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

My Dear!

Who has not heard one of those tearful army stories about soldiers who, after receiving news about betrayal of their loved ones, shoot themselves, unlawfully left the army or fell into depression? In the Soviet army, there was a sacred tradition of sending a letter with an enclosed picture of an imprinted soldier’s boot with the pathetic patriotic text: “If not for this boot, you would have been raped by the foreign soldier” to the girls who betrayed loyalties and expectations.

As for me, I do not blame the girls. A well known Russian saying stated: “Do not judge and you will be not judged”. I know a number of situations when a girl who waited for years for her beloved soldier, in the end got the proposition “to just be friends”. Sometimes she was even introduced to a wife of her ex-boyfriend. I think, there is no need to blame one side because both parties can be equally responsible for the breakdown of a relationship. But the story I want to tell you, will not be a classical unhappy scenario of a separation, a fatal betrayal, a broken heart or an inevitable retribution… It will be a kind of different love story…

…Sitting at a clay pit, we keep counting the bricks over and over again without any hope. You see, our daily task was to make five hundred bricks, but so far we managed only a hundred, and the day was half gone, already after noon.

— I wish, I could go sooner to hospital for my surgery. I am so fed up of making these bricks! — Vitek lit his cigarette, — It is a joke! Back home, if you will say that paratroopers were making bricks for building houses, nobody will believe you. Everyone will think that you served in an engineering battalion, not paratroopers.

— “Two soldiers from engineering will replace any excavator’s digging”, — I rhymed one of the self-made army slogans and sat down on a molding box. — I bet, at home we will tell that all day long we were fighting in close range, and when we had breaks, we were piling hundreds of mujahedeens’ bodies on top of each other.

— Do not jump in front of horses! Wait till you will get home, — tanned by clay dust, Forelock (the Ukrainian) sarcastically commented and climbed out from the pit with a heavily sweaty face, — hold on to the time, when you will be at home and you will figure out what to lie.

… January 1980. Our brigade has been brought into Afghanistan and left at this bare clay plateau, so-called airdrome, the closest one to Kunduz. In this place we are supposed to serve the army, not how we wanted, but how we were told. We were not only paratroopers during combat operations, but also the soldiers for the Building Construction Army Forces between these combat operations. How we managed to survive in such bare and empty conditions and, at the same time, to fight, is a special topic for another story.

All textbooks underline the reputation of paratroopers as a strong military force, namely: if paratroopers got involved into a military situation, it does not matter how hopeless this situation will be, eventually, they became winners. This quality has been tested in our current situation. Being completely surrounded, without any drop of help, we learned how to make bricks from dirt, how to build houses with these bricks, how to steal wood necessary for a construction, and how to create the cozy clay town from literally a bare space of nothing.

The construction was such a tedious, dirty and monotonous job that we deeply and passionately hated. We were eager for any combat operations not because we wanted to show off our courage or bravery, but simply to break up this monotonous boredom of laboring works from which we, anyway, often slacked off.

Besides, during combat operations it was always possible to get, or more precisely to grab from civilians, fresh food or something nice and tasty. The taste of the daily portion of porridge given to us, was stuck in our throat.

— Well! F… this building! — Vitek spitted out his half-smoked cigarette and unenthusiastically suggested, — How about we make at least fifty bricks more before lunch?

There was no desire to continue to do the work and plus the F-word immediately directed us to a new theme of our conversation.

— Well, Vitek, whilst your army superiors put you in different poses of slavery here, someone at home put your wife in the right position, — we started a favorite topic of soldiers’ entertainment and began to tease our mate.

I want to tell you that soldiers’ talk about women, in particular, and love, in general, were rather shallow. But to call them dirty-mouthed will also not be correct. Perhaps, a use of medical terms will be more appropriate, but I do not know which ones. You see, in the army, as in no other place, males do lie so much about women in their stories. (Well, maybe a similar sort of fantasy you can listen to on fishing and hunting tours). So, if to take into a consideration that many of us had not lost virginity in a sexual sense yet, then it will be understandable, why we lied. We dreamt up and clumsily fantasized about women and love. It was a paradox of war: we could kill a life, but we did not know how to create a new one.

