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

Logbook N 57-22-10 ^{(The Novel in Chapters)}

This is a story of the life and incredible adventures of Senior Lieutenant F., a flight engineer-gunner of the helicopter MI-8, who together with his friends completed ten months of his air force military service in Afghanistan during 1985–87, written by himself.

As an epigraph to this story, a description of several aerial photos were downloaded from the Internet and will be provided below.

In front of me, there are two photos taken by Americans in 2001 during the operation of American troops in Afghanistan. The first photo is titled “Shindand airfield: prior the strike” and the second one — “Shindand airfield: after the strike”. White arrows indicate numerous holes that are visible in runways and taxiways. The Shindand airfield was heavily bombed in order to destroy one of the many bases of Taliban.

Also a few other photos on the same topic were offered by virtual space, which provided a picture of an American “Hercules”. Now they stand on the ground where Russian ILs and ANs (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) were once parked. You can see Americans pilots with bespectacled helmets, are dragging boxes, definitely containing toilet papers, along concrete slabs of my runway. The dust raised by these American “Apaches” is the very same dust which was ingrained forever in a collar of my jacket…

I can see no flies — portable bio toilets are erected everywhere…

It cannot be right. I think it is the wrong time — sorry, gentleman!

…Looking at the photo “Prior the strike”, I can recognize my airfield. It is a surprising and, at the same time, strange feeling to observe the past from a present image. The photo gives overview from the above and it makes an impression that nothing changed there.

I see the runway from where we took off and landed hundreds of times. I remember hot waves of an unbearable heat with a floating mirage of Eastern mountains.

I see a TECH platform, two hangars, and a narrow path, directing you to a parking lot, and a ground in-printed square mark that used to be our squadron house.

I see the parking lot and all others helicopter pads — among them is mine as well, but there is no board No.10 on it. It means that the board now is on duty in the air. And I am inside of it. And we are landing. A vivid infinity of my memory enhanced by a low quality picture.

Otherwise, how can I explain why I see every detail on these photos much more clearly.

The alley of residential mobile houses and pedestrian pathways are covered by broken bricks. I can see the central square with a Lenin bust in the middle, the courtyard of our headquarters with a small fountain, the diner hangar, the banya, (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), and our swimming pool under the ragged camouflage net…

I see it all — figures of pilots and technicians, departing and landing helicopters, dust-busting oil tracks, landing fighter-bombers with a rainbow of colored parachutes at their tails, and above all of these I can see rusty-color mountains, blue sky, and white sun…

Nothing there has changed over these years, everything there is the same.

It means that I am at home again.

It was a day of the winter’s solstice of 1986. They arrived from Chirchik (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) at the Tuzel airport in Tashkent on Mi-26. This model of aircraft was just recently adopted for military service. They routinely filled out custom declarations — “Do you have gold, guns, drugs?”, and proceeded for boarding to a “humpbacked” IL-76, which in one in an hour or so will fall from a stranger’s sky, coming down almost vertically with uncertainty to its passengers: whether it was just a rattling in their ears, or it was a noise from a huge aircraft fuselage, unable to withstand such compression and therefore was almost ready to fall apart.

Stretching out his neck, the flight engineer F. looked in the tiny window and saw how sugary sparkling pinnacles were floating under the sun. Nevertheless, the IL-76 did manage to land, and after turning engines off, and at an unbelievably slow speed, the ramp has opened. The daylight was so dazzlingly bright that new arrivals, standing with their suitcases and bags, must raise their hands to cover their squinted eyes.

They were met by a crowd of men tanned nearly to a black color, who were looking at the newly arrived rotation, with a mixture of delight and tender feelings. I think, even beloved women could not see so much love as was poured from the men’s eyes. The newcomers stepped down onto a sunny concrete, adding their milky-whites faces to the coffee-black colored crowd.

Above the stationary Ill-76, in the sky, two scampering MI-24s kept falling down and lifting up again and again with a howling roar, trying to protect this multicolored crowd; and the sound of iron “crocodiles,” frolicking over the stationary Ill, was a song of happiness.

The flight engineer F. looked around. He was standing in the middle of a huge endless crater-looking field. Its flat bottom was surrounded by rocky mountains with some breaking points at the north and south of this valley. The runaway was stretching in both these directions too. The scenery was colored in red and yellow, however, it was not a Martian one. Being an amateur astronomer, the flight engineer F. knew that such sceneries could be found under the Mercury sun only.

Newly arrived pilots were placed in tents; while a squadron of old pilots were occupied in so-called “modules” — prefabricated shield barracks: before returning to the Union (the short version of the U.S.S.R. — Editor), they should wait for a couple of days till “Hunchback” (IL-76) will arrive.

At night, everything was rumbling and trembling in the direction where the mountains were bombed by heavy artillery. Every night shells and cartridges, with rustling sounds, were flying above the tents. Howling and chattering flocks of the BM-21 “Grad” were flying over our heads with a sound that closely can be described as flushing water in a gigantic toilet. In the beginning, nobody could sleep. But a week later, nobody woke up, even, when their plywood walls were attacked by acoustic sledgehammers of artillery so hard, that all alarm clocks and shaving kits kept falling down from the shelves.

On December 23, in the morning, Lieutenant F. and Lieutenant Mukhametshin received Board No.10 (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor). The previous pilot of Board No.10 was constantly smiling, kept opening and closing hoods, running in circles, kicking pneumatics and slapping his hand on the glazing. Eventually he shook hands with two lieutenants, and with words “Do not worry, this machine is good and strong as a bull”, he rushed off from the parking lot without looking back.

After lunch, the flight engineer F. (who got his first turn to fly and went for an inspection of the newly received board) was approached by two pilots in bleached jumpsuits. It was obvious that due to celebration of their replacement, these two had a big hangover, more likely they did not even get sleep at all.

— Where is Andryusha? — the older aviator asked the flight engineer. — Has he already been replaced?

The flight engineer nodded, hoping that without Andryuha, these two will go away.

— Well, bro, then we will fly with you — the older aviator sighed, and both pilots, with a great effort, proceeded climbing towards the pilot’s seats.

Being the first day on duty and understanding nothing (are there warning signs here?!), the flight engineer F. followed them; still he could not comprehend what was going on. In his understanding, the newcomers should have received training before any military actions, or, at least, have some familiarization with a map of the area and local habitants. It was expected that training flights with an instructor over the airfield should be completed first, then the distances of flights should gradually increase, and only after a month, once mastering their flights and overcome any fear, they can be given a military task…However, the engine started up, and in the impenetrable yellow dust, the airplane drove to the field, revved the engine and lifted off.

— Get the machine gun ready, my friend, — the commander said. — Let us climb to the maximum height, and then you can sit back. We need the maximum, then “Stinger” cannot get us. Thank God, this is our last flight and it will be the end of my duty. After this trip, the fun will be all yours.

We reached the maximum height with enormous difficulties.

— Rotten machine… — the commander grimaced.

Wearing a parachute and getting ready his machine gun, the flight engineer observes gray-yellow fields on the ground below. At this place, the horizon was not wearing a blue color like at home, rather it was hazy yellowish.

— If you see a sparkle at the bottom — you report immediately, see a flash — report, a trail of smoke — it means shooting, you do report at once. If you have spotted a blink of sunlight-it means an airplane’s window reflection of light, you report — the commander kept muttering endless surviving instructions.

We reached 3,500 meters.

— “Dust”, I am 314, — the commander reported. — we are coming out of the protected area, and seeking your permission to proceed with the task. Roger!

— Go-ahead, 314! — “Dust” replied.

The flight engineer switched the trigger on his firearm. Now they were flying to the north, climbing almost in a straight line.

— There is no need for a machine gun here, — the commander said. — Return to your seat.

The flight engineer F. tried to move away from the machine gun but it was so difficult to turn around because, his pectoral parachute clung to the machine gun. The flight engineer knew if a parachute ring will hook onto his machine gun, the parachute will open in the cabin and it will not be a pleasant situation for anyone. He sat back and lifted his right leg but instead of putting his leg on the floor… he accidently stepped on the “step-gas” pedal. The handle jerked down, an angle of blades dropped, and the helicopter suddenly began falling.

Although the commander kept pressing his step-gas, he was not able to quickly enough react to this surprise attack from the blind leg of his flight engineer. Indeed, his hangover played its role.

— Fuck… — the commander said motionlessly. — Take off the leg, brother, it is hard enough…

A sudden lightness in their bodies indicated that they were falling.

The flight engineer F., whose whole body was twisted from fear, flopped down on his folding seat. The commander pressed the gas and the shaking helicopter began climbing up.

For a while we were silent, lighting up cigarettes.

— Anyway, I do envy a flight engineer — the right pilot broke the silence and looked at the commander. — He has two seats. If he wishes he could sit here where he is now, or there, near a machinegun.

— But on other hand, — the commander picked up a line of the conversation — if a flight engineer sits in the place where he is now, in a situation of rapid descending, he will be pinned to the helicopter ceiling with the gear, located just under his seat. If he is sitting behind a machine gun — like on the balcony — he is an open target for enemy’s bullets.

— That is right — readily agreed the right pilot. — And if a stupid eagle will fly directly into a windshield, a flight engineer will end up with fractured ribs in the cargo cabin. In case of evacuation from the helicopter, we will be ejected through the exit but a flight engineer should wait his turn or be looking for the door.

— In any case, he does not have time — the commander nodded. — Maybe that is why casualties among flight engineering staff are much higher than in any other categories of aircraft crew…

— That’s all, it is enough, commander — the flight engineer F. said. — Lets stop, I am off here.

It is very early in the morning. Our hope to halt the fire from both sides have melted like lime and eventually disappeared in smoke. We ended up in the same damning military situation as it was before.

This is why when the sun just became visible over the tops of eastern mountains, the crew of the Board No.10 (see “Terminology and Glosssary” — Editor) is already at their workplace. Being awaken as early as at half past three and eaten a solid breakfast, when the sun rays directly struck his face, it became even more inconvenient. Pilots lowered optical filters and exposed to full sun, the flight engineer F. was left alone with the dazzling light… It is so hot! He closes his eyes and sees his jumpsuit, which he washed in a thermos last night. Hot steam eats away his eyes…

Awakened by his own machine gun, the flight engineer F. pulled up his hands. He realized whilst he felt asleep, his elbow accidently pressed the trigger of the machine gun directed ahead of him. Just straight in front of him, only few inches to the left, was sitting his comrade, the leading pilot. The flight engineer anxiously looked for any consequences of such accidental shooting but it seems there was none.

— What are you firing for? — the commander asked, not realizing that the engineer has simply fallen asleep. — Have you seen someone?

— No, just checking my machine gun, — the flight engineer replied immediately.

— Be careful, do not kill the leading pilot…

— Everything is under control, the commander!

Two people walk on an elevated bank of the river that obediently follows her riverbed curves. On the right side of the bank, there is a road, which is very close to the river. The flight engineer F. sees it from his position inside of a helicopter behind a machine gun. From time to time, he is looking at the water that seems to be flying under his feet. Suddenly, an idea came to his head. Bending over the seat, he picked up his camera FED from the parachutes that were piled on the lower glass as a protection against bullets. Having an inclination for conducting a natural experiment, the flight engineer has come up with the idea to capture the image of fire from his machine gun over the water.

With his right hand he raises the camera to his eyes, and, at the same time, he held by his left hand the left knob of the machine gun with a large finger on the trigger. This trick is very complex. Whilst he looks through the FED viewfinder, with his right hand he also needs to control a barrel of his machine gun: his left hand should hold the barrel in such a way that bullets should rip the water in a long line a distance from the nose of the machine. Whilst this will be happening, his right hand should click the camera to capture a series of fountains below.

The flight engineer F. for some time tried to coordinate both hands, the camera and his machine gun, attempting to adjust to vibration of the flight. When the moment was right, he pressed the trigger of machine gun, led the barrel from bottom to top and to the right (remembering that he should leading to the left) — and clicked the trigger on his camera.

When he stopped shooting and lowered the camera, he spotted a herd of sheep running in panic in all directions, and among them a shepherd with his hands up kneeling on the road.

“Damn! — the flight engineer mumbled. — Now I will be in trouble!”

— Well done, kid, you did well!! — the commander praised him. — You should be first. Keep them in fear, otherwise they will launch a grenade into your tail…

The Yalanis steppe near Herat… The pair of “Eights” (see “Terminology and Glossary”) is back from the job, finishing the blocking of several entrances to karez (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), which goes to the Herat airfield. Dragging a heavy load, the military cars slowly crawled alongside of the karez, looking to the place where they can send their mortal massages.

Suddenly, the fox, not the usual red color, but pale with black patches, crossed the road.

— Wow! Look, look, — the commander yells, pointing with his finger towards the wild animal. — Silver Fox! Get him! Get this chaw-bacon! What a great fur it will be!

The flight engineer F. fired from the machine gun towards the running fox. The deadly weapon of the helicopter chases the fox tail which was winding like a snake. The engineer pitied this fox. He understands that nothing will be left when bullets of the caliber 7.62 will reach the fox. There will be no animal, nor a useful skin because it will be full of numerous holes. This is why he is hammering bullets a little bit long or little bit short, avoiding a direct contact with the animal.

— What is wrong with, you?! Why you cannot get it! — Commander angrily roared.

Pushing away a blister, the flight engineer F. aimed to shoot at the animal, but the fox suddenly disappeared — it simply dissolves into the rocks.

— Damn! — the commander says. — I placed this fox on a silver platter plate and served it to you… your business was to end it. And you… muffed it…

— I pitied the fox, — the engineer confesses.

— Come on! Just admit that you are just a shitty shooter.

The flight engineer F engineer was resentfully silent. He takes a cigarette and lights it up. The helicopter started to speed up. Holding the cigarette with his left hand, he rested his elbow on the left knee. The flight engineer F. keeps smoking, His right hand fingers kept irritably knocking on the top of the machine gun. With no warning, a little sparrow zigzagged in the air right ahead of him.

“Watch it!” — the flight engineer F. angrily muttered and effortlessly pressed a trigger, without moving any muscles. A doubled sound of one shot — and… a feather bloody splatter glued to the windshield!

Surprised by his own result, the flight engineer F. keeps smoking in the same position. “There is a God!” — he admits. Two stunned pilots have been keeping silent for some time. After this long pause, the commander unzipped his lips:

— I got it… Please, accept my apologies!

February 12, 1987. At midday, the letters were delivered by two soldiers, who brought the mail on the way from Turagundey.

A flight engineer F. tidied his bed and was ready go to get lunch. But whilst he was closing a door, he spotted a fast approaching cloud of dust far away that moved towards his quarters from a compact duty house. In a second, the cloud took the shape of squadron engineer — major Ivanov. Waving his hand, major Ivanov was shouting something. Swearing to himself, the flight engineer F. walked towards the unexpected guest.

— The Head of Air squadron has been sacked! — heavily catching his breath, the major cracked the news.

— For what? — the flight engineer F. asked trying to guess the cause of this news.

— Do not be stupid — the major exploded. — “What do you mean what for? or why!? Because it is all bullshit, that is why! He was knocked down! In the area of Dilarama the column got involved in an ambush and the commander flew to the rescue of them. He did well with mujahedeens (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor). But when he started landing to pick up the wounded ones, his helicopter’s bottom was sliced up. The fuel tap and tail rotor thrust were also severely damaged. He crashed somewhere near the enemy camp. As usual, the second helicopter, “the leader”, landed to collect them all, but mujaheeens attacked both of them from the hill. Regardless of the severity of the attacks, the commander had a chance to fly away, with only one supplying tank, to Farahrudskoy Point. Over there, he is now coordinating the fire and, I bet, he will be awarded no less than the “Banner swung”, and may receive the “Hero” title (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor). Of course, if he will not be shot down beforehand (God forbid!). Now he is asking for help, just give him a few more guys to collect the wounded ones. Listen, — the major directed the question to me, — is your board ready?

In five minutes, a tandem of two No.10 and No.92 were flying towards the southeast, in the direction of Dilaramu. We reached the pinnacle in no time, and without descending, flew over Daulatabad.

