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

My Replacement

After so many years, when your shoulders will be heavy with the knowledge of military reality, acquired not from the press or hearsay stories, but from your own life experience which will never be forgotten, only then you can understand the life of young officers who served during the Afghan war. You will understand these people, who fell from the school bench into the very centre of the flame of the war.

They helplessly went from one senior officer to another, like small kittens “from tits to tits”, looking in desperation, after two “trench-fighting” years, to find better place for army service. They all tried hard but as it turns out not everyone found the way to do so. For these unlucky ones, life of a young officer kept a fault card in their sleeve.

Returning from the war, the beloved homeland joyfully opened its arms for these gray-haired youngsters, whose understanding of the meaning of honour, conscience and duty were much deeper and substantiated compared to those who did not serve the army. Their souls were distorted by the war. This is why their souls cannot be fooled with empty words about the truth of the war or the complexity of life. For them, life itself was already a gift. Everything apart from life was a nothing.

These commanders of a company and a platoon were draft horses during any war, and took on their shoulders the main burden of not only this Afghan war, but apparently all wars during the past.

Let the senior commanders and military personnel of various ranks shout loudly about their own importance and indispensability during the war — no one is going to argue as all professions are needed, all professions are important — but during the actual battle none of them can receive the higher rank without us, the young, devoted officers, who look after our soldiers, and who, in fact, delivered the task.

The flame of the Afghan war affected everyone: some of us were burnt without a trace, some of us just burnt the tips of fingers and for the rest of life have to wear gloves; some of us just got scared. Whether we like it or not, the flame left indelible dirt in our souls, which we cannot wash away for the rest of our life.

Were you sitting by the fire at night? Remember the feeling when a damp night passed, on the horizon a new day brings coolness, and only smouldering fire warmed us with its bare heat. The smoke, which you had to breathe all night and which penetrated into the lungs to the very bottom, this smell with its invisible threads of memory, will warm your soul during the dull routine of everyday life.

Difficult? — Yes.

Heavy? — Yes.

Pleasant? — Yes.

Contradiction? — Yes.

But only from all of these contradictions that are embedded in our memory, can we recall a full list of what we know as the soldier’s duty!

However, there is another way to live in this life. This is an obliteration of everything you had previously. To forget everything as a terrible dream, to cut off everything that was burnt. However, this will be another life, and this life will not be yours. This, however, would make you a vegetable! You do not breathe so deeply, and there is not enough air in the lungs, and, finally, who likes to be disabled by having a completely missing memory?

To remember or not, these are our only two options.

Without any hesitation, I chose to keep my memory.

Looking back to the past and assessing all actions, you understand that, from the position of the present day, you could have acted differently; but at that time, due to the beauty of your youth, you can only act according to your conscience; and back then, your conscience was clean, blank, ready for lines of hope, and without any life vicissitudes; and, of course, there were no signs that you will be thrown away at the end of army service like a used and therefore no more needed waste.

The airport of Tashkent… Day is breaking. There are three hours left before I will take the plane which will forever take me away from the war. I sit in a restaurant with no visitors. There is only me and also the waiter, a young Uzbekistani. He smokes at the bar. His work finished a long time ago, but in the East, respect for the elders is law number one…

“It is necessary to celebrate your retuning home!” — the restaurant administrator said, he was also burnt by the Afghan war. Being a former fighter, he understood me and stayed with me all night. This kind of understanding we got in the army.

The music stopped and visitors left. Now I am meeting the new day; the first peaceful day in my life as an officer. A cherished dream of a stupid shuravi (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor)) to have a bottle of vodka, a plate with a triple portion of tobacco-chickens placed on the table in front of me. I did not even touch them, although I dreamed about them for twenty-six months. Dreams, unfortunately, very rarely reflect reality.

I have emptiness in my soul.

There is still no joy, there is no bitterness. These feeling will come later, not now.

Whilst I have time, I need to draw a line.