— Here we go again! — Vitek weakly waved his hand.

Married soldiers amongst the conscripts were the minority and they were constantly teased by their fellow soldiers. No single day could pass without teasing these mates, in one form or another, on a subject of marital fidelity of their second half. Even a helmet of a married solder could be drilled for the horns, because according to the Russian proverb, they will grow after a wife committed adultery.

But Vitek was the real paratrooper: he never gave into any difficulties. Very quickly he learn a peculiar way how to defeat the teasers. Taking out from his pocket the photo of his wife, dressed in a bathing suit, he usually was saying:” If you, my dear friend, cannot do without a woman, you can jerk yourself. This photo will help you”.

Immediately, the dirty mouths did shut up… until the next time.

Vitek received regularly letters from his wife, but what was written in them he did not share with us.

At the time of my story, I remember well, Vitek’s famous counter attack for halting teasers did not occur on this occasion, because a brigade headquarter messenger rushed to us and interrupted with news.

— Vitek! You are summoned up to the quarters, — after delivering this order, the messenger ran away.

Being called to the brigade headquarters meant only one thing — a soldier was in trouble. Immediately Vitek recalled how recently a staff officer caught him with a bottle of vodka and demanded he surrender the bottle. Vitek vividly recalled how he sent this officer very far and deep in the area of a female reproductive organ driven by an unstoppable desire to get more vodka. Of course, after this swearing, Vitek took off without identifying himself, but who knows… maybe his name was identified?

— So he found me, bastard, — Vitek started swearing, — now he will eat my brains alive….

We deeply sympathized with him; no funny comments were dropped from our tongues. So, heavy-heartedly Vitek dragged his feet down to the headquarters.

In no time, Vitek returned from the headquarters, smiling and radiating with joy.

— Guess what? — Vitek was glowing as a litre of vodka had been presented to him, — if you guess, I will shout you booze.

— A medal for the last combat operation was awarded to you! — I started the guessing game.

— You missed!

— Instead of the medal, they promoted you to a higher rank! — Forelock (the Ukrainian) picked up the game.

— You missed!

— Your son or daughter was born! — I assumed.

— What are you talking about? I already have been in the army for a year and did not see my wife, — Vitek victoriously looked over us.

— I give up, — I put hands up, Forelock (the Ukrainian) silently repeated my gesture.

— I’M GOING ON VACATION! I AM GOING HOME! — Vitek shouted.

We were speechless from this happiness which had fallen on him.

In the Soviet army, a vacation for a regular soldier was an extremely rare occasion: it was given only as a promotion, or (heaven forbid!) if a bad accident occurred back at home. And this vacation should be certified by a telegram signed by a Conscription Office. In Afghanistan, our brigade was not awarded with any vacations as well as with any promotion at all. It was easier to get a medal for bravery rather than a vacation.

Vitek took his wife’s photo and began to kiss the photo repeating:

— My dear! I love you so much!

— I think, the Minister of Defense or the army’s commander must have received a big favor from your wife, if you have got the vacation, — commented maliciously Forelock (the Ukrainian).

— She did better! Much better! — Vitek exclaimed, — She is divorcing me! This telegram was certified by the court and they called me for my case hearing! The Conscription office had no choice as to sign!

In confusion we did not know what to say.

— Are you do not care? — I asked timidly, — don’t you love her anymore?

— I love her, — Vitek said confidently, — I do love her very much, and after this telegram I just adore her!

In that time, such oddities in the relationships that occurred between men and women were a novelty for us. We fell silent.

— She is a great woman, beautiful and clever, she is great in bed, — Vitek was calculating pro and cons loudly, — but I have no doubt that I will find another woman at home, but the vacation I could have only in a case of divorce, — Vitek kissed his wife’s photo and added, — you are such a good girl!

Many years later, after getting a law degree, I realized that it was compulsory to call a defendant to the Civil court, if the court knew where a defendant was. Of course, a consideration of the marriage dissolution procedure was also possible without a defendant’s participation. To do so, it was enough to just send a telegram, certified by a brigade commander, in which it should be stated that a defendant agreed with this claims for divorce and the case would be proceeded without the presence of Vitek in a courtroom. But lets be honest, have you ever seen any paratrooper officer who knew the Civil Laws of Russian Federation?

