One day, we received a call from Kabuclass="underline" 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.