I hold my international passport; my fingers involuntarily stroked the red-burgundy cover of it. Thanks to you, my dear red coloured friend, now I perceive the world around me with completely different eyes. No, my romantic side has not vanished but it has acquired more tangible forms and now reflects life with its shades and coloured variations, not only in black and white as it used to be.

I close the last page of the passport with the stamp “Afghanistan: Departure before October 9, 1983”. It is no longer needed.

What was left behind? What lies ahead?

I dreamed about this day so much and how many plans were born!

All friends are there; here are no new ones. Now I know exactly the meaning of friendship. I know who is a friend and who is just a comrade. Here, in the Soviet Union, I will have only comrades and co-workers. My friends-brothers, including native Afghanis, were left back there.

It is no longer necessary for me to get a “sword from its scabbard” (to get angry — Editor) or any reason for “cutting off heads”. Thanks to my “Afghani teachers”, starting with the first company commander and finishing with the Extreme Battalion commander, I took their wisdom. My teachers were older than me only 3–5 years, but taking into consideration their “military” years, I am like a first-grader compared to them.

The military school, which I finished, turned out to be only a kindergarten considering the depth of profiling subjects. In two years, we speedily completed this school; in one month we did what normally would take three months. It was impossible to cheat. Immediately after the final exams, the combat work began. There was no time for relaxing in the training programs.

Afghan is my life’s “exam” where I learned “something and somehow” (a citation from the Russian classic comedy-in-verse “The Woes of Wit” by Alexander Griboyedov — Editor)

Assessments for this “exam” could be given not by the senior commanders or inspectors from the Union (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), but mothers and fathers of the soldiers who performed combat missions together with me. I think, in this “exam” I could receive a good mark; all the jingling rewards on my chest is not the way to judge me.

I will be the one who have to judge myself.

Looking at the soul, which was not burnt by the stresses and the Afghan heat, I could estimate a level of damage to my soul which I have to live with now and cherish the memory of those guys who will never be with me…

Later there will be holidays and disappointments, my wedding and the birth of children, joys and adversities. But all of these will be later, in my peaceful life. But when I sum up my own “exam” results in that pre-dawning morning, I understood that I will not pass.

My life was divided into “before Afghan “and “after Afghan” with a bloody trait between two parts. Afghan! How scary this word is!

But how to forget it, not to remember.

No need to repeat it.

…Leaning against the edge of the table and propping my head against my fists, I met my first peaceful dawn…

A replacement… Do you know what kind of meaning it had for us? For us, this word does not refer to the process of changing batteries in the radio or an oil filter in the engine. The replacement for us is the hope in our souls, the euphoria, it is the best feeling in the world. It was a time when everything around was singing, the heart was popping out of our chests, the birds were cheerfully tweeting. The replacement arrived, the most darling legs of the substitute emerges from the helicopter, and his boots touch the metal of the corrugated surface. In this moment everything is thrown aside by this person and even the images of the most loved ones became secondary.

Here he is, my darling replacement!.. Oh, a speck of dust is on his shoulder! Oh, the wind from working jets tore off his officer’s cap and carried it away to the minefield! Oh-oh-oh!

Damn this officer’s cap!

Get used to it. “If you want to eat jam, put up with the flies!” — as we said.

Pf-ff, ff-ff, — you blow off, accurately and gently, an invisible speck from his shoulder. — God forbid to hurt or to scratch! Give me your suitcase, I will carry it for you… do not worry, you will have time to carry it for a year, at least… Shit, it is heavy: did you put bricks in it? Or maybe you have some vodyara (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) in the suitcase. Be careful! put your foot here, please, step only there, do not look there… you do not need to see it now… you will see everything later and understand where you are…

Now tell me how is everything back there, in the Union? We were so eager to see you here! The table will be served with food for a dear guest. And your anger and hatred, that five minutes ago boiled your soul, suddenly will disappear and, you felt the nirvana state with only one thought ticking in your head: “You finally got it! This is the substitution!”.