Driven by personal sympathy to Vitek, our brigade commander issued a vacation certificate and all necessary travel documents for him. The commander of our battalion received a strict order to look after this distressed soldier, to prevent him he doing any stupid things due to not coping with the distress. To make sure that Vitek will cope with this “distressful situation”, the company commander, a married man, shared his personal vodka with him and did a good deal of bad mouthing towards the unfaithful wife of Vitek. To say the truth, Vitek received more attention and care from the commander before his departure, then any of us ever did.

For Vitek’s farewell, we all gathered together. He looked shiny as a new cent in his best ceremonial uniform and new chrome boots given to him by the commander. A blue beret, a new white-blue striped marine singlet, a full set of awards (the Guard, the Excellence of the Soviet army, First Class Specialist, the Excellent Parachutist, the Best soldier-athlete), an aiguillette, and with his waist tied by a white ceremonial leather belt — all of these demonstrated his bravery. A medal “For Bravery”, borrowed from a soldier nicknamed Fly (what can you do, if, at that time, only Fly was awarded with a such precious medal?) only enhanced this impression.

We scrapped up money for his vacation… and Vitek, such a handsome brave Soviet soldier, took off to home, representing an eagle-paratrooper, hero-internationalist, well, no less as an iconic reprint of the Soviet army.

In a month-or-something Vitek returned back. According to military traditions, he brought us samogon (homemade brew), hidden inside of quite a few hot-water rubber bottles. Coming from his town, bordering Ukraine, Vitek presented to us homemade salo (a traditional Ukrainian type of bacon). Vodka, together with homemade sausages, was also presented to “father”-commanders. How he brought it across all borders — he kept silent. Despite being late from his vacation by two weeks, Vitek did not get any penalty.

— Okay, — Vitek started telling us his story — I am standing in my parade uniform in the court, the medal shines on my chest, and my wife came to the Court together with her new big-nosed Caucasian boyfriend whose entire body was covered with gold. I did good job to press my lips together to stop laughing and to keep my stone-face with no emotion. With my honest red eyes — red from non-stop celebration because a day prior the court we drank a lot, — I answered all questions. The judge was an elderly woman, who knew Second World War disasters; she looked at me and pitifully sighed. She announced the court decision in the name of the Soviet Union, to divorce us to hell, and then she asked us to hold on for a moment. We waited…and then the judge began swearing to my now ex-wife, telling her, in foul language: how bad a wife she was, and while I was defending the Motherland, she was turning hanky-panky here, and she should not have any respect from our society of Soviet people. I was sadly nodding with my head. It was a circus for free! And then in order not to spoil this performance, I ran out having no strength to control my laughing.

At the exit of the court, my mates were already waiting for me with more vodka. Our town is small and everyone knows each other. All ex-paratroopers gathered together as we all do on the 2nd of August (A National Day of Army Special Forces celebration — Editor). We drank first and then we went to our local market where we had great fun bashing Caucasians. How we beat them! How their goods from shops flew away in all directions! The Police turned blind eyes, see nothing, hear nothing. Yep, it was a great time! But then my mates decided to punish my wife, the traitor, and to dirty her with a tar and to carry around the town, I disagreed. I said to my fighting brothers: “What for? God will judge her. As for me, I forgave her”. The mates were surprised with my Christian attitude, but obeyed.

Vitek stopped telling the story, propped up his violent head with his hand and became thoughtful. Such a pose vividly reminded me of Gerzen’s novel “The past and thoughts” (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor).

Although, I was sure that, due to an unsettling type of personality, Vitek did not read this book written by Gerzen, neither have heard of this name.

— So what was happening next?

— Next! You could believe or not, mates, but on the 10th day after the divorce I got married (Author’s comment: any decision of the Civil court, including divorce, comes into force after ten days). We registered our marriage at the Civic office of marriage registration with no waiting time. The whole town was celebrating our wedding. Have a look the picture.