— “What, the hell, the riot police division sits there doing nothing, why are they not helping? It is only two minutes of flying from them…” — the commander said without hiding his anger.

We passed the ridge and approached a road-crossing with bridges over the Farah River. Between the bridges, our column got jammed and kept firing back at the pursuing enemy. We spotted the battlefield by the black smoke of a burning helicopter. We reduced our altitude to three hundred, established a radio-contact with the column, and the situation became clear: our guys and their enemy were located across from each other, on the opposite sides of the road.

— While I will target the left, you do work on the right! Do it hard: we should not see their muzzles! — the commander ordered.

The flight engineer F. opened fire on the right side of the road, blurred by smoke, the enemies, swarmed into the thick dust and became almost invisible. Curved trails of a shower of bullets went down and were lost in fumes. It was not possible to see whether or not they reached their targets.

— “Air”, you have been targeted! — a warning came from the column.

— I confirm! — the commander’s voice dropped down. — Let’s do manoeuvrings!

— The right one is in full gear! — the commander order directed the helicopter into the sky, towards the sun.

From both helicopters, the bullets went down like water from cracked barrels, then both of them turned around, simultaneously working out mujahidin positions. The explosions, like a blanket of black tulips, have covered an entire right side of the road. The flight engineer kept firing into the smoke until his bullets finished.

— What the hell? — the commander suddenly asked, fidgeting knees. — Pedals are stuck! Eventually, they got us — the machine is damaged. What a death trap we caught!

The flight engineer F., who was trying to fix the receiver for a new bullet line, looked down on the helicopters’ floor. There were at least two hundred bullets that had slipped from the output socket. Most of them were hiding behind the parachutes, but a couple of them fell under the commander’s legs, and a very special one ended up under the right pedal and, therefore, jammed it.

— Give me a sec, commander — the flight engineer F. said. He bends over, stretched out his hand trying to reach this bullet and release the pedal, but the bullet was stuck to the pedal like glue.

— Move your leg! — the flight engineer F.pushed with his fist the commander’s leg. The commander pulled out his leg from the right boot. The flight engineer F.pulled out the trouble causing bullet, swept away a few more bullets with his sleeve from the floor and ordered. — Push on the gas pedal!

— Well done, thank you, God! — the commander sighed. — Lets fly, darling!

We started descending and landed on the left side near a hill. Over the hill the noise of thunder and bombing continued. We loaded the dead and wounded ones. When the loading was finished, the soldier, who was helping to carry the bodies into the helicopter, sat on the bench, and grabbed his hair with his fingers covered by blood and dirt.

— Have you been wounded, brother? — the flight engineer F. looked at the face of the soldier. But the soldier said nothing, looking straight ahead with empty eyes. A sweaty sergeant popped in and shook the soldier:

— What has happened, Serge?

He lightly slapped the soldier’s face.

— Hey, run to your comrades, — he said.

The soldier, coming to his senses, jumped and ran away.

— Thank you very much! — the sergeant shook hands with the flight engineer.

From the cockpit, the commander commented:

— God bless you, guys, but the “whistles” will be here in a minute and they do have a bad habit of wiping out everything around. Let’s hit the road, so we do not get in their way. We will be back later.

We took off at a low altitude and headed north, hiding behind the hill. Jumped over the ridge, and we landed on the point near Daulatabad where GRU (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) was based. We took two more wounded and returned home.

The “whistles” were striking from the top like lightning.

— Hello, “vertical!” (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor).

— Keep yourself busy, doves of the peace! — the commander kindly replied. In a few minutes, the air was heavily filled with the sprawling congestion of roaring:

— Reset-r-ro-os…!

And the squadron commander with his calming voice from above:

— Not a bad job…

And the voice of the column echoed:

— Could not be done better.

We were almost exhausted. We reached the hospital, unloaded, and flew towards our parking lot.

The flight engineer F. stepped out of the helicopter and noted that it is evening. Everything around — the parking lot and the helicopters — were in red from the setting sun that send down these mysterious, almost endless, shadows…

He met Lieutenant Mukhametshin who was holding a gun together with a protective helmet in his hand and was curious why the flight engineer F. is still here so late because he was told to replace him. Now he is waiting for the another crew to fly back.

— No need, — the flight engineer F. said — I am in good shape. I feel great, more than ever…

Strangely, he felt a strong excitement; after all of this, he wanted to go back!

He nervously lit up the cigarette and, pacing back and forward on the parking lot, was telling all details of his flight to Lieutenant Mukhametshin.

— This time it is better to go much lower to see if anyone is left there. But firing with machine gun will be risky — it is too far and no damn clear thing to see. Also we can strike our guys.

The engineer-mechanic came to check the machine:

— Have you any holes? Good. Few more trips with this machine will do. Fill the petrol to the maximum, cover this machine and then you can go for dinner.

And he ran away.

What a relief! We filled to full capacity including two additional tanks. But before flight engineer F. was able to take off his gun, the commander, the Major Bozhko, with Senior Lieutenant Shevchenko, approached the helicopter.

— How much petrol did you put in?

— Up to the maximum, as the engineer — mechanic ordered. He said — another crew will fly.

— He is an asshole, — Bozhko spat. — We have no other crew! It is getting dark and we need to fly at high altitude. How we will do it with a full load of petrol plus wounded on the way back? Let’s hope that this machine is powerful enough to accomplish this flight. Start the engine!

And in this moment, flight engineer F., who had just relaxed a bit after the engineer-mechanic order, suddenly felt that his legs could not hold him anymore. The weakness spread over his body. The scenario of events from the previous flight quickly passed through his mind and the flight engineer F. understood that the second flight will be unbearable for him.

— You know, Felix, — he said-it turns out, I am really tired. It is your turn as you said.

— What a hell! — Lieutenant Mukhametshin (who also was hoping to get a rest) started to swear but turned back and went to start the helicopter.

The sun quickly disappeared and suddenly became dark. The tandem of helicopters took off with the safest altitude of 3500. The flight engineer F. finished his dinner, drank a prescribed half glass of vodka, came to his unit and shortly reported to comrades what has been done on the job, and then fell into bed like a log with last words “Wake me up, when they return.”

The military tandem of two helicopters are taken on a flight to Loshkarevka. On the leading board number 10 there is Division commander, the Colonel General. He is in a hurry and nervous. He periodically orders:

— Add the speed.

But the pair of helicopters are already flying up to their limit with a maximum speed. In order to get to Loshkarevka quickly, the decision was made to take a shortcut and fly away from all roads. Now there is nothing around us — harsh desert with not a single reference point. But we don’t need it — the commander goes in a straight line, strictly maintaining the course. The right pilot is absently looking forward, the flight engineer is tapping his fingers on the machine gun.

The Colonel General, who sits behind the flight engineer, pushed his shoulder and asked:

— How much longer?

“I guess, — the flight engineer F. thought — the General thinks that I am the most competent person among all of us”. He nods at the direction of the right pilot:

— Colonel General, ask the navigator.

The Colonel General pushes the shoulder of the right pilot-navigator:

— Where are we?

The navigator, caught off guard, grabbed the map and began studying it for a while, but there is nothing you can see there — it is only a desert. He looks at the map, then at the window, again back to the map. After moving his finger over the map for some time, he questionably looks at the commander.

The enraged Colonel stretched out his hand to the head of navigator and fiercely removed his headset.

— I knew it! — he says, looking at the untied navigator’s hair. — Do you think you can do combat missions with such a hairdo?

The service of heroes

This is just another day. The same people in this chapter. The Division commander, Colonel General, has arrived to Gerat. The military YAZ and BTR approached the landed aircraft. “I will be back in an hour…” — the Division commander said and took off on a military YAZ. BTR was left to guard the helicopters.

— Listen, commander, — the right pilot suggested, — I do have some friendly connections in a bread making factory here. Can I have your permission to get yeast for brewing samogon (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor).

— Will a half an hour be enough for you? — the commander looked at his watch.

— I will be back in 10 minutes! — and the right pilot-navigator left together with BTR.

…A half an hour passed, then forty minutes, then forty five…

The commander is nervously pacing back and forward near the helicopter, constantly looking at the direction of disappeared BTR with his pilot-navigator.

— If he will be back, I will kill this brat! — the commander promised to himself.

…A whole hour is gone. Fortunately, the Colonel also has been late.

Finally, the APC (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) arrived and a pilot-navigator’s dead drunk body was unloaded by soldiers.

— Maybe it will be easier to shoot myself before the Colonel arrives? — the commander asked himself, — or better to shoot this animal and report it as a casualty? What can we do with this dead body if we cannot arrange him in the sitting position?

The commander together with the flight engineer F. managed to wrap up the senseless body with tape and placed in a tiny cargo section, tying up the drunken pilot to a spare blade to make sure that this undisciplined body will be not leaving the helicopter until the end of the flight.

Only for a second, the body became the pilot-navigator and mumbled:

— O, commander! I report, their samogon (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) is really yuk! But I must test it to save you from poisoning. I feel sooo baaad!

The military car together with the Colonel came back. The commander saluted to the Colonel and reported:

— The General Colonel! Allow me to report that our pilot-navigator from the leading helicopter got sunstroke!

— This is the one without a proper hair style? I knew it! This why he got it! — with a sort of satisfaction the Colonel commented, — well, where he is? I want to look at him.

Whilst the Colonel is proceeding to the place where the body was peacefully fixed and waiting for the flight, the commander who was following him, makes all sorts of angry grimaces to his crew with the one massage — to save the situation. The crew have circled the body of the undisciplined pilot and pretended to be applying First Aid.

— Well, well, what do we have here? — the Colonel said, leaning towards the unfavourable pilot… and in this very moment the right pilot-navigator vomited all his consumed brew on the floor. The shocked Colonel tool a back step and was ready to release his anger, when the commander shouted:

— All of us immediately back! He contained krasnuha (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor).

The smell of alcohol was very distinctive, but the General, with no doubt, run towards the second helicopter and ordered:

— Start engines immediately! Your comrade needs help!

The pilot-navigator was delivered to Shindand without any troubles in his own machine. Close to the time of landing, the “leader” (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) has heard that the Colonel ordered an ambulance to the airfield landing site.

— What a warm hearted Colonel we have! — the commander commented and edited the order — Listen guys, we will wait for the ambulance in the very end of the 3rd line.

All helicopters landed. The ambulance No.10 was waiting on the very end of line 3 as they were told. Waving to the second pilot to direct their machine with the Colonel on board to the parking lot, the commander approached the doctor from the ambulance. He explained the situation. The doctor smiled and said:

— I got it. We will drive him to the medical module and then kick him out.

The commander taxied his machine to the parking lot, and went to meet the Colonel who was waiting for him to ask about the poor guy’s health:

— Has he received instant help in the hospital?

— Yes, sir.

— Your service is very important for the country. Also it is very dangerous. I would say, it is the service of heroes.

Flights to Chaghcharan, for supporting MI-6, were a complete torture for “Eights”. We had to crawl at the highest altitude, just above rocky pinnacles that were covered with snow, on which we could see not only wild goats, but also groups of armed people. A little below, in the glens, our death — the anti-aircraft DShK’s large-calibre machine-guns — were sheltered. This is why our helicopters had to drag along at the very top.

The most offensive thing was that we had no chance to take any action, even if we do noticed that we have been a target of attention from some jihad’s (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) enthusiasts. Every minute of delay consumed precious litres of fuel. The full refuelling including two additional fuel tanks allowed us to reach Chaghcharan (about 400 km) and return back without extra curriculum activity.

Now, the headwind and a non-stop fuel eating heater forced us to consider refuelling in Chaghcharan to avoid falling down into snowy mountains on the way back. The refuelling means milking the most fuel efficient helicopter. It is a manual procedure, when necessary (300–400 litres) barrels of kerosene will be carried together with pals from MI-6 by hand.

Our sufferings were compensated by pristine mountain snow. We staffed all army thermoses with this snow. So, when we return, making a Ceylon tea or “Bergamot Lipton” with this natural, non-chlorinated, water was a special treat for us.

And, of course, do not forget about huge bags of Yugoslav biscuits and sweets which were dragged into Chagcharan’ little shops and sold there at a high price as a result of peculiarities of the mountain’s market, mainly related to its inaccessibility. As a rule, these goods were not properties of pilots — all goods belong to landsmen (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), who had more opportunity to extract some army supplies for private use. Usually before a trip, landsmen approached pilots and asked them to sell the extracted leftovers at the highest price. There was even a special term for this market activity — “shmekerit” meaning by flying slang “to trade” — a complicated process, which strategies have been understood by the flight engineer F.

After his first flight of two and a half hours of shaking above the frosty rocky peaks, a constant attention to spot DShS and avoid them (last time we spotted them, turned around, but could not find them. It turned out, as we established during the next flights, that DShS points had the rolling back roof ); running back and forward with kerosene buckets. And after all of this, when you got to Duckan, where was a little boy who cheated the flight engineer F. on converting five hundred packets of sweets into currencies. A final piece of strategy was a silence during a return flight when the deep-in — thought flight engineer F. calculated the profit from this trading, holding a piece of a paper with pencil in his hands.

The flight technician was trying to estimate a percent of his earning from that dangerous flight. If one packet of sweets sold for 26 afgashek (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), there would be nothing shameful to say that he sold it for 25. But within half an hour of that flight it became obvious that 24 afgashek is a normal price too. In one hour, after they turned around from the place where they had been shot at — 20 afgashek seemed to be an acceptable price. After their landing with a residual fuel of only 50 litres left an owner of these goods came to collect his money, the flight technician F., stinking of snow and kerosene, gave him a roll, tied up with a pink elastic band, and said:

— Sold it for 17.

And, looking at the trader’s stretched face, added:

— What did you expect? You said to get a maximum, but Mi-6 had already overstocked the whole market and spoiled our market trade opportunity, you know. This is a maximum for today. I wanted to take one afoshka (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor)), for my job, but I will not, as I will be embarrassed to rob you.

1st of April, 1987. The MI-8 helicopter, accompanied by MI-24, is coming to the Iranian border, towards an area of salt lakes. Two of them, in the usual military tandem, are flying to a so-called “friendly gang” (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), carrying on board one of them a peculiar evidence of the established “friendship” — a big “Sony” TV. The leader of this group via this “friendship” had already received a diesel generator, a videotape recorder, and a set of video cassettes with Indian movies. The TV set should crown this pyramid of his prosperity. In exchange, the leader obliged by informing us about other hostile gangs, their planning and movements.

The pair of helicopters have passed Herat and turned away from a mountain ridge to the west. “Twenty-fourths” (MI-24), with a lack of fuel, as usual, which did not allow them to fly for long distances, returned back to the Herat airport,wishing us to have a good trip, and promised to meet us on the way back. “Eighths” (MI-8) have lowered the altitude to their minimum — 3 metres--and amused themselves by frightening their land-walking “colleagues” by flying over the road, passing lonely tanks and APCs (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor). Those who were sticking out of the hatches or sitting on the APCs”, firstly were hearing only roaring, when suddenly over their heads, a heavy monster, for a moment, covered the sun with kerosene wind, and displaying its brown flashing bottom, and then suddenly disappeared, kindly shaking wings with missile blocks to say good-by.

The tandem of MI-6 and MI-24 turned off the road and was flying along a dusty steppe. Eventually they arrived. The pair of helicopters has been met by a black-bearded crowd of men with guns and rifles on their shoulders. Waiting for the flight engineer F. to go down from the blades, one pilot made a remark:

— Why do they need this useless “Sony”, if they can repossess these two helicopters with six pilots? This commodity will be enough for them to their dying day.

Holding the guns, pilots stepped down on the unknown land. A long distance away, near the Iranian border, there was a lake or just a mirage, which glittered and trembled the white riverside like a white stripe. The commander saluted to the gangs’ representatives, who were standing at some distance, and then he pointed out at his board, shaping with his hands a square figure. Three Afghanis came closer with an empty TV box. The leader stepped forward — a gloomy and overweight giant in his black cape — and gestured to follow him. Accompanied by armed men, all pilots proceeded. The flight technician F. already finished his cigarette and wanted to throw the cigarette away, but he hesitated — maybe it will be offensive towards the land in the presence of its natives? — You never know how they may react. So, he put out the cigarette with his fingers and put the butt into his pocket.