Oh, my God! What eyes he had! There was no pain or fear in them. There was no emptiness either. These eyes were full of life, and, by the way, they reflected the most professional faithfulness and correctness.

Everything written above is a classic. It is how it should be.

But now how it happened in reality…

The main backbone, the officers, from our battalion are also preparing for a planned substitution because each of them had at least a year of military service. During July-September 1983, our battalion almost every day had a sort of celebration because the planned replacement of officers finally started. Substitutes were arriving, one after another, every day. During these days we have to celebrate the arriving substitute as well as to celebrate the freedom of the replaced one and his departure to the Union. Of course, between these celebrations we have some intervals to fulfil our combat tasks.

One day, we received a call from Kabul: the document had been signed for awards that would be issued to three-quarters of our battalion! The surnames of those receiving awards were told by phone to the battalion commander, who became the owner of this secret. The battalion commander thinks that only he knows about it and plays with us by squeezing out only several names per day. He forgot the army rule: if one name will be mentioned, tomorrow a whole battalion will know about it.

But get real, asshole! Communication is under our control, and everything that we need to know, we knew. This is why the flocks of half-drunk officers smoothly flew from one unit to another, from one barracks to the next, transferring their celebrating mood together with bottles of vodka.

You do need to think negatively about it. This is a long standing army tradition around the world. You saluted to your friends or to whom you are obliged to: “Comrades officers, such-and-such, I introduce myself on this occasion!” — and after this, the celebration drinks will follow and conversation flows: who is up for a position, who is up for the title, who is up for the award, who is up for departure from army, or, on the contrary, arriving.

Traditions are the most important things in the army.

I remember my first medal, I celebrated with a flask of surgical spirit which I got from someone in the communication unit, in exchange for an “Astra” gun. This Spanish-made pistol was given to me (and I want to stress this) absolutely voluntarily by a captured doukh (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) when I stepped on his wrist.

This flask was waiting for the sacred appointed time of my first celebration.

The celebration took place in a modest officer’s unit. Tables moved together in a T-shape were covered with newspapers and on top of them is everything that is possible to find in the officer’s supply menu: cherry tomatoes, a pot of fried potato, condensed milk, fresh buns, cheese, “Si-Si” lemonade, a couple of army dry rations, chopped cold meat from the army shop, fried pies, fresh onions and some other greens, and, of course, oranges. Under the table, it is compulsory to have 56-.litres of alcohol. Now the decorations for the celebration are complete.

The first “visitors” sit on the bunks shoulder to shoulder and, smoothing the awkwardness of their early arrival, they read the newspapers which covered the tables. In the centre of the table there is a mug with alcohol, in which I placed my medal.

To all who came, a “beginning shot” from the mug was the first compulsory act, just to get the feeling of the celebration started.

Being the main reason for this occasion, I cough and stand up. With the elbow a bit to the side, I “officially” announce the reason for this gathering, which is the awarding ceremony. In my right hand is a mug with my medal, in my left hand is a bottle with home brewed alcohol. I gulped in one mouthful the contents of the mug hoping to catch my medal with my lips, but the medal — against all laws of physic — stuck to the bottom. I poured more home brewed alcohol into my mug and made another attempt to catch the medal. No, it still stuck to the bottom. Embarrassing, I tried to shake this stupid medal off the bottom of the mug. But against all forces of gravity, this medal seemed like it had been glued. The third filling of home brew hit me in my head like a bullet — and finally — BOOM — the heavy gold medal hit and sliced open my lips.

What a f..ck! Blood together with the disinfectant are running on my festive face. But some cherished words still need to be pronounced. I also need to listen to the speeches of the senior officers about how they are immensely happy to have in their cohort such a brave officer like I am. After the speeches with a glass of vodka and compulsory pickled cucumbers, the official part of ceremony is finished. After 15 minutes the celebration continued without me. The home brewed alcohol did its deal and I am with the most happy smile on my bleeding lips sleeping in an unnoticeable corner. Now my present is no longer needed.