I took the photo. From the colored photo a young girl in her white wedding dress looked at me with a very nice smile. The happiness, hope and something else in her smile were so special, that it made my heart race.

— I hope, you do really love her! — I said.

— Of course! — Vitek answered without any hesitation. He took the photo and began to admire his darling. After a minute of silence, he added with a strong affection, — My dear! Maybe you will file for our divorce too? I wish to go home…for a vacation.

I became speechless. What else could I say?

In a fall of 1981, Vitek was killed during combat operation in Faizabat. We did not leave his body there.

The Voice of America

Today to listen to any “enemy’s” radio is not a crime neither an ideologically immature act. However, in the early eighties of the twentieth century, the “enemy’s voices” had been oppressed as much as possible, so the amateurs must listen to them in complete secrecy and conspiracy. I like listening to these “enemy’s” voices, not because of their music or the high political consciousness and ideology, but simply due to my indifference to them. Once upon time, the Russian section of the radio station “Voice of America”, spoke about me, incognito, of course. My name, as well as the names of my comrades serving in the same brigade, were not vocalized, so we were simply named “Russian commandos”.

The tactic of our battalion was very simple at that time: directed by the army intelligence, we were “combing” villages, lying in ambush. Quite often jumping from helicopters, we had to block entrances and exits of the mountain gorges, while motorized infantry or units of the Afghan army caught mujahedeens (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) in the lowlands. Sometimes we were successful, sometimes not. As the saying stated — “it cannot be perfect every time”. Well, I am not going to reveal all tactics of the Soviet paratroops. My story is about the radio station “Voice of America”, the Second Company, and army jokes.

As usual we landed from helicopters into the mountains, it was a habitual routine. We quickly blocked the exit and entrance of a gorge and equipped our positions for firing from a prone position by digging trenches. We camouflaged the trenches and reinforced our cover with stones. The commanders estimated the outcomes of the enemy’s possible actions, and in the case of an attack, divided soldiers accordingly into firing sector groups, and the paratroops were ready for a battle. Nothing special, everything was in line with so-called “military routines”. After arranging these temporary firing points, four volunteers went on a scouting mission.

Just do not get the wrong idea that we were eager to demonstrate our bravery by searching for mujahedeens. No! We simply were looking for anything or something to eat.

Our provisions were disgusting. At our military unit, the battalion’s kitchen offered the following daily menu: a watery soup with dried potatoes and chunks of boiled fat; a porridge with vegetable oil; and compote from dried worm-eaten fruits, which we named “a meat broth”, as it was full of boiled worms. When we were “in action”, a travel ration of food includes canned fish with an expired date; a package of crackers, and that was it. Canned food rations were calculated at 200 grams per day per head. When we very modestly tried to tell the deputy brigade commander that we wanted to eat, he opened his arms and replied with the saying: “A paratrooper, like a hungry wolf should be hunting all day long: your feet are your supply”. So, you will not be surprised to learn that in the military operation, we were like a pack of hungry wolves. Our combat force officers, who ate a little better than we did, turned a blind eye on food looting and in return, they received their share. You certainly can condemn us, but you cannot blame us. We just wanted to eat!

So, we — four secret service agents-looters — are coming to the mountains and valleys, for hunting. Eventually, we found a large field, full of melons — gorgeous, juicy, sweet, savory melons. But as experienced soldiers, at first, we observed the area for any potential military action, to be sure not to be running into the real enemy and get a good portion of lead instead of melons. There had been, you know, some precedents before and, we learnt our lessons. We did not find any insidious mujahedeen, except an old man who was guarding this field. We did not consider him to be an enemy. We waved hello to the grandpa and began our first round of eating, then started gathering the melons into a ground sheet. The grandpa expressed his presence in a voice and we waved back to him. After this, we did not pay any attention to him. We picked up all melons in the ground sheet and we were ready to depart back home, when in the climax of our operation, we heard an unexpected gun shot… We didn’t hear the rumble of the gunfire, but the shot whizzed dangerously close.

