‘Zeus struck Phaeton dead with a bolt of lightning, to save the earth, and his body fell into a river, which bubbled and simmered from his heat. Phaeton had three sisters. The three beautiful young women went in search of their brother. When they found the river in which he had fallen they stood by it and wept. Day and night, week after week, they stood and wept beside the river, until their bodies wasted away. Their feet rooted themselves in the earth and their waving arms grew leaves. The trunks of their bodies became thick with bark. They became poplars wailing in the evening breeze. Long after they had been turned into trees they continued to cry and their tears turned into amber, which rolled down the smooth bark of their bellies and dropped into the river.’
Over the following week the sporadic gunfire coming from the woods, across the river, became more sustained. The night was disturbed by the shudder of incoming rockets. The mud-brick buildings we had built shook and dust billowed around the small space, coating us thickly. The rolling explosions from the two howitzers that opened up from within our compound made sleep impossible.
At daybreak, after one particularly heavy night, the CO informed us of a plan to strike back at the dukhs◦– the insurgents. Information from Military Intelligence suggested that the dukhs were sheltering in a village ten kilometres away, on the other side of the river. The sappers headed out first, checking the road through the forest for mines. We followed, two APCs, the mobile command centre and a BMP bringing up the rear, its caterpillar tracks tearing up the rough surface of the road.
We advanced slowly, the road winding through the trees, climbing steadily. Deep gullies dropped away at our side, and along their bottoms fierce streams crashed down from the mountains.
‘We should burn these fucking trees down,’ said Sasha Goryachev, another new recruit, his face drawn tight with nerves. He was sitting on top of the APC beside me, stiffly upright in his bulletproof vest, his ammunition belt slung across his belly. Dust billowed up from the road, thickly caking our clothes and faces. The muj loved the trees. Green meant snipers◦– trees meant hidden dukhs just waiting to spring their ambush. Whole forests had been felled by our troops across the country. Deserts were safer than jungles.
I cradled my gun across my lap; my eyes flicked from tree to tree, searching in the darkness for a glint of the enemy. My pulse raced and I felt a strange mixture of exhilaration and numbing fear. I glanced over at Kolya, who was sitting next to Vassily on the APC in front. He raised his thumb and grinned. We perched lightly on the tops of the APCs in case of mines. If you were stuck inside when a mine exploded you had no chance.
The village was just above the tree line, its baked walls rising above the verdant treetops. It was situated on a rocky outcrop, which was riddled with dark holes. The village slumbered silently beneath the hot sun, its walls shimmering in the haze of heat bouncing up off the rock. We paused while a small group of granddads headed for higher ground to get a clearer view of the village. They returned after an hour not having seen movement within the walls.
As the armoured cars moved in, we sheltered behind them, covered, in case any hidden snipers should try to pick us off. The streets between the high walls were too narrow for the vehicles and the commander split the platoon into small groups to comb through the enclosures. I followed Chistyakov, Sasha and two granddads down towards a small wooden door at the end of the street, attempting to imitate the feline movements of the granddads, who slipped among the shadows with none of the shivering fear the new recruits were showing.
The door was locked. A shiny new metal padlock glittered in the afternoon sunlight.
‘They’ve fucked off,’ Pavlov, one of the granddads, said. He kicked the door hard, shattering the wood. Through the hole he tossed a grenade and we fell back quickly. The explosion ripped the wooden gate from its hinges, tossing it high in the air into a neighbouring enclosure. The mud-brick wall around the gateway billowed out and crumpled into dust. We darted forward across the rubble into the courtyard of the house.
‘Watch for trip wires, watch for booby-traps,’ Pavlov called across his shoulder. Our eyes scanned the ground as we ran forwards.
The village was empty. Each house had been padlocked and deserted. We sacked the rooms, scattering the contents of the house in search of anything worth stealing. In a storeroom there were some sacks of rice, which we loaded on to one of the vehicles, but there was little else of any value.
‘They’ve fucked off down the kirizes,’ Pavlov commented, referring to the irrigation channels that honeycombed the country, running beside roads, under fields and villages.
‘Fall back,’ the commander instructed.
We took up our places on the personnel carriers while the BMP opened fire on the houses with one of its heavy guns. The dust rose in choking clouds, forming a dark pillar above the village. I felt oddly disappointed. My pulse still raced, my heart hammered and the adrenalin continued to surge through my veins. I wanted to run and fight, to burn the energy that bubbled up within me. I noticed my hands were shaking; yet now I felt not a trace of fear.
At that moment Pavlov, who had been sitting beside me, jumped forward off the APC. His knees crumpled as he hit the ground and he stumbled forwards. I laughed. I was about to jeer at him when I noticed that the back of his skull was missing. For some moments I stared at his figure sprawled awkwardly in the dust, trying to grasp what I saw. As I hesitated another figure toppled forward off the APC, crunching into the dust beside Pavlov. He twisted slightly, squirmed as though he were trying to burrow into the dust, then lay still, his hand reaching out and gently touching Pavlov’s.
‘We’re under fire,’ a voice shouted.
‘Dukhs!’
I glanced around desperately. It was unclear from which side the shots had come. I slithered down off the back of the APC, and crouched in close against the shuddering warmth of its metal side.
‘There,’ somebody was calling. ‘From over there.’
I glanced across at the second APC. Kolya and Vassily crouched in the dust, staring out at the trees on the other side of the vehicle, their guns raised. I felt a sudden rush of adrenalin and, swinging myself around to the front of the APC, emptied a magazine in the direction of the thick undergrowth. The air rattled with the noise of sub-machine-gun fire. I heard the rapid thwack of bullets bruising the metal above me, and then their shrill whistle as they passed above my head. I dodged back behind the APC. Glancing up at the BMP, I noticed its gun dancing back and forth, bewildered, unable to fix upon a target. The ground shook under the impact of a rocket launched from the thick cover of the forest. The metal jerked behind my back and a rush of hot air and dust billowed out from beneath the APC.
The BMP finally decided upon its target and fired. The trees burst into flames. The roar of heavy gunfire grew deafening. So deafening I did not hear the rapid rattle of bullets on the side of the APC above my head. It was the startled look of the commander, who half turned before he fell, and the dancing trail of dust that raced past my feet which alerted me to the fact that we were coming under fire from behind. I became aware at that moment that the APC was moving. As the BMP gun continued to pound the forest, we jumped into the APCs, dragging inert bodies from the dust, holding them tight against us as we squeezed inside.