This is a clear example of “the tear-stained air mattress in the back of the van”.

Usually, the beginning of these celebrations is ceremonious and noble. But close to the end, the chorus of friendly drunk voices, with a compulsory falsetto in it, the wrestling, the shooting competition made the atmosphere, indeed, more relaxed. But with such easy access to a weapon — the weapon is hanging on the backs of our beds — you have to be alert (of course, if you are in condition to do so!) and keep your eyes open.

Then the next stage of celebrations is when the attempt of a pale-faced battalion deputy to stop a “disgrace”, is met with laughter; he usually is sent far away with swearing words applicable to the current situation. The unstoppable wild laughter reached its culmination after the announcement of the awardees by the battalion commander, whose surname was also included on this list. This was especially funny because he did not have a single military expedition into the enemy camp. Maybe his heroic act was the act of a senior soldier-internationalist to remain constantly “on base”. But we were too young to understand these nuances, or in our youth, we did not want to understand this…

Youth is not only fervor and daring, and hot blooded overconfidence. It is also a snotty stupidity, ridiculous actions with no self-control, anger without brakes, bordering sometimes close to crimes. It is a feeling of embarrassment that will embrace you tomorrow.

My dear reader, I re-read everything that was written above, and realised that you can get a false impression that we were “half-drunk” when in battle with the enemy. No, no and no!

During our military service we had strict discipline. In two years I have never seen any officer from our platoon-company, or even battalion, who was drunk during military action.

Although I do have plenty of examples of looseness and neglect that were treated without courtesy. Which examples, you ask?

Let them stay in my memory.

I do not know why, but for the second week, the Deputy commissar, Captain Kostenko Y. is in charge of our battalion.

To consider the time of my service in the army, I am “the oldest” in the battalion because of my army service of two years and two months. Everyone, who was served with me already left, but I am still here, with uncertainty wether my personal replacement will arrive or not.

I CANNOT STAND IT ANYMORE! I HAVE HAD ENOUGHT! My chest already has three large bruises from my rifle belt and when I try to take a deep breath it is painful. Thanks to the bulletproof vest, I have no holes in my chest.

It is still a vivid memory when (just before the announcement of my replacement), I, together with my colleague — Nikolayvich, were wounded during the march of our column. For many months we enjoyed the silence of the hospital room. Eventually Nikolayvich was transported to another hospital in Russia because his wound was not healing properly. I recovered, but for a long time I learn how to read again with “Bukvar” (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor).

I think whilst I was in the hospital, someone offered a better deal for my replacement by giving him a tasty bait, and he was hooked…. now I have to wait for him or maybe for another one to resurface.

My commander keeps nagging me about training the soldiers but he knows something as he asked for a bottle of vodka as a reward for the news.

No problem! Just tell me when!

In desperation, I decided to visit the Deputy commissar with only one purpose: to find out the destiny of my replacement and how long I should wait? It is already too much for me to wait another month or two. I know that my replacement is somewhere, but he is definitely lost in the bureaucratic tunnels of the army machine. Luckily, I was able to get a flight with another commander to the headquarters and I decided to take a ride with him on the chopper, which, as I was told, will be here to pick us up in an hour or so.

Of course, this trip will cost me a great deal of my home brewed vodka. The “cooking vodka” process has been going on under my bed for 10 days and the longer you keep it under your bed, the stronger the vodka will be.

I rush to my barracks and grab my documents and Communist Party membership card from the metal box. My friend runs towards me, holding in his hands a new uniform. I dressed up, fix the laces on my bertzy (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) — hallelujah! — I am ready.

With the deepest feeling of satisfaction from my brand new outfit, I walk out to the porch, where Dimych sits there having a smoke. Knowing Dimych through shoulder-to-shoulder actions on numerous battlefields, I started the conversation on what had happened during the last two years.

