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…
Alexander Tumaha
Tumakha, Alexander Stepanovich was born in 1960 in Chisinau, Moldova. He graduated from the Kiev VOCU. From 1981 to 1983, he served in Afghanistan, as a platoon commander with the 56th Airborne Assault Brigade (Paktia Province, Gardez). He was awarded three Orders of the Red Star. He is retired as a Colonel and lives in Odessa.
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?