I leaned towards Kataev and struck his helmet. He comes out from IFV-1 and his eyes are laughing. I point at the place I spotted. At the same time, the gunner with a malicious smile and cackling, pointed at his gun. Good minds achieve good deeds. What a fool! Okay, it is time for you to get used to this situation as you have already been crawling over these mountains for one and a half years.
Waving to young soldiers, I shouted, so people will start to move and get their ammunition ready. Ha! Everyone differently demonstrated their readiness for military activity.
Zubyara, for example, sat down and put his gun across his knees. What a bastard!
In his sleep, he used to put his gun between his legs, and now, with the gun across his knees, he rested his knuckles under his chin and his elbows on the gun trying to pretend to be busy. What you can say?! He is the super-wise, fast-sleeping military guru!
Trying to get a response from the commander at number 147, I looked back but only silence in return. Zvonarev is chatting about something into his headset. He looks at me meaningfully, spits directly right into the hatch, raises his eyes and waves at me.
Moving towards him, I stopped near a soldier nicknamed Doughnut, a Deputy Commander of platoon, from the number of 148, who has finished what he was doing and was coming down from the IFV-1. Together we approach Seroyga, who curses a bit and gets down to business:
— We cannot get there at once. Damn! We have received instructions to proceed by foot. In front of us will go the sappers. The APC is going back. You, Bober, will follow the APC and I will follow you. Slobodyanyuk takes all the young soldiers and with 148 you will all wait here till the rest of us arrive. Any questions?
Which questions? Everything same as usual. Its okay, Serge! The salabons (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) will stay behind and we will go on. But as it turns out, there were some questions.
— Yes, Gleb, you send Tkach and Boldy stay here: three Kalashnikoff machine guns to the head vehicle — it is worth it.
Thank you, my dear, you have comforted me. We went to the vehicles.
Everything is simple — destiny is set. There are not many experienced soldiers in the infantry platoon, let’s say one or two, maybe a handful, a maximum of twelve or thirteen men. And the time of service in the army is not evenly divided. The majority of us, Autumn recruits, have already left. Now a lot of younger soldiers are coming. Due to the fact that we have not got the military order for demobilization, in fact we are not even soldiers, so in fact we are civilians. But who cares about that?
Three of us decide to go together in one group, and to ensure everything will be okay, each of us takes with us two younger soldiers who we called salabons. So I took two salabons:Yuri Tkachenko and Temir Urgals.
Yuri was from Kiev, a clever and pleasant boy, of medium height but physically weak. He was really still a child. His pale eyelashes could hide nothing and he always has a wondering expression in his eyes. If he is really involved in listening to a story, his mouth is open as if he were a child.
No! You tell me, what kind of piece of shit are you, to send this child to fight for this river?! I pity him and in every possible way try to protect him. Several times during the fight operation I carried his machine gun, you see Tkach and his machine gun are the same height and I was scared that Tkach simply will fall down from the weight of his gun. The commander likes this combination of me being not only an experienced sniper but also a machine gunner.
Temir was different. He was a large, stocky strong fellow from the Ural Mountains. Witty, quick thinking, with an open and honest personality. He has enormous bright eyes that you can see under a spiky thatch of hair the color of anthracite coal. Does not look like a Tartar, more like a Chinese. He speaks without any accent. There is one problem which is his stupid nickname. Now I will tell you how he got it.
One of his old pals was bullying him, shouting at him, and eventually got on his nerves. Timur sat, closed his eyes and started to mumble in his language “Boldy…boldy… boldy” meaning “enough”. This is how his nickname became glued to him.
I approached the vehicle:
— Tkach, run to Doughnut’s APC (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), leave the machine gun here! Give it to me in the hatch, quickly! And the bullets too. Come on, come on, son!
While we shuffled between vehicles, the sappers started to march and so we followed them in clouds of dust…
No wonder that this morning Serge has become very irritated. His instinct told him that there will be nothing for free; the time to pay is coming.
We had hardly moved 50 meters when they hit us in a shower of grenades. How? From where? We had not expected it.
First, from ruins a hundred meters away the grenades flew and exploded right in the middle of the caterpillar tracks of the head tank. Then immediately from surrounding gardens came echoes of single shots from the guns of the mujahedeen, who were shooting our sappers one by one.
While a grenade was coming towards me, like a fly I jumped from the turret to the left of my tank and hid. Something inside me pushed me to not go to the opposite side.
Like a leaf, Temir stretched out next to me.
Zubov dived into my hatch and got out a machine gun. One of us who got a gun started to fire the first round of fifteen bullets towards clay huts in the village. On the top of the tank Kataev turned the turret around.
I looked into the viewport — no one there! I imagine that this bastard is hiding on the floor of the cellar, praying devotedly to his demon god. Dickhead! — Do not think you are safe, bastard! I swear I will get you, piece of shit.
There is also no one in clear sight in the gardens, only one by one they popped out, shouted and disappeared. They and we too are having fun.
From the opposite side, somewhere near the river Kokcha, intense gunfire has commenced. As I can tell from what I can hear, there are around ten gunfighters, and heavy machine guns one by one have started coughing as well, the first mortal mine is exploded. Here we go again! How can it be? Returning home was just around the corner! But what can I do?
Looking around, I can see they have hit us quite badly, mainly targeting sappers leaving for us a gentle slap on our asses. The guys and dogs who first ran to the right side have faced death. Screaming, swearing…. Like in Shanghai!
The turrets keep turning and therefore are silent. The covering tank behind us is also raising its turret targeting not the river but the gardens. It is understandable. Over there could be an anti-tank grenade-gun and you better give medicine before you get sick. Why do they have to aimed at a heavy machine gun, if the death from a grenade-gun machine faces them.
I exchanged my rifle with Zubov’s machine gun. Now you will see, fucking bastards! All of this took just seconds. Give me a moment and I will help Timur to chose his position…
I pointed out for Timur the position which was close to our IFV-1, there was a rut close by, and I directed him toward the nearest garden, promising to put my deadly spell on him if he ever will try to get up. Now it is time to get dirty.
Turning back to the gardens, I placed bipods of my machine gun on the top of our ACP-1(see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) and let’s go boogie-woogie.
At present, when I recall this, my memory seems like a compressed paper brick that I can unfold forever. Comprehension of the speed of events, without boiling adrenalin, is totally different. Time is always ticking differently; memory is also selective. The first memories returning to you are the most striking, the most shocking… like a gunshot, for example.