— Listen, Dimych, do you know that other guys already received their replacement but not me. Maybe I need to take a few expropriated guns for bribery? It seemed to be working well for Misha, remember him? One week ago we went to find his replacement and took all his wooden crafts and he got his replacement.

Misha, indeed, was gifted. He has a talent for woodcarving. We used to laugh when we saw him bringing wood from anywhere and carve something out of boards, roots and logs. I think he would not be ashamed to present his works at any art exhibitions.

— You know, commander, it is a good idea! I know a few people who bring something to the top admin and they got positive results. I do not think that these people remember the surnames of those who were awarded with medals for bravery. We always were as a team, brigade number 55, but not a particular person. Now it is imperative for you to be a particular person.

I agree with you. Go and bring me something attractive and interesting, something irresistible… Dimych left…

The commander of the first platoon came to me. He has the same first name as me, and blond curly-hair like I have. People very often confused us from behind. Today he is on duty, although he should have a rest until one o’clock, but he also does not sleep this afternoon. Our life is strictly scheduled: from day to night, from one action to another. So he is un-rested knowing that any minute his substitute will come, and maybe this chopper, that I am waiting for, accidentally brings his replacement? And besides, we drank chifir last night — no way to get sleep!

Dimych — a capable guy! — returned with a bakshih (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) suitable for my occasion. I place the gun, “present-to-be”, into my bag and I fill up the empty “Astra” holster pistol with cigarettes.

The noise of flying choppers from the southeast became distinctively louder. Starting in Gardez, they fly at maximum heights, and after they pass Tera-Pass, they usually descend and fly for twenty kilometres across the desert. Before Barakinsky Hills the choppers sharply soared up and one by one come to us to land.

At this moment a whole battalion came out and looked upwards. If our looks would be bullets, then the helicopter would land riddled with holes, like a sieve, I’m not talking only about the intensity erupting from the eyes of the ones who wait for their replacement…

Each arriving chopper for us is a break from the monotonous routine; it brings to us a “weekend spirit” with its news and mails. It is a special day of talking to the arriving vacationers and convalescents, and seeing the commissions and inspectors. Unfortunately, by air is the only way to reach us. No one can reach us by road, this is why cars never paid us a visit. Well, just for curiosity, the “smart-asses” should try, I am sure, then there will be no further need for an explanation as to why it is not a realistic approach.

The wall encircling the battalion has two special passages: one is for officers who have the right to pass through, and another one much closer to the landed chopper, is strictly for the senior battalion commanders. Brownian motion ((see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) of solders begins from the arrival of the board to the battalion’s location and back.

— Come on, jump-in! Good luck! — Sanka waved to me, and then responsibly adjusted a “duty” armband on his arm.

Throwing my AK (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) on my back, I jump aboard and the ladder is removed and machine immediately took off from the ground. A gesture was given to me to indicate that my weapon must be put in a box. It is an awkward feeling to sit without my gun, it was always with me giving me a feeling of a warming protection, Now, without it, I feel naked like in banya (traditional Russian style of steam-water bath — Editor). I sit down on the bench. Whilst we were gaining necessary altitude, the second chopper landed. After a couple of minutes, a tandem of choppers took the direction towards Kabul, trying to avoid the green strips below on the land.

Under a monotonous rumbling of engines, I relaxed and indulged myself by planning: what I will do in headquarters? where to go? whom to contact first?

I knew how to get to the personnel department of army headquarters because one of my classmates used to be a guard there, but he was replaced in July. No hope of help from him. Should I go to the department overseeing “special forces”? This is a new department. It is unlikely my name will mean something to them. Maybe my girlfriend knows someone and can help on this matter? But she is an assistant in different matters. Should I be visiting the regiment of communication? There is Vovka — my acquaintance whom I met through my neighbour’s friend — who works there. Why not? I will find him, he has already been in this department for a year, he should be experienced enough to help me solve my problem.

