on the road.

— Turn backwards, god damn… To the regiment!!! — the commander shouted to the mechanic and only then he understood that Samy had pointed at the mujahedeen, not with his hands but what was hanging on to his stumps in a jacket.

He jumped over the turret, and without stopping he grabbed a tourniquet hooked to a butt of his gun. White-faced, with eyes filled with superhuman pain, Samy was sitting in a puddle of his own blood.

— Samy, how can it be?! Let me twist it… Hold on, comrade… Give me more torniquet! Faster, god damn!!! But look around too, for god’s sake! I need promidol (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor)… who has it?!! Go, mechanic, run them over, mother-fuckers!

How the driver managed to start the ACP with one engine, it was a mystery, but carts of natives were running away from our wheels.

At last we reached our regiment, our medical unit… At the checkpoint we came face-to-face with our hurriedly departing on alert subdivision — on-duty. Samy was losing consciousness. During the way back he didn’t make any noise. Carried to the medical unit, he was handed to the doctors. They already were running to him from everywhere with a sound of jingling medals on their chests. The driver was the last one who came to the medical unit. He awkwardly held close to his uniform the rest of Samy’s hands. He, like everyone at war, entirely trusted doctors. Although doctors were close to God, they could not perform miracles every day. The boy’s life was rescued, he had surgery, the blood was transfused in time. Doctors did their best: he was stitched, but not his hands, unfortunately! After this, Samy was at a military hospital for some time, then he was evacuated back home to the Soviet Union where finally discharged from the army.

I remember how for a long time we had been washing off his blood from APC (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor). In that evening, sitting in our headquarters, we were overwhelmed by what had happened. With no apparent reason we shouted at a new soldier, who brought us dinner, as if he was the one to blame. Everyone wanted the see Sam’s funny face, and the Battalion Commander would sing his usual line from a Rosenbaum’ song, and all of us, rubbing our hands, could gather together for a dinner… Why everything is different?!

I have not seen Semenenko again. He had been writing to the Battalion Commander from his hospital, and then his wife has sent his regards… After his first letter, we got blatantly drunk with Gennady Vasilyevich, but it didn’t help…

At the beginning of the 90s, the Battalion Commander sent me a letter: “Sam feels very bad, help if you can”. At that time of total depression, I was in-charge of a regiment located in Belarus. I was able to organize and send several parcels with a uniform, buckwheat and cans of preserved stew to the Donbas, until one of these returned with the inscription “not residing”…

Often I catch myself thinking, what if… When I am sober, I understand that nobody knows what could happen if we would do things differently but this “if” keeps coming back again and again… bitch.

International Assistance

The idea about international assistance in Afghanistan was seriously embedded in our brains.

I have been there for six months already. I had seen various scenes and had done different things, but I would not call it “assistance”, when urgently I was ordered to come to the regiment for some meeting.

Having no guilt, I went there with an easy heart, even peaceful, I would say, and took notice of all things along the way.

For a short break we stopped in a kishlak (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor). A little girl, around eight years old, in a dress and colorful panties was forming a kind of pancake from a mixture of cow shit and straw, and stacking them on the sunny side of a duval (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor). A toddler, next to her, was crawling towards a small spring that was, in fact, sewerage collected from a human waste in the yard. The girl fetched some water with her hand from this ditch and gave it to the kid for drinking from her palms. I almost puked.

I turned my back. In this direction, I spotted a Russian truck ZIL-130 that was firmly stuck in the green fields. If “Ford” was there, I could not care less, but in this situation, it was like meeting a relative. The truck was full of stones and its owner — a native Afghani of uncertain age — was running around the truck, clapping on his butt in desperation. In my mind I even felt sorry for this poor fellow, but the road was open, and two armored troop carriers-70 began moving forward.

After spending four hours in the regiment, I was coming back the same way. Near the same kishlak, I saw that this ZIL-130 was still in the same place, only stones were unloaded. I do not know what had possessed me, perhaps, an opportunity to provide international assistance, but I decided to get involved and rescue this ZIL.

The first of the ATAs (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), moved into the field and unexpectedly drowned into dense mud to its belly. All eight wheels scattered black swills, but it was pointless — the vehicle was being sucked into the mud more deeply. This was the situation that we apparently called “to be in deep shit”.

A crowd started gathering together around us. Mainly it was the little ones who came from all nearby places. Of course, this was a free entertainment! Trying to keep a cool face, I quietly ordered to my driver to unwind the winch, and we easily pulled out the ZIL from the mud. The “native” with his constantly repeated “tashakur” (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) was very happy, but, seems to me, wanted to disappear without payment to us. I said to him something like “you won’t get away with only tashakur”, and stopped him.

Although we had rescued the ZIL, our ATA is now bogged. I was franticly trying to estimate our odds of escaping from this trap. Strengthened with the second ATA on solid soil, and the help of two winches, I attempted to release my first ATA from the mud. The engines roared, the winches tried in vain, but… the second ATA also slipped into the swamp slowly!

There was nothing to tie up to, not a tree, neither a building! The first ATA apparently sat down deeply in the muddy field. For a half an hour we were trying to pull this ATA with a help of the second ATA but only got the second ATA sucked into the muddy field as well and have torn apart both winches and two cables.

Covered with the dirt and boiling with angriness, we noted that our entertainment crowd has gradually changed. A lot of bearded men were there giving us not really friendly looks. Guns were noticeable under loose Afghanis’ tunics. There was only an hour left before the twilight. If we will stay here — they will shoot us down. If we will leave without the ATA s — they will plunder them first and then burn them. A bloody international help, damn it!

Ordering everyone to be alert, I jumped into the ZIL and I directed the Afghani where to drive. Coming to the nearest outpost, I collected cables and another two ATAs and returned to the scene.

It was getting dark. The Afghanis’ ring around us was getting smaller and denser. Our dear ATAs are powerful, passable, but… too light. They went into a skid. We decided to pull them again but the cable burst into pieces again. The soldiers’ faces became gloomy and I became so angry that I decided to take it out on “natives”:

— Why are you looking for? We got into this mess because of your idiot. Let’s all pull the wire!

I was telling them this just to blow off steam, with no hope. But what do you think? One of them dragged over a hank of wire which was so solid, with its thickness of a little finger! Five times I twisted around the hook of our second-in-trouble ATA and we all pulled. The poor ATA rose out of the mud. Thank God! Solders were so happy! Quickly we fastened the rest of the wire to three

ATAs, and in one attempt pulled together. With a loud sound “sh-sh-viak!, the swamp spat out its prey.

After disconnecting our equipment, we looked at each other and began to laugh. When we finally stopped laughing, we noticed that “the natives” disappeared into the twilight. There was only one white-bearded “native” left, the one who had brought the wire. He was a teacher at the local school and he decently spoke Russian. So I grabbed a few boxes with lunches and came to him to say “thanks”. He refused to accept my baksheesh (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), but shook my hands with a great pleasure. He was talking something about an international help. And I, who had already thousands of times damned this international help, unexpectedly concluded for myself that I had done the right thing.