Together we formed a chain and grabbed our weapons to repel the attack. We looked at the grandpa, who was trying to recharge his old smooth-bore, single-trigger gun. We rushed to this bogeyman, expropriated his gun, but what to do next with him, we had no idea.

No matter what kind of gossip is going about us, no matter who are telling this gossip, I can assure — we never touched women, children or the elderly. So, we were standing and looking at the grandpa and did not know whether to laugh or to cry, we could not shoot him, or to punish the old man. The man was ashamed, he was not able to understand our words. But, on the other hand, he was able to kill us with that gun. We took his gun, and showed a fist to him. He did not get scared and shook his two fists back to us.

For a whole week, whilst blocking the gorge, solders were continuously consuming melons growing on this field. At night paratroopers-eagles descended to the village to steal hens as well.

Although mujahedeens were not detected, villagers came to our commander with a complaint regarding our actions ; the familiar grandpa was a member of that delegation. By pointing at me with his dirty finger, he confidently identified me — here is the criminal! Of course, the commander promised to follow up with a decent punishment, forgetting that he himself enjoyed these melons and roasted chicken.

We apologized to the civilians (such things did happen), the grandpa’s ancient antique gun was returned, and our travel ration was presented to Afghans as compensation for their inconvenience and moral damage. They accepted it with gratitude.

I would forget about this ordinary case, but, in a day after our return, my buddy from a signal support company ran into our tent.

— Hey, you! Russian commandos! “Occupant”! Come to our tent at 8 PM. — he invited me through laughter.

— What for?

— You will listen to the news. It will be repeated at 8. Come and you will not regret it.

The subdivision’s signal company had powerful radio transmission facilities, which were used by our signal operators for entertainment in any possible way. Good music was transmitted by “Voice of America”, for the “corrupted” Soviet young souls before and after the news. This is why guys were sometimes listening to this station.

At 8 pm I was in the van of the signal company. The radio transmitter was on and after the music, the news started. In his Russian with a tiny hint of an English-speaking accent, the announcer vividly described the amenities and pleasures of the “free world”, the human rights abuse in USSR (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), and, in the end, commented on a current situation in Afghanistan. Further, I present the message below, as I recalled, with little notes and comments in the course of the text.

“Self-Defense units in the village of the province of **** **** Afghanistan ****…” — Hm, it is definitely about us: the name of the place and time coincided. — “put up a fierce resistance to Russian Army’s force”. — Ha! The announcer is telling of the incident with an old grandpa and his shot from his ancient gun. — “Despite the overwhelming superiority in numbers and weapons, the Soviet occupants were unable to defeat the brave patriots of Afghanistan. In such a situation…” — and here some dramatic tones were added by the news reader to his voice — “…Russian commandos used a bacteriological weapon against the civilian population”. — You bet! The canned “Pollock-in-oil” with an expired date could easily be passed as a bacteriological weapon. — “Residents of the village *** suffered a terrible disease.” — Do not worry! After eating this canned fish, we also suffered from diarrhea; in three days the civilians will be all right. — “Volunteers from the Red Cross…” — During my entire military service I never saw any volunteer — “…provided necessary medical care to the people. This can prove again that…”

Rolling thunder of laughter did not give us a chance to listen to the end of the news, so I never found out what it proves…

— They are something! — said my mate after finishing his laughing. They can cook up such outstanding lies, but somebody will bite at it as the truth.

— It is a pity that our superiors did not hear this news. — I sadly said, — Apparently our food nutrition is considered to be a biological weapon to other people.

It was unclear, whether our officers have heard this program or it was just a coincidence, but we were given canned buckwheat porridge with meat after this program — quite decent food — and we no longer shared our travel rations with the Afghanis.

Thank you, “Voice of America”! Thank you for improving food nutrition for the Soviet “invaders”!

Thank you, “Voice of America”! Nowadays, as soon as I heard the beginning of your program, I start laughing and recall the melon field, the old grandpa, “the fatal shot”, and tins of “Pollock-in-oil”.

Thank you, “Voice of America”! Thank you for helping me to understand at my young age that your “free world” lied just brazenly and shamelessly, as the Soviet Union did.