Hey! I remember how I celebrated my vacation with him at home, oh! And when I returned to the army, he even connected me with my Mum when I was located at isolated army barracks during some army operations. Can you imagine? I am sitting on the hill with my troops thousands of kilometres away from my home and talking with my mother! This was an unforgettable experience! Thats it! Decided! I should firstly go to the regiment of communication!

But here my thoughts were interrupted by a dashing pirouette of my chopper when they tried to avoid the whistling tracers being shot from the ground by doukhs (see “Terminology” — Editor). The doukhs are even shooting this close to the capital of Afghanistan!

The pair of choppers lowered their noses to the ground — and NURSov (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) covered the ground below with gunfire, violently shaking the people sitting inside. From the windows, I spotted barely noticeable flashes on the ground. This is too much! This is the last thing I need! I have had everything but not this: at the end of my international duty to be burned alive inside of this metallic can! I still want to run across the green fields, to smell the scent of chamomile with cornflowers in the bouquet of my bride. Oh, I do not like this chopper! Those who were born to crawl should not fly!

After sending to the ground an avalanche of lead and metal, the tandem of choppers managed to fly away from the dangerous zone and after a few more hiccups eventually we started landing. I noticed that serious “crocodiles” were sent to that bad place.

That’s all, we have landed. The blades, by inertia, still continue their rotation, and only then I felt a cold sweat trickling on my back. No this is not my game, guys! It is much better and calmer to walk on the mother earth. As the saying says: “Every ram has its own fat tail.” I agree with this.

I look out the window. On the sun-scorched earth, at the edge of the helicopter pad, five or seven people were sitting and squatting. Among them, Mishka with a bottle of vodka in one hand is hugging some officer. My heart popped: “Is he my replacement?”

I jumped to the ground:

— Mishka, what are you doing here?

— Ha! He is asking! Dance, dear: he is your RE-PLA-CE-MENT! — and he nodded at the officer. — I’m taking him from the army headquarters to your post! All documents for conducting the substitution is sealed in this envelope! — and he shows me a large white bag sealed with wax.

No-no-no! It must be mistake! This is not the way how it should happen! I pictured this epochal moment very differently: more exalted, more intelligent. And here — right in your face: “Change”!

My substitute is a senior lieutenant, puny compared to me. He stands up and with a foolish smile of a newcomer and reports:

— Senior Lieutenant Yunusov, 11th Brigade.

I stood up like a statue and just looked at him, hardly believing that this day has actually arrived. Now, I am just like him, smiling silly:

— Sorry, what brigade?

— Eleventh. Mogochinskaya, Transbaikalian Military District.

-What? — I gave Mishka a puzzled look.

— Sanya, this is all a mess and bullshit, but it does not matter, the main thing here is your replacement, and you will get transferred to the Odessa district next time… — Mishka replied to my unspoken question.

He knew that I wrote a report addressed to the Commander of TurkVO, in which I expressed my desire to continue my international duty in Afghanistan until I will be returned to Odessa, the place where I was signed up. Transbaikalian Military District is the place that we translated as “Forgot to return to civilisation”. It is my worst nightmare!

— In an hour we will be heading back, to Gardez. — the voice of the chopper’s commander returned me to reality.

Returning means returning.

Vodka should not be wasted. Give me a sip, for the joy of this sudden happiness.

Hiding from the severe heat of the sun, we went under the shade of the helicopter and placed the jacket of the newly-baked-international officer on the ground.

— Here you do not need a parade uniform for official presentation to the senior officer, there is no parade here. You can present yourself even wearing a singlet, — Mishka with a laughed invited us to drink with him — Let’s have a look for snacks we can have with vodka!

Some food was stored in my bag, Mishka found some, and my replacement Yunusov took out his food ration.

— Hey, pal! — I said to the pilot resting under the tent. — Come on, joint us, but bring the glass with you together with a bottle. I will pay for this bottle with my cheque.