The clay house with a hemispherical ceiling was cold. The pilots have been asked to sit down on the pillows, which were arranged along the bare walls. The TV set was placed in the middle of the room,. Guests and hosts took their seats. The flight engineer F. noticed a window behind his head and he thought that through this window his head could be a good target. A tough looking man was sitting on his right, and the flight engineer F. unnoticeably tightened his gun belt to his foot — just in case the “neighbour” would try to grab it. The flight engineer F. was heavily armed as all of pilots: everyone knew — here there is no chance to survive against this crowd, and, before leaving the helicopter, all pilots took a hand grenade in their pockets. Of course, being guests here was a sacred thing, but anything could happen… especially on the day of the 1st of April…

The natives brought the tea — a small metallic teapot designed to share with everybody; and special glasses — a little bit similar to our beer glasses; white and beige cubes of Turkish delights; candied nuts in the ajar shell that looked like oysters. The leader, with a stinging smile, pointed at the treat. The pilots were waiting for a while, looking around and displaying a honest interest in what was at the ceiling. They did not want to drink or eat first, because of uncertainty what could be poured in this pot. They started to sip the tea only after the leader brought the glass to his beard.

The visit was not for a long time, but quite tense. After drinking a cup of tea, pilots stood up, awkwardly pressed their hands to their chests, then bowed, and made it clear with the gesture, that there no need to show them an exit. Finally, they shook hands in turn, one after another one, and after collecting their shoes at a doorstep, slowly and deliberately walked to the helicopters. Defencelessness of their backs was palpable more than ever. Because of tea or a fear, all six of them were sweating. A few men with guns were walking slowly behind them and their gazes indeed pressured the backs of the ones who were leaving.

We got to the helicopters, trying not to be obvious, examined it, looked quietly at the bottom searching for suspended grenades, on the same subject we also examined the chassis — a comfortable place to place a grenade, so while a helicopter was taking off, the ring pulls out the pin and the machine is torn apart…

We started the engines, waved to the leader from the cabins, who anyway came out to see us leaving. He raised his hand, shielding his eyes from the sandy wind of propellers. We took off, turned around, still waiting for the shot, and flew, and flew — further, calmer, hiding behind the veil of dust… Finally we gone.

Go-o-o-ood! — The commander sighed. — One more tea-drinking ceremony like that, and my hair will be turning gray.

In a half an hour we got to the road, and asked for “MI-24” to meet us — we are coming back…

What a supporter! — the commander commented. — Do I really need them?! Where were they while we were having that awful tea-drinking?

After the MI-24 met them on the way to Herat, and took the front and the rear positions in our line, the question whether the leader presented a lamb was addressed to the commander.

— O, yep! Sure! One lamb for each of us, — the commander said. — He asked us to return the bones! — and throwing his head back, the commander laughed loudly.

At this time, from the stunted bushes, frightened by one of “MI-24”, a small flock of large — the size of a duck — birds rose in the air. That flock began to rise and reach the following “MI-8”. The flight engineer F. saw how the birds were separating in the way of fan, and managed to move away from the helicopter, flying at a speed of 230, away — but one bird did not — and flew directly under the glass cover…

The commander was still laughing, when the helicopter shook a thud. A hot wind, with splashes of grey fuzz and dust, poured onto the flight technician’s face from the bottom and filled in the cabin like someone ripped up a pillow. He looked down and saw that a bottom glass disappeared, and two parachutes were barely holding ready to jump to the flying ground.

— Damn it! — shouting, the commander straightened the gliding helicopter. — Well what are you going to do, huh?! Eventually, we met troubles! And all of these because of the “Messers”! (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor). What was that? Not a sparrow, right?

Sparrows were not only leaving the red blots of feathers on the glass after impact, but also were a cause for a seriously damaging helicopters’ foreheads. After some flights, the flight engineer F. got used to taking off the dried sparrows’ heads from the outboard motor and tanks.

— Possibly, it is a duck, — the flight engineer F. said, spitting out the feather and started re-arranging parachutes, which almost were sinking into the hole.

— Look, Frol, — the commander pleadingly looked at him, — would you make up a good story if the engineer asks what happened, huh? If they find out that I was caught by the ducks, they would accuse me of losing my flying skills. Would you make something up? You are a master of story-telling!

— I will try, — the flight engineer F., promised hesitantly thinking of what he could make up. Nothing comes to his head. Absolutely nothing! Maybe he should say that we got damaged while visited the gang? But how? Well, maybe like this: we were playing football — 302 squadron against the gang, Yep, it was a match of friendship, and a heavy self-made ball was kicked and broke the bottom glass… Maybe no, not like that — what kind the ball should it be? You can break a leg on it…

Not reaching the Herat road, the leading “MI-24” began to cut off a corner through the ruins of Herat. Everyone followed it. The duvals (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) destroyed by bombing, were flying fast under the bottoms of helicopters.

The flight engineer n F. saw a donkey tied in one yard, and became alerted. He was right — he immediately spotted two dukhs (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), who lifted their guns into his direction. A sound of shooting was left behind the helicopter’s tail.

— They are shooting, commander! Two in the ruins on the right!-the flight technician reported.

— They are hiding under a roof! — the co-pilot added, looking back.

— Hey, escort! “MI-24”, what are you looking for? For a shelter? — the commander said angrily. — We just got attacked from the duvals’ fellows, at least two of them.

— Next to a donkey, — the flight engineer added the details.

— Next to a donkey, — and the commander echoed.

“MI-24” turned around, returned back, shooting at the ruins from the outboard guns but did not see anybody, and proceeded to catch up with the pair.

We landed at the Herat airport to examine the helicopters on the subject of holes. When the flight engineer F. was rocking slightly a brake handle, he saw the flight technician Losenkov who, standing on a step-ladder, examined their board. The flight technician F. lit a cigarette and went outside. The technician Losenkov followed him:

— Are you wounded? — Losenkov looked into his face.

— Why do you think so?

— Well, you have been attacked, the glass over there has been broken; and when you landed, I saw the bag of shells hanging almost to the ground, well, and I guessed that they got you. Now I see that your face is covered with blood! Whose blood is that?

The flight engineer F. touched his face, smeared sticky drops of bird’s blood, and looked at his palm. Is it worth to confess? — he thought, — A good concatenation of circumstances! If I say that the glass had been broken by a bullet, then whose blood is that?…

— …And who knows, — he answered aloud to himself, — but not mine. Probably, it is from the enemy, whom I busted. He splashed on me, bastard! — and the flight engineer F. started laughing.

— Yeah, yeah, stop bullshitting! — Losenkov distrustfully said, looking for a hole. He stuck his head in the helicopter’s bottom and mumbled:

-Was it in or out? Where did the bullet go?

Everybody had already gathered around the helicopter. They were examining the hole, getting into the cabin, searching for a bullet on the walls. Nobody paid attention to the feathers, which was not blown to the blisters. The crew of No.10 has also been actively participating in this collective search for the bullets together with the rest of personnel, but mysteriously kept silent.

— Yeah, tell me, where’s the bullet? — Eventually the question has been directed to the commanders of the second helicopter and the leading one.

— Who knows! — the leading commander shrugged his shoulders. He also figured out that the mysterious bullet could be blamed for the broken glass. — Maybe it flew out through my blister?

The cabin was examined by voluntary ballistics specialists again and again. It was found that in this case, the bullet had a unique and complex curve: it passed via each commander’s leg and then it went up almost vertically into his blister.

— To hell with all of you! — the commander could not stand this circus any longer. — You do not get jokes or what! We kissed a flock of ducks! Today is the April First! But I ask you all to say nothing! Better examine our boards on the subject of holes rather than huddle there, looking for some unfortunate bullet…

— And what about the fire — is it not a joke?

— What is a damn joke?! They shot at us from two guns, but our valiant shelter found nobody. Or maybe you have already spoken with them? — his eyes suspiciously screwed up at “MI-24”.

— Comrade Major! — Suddenly the technician Losenkov shouted from his helicopter. — We have a hole!

They came closer. In the self-sealing rubber of the left outboard tank was a little ragged hole with a flabby dark spot around it. The technician Losenkov put a finger in it:

— Here we go, please! Now how will you get home? If pumps will work,then fuel will leak. This rubber holds nothing…

— Yes, but… — major wiped his freckled bald patch with his sleeve. We need a patch. Who will put it on? Will you call a technical team for that?

While the major was muttering, and lieutenant Losenkov, resting his hands on his hips, was proudly standing near by, the flight technician F. came to the left side. “Why is it on the left side? — he asked, examining the hole. — The right one had been fired”. He stuck his finger in the hole, the rubber was dry, rough and old. He touched the metal of the tank with his finger, probed it and made a circle under the rubber. There was no hole in the metal! This rubber hole was clearly a long-standing one, and the kerosene mark, most likely, was caused by refilling the helicopter.

— There is no hole! — the flight technician F. said.

— How come? — everybody was surprised.

— I am sure. Look here, the old rubber was broken, but the tank is undamaged. Check it yourselves.

The flight technician Losenkov stuck in his finger, felt it and blushed to the top of his ears.

— Well, — the commander sternly scolded him, — can you distinguish the hole from the “no hole” or not? You have mislead four crews and drove us mad.

…We were on the way to home. We were racing along the Herat’s highway embraced with pine trees. We were flying low, lower than some heads of pines. The co-pilot was in a low spirit because of missing two dukhs (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor). This is why he had put a submachine gun in his blister and attentively controlled the situation, although in this area such diligent attention was not necessary as it already was a zone of control of the 101st regiment.

— You know, — the flight engineer F. said, — we have missed a good opportunity. The bullet could have broken the glass barely — they were shooting us almost sideward. Slid, cracked and left. And no holes!

— And why was I not thinking about it earlier?! — the commander sighed. — We already told everyone about these ducks…

…Ahead they saw a lonely clay farm. There was a boy, running around the yard. When he spotted flying helicopters, he rushed towards them. The boy stood on the way, took a stick and, pretending to aim at us, began to “shoot”.

— Oh, you are a little brat! — The co-pilot shook his gun at him.

The boy dropped the stick, picked up a rock, swung, and waited until the helicopter would fly closely… he threw the rock at us!

Three of us in the cabin instinctively dashed aside, the commander pulled the handle, the helicopter lifted up his nose, and the rock hit the bottom with a sound like a tin can. Then the co-pilot briefly took his gun and pulled the trigger.

— Are you… at kid? — the commander shouted. — Are you insane?

— No, no, no, — the frightened co-pilot murmured. — It is happened accidentally, my finger twitched… We have already passed the boy.

— An accident!… If you will be responsible for this, the whole city will rebell.

— And what if he put us down? — the co-pilot said angrily. — You would now be rolled up in the forehead with that stone — there would be no time for fun if we would be smashed in their fields! But it would be laughable — the boy brought down the fighting helicopter with a little stone! After that, our army should retreat this country with shame. And you would be forever commemorated in historical annals of the war, as the most unlucky pilot ever, who was shot down with a stone on the Fool’s day!

— Shut up! — the gloomy commander ordered. — Gmm… historical annals… Watch the road!

We arrived at Shindand, taxied to the parking area, and the pilots went away with no desire to give any explanations of what had happened but gave this opportunity to the flight technician F. Now it was only the engineer-on-duty, who approached the plane, looked at the hole, and asked:

— What has happened?

— Year, the boy threw the stone, in some settlement near Herat with velocity, huh, like from the gun…

— Do not tell me such fool stories! Surely your commander, Kozhedubov, was shooting the goats, landed on the sand and crashed the glass. Look, how high-density polyethylene moved in different directions!

— Yes, I wish, we were shooting some goats, but where are they? And high-density polyethylene is okay. You look better, comrade major!

The engineer-on-duty took off his dark glasses, put his head in the hole, then he stretched his arm inside of the carbine and took something out. I was a gray rock in a size of an egg, which the flight technician placed there upon their arrival.

— You did not lie! Look at this! — holding the stone, the engineer Ivanov shook his head. This is indeed a weapon of the proletariat! Well, I will order patching from a tin — there is no glass at this moment.

He turned to leave, and the flight engineer F. spotted a tiny grey feather stuck in the engineer’s head. He reached up his hand and removed it unnoticeably with two fingers…

P.S.

From time to time, the flight technician F. was keeping a diary. In the evening, he took out from his bedside-table a black oilcloth notebook and briefly recorded this flight. The next day, after dinner he walked into the room, the lieutenant Mukhametshin met him spitefully, and, lying on the bed, sarcastically asked:

— So, after all, the bullet broke the glass?

— Reading somebody’s diary is not good manners! — The flight engineer F. was outraged. — And why are you worried about it? Everyone knows what happened, and I wrote about the bullet to myself! Maybe it’s a sort of stylistic device, like a hyperbole! Finally, may I fool myself on the day of April First?

The flight engineer F. had a severe pain caused by his “wisdom” tooth. The poor guy was suffering during a whole day and a whole night. He was tossing in his bed, standing up, sitting down, and jumping; he even performed push-ups to be distracted from this pain, but nothing helped.

-You drive me nuts! — annoyed lieutenant Losenkov turned to him. — I cannot sleep. Have a mug of brew and you will feel better.

Suffering from the unbearable pain, the flight engineer F. obeyed and drank it in full. The pain stopped immediately, and he fell asleep. But in twenty minutes the pain returned again and woke him up. He drank another mug. The identical chain of events occurred again and again… For the rest of the night, he drank a three-litre jar of this precious alcoholic beverage, and in the morning, he was the subject of unfavourable critical comments from this pals who shared the same room with him. But it did not matter to him. He barely could wait for the beginning of the working hours to be able to get help, and as soon as the working day officially started, he rushed to the first-aid post in hope that it was a day for a visit of a dentist. But a dentist was not there.

For God’s sake! — lieutenant Losenkov said — I visited this dentist once, a female, and she stuck a drill into my mouth and then threw cement in my mouth and asked me to chew it — that was the treatment. You would be better going to a hospital.

So, the flight engineer F. waited for a car and went to the hospital. Used to the helicopters’ speed, the distance between his quarters and the hospital seemed very far; he was surprised how long the car was dodging in lanes and alleys, passing the check-points. At one of them, the board technician was strictly asked why he left the regiment without his gun, but after they saw his face, distorted by a pain, they let him go.

In the hospital, a sleepy black-bearded doctor put a pain killer tablet on top of his tooth, switched on the music and went to the nurse. When numbness began to fade, the merry doctor came back, said OK, took the pliers and together with a crackle sound and the pain, pulled out his tooth. Holding the tooth, he looked at it with his rolling eyes and threw the tooth into a rubbish bin, then he pushed a cotton wedge into the patient’s mouth, said “this is it”, and made himself disappear again.

Drooped in the chair, the flight engineer F. then rose and crawled out. Outside he learnt that a car will be going towards his regiment only in the evening. The wound was aching and he simply could not wait by doing nothing. He needed actions to distract himself from this pain!

Navigated by the Sun, he decided to hit the road towards his regiment. Leaving the hospital behind, he was heading through dry fields. The sounds of landing and getting off planes and helicopters, gave him reassurance that he chose the right direction.

In no time, the flight engineer F. reached and was passing through several kishlaks (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) quite big ones, judging by numbers of mosques and lots of dukhans (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor). The people in the dukhans looked with a big surprise at the lonely strolling pilot in his distinctive army suit without any ammunition.

— Hey, pal! — one of them shouted towards him — What do you want? Buy or sell? Are you alone? — and looked cautiously around.

— Fat chance! — the board technician answered without slowing his stroll. — My people are marching behind me! Do not celebrate yet! — and spitted out the blood.

