He was not alone. This revelation had come as a shock to most of the veterans of the Iranian war. And this was not the only shock that had greeted Vorishnov. Vorishnov began that war as the deputy of a tank battalion belonging to the first operational echelon of the Southwestern Front. As such, his unit was frequently in combat and often in the lead. When the battalion commander was killed in the closing days of the war, Vorishnov had assumed command of the unit. He and the remains of his battalion stayed in Iran as occupation forces after the signing of the armistice. Only his selection for attendance at the Frunze Military Academy saved him from a longer tour in Iran.
Vorishnov's joy in leaving Iran was short-lived. Returning to the Soviet Union, Vorishnov discovered that he and his fellow veterans were not only unwelcomed but despised. It was at the train station in Kiev, en route to Moscow, that Vorishnov came face to face with this reality. Waiting in line to pick up his ticket for the remainder of his journey, Vorishnov noticed an old man with a cane staring at him. The old man had several military medals on the lapel of his jacket collar — obviously a veteran from the Great Patriotic War. For a moment, their eyes met. The old man's eyes were cold and hostile, his stare cutting through Vorishnov like a knife. Though Vorishnov could not understand why, he shrugged it off and turned away.
The old man, however, would not be put off. Hobbling up to Vorishnov, he took his cane and smacked Vorishnov's right arm. Reeling from the unexpected blow, Vorishnov turned to face his assailant. Standing a head taller than the old man, Vorishnov kneaded his sore arm with his left hand and told the old man he was crazy. The old man, his face contorted by hatred, looked up at Vorishnov. "I may be crazy, but at least I am not a traitor."
Vorishnov was taken aback by the old man's statement. By now the people in the immediate area had stopped what they were doing to watch the confrontation. Trying to soothe the old man, Vorishnov forced a smile. "Grandpa, I am not a traitor. You are confused. I am a veteran of the war, just like you." Reaching out, Vorishnov lifted one of the medals hanging on the old man's lapel. "See, we even share the same award."
Instead of ending the confrontation, Vorishnov's action made it worse. In a stroke that surprised everyone with its speed, the old man raised his cane and smacked Vorishnov's hand down and away from the medal. "I SHARE NOTHING WITH COWARDS WHO BETRAY THE MOTHERLAND!" the old man yelled at the top of his lungs. His eyes narrowed, and standing on his toes, the old man leaned forward and shoved his face into Vorishnov's. "You lost the war to those pigs the Americans. You have betrayed the party, socialism, and Mother Russia. You should have died in battle clutching the colors of your regiment rather than surrendering them to our enemies. You are a filthy traitor. You are scum!"
By now a considerable crowd had gathered to witness the confrontation. Looking about, Vorishnov searched for a sympathetic face, an ally, a way out. But there were none. Even two militiamen stood back, returning Vorishnov's pleading gaze with a cold stare. Unable to find help and realizing he was on his own, Vorishnov replied to his attacker.
"Old man, you are crazy. The 68th Tank Regiment never lost its colors. We broke the Iranians at Mianeh. We were the first to enter Tehran. We crushed them at Qum and wiped out their last division at Yazd. When we faced the Americans, we crushed them at Harvand and fought them to a standstill at Kerman. Half of my men are buried in unmarked graves in that forsaken country. I am not a traitor. You are a fool!"
The old man stood there for a moment and looked at Vorishnov. Then he began to shake with uncontrolled anger. Repeatedly yelling "Traitor!" the old man raised his cane to beat Vorishnov. Prepared now, Vorishnov easily parried the blow but could not prevent the old man from grabbing his medals. Vorishnov's effort to break away resulted in the loss of his medals, as the old man refused to let go of them. Only then did the militia intervene — and then on the side of the old man.
While one militiaman calmed the old man down, the other pushed Vorishnov to one side. "Comrade Colonel, we discourage such acts of violence here. This is not Iran and you are not dealing with scum."
Insulted, Vorishnov reminded the militiaman that he was dealing with a lieutenant colonel in the Red Army. The militiaman laughed. "Do not try to impress me or anyone else here with that, Comrade Colonel. You and your kind left any respect you may have deserved in the Iranian dirt. We have no time here for those who are incapable of defeating capitalist mercenaries." Turning to the window and grabbing a ticket, the militiaman threw it at Vorishnov. "Go — go to Moscow and see if they will tolerate incompetent fools like you who led their sons to slaughter."
As disturbing as the confrontation in Kiev had been, it was not nearly as shocking as the attitude he met at the Frunze Academy. Rather than taking a cool, hard look at what had happened in Iran in an effort to correct deficiencies in their military system, the staff of the academy went to great lengths to find fault with those who had failed to follow prescribed doctrine and procedures. Day after day Vorishnov and the other veterans of Iran were subjected to lectures that explained away failures or the misconduct or poor leadership of one commander or another. Even their fellow students would have little to do with those who had served in Iran. While most of the Iranskis, as they were called, bit their tongues, some could not. One young lieutenant colonel of tanks, whose face was disfigured by scars he received when his tank had burned, was especially bitter and harsh with those who degraded the Iranskis. He often argued with the instructors and lecturers, referring to them as paper soldiers and fools. For a while he was tolerated. But he soon overstepped his bounds when he began to openly attack the party for not fully supporting the soldiers on the front line. Two days after those outbursts began, he was gone—"reassigned," according to the class leader.
For his part, Vorishnov held his anger. Instead of rejecting or fighting what was being said, he went along with the teaching. He did more than conform: he sought to excel. Despite the fact that he was an Iranski, he won the grudging acceptance of the academy's faculty and staff as his grades and his standing in the class remained at the top. Unlike his fellow Iranskis, he never lapsed into arguments about the tactics or techniques that were being taught. He never used his experiences in Iran as justification for an answer that the instructor claimed was wrong. Instead, Vorishnov approached his studies as if he were a newly commissioned junior lieutenant. Only in this manner did he survive. In the end, fewer than a quarter of the Iranskis finished the course.
That success, however, had been costly. Though he told no one and continued to do his assigned duties, inside he was cold. It was as if his very life spirit had died. His efforts to hold back his anger and hatred had killed that spirit. It didn't happen all at once; he didn't even notice at first. But slowly he felt himself change as his attitudes and views on life and the army turned. It was his wife who finally opened his eyes. A patient woman and a good soldier's wife before the war, she knew something was troubling her husband. But he refused to let her into his inner world. Efforts to comfort him were met with cold rebuffs. Unable to lash out openly at the army and those who looked down on him, he took out his frustrations on his wife by denying her his love and attention. In the end he lost her. She left, forcing him to face his past and his future on his own.
Looking down at the people in the courtyard of the Kremlin, he wondered if they too were simply hollow shells, spiritless men going about the task of running a faceless nation.