The pilot was experienced, he understood everything immediately and disappeared without a word inside his helicopter, and after a minute he joined us on an improvised table on which was a bottle of vodka accompanied by a “gentleman’s set” — three onions, a can of stew, and half a loaf of bread.

— Guys! — he says, — I will not take your money for the bottle. This bottle is my present to you because you were waiting for this day for so long! We are alive and healthy. Let’s drink to it and for returning home! Cheers!

Following the tradition to have a small break between the first and the second drinks, we speedily rose our mugs for the third time. And at this time the choppers’ crew commander loomed on the horizon. We also invited him for a quick symbolic drink, — it was too hot.

Our flight back seemed shorter and took less than half an hour.

After landing I went directly to the headquarters to register the newcomer, and after that I will organise my documents for the replacement. The first thing is to inform my team, then to report to the battalion commander.

I reported to major K. that everything is in order. I said that tomorrow our group is scheduled for a planned march that includes three APC (armoured personnel carriers — Editor) with their crews. Dimych will be the leader of this column. That is all. If we will be alert and quick, we will reach Barak Station in no time… and all together. By the way, during this march we can see how good my new replacement is.

And then I began organising my replacement documents. I do not know anyone at the administration, they are all new officers but they are all diligently sitting at their chairs. It is a positive sight, because the old ones I could chase for days. These new once are still unspoiled.

When I was transferring my document, the deputy head of the party committee looks at me so closely.

— You are from Barak Station — and have no punishments? — he addressed the question to me.

— How is it possible to have no penalty on file? In my service record, I have a “Severe Punishment” that was issued to me by the battalion commander for harsh treatment of the captured prisoners. — I answered.

— I am not referring to your service. I am talking about the discipline in your battalion. Internal affairs of your battalion is disgusting, They engage in binge drinking for weeks. We got reports that some commanders of the battalion this month committed some disgusting actions. Reports reached me on unethical behaviour of drunken officers. What do you do as a Communist to stop this kind of nonsense?

— Well, — I answered, — we do drink hard and do fight hard. You cannot deny the heroism of my guys. Even the snitch, who apparently reports everything to you, has already received a medal on his chest.

— He is informing us, not snitching — raising his voice, the Lieutenant Colonel began to educate me on army ethics.

What kind of rights, you cranky man, have you to educate me, sitting here far away from the tracers and bullets? You do not even know where my battalion is located.

— I just finished a talk with Major K…. He is aware of your problem.

Ha! What problem? This is something new. Now I turn all my attention to the deputy PO (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor).

— If it’s not a secret, what kind of problem? In the morning I did not have any problem, I did not have it at lunch, but for some reason my problem was cooked by now. What is it? For your information, I spoke with my battalion and there, in Barak, everything is in order.They are getting ready for tomorrow’s march.

— You can be dismissed! — and he pointed at the door with his finger.

After that conversation I had a bad taste in my mouth. This guy definitely does not like me. Where is my old pal Lt. Col. Platsynda Nikolai Kondratievich?

With a heavy feeling in my heart, I went to see my friends from another department Trying to be secretive, so no one can see, I opened my bag:

— Choose your taste!

— Oh! You do have here a good collection of weapons! What do you want from us?

— Change the first letters from Transbaikal Military District to Far Eastern Military District and send me to the direct service of the District Commander. Somehow make a misspelling, or make a mistake. I will pretend I never saw the original order.

— No problem!

I feel like a heavy burden was lifted from my shoulders. Well, all I want to do is to forget about this Transbaikal Military District

Walking further along the corridor, I reached the room of Deputy Brigade Commander.

— Come in! — he invited me and straight to business — Where are your documents? Let me put my autograph on them. By the way, you do not need to return to your Barak Station, go from here directly to the Union (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor). Tomorrow afternoon will be the board to Kabul, and from Kabul you will take a plane to Tashkent. You, in fact, already have a replacement. Let the new guy take over your company. This decision is coming from someone in the political department. No need to piss against the wind.