However, just in case, he changed streets and walked along on another, followed by a flock of little kids with their outstretched hands: “Give us a present, Russian!”, who were annoyingly shouting, jumping and making ugly faces. Behind kids, a bit in the distance, several men with beards were walking towards him. The flight engineer F. started getting nervous. The pain immediately disappeared. The sweat covered his body. Why on Earth he did not take his weapon? And why he did go this way? Why did he not want to stay in the welcoming hospital! And the airdrome was in such visible distance…

At this moment he heard a row of engine and a military KamAZ, with metallic plates instead of windscreens, turns out from the nearest corner. The board technician F. waved, and the monster stopped. The door opened, a barrel of AK-74M appeared first, and then an unshaved face came out.

— Were you knocked down? — this face asked the blood spitting man wearing a jumpsuit.

— If you do not help me, I will definitely be knocked down in a minute. — the flight engineer F. answered. — I am returning from hospital to my aerodrome. Will you give me a lift to the airdrome?

He climbed up to the cab. When the monster started his engine, the captain shook his head:

— Alone and unarmed! What a stupid thing to do! Just yesterday one warrant officer and one soldier disappeared. You, pilots, are so strange! You must have completely lost the reality of this land! Here we are completely shielded but you were promenading like on the Arbat Street! (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor).

The captain kept grumbling, the flight engineer F. kept silent, smoking and smiling. He even laughed from time to time…

April 17, 1987, Gerat. The last 5 days, the “cleaning up” operation (an anti-terrorist operation — Editor) is in full steam. Everything should be clean ad tidy before the Chief Secretary Nadgibulla will arrive.

The Gerat airdrome is located on bare ground and the military aircrafts are lined up on the right, protected from the east by the field squadron regiment — the tents, AVVs.

It is an unbearable heat. Metallic surfaces are boiling and you can touch them only with thick leather gloves. A water cart goes from helicopter to helicopter and the personnel are pouring water on their bodies and watering the helicopters’ inside and out; they lie down on wet floors wearing only underpants and enjoying the coolness. Any movement of helicopters creates a dust-storm and the dirt covers the wet metal and wet bodies. Water evaporates in five minutes, leaving only the dust and heat again.

The flight engineer F. had a lucky morning — his team has been ordered to deliver weapons to Gerat. They got to Shindant, and waited there for shipping up until noon; then had lunch, swam in a pool and after that they came back, loaded with the vaults of rockets and bombs.

From the distance it was easy to see yellow smoke clouds above the Gerat valley — meaning that it was bombed. The “screamers” (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) were slashing the sky with a threatening row. On the ground, there were no helicopters left: everyone was on duty carrying out various tasks — landing operations, bombing, hammering the enemies following the tips received from a military intelligence agency.

The landed pair of helicopters got unloaded, refueled. The board technicians were about to lock their planes and to go to a command tent for listening to the radio, when the Squadron Major commander Umrihin with his co-pilot, together with the commander Bozhko and the second co-pilot Kolya Shevchenko (nicknamed “Rambo” for having a special bra stuffed with grenades) approached the plane.

— Are horses ready? — Major Umrihin asked. — Let’s ride!

Bozhko, climbing to the cabin, said to the flight engineer F.:

— We are going to shoot down the “Stinger”. The Squadron commander wants to receive a Hero. A secret agent and NKVD arrived. Let’s start the engine.

— It is cool, huh?! — “Rambo” said, comfortably accommodating his armed body in a chair. — We are doing the real thing! Let’s fight!

The flight engineer F. sceptically commented on his bravery:

— Well, it will be better if we will chase the “Stinger”, instead of the “Stinger” chasing us.

— No worries! — “Rambo” pulled out a gun with double bullets capacity from his briefcase.

We immediately took off towards the south-west trying not to burn kerosene for nothing. We were flying just above the roofs of villages. The dust was slurring a visibility, making the sky almost to merge with the yellow-gray ground. The leading helicopter was barely visible — and from time to time the background of the earth swallowed him.

— He is disappearing like a flounder. — Bozhko said angrily, steering into this blurred horizon.

The flight engineer F. got ready his machinegun and slightly lowered its barrel, holding his finger on the trigger and trying to control the panorama, which was flying away under his feet. Black squares were full of doors, an endless number of nesting boxes were scattered under his feet, and the game was to guess where the cuckoo-enemy will pop out. The co-pilot with his machinegun also looked for them on his right.

Suddenly, on the right, a hundred metres away from the helicopter, a black wall silently erected up to the sky. The flight engineer F. saw the shapeless clay fragments, split logs, and a slowly flying tree with its roots outspreaded like a chicken claw.

A moment later, compressed air hit the helicopter — something banged, dusty wind gusted on the right, a map was thrown from the co-pilot’s knees to the commander’s feet — the machine was shaken up like a feather, tilting to the left — but the commander responded quickly — and flight was stabilised.

— A bit of a surprise, — he said, — the “Whistles” (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) are bombing, but they do not see us. They will crush us like cockroaches if we do not tell them we are here.

— “Speed”, roger! — he asked — Who is working in the north-west from the centre — wait guys! Two “verticals” (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) are here!

Crackling of an empty radio was the only answer.

-What is their frequency?! — the commander asked the right co-pilot. — Find and command them to hold.

One more explosion burst from the left… Bozhko, without waiting for shockwaves, turned left and right, but the helicopter was shaken. The co-pilot turned the radio switch, requested contact, but no one answered him.

-That bombing is a coded one, but we do not know the code! — he said at last.

— Well, — the commander responded, — soon we will cross the river, over there nobody is bombing. Our guys are working there now.

There was busy work in the air. On the radio, through the crackling we heard a fast speech:

— “Brigantine”, I — “Peregrine”! I hold my position on the bank and now going forward slowly…

— “Peregrine”, what are you doing?! Fly away from there, helicopters are about to arrive, they will work there…

…The rustling, crackling, clicking:

— All right, be quiet, they will work out a little more to the right…

The rustling again…

— “Air”, I — “Peregrine”! Do not go there, there is the ANC, the ANC works there, do you copy?..

An unemotional voice:

— Roger, understand you, “Peregrine”, we will clean… Right now, brothers… And, here, watch in the courtyard… w-working!

— This is our second unit, — Bozhko explained. — I wonder where they are working? I guess, we will see as soon as we will jump into the middle of this hell…

But they passed the Herat area safely. After passing a ridge, kishlaks (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) of Guldan and Sherband, the leading pilot suggested:

— Let’s land at our headquarters and take an Afghan gunner — he will also show us the way.

We landed on a bumpy road that looked like a ploughed garden, the area was fenced by barbed wire. While landing, the soldiers jumped and waved their arms to us and fired into the air from automatic weapons.

— Ha! They do look happy to see us, — Bozhko said, — it is obvious that they have not seen friends for a while…

When the wheels almost touched the ground, the commander asked flight engineer F.:

— Jump out, go around, look at the terrain, where it sits. Something is not right here…

The flight engineer F. was nearly on the ground, when the voice of the leading pilot from the right helicopter cracked in the headphones:

— Hey, 851, you are on a minefield!

At the word “minefield”, the helicopter jumped twenty feet above the

ground — the commander did it so abruptly, that the machine jumped vertically.

— So this is why the soldiers were so excited, — “Rambo” said, — they gave us a warning.

We kept flying towards the Iranian border.

— Today we had two warnings already — the commander said grimly. — Our guys almost shoot us down, then our own landmines nearly tore the tailpiece apart. Luckily, we are flying in a lucky number. This number should be considered to be lucky…

— Why? — “Rambo” asked.

— Because all laws of nature and army are not applied to this number. This machine cannot be knocked down, even at a close range. If someone can do it, it should be an alien. Am I right, Frol? — and the commander laughed.

“Rambo” checked the map — now they were flying along the Soviet border, only five hundred kilometres away from it, but on the Iranian side. A landscape of rocky plateaus was endless, where ever you can see.

— We will not go to the right because to buy vodka there, you need special coupons — Umrihin joked (at the time of events, vodka consumption was rationed by the state via special coupons — Editor).

So, we went straight. Spreading out the map on his knees, “Rambo”, with a pencil in his hand, was dealing with the tracking and guiding of the route. The plateau was gradually decreasing. The flight engineer F. looked back and noticed that the pencil was crawling to the Hari Rud river.

— Commander, we are getting closer to the river… — “Rambo” warned.

The commander kept silent.

— We are in I-ra-n! — co-pilot shouted bulging his eyes. — On the right is the village of Hatay and it is coming towards us!

— Will you shut up, for God’s sake! I cannot stand your screaming. It’s not our business. If the village is coming to us, it should be so, — and the leading pilot suddenly went into a left turn and muttered — We got a little bit lost…

-Wow! — “Rambo” said enthusiastically. — What would be happening if their border patrol did not sleep? An international scandal!

We turned back, jumped over the river, flew over a wide beach between the harsh river and a steep cliff.

— 851, do you observe — on top of the cliff is the “swallow’s nest”? — the leading helicopter enquired. — Seems to me, we have arrived… Now to the left, go up through the gorge…

A few seconds of silence… and the leading helicopter suddenly said:

— You shoot too closely, 851! It was right next to me.

— I did not shoot — with a look of astonishment, the commander of 851 replied.

All of us looked up and forward. At the top of the cliff that was falling into a valley at a peculiar angle, a gleamed blaze fire was coming up with white smoke balls.

— Shoot, commander! — “Rambo” said pointing excitedly.

— They are marking the land, — the commander replied and, at the same moment, almost immediately between the leading helicopter and us, just to the left a little bit, a pair of explosions flashed. The “leading” flew through the smoke hearing how the sands were rubbing, against windows; then “the leading” has turned to the left and started descending down into the gorge.

— I told you — they are working on us! — “Rambo” shouted and his eyes sparkled; his moustache also stood up.

— “The second”, be careful, we have been targeted! — Bozhko reported. But the chopper silently disappeared behind the corner.

— From where are they shooting at us? — the commander asked, turning his head around. — Maybe, the Iranian border patrol finally woke up and came to their senses.

— Yes, over there! — the flight engineer F. and co-pilot shouted in one voice, pointing their fingers at the direction of “a swallow’s nest”.

— Yes, they flagged the target and here we are, — the commander said, directing the machine into the gorge.

The helicopter climbed up, zigzagging around the steep cliff. At the top, there was a woman with a bucket of water, who quickly covered her face with her elbow. There was also a lonely bald man with a beard in his black toe-length robe, who was watching how the Soviet helicopter was emerging from the gorge.

— The eagle! — Bozhko pointed out at him, when the helicopter levelled up with the bearded man, and gave a friendly wave from his opened blister. — Salam-hello, dear!

The flight engineer F. turned his head and looked at the bearded man. He noticed the shining sun on the shaved bald head. He saw how the man threw away his cloak and rested on his shoulder a green pipe with a heavy conical tip and directed it straight into the flight engineer’s forehead…

Time has stopped…

Slowly, the small spurts around the tip have formed smoky rings, which were curving like mushroom’s caps around the tube. The flight engineer F. heard the distinct hissing — he watched with interest how a white spray with a green pipe is slowly approaching one side of the helicopter, he saw how the tip — with two kilograms of death — is slowly rotating, screwing into the air…

The grenade was launched — the flight engineer F. thought slowly. — How to report to the commander, how to formulate it? Work or shoot? Bazooka or our RPG (see “Terminology and Glossary — Editor)? But maybe it is not a grenade after all? And why do I feel so calm, why is everyone so quiet?

The helicopter almost stood unmoved. Then the board technician estimated the distance — no more than twenty metres to the bearded man (he saw the shabby part of the grenades), and, considering the speed of the grenade, calculated that it took no more than a quarter of a second from the moment of the shot to his warning.

— He is shooting, commander! — the flight engineer F. yelled, pointing on the right.

And from this moment the time went fast. The commander turned his head to the left, threw a pitch, moved the handle forward — the helicopter boomed down. The grenade passed over the tail, hit the opposite wall of the gorge, the air burst out with flapping and stretching sounds that pressed down the helicopter.

The commander rearranged the machine for a horizontal flight, and then started drifting up.

— “Second”, these friends worked on us once again, holly-molly!

— 851, we do not need it, let’s go to another place, do not overstay, you will run out of fuel.

— Turn back! — “Rambo” screamed — They must be punished!

— I know that, — the commander growled.

The roaring machine flew out of the gorge, hanging for a moment, and then turned back to the spot with a deep heel, heading straight into the “swallow’s nest”. “Rambo” was having fun and kept shooting non-stop from his seat. The flight engineer F. opened fire with his machinegun — and could see his tracers in the shadow of Duval. Two shadowy figures were running across the yard… The commander pulled the trigger, and rockets went forward fluffing plumage steel. Their smoky tails closed visibility, but the flight engineer F. noted how the “swallow’s nest” was covered with black and red flame. Something was cracking, exploding like a handful of caps thrown into the fire. Yet he could see, how the rockets tore apart the Iranian border…

— You wanted — you got it! — Bozhko said with a deep satisfaction, and, without looking back, they followed the leading helicopter.

— Yes, — the commander said. — this man lured us to this country, so we will be killed here. He got what he deserved. I just do not understand why they have not got us? After all, we were thrown on the plate, in a direct vision of this suicidal killer. Frol, let’s confess, is your machine bewitched?

— No, — flight engineer F. said. — This is not me… Before I enlisted the army, my Mom put spell on me to protect against evil. Back then I laughed…

— What a fool of you if you were laughing. I believe in this — the commander said. — Pass our thanks to your mother.

— “Second”, — he returned to business, — deal with the gunner. He framed us again. Check him out, or he will do it again.

— I copied that, 851. He will be punished. And now we will be landing in the same place to collect a weapon — we need to bring home something.

… We were going down into some huge funnel, spirally descending to a depth of thirty metres. It was like a blue ground pipe — it could be a gigantic azurite shaft or could be an entrance to the Dante’s hell. Crowded on each level, people were greeting us by the lifting their weapons. At the bottom we found all kinds of historical weapons and barrels that could be taken: English, Spanish, Chinese, even — from the American gangster era of Prohibition. Slowly, we climbed out of this crater, dragged behind a tail of dust, and left. The flight technician F. was confused who were these subterranean inhabitants; most likely they were one of the friendly gangs, whose friendship could be exchanged for numerous gifts.

Now we were flying without calculating out route. We were short of fuel. We jumped over the mountain, slid down the hill, and accelerating to 250, we were leaving behind the noise of our own engines and the whistling of blades.

Then the leading helicopter suddenly voiced:

— Guys, we have to stop in one place…

— I have no fuel left, my engines are going to stop soon! — Bozhko exclaimed.

— Okay, then you go home, but I will detour for a while! — and the “leading” turned right.

The second helicopter kept flying straight. We crossed the road, ran into a lonely ridge but we had no fuel left to do manoeuvring around this ridge and we simply started climbing.

— I do not recognise the area, — suddenly the commander said. — Did we follow the map? What if we jump over the pinnacle ridge and there will be no Herat!

— Oh, no! — and the co-pilot nervously began looking at the map.

We jumped over the pinnacle; it was smoky Herat. We flew over villages of Herat. Underneath, a red “Toyota”, with three unfriendly bearded men with a machinegun on a tripod, jumped from nowhere in front of us. They sat down and covered their heads with hands, but the board technician F. pressed the trigger — and we headed to the airport.

The fuel indicator showed the critical level of 50 litres — it was just unprocessed residue that was left. Our blood was pumping throughout our hearts: if the engine stopped, there is no autorotation at this speed, and the altitude is no help either — the helicopter will be crashed instantly.

We passed over the Herat airfield, over the strip. Wheels touched the ground, when taxied across the strip, finally all engines choked and shifted to a dying sound of a vacuum cleaner…

— This is a perfect job… — the commander said. — Ten out of ten!

Later on, during his nightly rest in Shindand, after his routine eight hours of flight, flight engineer F. was splashing in the pool for many hours. His body was overexcited and overheated.

He stretched himself on the tiled floor, lying down in this position for a while; then he popped-up, rolled over on his back and stared at the bright stars. Again and again, he was diving, then surfacing, coming out of water, lying on the wet floor, smoking, and listening how a chained common Indian monitor made a noise in his little house…

This was an operation on the cleaning of the western kishlaks (see “Terminology and Glossary”) of Herat. Returning from the action, the board No 33 contained five holes from bullets on the right side and the bottom. Normally, before imposing any patches, technicians, like as surgeons, provided a thorough check: they should remove all bullets stuck in the body of a helicopter and trace the bullet trajectories and fix all damaged units and pipelines. This job should be carried out until the last bullet will be found.