— Yes, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel! I will follow your advice, but it is not right not to say goodbye to my people at Barak Station.

— It is up to you, I warned you. The guys who are overseeing the moral standard of the army, have a very inquisitive attitude towards your company. They look forward to checking your people on this matter. With a newly arrived replacement it would be problematic to do so. You are a smart guy, and the army is executing the orders, not discussing them…

— Yeah, Comrade Lieutenant-Colonel. — I was dumbfounded by this news — Enemies, as turns out, are not only in the mountains.

— The internal enemies, Senior Lieutenant, are worse. With those at the mountains, you are in battle, face to face. But these ones will harm you from behind. — the Comrade Lieutenant-Colonel said.

This is my fate! And why did you, my fate, do this to me? What kind of replacement is this? Two feelings are fighting inside of me. Which one is stronger, I cannot identify.

The first impulse is throw everything to hell and do as my heart is telling me. But walking under a sword hoisted overhead for the last two years, gives me the reason not to risk my replacement. This is how my mind works. The rational decision prevailed over the emotional attachment. I decided to leave.

In these pre-departure worries, I did not notice that the day is finished.

Where to go now? Maybe to the Eleventh company to my friends to smooth my uneasy decision.

On return back to my bunk, I am tossing sleeplessly. “How is it possible?” — the thought drills my brains all night.

In the morning, I can see clouds of dust on the horizon. This is a column with a military escort. They started marching very early, at dawn, from the Barracks, and now they managed to get to headquarters exactly for breakfast. We run towards them to meet the whole brigade.

Dimych is fully covered by dust, Komarik as usual is merry and happy. The march went without incident. It is a good road along the desert with very little “green” on the way. This is why enemies practically do not attack. Although last year, some stoned dukhs (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) tried. But one place is particularly cursed. This is close to a damaged bridge near Altamur, but we know about it and always “comb” it before marching.

— Sanka, — Dymych turns towards me. — I do not understand what is going on. K…. is screaming. He ordered to collect all your stuff and bring it with the column. I collected everything I could find… What is this nonsense?

— Dymych, I received the order not to return to the battalion.

— Now I got it. Do not worry, Sanka, “justice will prevail!”… The main thing is that we are alive. Who is this? — and he pointed by a finger at my replacement.

— He is my replacement, — I answered, — and this is our new company commander, — and I introduced Dimych to Yunusov.

I decided to leave my AK (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) with Yunusov and told Dimych to officially transfer my gun to Yunusov.

— Savin! — I shouted to the deputy commander of the machine-gunners, — here is Senior Lieutenant Yunusov — the third platoon commander. You will give him my safe vest, a radio station, a radio-helmet and explain to him what is what. You know… code of calls, frequencies. And now line up the soldiers.

Ten people lined up.

I looked at them and a spasm squeezed my throat.

— Lads! My last order to you is to return home safely! Is it clear?

— Yes, sir! — There were dissonant voices in response.

They all feel that I am no longer a part of their life. I am already in a different dimension but they have to stay. Who will return home, only God knows, but I tried my best to keep you all alive. I did not want them to see my tears, and in a broken voice, choking, I commanded:

— Dismiss!

Together with the officers I sat down on the spare wheels that were laying near the APC. There was no need for farewell words. We kept silent. We finished our cigarettes and…

All get ready! The 371st, 375th, 378th started the movement at the maximum speed. Follow me! March! — the words, which my regular teams learned as a song, were clearly heard in the air. Mishka and Komarik waved goodbye to me.

They were moving towards a battalion location. I was going forward to a new life.

Forgive for everything and do not remember bad things.

That was all.

Afghanistan got rid of me. However did I get rid of Afghanistan? This was unknown.

— This is my story, Dima! — I finished telling my short story.

— Well, now everything is clear! — Dima Shesternin said, — This K. is an asshole and I am going to tell you about K.…

— Dima, today is our meeting, Let’s not talk about bad things. God will judge him.