The fifth bullet on board No. 33 was a mystery one, and all staff have been looking for it for several days. Four bullets were found, but the fifth one just evaporated, despite her obvious mark of ricocheting from shutters and heading towards the hatch of a fodder machine gun. The hatch has no damage.

— Be honest, — the engineer Ivanov tried to find out the truth from the flight mechanic Tarabrin, — tell me that the hatch was opened and the bullet fell into it, am I right?

— I opened nothing! — the lieutenant Tarabrin lazily replied. — My machine gun was not even loaded, why would I need to stick the gun out?

— You should take it out; maybe then, you would not have the holes at the tail! — the engineer was getting angry. — Our fathers and grandfathers did it with Il-2, and you are too lazy to pull out your own real machine gun!

— The shooting was on the left, and my machine gun is on the right, they would not see it anyway, — the flight mechanic answered with an imperceptible yawning.

— Find this bullet then! — the engineer ordered, — I am allowed to hold the helicopter on the ground for a day but no longer!

The flight engineer F. was present during the conversation. He came to try on a denim suit which the flight mechanic Tarabrin had bought in Herat, but later on, he found out that it was a little bit too small for him.

— What is your problem?! — the flight engineer F. asked him as soon as the engineer walked away. — Shoot a hole somewhere — and you will have the fifth bullet’s entrance, that is all! Even better — to screw a hole somewhere so it will look like a trace of this bullet.

— You know, we looked for this bullet everywhere; — the lieutenant Tarabrin waved desperately with his hands, — and found nothing, but what will be if the bullet got stuck inside of some vital parts of a helicopter?

The flight engineer F. lowered his head and saw a mercury brilliant trace of a ricochet on the pulling lock; he looked towards the fodder hatch. A black Kalashnikov, strapped to a wall over the closed hatch, was looking directly at his face.

— You know, Alexey, — the flight engineer F. said with a tinge of doubt in his voice, — in physics, a movement of antiparticles can be described through an equation of the movement of the particle turned back in time?

— What are you talking about? — Tarabrin asked melancholically.

The flight engineer F. did not answer. He approached the machine gun, lifted it with handles and shook.The armor-piercing bullet of caliber 7.62 rolled out on his palm, or to be exact, it was a core of the bullet, not rumpled at all, just scratched a little bit.

— What a smart bullet, — said Tarabrin validly. — It is smarter than we are!

— Yes, indeed, — the flight engineer F. snapped, — Definitely, it is smarter than you… And because of it, you will give me a good discount for a denim suite I want to buy from you.

The Divisional Commander has been brought to Gerishk. We were sitting in the country near the road and saw how he arrived.

The sun is still high in the sky. It is an unbearable heat. The pilots are walking to a small river, leaving their helicopters under the APCs’ (see “Terminology and Glossary”) protection. The soft white dust rises to their knees like cement, sticking to the army pants. The river bank is steep; the huge gray stone seems to be curved with a fancy decor. A bit closer to the river, old stone slabs with numerous holes are looking like old gigantic trees with mini pools in their holes. The peacefulness and silence have been interrupted only by a light sound of reeds growing on the opposite bank of the river. We do not want to think that there can be someone except the egrets. Nevertheless, our weapons and military uniforms are placed in a close proximity, and one of us is taking turn to guard the place with a gun in his hands. First, what the pilots do — is bathe in this small hot river with its stony and slightly rough bottom; then they are washing their uniforms; after that — they dry it for several minutes on the heated stones. Plunging into the river one more time, they imprisoned their bodies into these hot uniforms and drag their feet to a dining room to have lunch.

The Divisional commander together with the local infantry major waited for them near the helicopters.

— Listen here, guys, — the commander said. — Here is someone who is asking you for help. The enemy hidden in the mountain, fired at our column a hundred kilometers to the north from here. Our guys cannot get them. If we do not remove them before darkness — they will leave. Rise your machines in the air and destroy them from above.

We took the major aboard and departed. In a few minutes of the fight, we saw an enormous mass of gigantic rocks sticking out in the middle of the desert. When we came closer, we spotted two of our cars burning at the bottom of the mountain, and next to them a tank and two APCs that were standing with trunks lifted up.

— This is what I called an afternoon erection, — the commander cracked the joke. — What stupidity! Leave the APCs for interception, drive the tank far away and shoot.

— The enemy is on a northern slope! — the major shouted. — Do not come closer, hit on that terrace, they are in caves, you aim at them directly! Eh, it is a pity, our tanks do not fly!

The pair of the crocodiles (see “Terminology and Glossary”) passed the rock, drove for two kilometres more and turned back getting ready to release a volley of bombs. But being in a hurry there was one problem that we did not consider.

— Damn it! — the commander swore. — The sun is on the enemies’ side!

The crown of the sun spread its rays over a half-sky and was shining over the top of the mountains. The brightness of the sun shot us directly with its full-steam heat and attacked us with its hot yellow fog, filling our cabins with unbearable temperature and light.

The flight engineer F. regretted that he had not put on his helmet with the light filter. But it was too late to be sorry for that.

— “Air”, quickly, they are shooting at your forehead! — a warning comes from the “land”.

The flight engineer F. aimed slightly below the sun and pressed the trigger. He moved his trunk in all directions trying to cover the sector of rocks as wide as possible. The foreign land and its roads jumped into his eyes but the horror was that we could not see either the tracks, nor those who were on them, everything was filled with this endless sun.

The flight engineer F. kept pressing his trigger, and by bending down to the machine gun, he tries to avoid this incredible glare. Of course, it will be very sad, even, let’s say, it will not be fair to have a meeting with the bullets coming from this solar fog. One bullet — and everything is in silence. And you are not here anymore… The end.

The helicopter shuddered, the smoke, with a hissing sound, rushed into the cabin, but bombs missed on the left, moving towards the sun. The leading helicopter took off to the left, giving the opportunity to the second one to do the final stroke of their work.

— “Air”, I am “Earth”! A little bit higher one more time, guys! Drop these freaks, and we will finish them”, — the commander said.

— The 945, take the opposite to my direction! — the commander ordered. — I will go to the left, you — to the right. This sun will ruin us. Take altitude to four hundred and stop at forty five, do it!

— I got it…

The helicopters diverged in different directions; they turned at the same time and took the mountain under full control. Lowering their noses and lifting tails, they could see everything on this mountain with good visibility.

The flight engineer F. found a terrace, where he distinguished the figures of enemies who were fidgeting with machine guns. Divided into two groups, they had placed into two stocky tripods the machine guns. “How did they get them here? “-the flight engineer F. asked himself.

In a second, he understood what they had — it was the packed antiaircraft mountain-pack machine-gun installation unit. The second chopper was already stretching their bullets to the mountain. The flight engineer F. slightly adjusted his gun and pulled the trigger and saw how his slightly curved fiery arc connected his chopper with the edge of the terrace. He raised the gun again, moved a trunk, and fired to the left, spraying dust and stone on the terrace. The tracing bullets fell down into the abyss. The dukhi (see “Terminology and Glossary”) crouched down.

— Good job! — the commander commented: — The 945, it is your work… Get ready… Fire!

Both choppers fired almost synchronously. The link of smoky streams from two sides hit into the rock — and the terrace was crossed out by this slanting cross.

The wind pulled away the fumes and we could see that there was no terrace any more — it was razed to the slope. Big fragments and small stones still flew down, hitting against ledges and jumping up, they fell directly near the tank and the APCs (see “Terminology and Glossary”).

The pale gray clouds were carried away. The helicopters completed their last turn; the second helicopter caught up with the leading, they formed the correct flight figure and went home.

— Well done, thank you, guys! — the “land” said goodbye — That was great! Top notch! Thank you!

The commander inquired about wounded, killed soldiers, and asked should he collect the dead ones. But all of us were alright, and the pair of the helicopters went back to Gerishk

— Kandahar men should give us a bottle of booze, — the commander said, — because we worked in their zone. What a good resting day we had today! At the beginning, we bathed, and then had deafened small fish…

He looked at the watch and was very surprised:

— Do you know — we bathed only fifteen minutes ago! No wonder that our suits are still wet!

Then he was silent.

— Or have I just sweated?

In a minute:

— And why have they not fired at us from the mobile surface-to-air missile system? We could have been burn down by now… Perhaps, they did not have it…

He lit up a cigarette, turned to the major who was sitting slightly behind the place of the flight mechanic, and asked:

— Well, did you like it?

— I’m speechless! — said the major. — “Mother, I love the pilot!” — he sang the line from a famous song.

The place of Chakcharan was famous for its kennel with a large amount of dogs. If pilots had an idea to have a stroll and enjoy the bright snow under the mountain’s sun, they could observe two types of living beings. The first are the soldiers of the “green” army wrapped up in some tatters and looking like fascists after the Stalingrad (a reference to a famous victory battle of the Soviet Army during WW2 — Editor), who were shoveling snow to clear a strip for the landing of distinguished guests.

The second were amazing dogs — huge, shaggy; they cheerfully jumped on the deep snow, falling up to their breast and coming out from this sparkling snow under the sun dust — they were not like dogs, but rather woolly dolphins that played in a sea of snow under the dark blue sky of Chakcharan.

Despite seeming docile, the dogs (the cross-breed between the Caucasian shepherd — dogs and an unknown local breed) were well trained for protecting the Soviet garrison. Many Chakcharan guests were fascinated by their beauty, size and cleverness, and all of them wanted to have a puppy from them (really, why not?!). But only one case of leakage of this Chakcharan gene pool was known to the author authentically.

When the flight mechanic F. was going to visit Chakcharan one more time, the commander of the 2nd target acquisition unit approached him and gave five thousand afoshkas (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) to the flight mechanic F. and told him:

— Find the ensign there and buy a puppy. Be modest and do not ask everyone — these sinologists can kick your ass and deport violently. Last time I tried to make a deal with the ensign because I promised to my son to buy a puppy.

Having arrived in Chakcharan, the flight engineer F. was not in a hurry to look for the ensign. He waited for the crews to go to dukhan (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), closed his helicopter, and then he decided to have a walk. He headed for a cloud of smoke, rising on the edge of the field. Coming closer to it, he confirmed to himself that the army is still predictable — this was the army’s kitchen. There were three red fluffy puppies near the kitchen; they were turning and wagging their tails on the dirty trampled-down snow with ice-covered thawed patches, around the rumpled aluminum basin with already cooled down fat at the bottom. The flight engineer — having once again been surprised how smart he was — looked round, picked up the closest puppy and put him under a warm jacket bosom, zipped, and left, looking a bit pregnant.

The flight engineer F. casually walked to his helicopter, opened a door, put the silent puppy in the salon, and locked the door.

He was smoking when he saw how the ensign was looking for something around near the kitchen — he obviously was looking for his loss. The flight engineer F. met him by a question:

— Can I get something to eat here? Our men left and closed the helicopter’s door — he lied. (“Please, a little fellow, do not begin to whimper”, — he mentally pleaded to the puppy ).

— You can go to the kitchen, and grab hot tea over there, — the ensign mechanically answered, not even turning his head towards the flight engineer F. — Have you seen a puppy here? May be it came this way?

— Well, I have been here only for few minutes, but I will I ask our guys, when they return. You better ask the heavy multi-purpose helicopter 6 (MPH-6) over there, they were uploading for some time.

The ensign asked for a cigarette and light, and was almost ready to go to other side of the field where two silhouettes of gray elephant hulks of MPH6 stood up, surrounded by loading machines, when, suddenly, he heard a weak murmur, and the light yellow stream began to flow on the snow from a slit. The ensign pricked up his ears, bent, looking under the bottom.

— Damn it! The fuel beats out through the drainage! — the flight engineer worriedly exclaimed, bending too. — The pressure is rather low here, in the mountains…

The ensign sighed:

— I will go to these big helicopters… And, maybe, the little fellow has already been returned?

Thus, the puppy from the region of Chakcharan was transported to the Far East of the Soviet Union via Shindand.

Since dawn a pair of choppers were engaged in free hunting by searching the desert to the west of Shindand, near the Iranian border. Two helicopters have already been flying for two hours and landed whenever a senior officer from the Special Forces group requested. However, the hunting had no success — no cars, no camels, no enemy. There were only black tents of Pashtuns (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) that from above looked like karakurt (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor).

When we did land again and our soldiers were searching the tents for the enemy, an on-board technician looked at the fuel indicator and noticed that there was just enough kerosene to get back to the “point”.

— Commander, it is time to return, — he said, pointing to the fuel gauge.

The commander popped out from his blister, called to a soldier standing nearby and shouted:

— Notify everyone — our fuel is running low!

The soldier nodded calmly, turned his face to the tents, and made the ordered notification to his comrades. He did it a very simple way — raised his gun and pulled the trigger. The string of bullets — almost a third of cartridges from his loaded gun! — went straight up into the sky. But because he was standing right under the rotating blades, all bullets went straight into the blades!

The chopper’s crew became speechless. The commander together with the board engineer F. pulled their hair in desperation, swearing something unreadable. They were punching the air towards the soldier; pointed at the head and twirling a finger at the temple (this gesture indicates craziness — Editor). The soldier looked at these strange actions of pilots, shrugged his shoulders and, with a confused look on his face, decided to move a few steps away from the chopper, just in case.

On the way home, everyone in the crew was listening to the whistling blades, looking closely at the edges of the screws — but everything seemed to be normal.

When they arrived and turned off the engines, two pilots together with the flight technician F. climbed up to the blades and searched for the damage but their careful examination showed that they do not have any holes!

— This soldier probably has a Fokker Scourge (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) installed on his Kalashnikov! — the board engineer F. joked with a happy heart because it mean no need to change the blades.

— If this is the scenario, then it is okay — the commander grinned, — but what if (God forbid!) our Special Forces are using blank cartridges?

The Chagcharansk’s flights continued to be harassingly dangerous, mainly because of a lack of adequate responses to cover the fuel overuse due to the alpine landscape.

One day the board No. 10 took the wounded ones from Chaghcharan town. When the chopper took off and climbed to the top of the ridge, heading towards Shindand, the flight engineer F. began assisting the doctor to set the drips — he tightened the tourniquets — or held the soldiers’ arms, trying to minimize vibration, so the doctor could inject the veins — and at this altitude the vibration was so hard that it resembles being in a racing cart. Soon the air loss at this high altitude started to affect two soldiers, who were wounded in the chest, and began turning blue, constantly choking, and blowing up pink bubbles.

But there was nothing that we could do at this height, and the commander decided to land his pair of helicopters to make sure that the wounded ones could survive until we reached a hospital… but at the landing spot, at the valleys near a river, the jihadist (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) were already waiting for us. Spitting liquid fire to jihadist, we somehow got away. To avoid a risky landing again, it was decided to do landing one more time near the mountain range of Safed Koh, so the wounded will be breathing the air with their bloody mouths. And again, after descending from the pinnacle, after searching through the gully for a safe landing, they were shot at by Afghans from their “Boers” (see “Termonology and Glossary” — Editor).

When they got to a hospital, the wounded ones were alive, but this flight finally made the onboard technician F. very angry. For the next flight to the mountains, he prepared well: put on board two ordinary barrels and filled them with kerosene. The onboard technician of the main one 27, Lieutenant Mukhametshin, did the same thing. They both charged machine gun belts with more bullets and scored six rocket units each.

Now they were ready.

…The flight was a very slow one. They were roaming the valleys, looking behind every tree, teasing shepherds and farmers by faking their helplessness… and the bite was swallowed.

— We are being shot — the main helicopter suddenly reported. — It seems that they hit our tail. But we are still going…

The commander immediately directed the pair of choppers to fly along the river bed on the left, hiding behind the mountain. Enemies knew about our problems with the fuel, this is why they fired at the tail all the time. Usually, in such situations, helicopters flew away without looking back and the crews helplessly grind their teeth. But this time it was different.

— Now, I will show you, assholes! — and the commander turned the chopper for the attack.

They saw that a truck with the heavy machine gun stopped on the river bank, and three bearded men were stretching on the grass and laughing at cowardly shuravis (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor).

— The clouds go sullen on the border of my country… — the commander whispered a line from a well-known patriotic song and directed his helicopter higher, to the top of the mountain, and from there the two choppers, simultaneously, flew down on the heads of the bearded men — who did not expect such meanness, — they jumped up: one rushed to the cockpit, the other two climbed into their truck as soon as they have spotted two dragons falling from the sky. The flight engineer F. pressed a trigger with his fingers — nothing left after his gesture! — and a string of bullets ripped off the car door with tracers waving on the truck like snakes…

— And the samurai were falling down… — now the commander was shouting his favorite song, and, at the same time, pressing the trigger, —…under the pressure of steel and fire! — and he finished his song.

The truck flew up and fell back to the ground in the form of unrecognized metal and rubber precipitations that were burning. The smoke was rising up — a piercing black bubble against the background of the sugary white peaks.

— Even if someone survived — the commander said — we will not finish them. I am sure, they crapped in their pants and they will be remember the fear for the rest of their life. From now on they are just ordinary shit-asses…

For the rest of their way back, the crew was singing “On the border the clouds go sullen, silence enveloped the edge of the stern”, which they finished with the line “The crew of a battle machine!!!” with a special feeling and tears in their eyes from pride.

Despite the merry signing, the flight engenner F. kept sending long strings of bullets to the sloppy hills in all directions. To make sure, to make them heard and to be feared.

On arrival, it turned out that the leading helicopter was hit by the heavy machine gun with a mortal shell of 12.7 mm. The bullet pierced the back flap, ricocheted off to the opposite side, went through the empty kerosene barrels and lodged there, sticking out its smashed nose.

This kind of bullet (including those that were made in China) had a very powerful demolishing force. One such bullet went through the bottom of a helicopter, and passed all layers of parachutes, stopped at the bottom of a stool, where a navigator Senior lieutenant B. used to sit, touching his bum with its hot pointy nose. During the heat of battle he did not realize what had taken place, but on the ground, after discovering a sharp bump, Senior lieutenant realized what could of happened and he collapsed. Only a glass of vodka helped him to return to his senses. After suffering from such stress the repeat doses of a glass of vodka could never knock pilots down — but only alleviate them.

When the bullet was removed from the barrel, flight technician F. narrowed his eyes:

— You know, Felix, — they were aiming at your bum. If not for my barrel, this bullet would have drilled a hole under your seat.

— If it was not for your barrel — Lieutenant Mukhametshin shivered — we would not have this bravado trip in the first place, damn you!

— But now they are scared. They know who is in-charge!

And, indeed, the Chagcharan route became much safer.

At the very beginning of his war, the flight engineer F. was transporting three officers with their cargo, which included a bunch of jackets, packed lunch boxes, canned meat, canned butter and potatoes. Among the usual stuff there were some personal items: a “Sanyo” portable tape recorder and several boxes of chocolate with an inscription on their labels in Slavonic, but not in Russian: “Litoyi chokolat”. This chocolate inexplicably excited the imagination of the flight technician F.

He imagined that there, in the boxes, wrapped in colorful foil, are figurines cast in dark chocolate. It reminded him of a hygienic set “Moidodyr” for children, in which a molded soap in the shape of squirrels were placed next to a round box of tooth powder; he imagined the same squirrel, and other small animals, but made of chocolate.

Later, when he had some money, he had learned that those boxes had no chocolate, but contained ordinary Yugoslavian made lollypops “Bonko”. They had very pretty packaging, they were themselves pretty as semiprecious stones — the rocks shaped by the sea, — they were delicious, more delicious than the berries they were named after — but… it was a disappointment. Well, anyway, the image of chocolate — warm, heavy, glossy figurines stuck in the head of flight engineer F.

One day, the pair of choppers were bringing cargo to the advisors’ village somewhere in the south. Upon arriving, the pilots did everything that should be done, then started the ignition and took off. To save time and fuel, they decided to cut corners, and, without flying around the villages, take a direct flight.

The choppers took the safest route — above the villa of the advisors. They were flying neither high, nor low — something around fifteen metres — just to be sure not to touch the trees, but also diminish the risk of attack. So, when the first one flew over the villa, and the second one was just approaching it, major Bozhko transmitted:

— Oh, myyyyyyy God!. do not look down, young people!

After these words both crews, from the leading and the second helicopter, looked down with an extreme curiousness. Beneath them they saw a line of widely ramified Himalayan cedars; and there was also a blue rectangle pool, confined by a high fence, next to a substantial building. However, it was not the beauty of this “Taj Mahal” composition, but a reflection of the white villa in the calm water with a background of the blue sky, that made the entire crew lose their breathe.

On the pink sand near the pool, on identical towels with a pattern of slashing red and blue stripes, two young women were lying like candies wrapped in this surrealistic reality. One was lying on her stomach, the other one — on her back. Their bodies were naked and tanned. Shining sun reflected on their wet bodies. Two chocolate figures lying on the wrappers — they are a chocolate dream, those squirrels!

— The Fondant chocolate! — the flight engineer F. whispered and felt a taste of dark chocolate and cognac in his mouth. Yes, these figurines must have cognac in them…

It was like the helicopters had came across, and been stricken by an invisible force, which cause them to shiver slightly. The left and right pilots, sticking out their heads into the open blisters, were looking down; the right one even waved with his hand. The flight engineer F. also was looking down at his feet, through the lower glass under the bed gun. The water started to ripple, the bathers’ beach towels began hurriedly slapping their mistresses as they try to cover from the looks above. But the women were not embarrassed at all; they lent on their elbows, and waved to the dragons that were crawling over them.

— Hey, where are you? — Said Bozhko. — Have you got lost between their tits, or what? Catch up quickly!

And the second helicopter with a guilty bowing of its head followed the leader.

Sveta was beautiful; she was the waitress in a diner. To be exact, she was gorgeous, or, perhaps, she was rather absolutely stunning. However, not everyone shared this opinion of flight engineer F.

Her green eyes, big lips, a careless “ponytail”, slim, flexible, tanned body, small breasts, which were covered with a tight-fitting T-shirt, but revealing a dark flat stomach — all of these, of course, could excite those who were having breakfast, lunch or dinner. But not everyone openly admired her. Many people grimaced when her name was mentioned.

Maybe her provocative small breasts were a stumbling block for lovers, but there was another reason for such attitude of the majority of the summer crew. The beautiful woman was not responding to signs of the attention that she was receiving. Once, when a major extended his affectionate hand to Sveta’s tanned thigh while she was pouring him tea, she calmly said:

— Hands off, or I will rinse your bald head with this boiling water. — And she shook a large kettle slightly in the direction of the major’s face.

The flight engineer F. was fearful of her. Rather, he was scared that she might be rude to him, so he tried communicating with her politely and using a minimal set of words. Entering the diner in the morning, he would say “Good morning” — and she could kindly respond. His “Thank you” will be following by a very friendly “You’re welcome” or “That’s OK”. And this was enough for the lieutenant to hope that she could treat him differently compared to others.

Some guys explained her weary contempt by a rumor that Sveta came here from Odessa city. According to the rumor, over there she was in charge of a large department store, but the financial troubles allegedly forced her to flee to the “wild south”. Someone also suggested that the waitress was suffering from dissatisfaction with her personal life.

— That bitch! — Some would say when she left swinging her hips after throwing the plates on the table with a loud bang. The senior lieutenant Sklyarenko was the one who raged about her the most.

— What the hell is that! — he fumed. — Again, there are no knives on the tables, and this chick does not even care! By the way, we have to go into battle with a quiet mind. And here in the diner… — I cannot stand it!

One day, when Sveta, proudly holding her head and carrying a tray in her hands, was passing lieutenant Sklyarenko’s table, he said loudly:

— Excuse me, waitress, bring me the kettle, please!

Without turning her head, Sveta replied:

— Take it from the table next to you.

— I want you to bring it to me! — Senior lieutenant raised his voice.

The waitress took a full kettle and put it down on the table with force. Hot tea poured from the spout onto the lieutenant’s knees.

— A-ah-ah! — He cried and jumped up, knocking over a chair. — What have you done, you bitch! You did it on purpose!

Sveta, leaning across the table and looking into the eyes of senior lieutenant, quietly but clearly said:

— Fuck you, asshole!

— What did you say? — the senior lieutenant was cross. — Comrade Commander! Comrade Commander!

And Squadron Commander, who was sitting at a table together with a chief of staff and the deputy commander for political work, sighed wearily:

— Lieutenant, why are you always squealing? What happened this time?

— She swore at me, Comrade Colonel!

— And what do you want me to do? Do you want me to defend your honor? I cannot do that, — the commander spread his hands to the sides. — Well, take it as a duel…

It happened near Farah. We had a scheduled hunt for Pashtu’ s(see’ Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) rebellions. A tandem of helicopters, which was led by board No. 10, circled over the Pashtu’s’ camps.

We explored the area with an eye on the neighborhood, and if we spotted a camp, which looked just like a line of several black tents, we landed. Captain Kezikov was in charge of the leading board. He landed the helicopter with its doors on the opposite side from the tents, covering the SWAT team that unstoppably ran out from the helicopter’s belly. Whilst soldiers led by the first lieutenant were searching these tents, the helicopters were waiting. The first chopper without stopping, was banging everything around with its machine gun. The second one was circling above, ready to cover the SWAT team with his fire from the air.

So, now the pilot of the covering helicopter, was watching how the inspection was going on the ground and making his comments:

— They entered the houses, began scattering things around… Oh, from outside baba (in Russian a disrespected word for women — Editor) run into the tents… Hah, the goats are getting in their way, being underfoot… The old men went out… talking… arguing about something… And here is the catch, now we pull him out right away…

The Pashtu guy who was arrested, had a short haircut, a little beard, long black shirt with a purple tinge, loose trousers; he has no shoes rather gray dusty feet in his flip-flops. Being huge, he was taller than the soldiers, who guarded him.

The soldier, who was walking behind this captive giant, every three steps pushed the Pashtu guy with his machine gun with such force that the captive threw his head back and ran a few steps forward. When he was loaded into the helicopter, the troop commander pushed the captive’s head on the cockpit:

— Found with him a bag of the ammunition and a “drill”!

— So what? — Kezikov surprised. — He had to protect his tribe somehow…

But the commander shrugged in astonishment and disappeared. As a planned action, they have to hunt and bring someone, to show the result of operations, so they do not care much whom they catch.

After the next turn of searching over the foothills, we found another camp and we landed. The same chain of action happened again: the troop ran out of the helicopter’s belly, lined up in a thin chain and trotted idly to the tents. The first lieutenant, was the last to leave the helicopter, and he said to the flight engineer F.

— We will come back soon, you keep watch on this rookie, all right? — he forcefully put into the flight engineer’s hands the confiscated gun. — Do not be a coward, if you see any movement, just hit him with this rifle’s butt right in the mug!

The flight engineer wanted to open his mouth to reject his present, but the commander had already jumped out from the helicopter and rushed to his soldiers.

— Holy shit, did you hear that? — the first engineer asked, addressing his perturbation to the captive guy, and only when he finished saying this, the first engineer understood his role in such a situation.

The flight engineer F. was sitting in the folding chair, in the aisle of the cockpit, facing the cargo compartment and holding the rifle butt. The butt of this rifle had dark, deeply polished wood, and looked like it was about 40 years old. From his position, the flight engineer F. was directly observing the man in the black shirt, who was sitting down in the aisle near the extra tank and watching the flight engineer. His hands, placed on his knees, were black and big, with bulging veins. The flight engineer suddenly noticed that the guy, with his aquiline nose and a wide jaw, looked exactly like Abdullah from the movie “White Sun of the Desert”. It also came to his mind, if this Abdullah reached out with his long hand, he easily could grab the rifle and tear it away from the weak hands of the flight engineer F.

Abdullah seemed to understand what this white man was thinking, and looking at the rifle, he raises his eyes directly into the eyes of the flight engineer F. slowly lifting his hands. The flight engineer strained himself, and slightly raised his leg in front of him, just in case the captive might attack him. Abdullah slowly pointed at himself, then at the door, and with his beckoning smile, pointed at the exit as he was saying: “It would be not bad to leave this place, Commander”. The flight engineer disapprovingly shook his head and wagged his finger at him, then put that finger on the intercom and said:

-These freaks left me with this peasant and the peasant looks suspicious!

— Just point your gun or rifle at him, — Kezikov advised.

— I had no time to go the guns’ store today! — the flight engineer said. — I have nothing!

Abdullah, seeing his confusion, rose slightly on his knees.

— Give me something, he is standing up! — the flight engineer hissed.

Here you are, twit! — Kezikov poked him in the back with the butt of his rifle. — Just in case, be careful not to send your bullet through the tank,…

Without taking his eyes from the captive, the flight engineer put over his shoulder a Kalashnikov rifle. Then in a hurry removed its’ safety catch and reloaded the weapon.

Abdullah stood up abruptly on his knees, reaching out his hands and showing his palms, with a pleasing look.

— Sit down! — the flight engineer shouted, pointing his rifle to Abdullah’s chest. Abdullah fell down on the floor again, bowed his head and hunched over, trying to diminish his size and not to scare this man with the rifle.

When the troop came back, the flight engineer rushed to the commander.

— Are you insane or what? — he angrily exclaimed. — I am not your guard, you know! Seemed to me the guy thought I was going to kill him!

— So what? — the lieutenant gave a puzzled look to the flight engineer and said. — Oh, how tender you are!

There were three creatures, which Lieutenant F. liked in his enclosed world of war. They were: a disdainful waitress Sveta, a dog Gloomy, and his helicopter number 10. All of them were beautiful and independent.

Gloomy was a dog with a big muscular body like a lion, who always followed Sveta. He liked laying at her feet, when she sat on a porch at her dormitory. Maybe he was attached to her because she fed him, although to the lieutenant F. this strange couple appeared as an ancient mythical heroic pair. She represented a goddess of war with her mighty faithful servant. A helicopter was a dragon (because of the round body and big eyes), who faithfully served to the flight engineer F. And definitely it was a female dragon.

“My machine is very beautiful, — wrote the flight engineer F. in one of his letters. — When she is in flight, she is so gentle and I see her curves, the insides of me freeze from admiration. All harmony of the world has been collected in a sound of her engines, it is a music that needs to be heard. Her paraffin is light-yellow and transparent as…(the line was crossed out)… And her hydraulic fluid had the color and smell of cranberry juice. This machine with its convex rear doors, with smoky, splattered grease bonnets, flexible blades with a narrow long tail, with its roaring speed and heavy fire — all of these represent to me Eros and Thanatos (see “Terminology and Glosssary” — Editor) of my war.

As for Sveta, the flight engineer F. had made no attempt to get closer to Sveta, although every mornings he would ask Gloomy “Say hello to your hostess”. Gloomy sleeps in the corridor of a dormitory because they did not allow him to sleep inside of their room. Maybe the flight engineer F did not want to destroy the mystery created by his imagination, or maybe he was just afraid that she would refuse him as she refused all the other men. Although, the flight engineer F was a fatalist, who believes in fate.

It should be said that the flight engineer F. could not impatiently look at any flawless forms of life. If he saw something beautiful, he must grab a piece of paper and a pencil in his hand; and he began to draw a picture.

Mostly, naked women and bareback horses were the theme of his drawings. Sometimes he combined these themes and drew a naked woman on a horseback. In his opinion, these two kinds of living beings were the most perfect that the Creator sculpted.

When the flight engineer F., for the first time entered the dining room of the Shindad’s air base, he saw how a waitress Sveta was proudly carrying her tray, how her fringe and tail were moving in time with her steps, how she was looking and snorting with her nostrils flared with discontent. He could not resist it.

In his room, on a shelf was a rolled up poster. On one side of the poster was a picture of a caravan inspection; it displayed how a landed leading chopper was on the right behind the caravan (picturing three camels who were directed by two cameleers in trousers and turbans) ; there was also a second helicopter pictured in the upper left corner. Sketching with a brown pencil, the poster also demonstrated all distances and shelling sectors towards the mountains pictured somewhere on the horizon.

But the other side of this poster was clear, and after wiping with a loaf of white bread, the surface of this side became pristine. Flight engineer F. borrowed from everyone all pencil stubs and began his work.

In the evening he pinned the sheet to the plywood wall in his tiny kitchen, moved a bench under the table to have more free space, took a step back, squinted, stretched out his hand with a pencil, swinging in the air like a sword, and with a few light touches he started his drawing of a feminine silhouette.

— My beautiful has arrived… — he was whispering, stepping back.

She was standing, looked up to the sky and covered her eyes from the sun with her palm. She was naked, with the barely outlined collarbones, nipples-eyelets, a navel, and knees…

After admiring her transparent nudity for a few minutes, he wrapped her thighs with the thin piece of a white cloth.

Wow! — the flight engineer Losenkov had exclaimed peering over his shoulder. — I wonder how good the picture will be, when you will finish it…

The artist did not answer, he covered the picture with a clean rag. He knew that he should stop painting her, that any further drawing would kill the magic of unspoken things, but he wanted to transfer to the paper not only her lines and figure, but the entire mosaic of her flesh, her tanned and delicate skin, which was like something powdered with a sweet pollen, which he would not be tired of licking, if only…

So, he continued the creation of the picture in his mind. During breakfast, lunch and dinner, he looked delicately at the waitress, mentally drawing her head, torso, legs, the location of her bumps and dimples; and then he repeated the sketch on his thigh with his finger. Her skirt was short and legs were long and her opened shirt showed her soft elastic belly and ribs, which he wanted to take with both hands and open her like a pomegranate full of seeds…

Then after a dinner, returning to his unit, he usually takes out his notebook, and a pencil; then he will be drawing a sketch of her body, how he had memorized by drawing on his thigh that was still burning from the imaginative sketches of her.

During the nights, he would transform these daily imaginative sketches to paper. The shades, stitched to her body by blinks of the sun, were placed onto her shoulders, chest, lilac bones, the thighs, and her matte skin, as he wanted it to be. The resemblance of her face was too close to the original, and he gave her a baseball cap to shadow most of her face. Instead of a heavy kettle, he put into her hands a belt of his rifle, which was posing right there in a corner. Now the imaginative canvass of his picture (in which she was holding his gun as a full blood horse, full of fire and an unstoppable energy) has been completed.

She was appearing from the white light, as a goddess of the sun. It seemed to him, that when the last stroke would be placed on the paper, she could have stepped down from this rolled paper; and with her bare feet, she will touch the floor in front of the artist. Kneeling, he spent a bit of time on her leg; even a throbbing vein on her ankle was pictured.

When the perfect embodiment of her had been achieved, and it became obvious that any slight change will only worsen the picture, he framed her with an inscription in English. Immediately this picture transformed into a poster that invites viewers to Shindand, to 302 flying squadron; and this strong willed woman, sunbathing and holding a AKS-7, seems to invite whoever you are — a boy, a man or an old man — to come here, and you will have no regrets!

Followed the admiring sighs and exclamations which filled the room, the artist hung the poster on the wall, over the old pictures from newspapers and magazines, pictures of trophy — weapons, mountain roads with steep curbs, helicopters on the ground and in the sky.

— She is an icon! — The first lieutenant Torgashov exhaled, raising his hands. — She will be our guardian angel…

— I think, she is too thin. — The first lieutenant Losenkov pointed at her breasts.

— It is you, Losenkov, who is the bald-headed one! — Torgashov disagreed. — She is gorgeous!

And everyone became involved into the hot dispute, and everyone expressed different opinions.

The artist took a cigarette and went outside. Whilst walking, he inhaled and exhaled the cigarette smoke. He was thinking about something; and after the artist reached the bathhouse, and he swam in the pool, he already knew what to do.

This poster he will present to her! Yes, it would be an unexpected move — he thought excitedly, quickly walking. It would be a surprise for her. The detailed options of how he will do it, he left for his bedtime, when he will be alone behind his closed eyelids.

A few days later, pilots visited the room, as they had heard about the beauty hanging on the wall. Each of them asked him to draw the same beauty for them, or may be even a smaller version of her. They promised to bring the new papers for drawings and new pencils, candies, soda, alcohol, and money. Even the Police Commissioner had been visiting the artist. The Police Commissioner stood silently for a moment, looking at the picture and when he was ready to leave the room, he asked to pull the picture down or at least cover it because tomorrow an inspection team from Kabul was expected. After him, the first lieutenant Taran came and standing on a stool, he commenced a real photo session of the poster with and without a flash.

Observing the growth of fame, the artist realized that the problem of presenting the gift will be resolved. Indeed, she would hear the spreading rumors and would visit his room, alone or with friends. A few women already had visited the room and asked to give the picture to them. Of course, the artist had refused. But if she will ask, he will remove the poster from the wall, and, turning gently, will give it to her silently. No, he should not do it in silence. He will say that it is still not completed and it will be best for him to finish it. Of course, he would not have a fixing spray, but she might. “What is it?” — She would ask, surprised. “Just hairspray” — he would answer. And then the relationship would develop unstoppable, otherwise there was no sense to start it.

Days passed. Although the flight engineer did not notice any signs of her acknowledgement about his picture, or in the behavior of his model, he was not worried. He was waiting as an experienced hunter.

But fate delivered a curve that the first lieutenant F. did not expect.

One afternoon, during the siesta, major Bozhko walked in into the room of the flight engineer F.

— Listen, — he said, stopping in front of the poster, — in the evening we will be visited by my pals from Bagram; one of them is a from my commander’s school, but he graduated one year after me. They are going to spend a night here. We will meet, chat, and so on… I want this picture to be hanging in my room just for a day. Anyway, she is the face, chest, abdomen and knees of our squadron, so we should show it to them!

— Just do not spill the vodka on it — the flight engineer F. said, taking the poster off.

— Do not be silly! — Bozhko answered, holding the shaky bedside table. — We have got too little vodka for wasting it on the walls.

In the evening, the flight engineer F., heard from Bozhko’s room laughter, and a muffled guitar song, which only one line — “Look at the radiometer, asshole!” — was clear.

The next day the flight engineer flew away early and came back late. Before his dinner, he went to collect his creation. However, the poster had disappeared from the commander’s room.

— And where is the picture? — turning his head, the flight engineer asked.

— You see, my dear, — the major, confusedly scratched his head — our girl flew away…

— What do you mean? Where did she fly and how?

— Well, how do people usually fly away? In the helicopter, of course, to Bagram. They saw the picture and began begging for it! Of course, I refused, as it was our squadron’s face! Then these bastards decided to get me drunk, and you know how mellow I am when I am drunk. To be honest, I do not even remember how I gave it to them…But now she will represent us in another country!

Clenching his teeth, the flight engineer turned and left without saying a single word.

— You should not worry like that! — Major shouted at his back. — You can draw a hundreds of such pictures!

— I am not upset — the flight engineer said, closing the door. — I just do not understand one thing…

Then for a long time he was swearing.

Outside, on the bench near the door, he had his cigarette, inhaling deeply and often, then he got up and walked slowly toward the dining hall. But after few steps, he stopped and turned back. Entering his room, he opened the three-legged bedside table and took out a treasure that he had brought yesterday from the south-eastern mountains.

Earlier, not far from Kandahar, in the village that was hiding between the shades of pomegranate groves, the flight engineer stopped at a small roadside shop.

The tanned, thin old man who looked like a thousand years older than a genie from a famous children story, raised his watery eyes. Carrying a gun over his shoulder, he took a large pomegranate and handed it to the flight engineer.

This pomegranate was of a size of a small watermelon — the flight engineer had not seen fruit of this size at the Caucasian markets neither at the markets of Central Asia, with which he was familiar from his childhood.

But for the artist, this old man held in his hand (his palm was like stained lacquered wood) not a fruit — it was a round vessel, which once had been decorated with morocco, dyed with cochineal, and ironed to a shiny gloss. The vessel has lost its color after many centuries. But the shabby antiquity of its leather ensured that up to the neck of the vessel — pomegranate, its seeds were packed inside like large faceted rubies.

And the flight engineer bought from the old genie this leather vessel, with the blood of Dionysus, paying only five or ten Afghani. Then he was flying over mountains, he thought that soon he would draw her real portrait, with this unique pomegranate.

After getting the fruit from the shop, he unbuttoned the jacket of his jumpsuit, and placed the pomegranate inside his jacket right near his heart; put his hand on it, and buttoned his jacket. He went to the dining room, carrying the pomegranate, near his bare stomach, like mine, and muttered:

— What a miracle it is? and for whom this miracle is?… Of course, it is for you!… Do you want me to draw you?…

The dining room was almost empty, only a couple of fighter-bombers had been finishing their tea. Two waitresses were cleaning the tables. Bending down, caved in and stretched like a cat, she was wiping a long table, touching the table with her breasts. She turned her head, blew her hair off her face and said amiably, without changing her position:

— Sit down at a clear table, and I will get your order…

And then she has gone. He sat down at a clear table and waited, holding a pomegranate in his lap. His heart was beating stronger.

P.S.

There are some photos that have been saved, but certainly they do not reflect the whole picture: http://kuch.ru/pictures/frolov/22.jpg

At Customs, vigilant customs officers tore off the upper part of the picture containing secret squadron numbers. The flight engineer has managed to hide his picture in a jar of Indian tea.

Senior lieutenants were preparing for their inevitable demobilization. For this event they decided to brew home-made vodka in a welded 40 litre tank (the subject of an open envy from others!), in which the fermentation process was excellent. This technology has been tested many times — water, a few cans of cherry jam, one spoon of yeast, a rubber hose, and discharge gases in a jar with water. The result was magnificent — home-made vodka, which will knock you down after a few pints.

The 3rd of July — the day of their discharge from the army-was approaching fast. And the home-made vodka was almost ready, quietly emitting gases and spreading a smell of sour cherries around the room. And something unexpected did happen: it was an inspection of each room searching for alcohol and medicines, because even to keep headache painkillers in a bedside table was somehow punishable.

… So, the inspectors were walking in a corridor.

— In which corridor are they walking? — Senior Lieutenant Losenkov frantically asked.

-In our corridor! — Senior Lieutenant F. hissed, closing the door. — Act according to the instructions…

They rushed to the window, carefully opened the wooden shutters, pulled out the tank with home-made vodka under the table, placed it on the window sill, jumped into the street, removed the tank, put it under the window, climbed back into the room and closed the shutters.

Chief of Staff, Political Officer and a doctor knocked at the door and then entered the room.

— Here, I guess, we can definitely find something! — the Political Officer sniffed the air. — It stinks here!

— A jam soured — the board technician F. explained — In this heat even the brain tends to sour. By the way, we have been demanding the replacement of an air-conditioner for a long time. Doctor, how can you let us fly knowing that we don’t have proper conditions for a good rest — check yourself what temperature it is in this room…

— Okay, okay, — the Chief of Staff winced, — we do not need to speculate on the temporal difficulties. Tell me instead, where is your home-made alcohol?

— You can search, — with this suggestion the senior lieutenant F. sat on the bed.

The thorough search has been conducted with peeping under the beds and probing the pillows, but all of these gave a zero result. The superiors went away with nothing but promised to confiscate all illegal alcohol next time if it will be found. As soon as their steps in the hallway were no longer heard, the senior lieutenants F. rushed to the window. He opened the shutters and looked outside…The tank with the home-made vodka was not there.

— I do not get it! — the board technical F. said and looked around.

— Look! Over there they are! — and the board technician Losenkov pointed at two running figures. — They are getting away, bastards!

A board technical F. looked in the pointed direction and saw two soldiers dragging a heavy tank. They ran towards the different battalion.

The two angry board technicians easily caught the heavy loaded soldiers.

— Stop or I will shoot! — the board technician F. commanded and the soldiers immediately stopped, put the tank on the ground, and, wiping their sweaty faces with their sleeves, turned to the board technician F.

— Hey, you, two brats! — and the board technical F. ordered — Now you will both go back with the same speed. What kind of people you are, huh? Just no respect for somebody’s property, just grab everything that is not attended.

— Sorry but we had no idea that it is yours, the comrade Senior Lieutenant! — with guilty intonation one of the soldiers explained. — We were passing by and suddenly — Wow! — we saw this tank; and we took and carried it, honestly, comrade Senior Lieutenant, purely automatic!

On July 3, 1987, after two years, army service for the board-technician senior lieutenant has ended. The order for his two years army service (fall of 1985) was issued in the mainland of the Soviet Union. But this order works only if replacements arrive. Nevertheless, in the evening of this significant day, three officers decided to celebrate a formal ending of their service. The fried potatoes, opened tinned meat, expropriated alcohol from 24th brigade together with their own home-made beer, were placed on a table in their room. They ate, drank and had fun.

In an hour after midnight the door opened and the commander, wearing a protective helmet and holding a machine gun in his hands, entered the room.

— So, are we celebrating? — he asked. — Of course, it is a first priority now, but, in five minutes you two — the senior lieutenant F. and senior lieutenant Mukhametshin — should run to the choppers for hanging up “chandeliers”!

It means that our troops need light during a night battle. So, we had to fly to the place of battle and to set up LAB (light air bombs on parachutes — Editor).

— It is a bit surprising! — the senior lieutenant F perplexedly said. — This is absurd. I am a civilian now, even to say more — I am a drunk civilian! But for some reasons I have to fly to somewhere in a middle of the night to hang out the “chandeliers”! I hope it will be not a final point in my demobilization neither in my life. Felix, do you remember what the fortune teller told us in Chirchik about a late trip?

— If we will be back, — the only sober board technical Mukhametshin, (who is currently flying the chopper of Tarabrin who was on a vacation), answered with a stress on “if”. — I announce the strike from tomorrow! It is illegal!

And they walked out, asking to leave for them something to eat and drink when they will return.

They immediately became alerted that the pair of choppers had mixed crew: the leading board 33 was directed by the Squadron Commander, and the unit Commander was in charge of board No. 10. For sure, it was out of question about training to synchronize crew actions. Whispering, both commanders agreed about the altitude, speed distance, then went to their machines, and making spiral trajectories above the aerodrome, they took off.

Compared to night flights conducted in the Soviet Union, flights in Afghanistan were different: there was no on board lights, neither navigation lights, end lights, or flashing beacons. There was only one light that was invisible from the ground: a yellow droplet on the tail boom, that helped the wingman to see who are going right and above and where the leading chopper is.

So, the helicopters were spiraling above the aerodrome. Machines climbed up into the total darkness. Usually during spiraling, the commander of the leading helicopter should be observing the second one, but in this case it was total darkness and dangerous disorientations.

When altitude of two thousand metres was reached, the leading helicopter said:

— 532, I do not see you. Report the height.

— Two thousand metres, 851th.

— It is odd. Let’s blink our headlights to each other and define our positions. Let’s do it on the count of three. One, two, three…and both machines momentarily turned their flashing lights on — and each of the crew saw a red light straight ahead!

The helicopters were moving towards each other face-to-face in a direct line. An unavoidable collision with each other was a matter of few seconds away; and then both commanders with a perfect synchronization simultaneously swore and moved the choppers apart.

— Let’s go to work, — the commander of the leading chopper said. — Let’s hit the road. And climb a bit higher…

And they started working.

Thinking of how close they were to a collision, the board technician, felt, how his little shrunk heart has been lost in a black space of his chest. His feet were wet and cold. “If we will get back, — the board technician said to God, — then I will believe in you. I understand that you sent me here on the day when my discharge order arrived, for a very special reason. I do admire your sense of humor. Okay, I believe in you now. Now please take us back, before we lose any neophyte…”.

They reached the battle location, connected with the land, adjusted their course, height, and went into the battle by sending light-bombs down one by one. Below, hanging on parachutes, two blue suns flared up and filled the earth with their lifeless light.

Waiting for the bombs to go off, the pair of choppers made another circle, and released the remaining light-bombs.

— Now we have to wait until it will burn to the end, — the crew commander said. — We will be in a light zone and they will shoot us — we will be on display like under the brightness of the moon! Hey, look where we are now — maybe we should go another way?

— Wait, I will grab a flashlight, — the navigator-operator replied, looking for the flashlight in his bag.

— Are you mad or what, what is the hell with you and the flashlight?

The navigator-operator looked on the pale ground, bent over a map spread out on his knees and struck a match. The light of his match flashed in the dark cabin like a torch.

— What are you doing, idiot!? — the commander shouted. — You blinded me! I now have red bunnies in my eyes!

— How do you think I can check the map? — the navigator-operator got furious. — Am I a cat or something?

And in this stressful time the commander…farted.

A wave of stinky smells was coming from the chair of the commander and reached the board technician. The offended navigator-operator demonstratively waved the air with the folded map.

Suddenly the voice of the leading helicopter thrilled in the headphones:

— Hey, 532, did you sense a smell?

— What smell? — the commander asked, petrified.

Both, the board technician and navigator-operator, started laughing.

They laughed as hard as they ever did. They choked and coughed.

— What? What? Someone fired! — the leader said. — Watch! they are shooting at us from the slope. And we even didn’t have unguided missiles. Stay away from the mountains.

— Got it, — the commander of the second chopper said and then unashamedly re-addressed his farting incident to his crew via the intercom. — Why are you farting like horses?

— It was not us! — the board technician and navigator-operator rejected his claim forcing themselves to stop laughing.

— And who it was, was it me? — the commander demanded the answer.

— Maybe it was someone from the leading choppy! — the board technician suggested and now all three farted together.

Thus, laughing, they went through the battle. They released the remaining two bombs, turned around and returned home.

One day, the pilots requested that the squadron commander arranges for a polygon, for them to do exercises for firing from a front-side machine gun. In the condition of real battle, a board technician is in charge of the machine gun, while the pilots are in-charge of pressing the UAM’s button (unguided aircraft missile — Editor). Of course, all board technicians became a bit worried, but there was nothing they could do — just comply with the order. However, there was one particular reason to be alarmed and it was related to the process of loading cartridge belts. This job was a prerogative and primary responsibility of board technicians, and it was not an easy task: put the bullets into the “mouth”, turn the handle, make sure the cartridge is not twisted — if you do not notice and push the handle, you may be knocked down. After a few re-loadings, the calluses on your hands were secured — especially after loading the cartridge belt after each flight. At least, four boxes with cartridge belts for 250 rounds were kept on board.

The flight engineer F. liked having eight zinc boxes on board — he placed them in a row under the bench. They warmed his soul.

The prospect of the pilots’ activities on the polygon, in the beginning, upset him. He even boldly objected to it and said to the captain Trudov:

— Do not even dream! My barrel is hot, overused, and already began to spit, showing a lack of accuracy. You will be the first who will be killed in a battle due to this overused weapon. And my hands are not made from metal — to load the cartridge belts each time whilst you are having fun on the polygon.

But Trudov promised him to do a loading by himself as much as required. The flight engineer F. agreed to it with one condition — the re-loading will be doubled — for an amortization of the machine-gun, as he explained. They shook their hands on that.

— Maybe I need to wash your board? — the captain sarcastically asked, offended by this deal.

On the polygon the flight engineer F. placed his machine-gun at close range, switched to the electric trigger on the control stick. The captain Trudov with the right pilot, indeed, had fun shooting 500 rounds. They would like to have more, but the flight engineer F. already tired of this stupid machine. He explained to the commander that his machine-gun overheated, and, in generally, there is no need to harass and annoy the weapon with this senseless shooting. Therefore, the commander was disconnected from the firing.

In the parking lot the captain Trudov ordered to the right pilot, called Cute:

— Now you will re-load 1000 rounds. I gave my word of the officer and promised to do a double loading.

— What is my business in such shooting? — Cute got upset. — He promised, and I should to do re-loading now!

The flight engineer F. opened three zinc cartridges — simple, armor-piercing, tracer. Then he got an empty cartridge belt for 1000 rounds, which he collected from four standard ones. These standard cartridge belts always ended unexpectedly in the most inopportune moment, this is why the board technician decided to do double re-loading and create a super-cartridge belt.

Turning the handle, Cute concentrated. The flight engineer F. was controlling misalignment of cartridges and straightened a twisted black snake. The process of re-loading went smoothly. Cute, whose navigating hands were good for keeping only a pencil and making a line, groaned, looking at his fresh calluses:

— Shooting from my gun is a sweet deal that I prefer to do.

Admiring the miracle cartridge belt, the board technician, first, had a smoke, and then started to place it in the normal box, but it was not possible. Only a zinc box was big enough to swallow this newly-created snake.

It was too risky for his health to lift this zinc box, so in order not to overstrain himself, he dragged it to his cabin. After much effort, using his knee as a jack, he tried to put it under the seat frame. But the enormous zinc box was too big for this place. Frustrated, the sweating flight engineer, dragged the zinc box again to the stern machine-gun. There was a relatively big space, so he somehow fitted the zinc box, in a way that the cartridge belt was free to go in the locking part of the machine-gun.

“Somehow, I could shoot from here”, — he thought, very pleased with the fact that now his tail is more secure.

In the morning they flew to Turgundi. On the platform 101 they took on board a drunken captain.

— Take me, guys! — the captain humbly asked. — It should be the end of my war — I’m replaced! — but because there was not any transport to Turgunda, I am in my third day of binge-drinking — and stuck like a shit in a hole — even thought to return to fight again! And take this bottle to smooth my replacement… — and he handed to the commander a bottle of vodka.

Of course, it was taken.

We arrived and sat down on the ground near the road, which is behind the hill from the right, and could see the border towers of the Soviet Union. We turned off the engine, and the silence was relaxing.

— Smells like gunpowder, — the captain sniffed.

The flight engineer F. opened a door to the cargo compartment and gasped. The grey layers of smoke completely filled the cabin. The smoke was corroding his eyes, cutting his throat, there was no air to breathe. Looking closer, the flight engineer saw a passenger who was laying on the floor among the black rings of gun-cartridges. He made an unsuccessful attempt to stand up, but felt down again on the carpet of the thousands of empty shells and cartridges.

— What have you done, asshole?! — the flight engineer F. terrifyingly asked, not yet aware of the scale of what just happened.

The drunken captain — he was even more drunk than before — turned to one side, raised his head, and said:

— Hey, guys! Well, thank you, such a cool machine-gun! All the way out of this war, I was shooting! Don’t look at me — I was saying good-bye, do you not get it?! Good-by to this fucking country, to this war! I am sure the way how I said goodbye — these bitches will remember!

The flight engineer F. grabbed him by the collar and kicked out from the board. Then the drunken captain’s suitcase was followed. The captain grabbed his stuff and ran, not looking back.

He fled to his homeland.

The crew looked at his back with unfriendly eyes. Now on the route between Herat-Turgunda the board No. 10 officially established itself as a screwball.

— I hope this moron was aimlessly shooting without damage, — the commander sighed.

On the way back, the pair of choppers were flying with a large radius from the route that had been gunned by the captain.

…And flight engineer F. no longer loaded his super cartridge belt. There was no such excitement.

In July 1987, in the sky of Afghanistan a plane has been lost. It belonged to an advisory squadron An-26 that was on the route from Kabul to Zaranj. It made a short refueling stopover in Sindande, and then took off; It was seen somewhere near Kandahar and then there was no communication after that.

To find this aircraft, a pair of MI-8 were given an order to conduct a searching expedition. These two were flying toward the Iranian border at a distance of several kilometers from each other, in a way like an invisible line was stretched between them.

There were many speculations on what had happened with the lost aircraft: a betrayal, a capture of the crew, a navigational error, but the real reason was unknown.

However, when the choppers were close to Zaranj, unsupported information was released that the plane crossed over the Iranian border and landed near some village. Immediately the order to search for a plane along the border to the west and to the east was issued. A pair of choppers, which were led by board 10 one, were flying on the west, and after 20 minutes of flying in this direction, they spotted a small settlement of natives with maybe no more than ten kishlaks (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor)

The leading helicopter was the one that landed, whilst the second chopper was circulating above. The counterintelligence agents — theirs and ours — together with a machine gunners platoon, went to meet the locals, who all went out to watch the helicopters and asked for some kerosene. The flight engineer F, saw how the children were running with buckets towards the helicopter, and closing the door, he waved them off. He could not give them a drop of fuel — the fuel was a precious commodity — it was just enough to fly back to Farahrud.

— Commander, kerosene, commander, kerosene! — the boys shouted in unison surrounding the flight engineer.

He tried to push away their clinging hands from his pants and their rattling buckets away from him. He looked around in a hope that his guys had returned, but they were talking to the elders of this village.

Then suddenly, a single narrow figure appeared on the canvass, like in Ivanov’s painting (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor).

It was a girl in violet trousers, green spacious dress, with protruded braids under a red hat-skull cap. She was slowly moving with her bowed head, and her black eyes behind thick lashes that were staring at the flight engineer. Her lips covered by lipstick glowed in the dark, and her face was like a rose in the twilight garden. She carried a white enamel can with a picture of a goat; and she looked like she came for some milk.

Looking at her, the flight engineer forgot that they are now on the border of Iran and Afghanistan, but understood that she needed kerosene for a lamp, because there is not and never was electricity in her village. Surrealistically, behind the flight engineer was a time machine, and this girl, with a necklace on her thin neck, was older than him by several centuries. He regretfully pressed his hands to his chest and parted them, gesturing that he would like to give her kerosene, but… Then he pushed the boys away, jumped into the cabin, took three packs of “Bonko” candy out of his bag with grenades, and handed the candies to her. She took it with one hand, looking down and, at the same time, to the side.

— Do not pay attention to their girls! — the captain shouted from the cabin. — We will be beaten by stones! Let’s start the engine, our guys are coming…

And they went off.

On the way home a secret agent shared the information about the lost plane: locals saw the plane that flew in the direction of the Iranian city of Zabol — thirty kilometres from the border. Clearly it was about to land, it was not burnt, not smoking, and both engines were working…

When they arrived home, they found out that this plane crossed the Iranian border as a result of a navigational error (unfortunately the navigator and one of the crew, were killed by the Iranian special forces during the storming of the aircraft); and now negotiations are going on to return the plane and crew.

Late at night, first lieutenant F. wrote a letter to his distant friend who lived an unreal peaceful life and who went to the library, the philharmonic, theatres, exhibitions, who can read Hesse and Mann, Borgen and Borges, and who can sing in a shower. This friend hated the army — never learned in the Military Department how to march-, and he wrote to the flight engineer F. about a rock group who sang a bold song about America and Casanova.

“Here everything is changing rapidly, — he wrote, — While you are doing who knows what, Ryazanov wants to make a film “Master and Margarita”. When I read Freud and Nietzsche in the library, I do not hear footsteps, wearing boots!”.

In response, to prove that he does not waste time in vain, the flight engineer F. wrote back about what did happen to him as the traveler of the exotic country. He told him about local customs — for example, about the amazing friendship between men, when one leads another by a little finger, and answering to some peculiar questions, he answered that local women are thin and flat, but the boys have their things to be proud of. He wrote about the strange insects that have become huge in the absence of the birds. Yes, there is no chirping of birds and leaf rustling — they are replaced by the rustle of the sand, carried by the wind, and at night, when he whips on the plywood walls half asleep, it feels like a dry snow…

The flight engineer also wrote about the war to his friend, whose world was eagerly absorbed with the knowledge of Zarathustra from the yellowed pages with yat letter (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor). However, he tried to do it delicately so that the pacifist soul of his mate will be not hurt.

His mate sent to flight engineer F. the pages extracted from Zarathustra (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor).

The flight engineer F. read them, comprehended and, reincarnated, wrote back. He talked about the white sky and the red mountains of this country, the birthplace of the prophet, about the hellish heat that prevails here. “The heat here is unbearably-the flight engineer wrote. But we have got used to it, and it does not bother us — on the contrary, we want it more, like in our veins there’s already flowing fire, not moisture. And our rotary-wing animals, in the beginning, were hard to lift off from the ground, but then I learned how to rush into the sky these ridiculous predators, with its benches, with orange-yellow tanks, with ragged blue corrugated floor, with unwashed brown spots on the floor under the tanks.

Every early cool morning, we were out hunting, at the time when the eastern mountains were still black on a background of purple silk, and the wind has not yet passed through the cabins.

We flew over the fields so low that the wheels were knocking the flaming poppies. And then at the parking lot, a dog Gloomy together with his two girlfriends came, and Gloomy was licking these wheels covered by poppy juice until he become like a good-natured puppy.”

This is how the flight engineer F. wrote to his friend. Maybe it was written not to him but rather to himself whom he wants to be in the future.

So this evening he wrote in the letter about how they were looking for the missing plane. He described the girl with her milk can, which she handed to the white God landed from Heaven in an iron dragonfly…

Ten years have passed. Former flight engineer F. wrote a story about the sun, trembling in the lake, and serpents creeping about the snake swallowing. After reading it, his friend asked:

— Is it about an Afghan girl that you fucked on the border with Iran?

— I fucked her? — the former flight engineer sincerely was shocked. — God be with you, why do you think this way?

— Why do I think? You wrote me in the letter that she was the daughter of a cloth merchant, and while her dad was talking to officers about a missing plane, she gave you to drink of goat milk, then invited you into her father’s shop, where you smoked kalian (an oriental tobacco pipe with a long, flexible tube which draws the smoke through water contained in a bowl — Editor), and then the blue Iranian tulips were a love bed for both of you, and how she presented seven metres of this material freshly painted by her virgin blood.

I remember it by heart, because I read it so many times! I remember, you also were afraid that she gave birth to a boy with ginger color hair, and was scared that she and the child would be beaten to death by stones by her tribe. You also wrote that her skin smelled like wool, and called her Kteis, which in translation from Hazara means “cat”. After reading the letter, I was wondering could you remember her — or would you think ever about this incident, I was sure that it is a real story, even if a bit incredible… But you do not remember, bastard…

— What a mess! — the former flight engineer laughed. — My memory is not enough to be a true liar. I remember only one thing — that I gave her three packs of candy. And Kteis, actually, is not a cat…

…If it is possible to choose one sketch from a library of his memory, the senior lieutenant F. will be pick this one.

It is night time. They have just landed. The flight engineer F. switched off both engines, and closed the door. On the floor of the cargo compartment a lot of blood has been left, but he didn’t want to wash it in the dark. Tomorrow, in the morning, when the door will be opened, myriads of black buzzing flies will break free from the helicopter. Then he will properly brush the floor with water.

And now he goes home. The large sky is covered with great stars, the earth is still breathing warm air, but already you can feel the coolness of the night is coming. The flight engineer F. unzips his uniform jumpsuit welcoming this breeze to his hot chest. He is very tired, and the ground is still swaying under his feet after a long flight. Holding the gun with an instinctively lowered hand, he almost drags it along the ground. He smokes, cupping the cigarette in the mouth.

Somewhere nearby, on the corner of the hangar, an invisible guard sighed like a horse.

The flight engineer F. turns from the parking lot and walks through the gate to the alley. There is a large railway container to the right. The breeze brings the smell of carbolic acid from a female toilet, in which a yellow light and laughter were streaming out from the slightly opened door. The flight engineer stopped, listened and smiled.

After this short stop, he keeps walking, swinging his gun together with the belt. He raises his head towards the shaggy stars that look like those in the famous painting of Vincent van Gogh, and sees how between them a red dashed line of the tracer volley has appeared, following with the distant sound TA-TA, TA-TA-TA.

Suddenly, something blasted behind the runway, and the earth convulsed under his feet. An invisible dragon in the night sky hits the chest of the western mountains — and then again silence.

The creaking sound of the iron door behind him, a rustle of his light feet, again the laughter, — and a silence…The night, the stars, the light of a cigarette — and the big body of this war are tossing restlessly from side to side, breathing in its sleep.

The war will always be with you…