His platoon demonstrated its best — well done guys! He, himself, had the chance to show off his bravery in front of the entire platoon by seizing weapons from the enemy. He saved wounded soldiers. Nobody was killed and casualties of his platoon were zero. Even the dog survived and his surgery was much more entertaining compared even to a show of Raikin, an iconic comedian of the Soviet era.
They were laughing, good for them, but I kept sewing nonstop like a lady running the alteration clothes workshop, and could not say a word to Stepan: if I say one word, he will cover me with more than ten times of swearing. It is better to keep my mouth shut.
One side of the dog’s body was fixed and now surgical yellow powder was drying up on the stiches. We moved to the chest. Muscles on the chest were well formed, massive and heavy with four holes but all small — rather splinters. But who knows will this dog see the next day? Only the “Fate Dog” card will tell what will be next. In this harsh environment with a minimum of equipment, limited water and surgery performed by a soldier, the fate of this poor dog can be predicted only by the cards.
Towards the end of fixing the dog’s entire body, platoon commander Sergei said:
— You know, this dog is one of us… he is a fighter!
— What do you mean?
— You see, he did not cover his ass. All his wounds are on the frontal part of his body.
Well noticed, Serge! Indeed, all wounds were located on the chest. It means that this dog was facing a danger and did not turn away.
Stepan straightened:
— All right, guys, stop this baloney….
After treating wounds with crashed antibiotics, bitsilin, analgesics and tight bandages,, we went for cigarettes and I asked Stepan:
— What do you think?
— Oh, Glebych….he is a beautiful dog.
And a third round of swearing was ready to erupt in his throat but I interrupted him first:
— I’m talking about his health…
— To put him to sleep will be mercy as I told you before.
— Put yourself to sleep, mother fucker…
— Come on, don’t be like a virgin girl. Think of what a life he will have from now if he will stay alive: no work, no play, no fucking bitches… But, I did what I could and now I am off… Good bye!
With these last words he climbed into the platoon commander’s car and left.
When he left, I also did not wander around. I went to the trench of Tkachev, covered myself with a military coat and slept until morning, remembering only one thing: how my young solders, returning from duty, were quietly coming to and going from the trench. Really, I am turning into a bloody hell Mother Teresa… hmm…
The night passed quietly, and in the morning a young tank driver ran from a nearby post with a blunt question: “Who is a doctor here?”. This is a result of the gossiping between communication seeking engineers, who last evening had great pleasure to enjoy a master class of swearing via military radio and spread the news that the dog is alive. I said to this young salabon (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) to get fucked and I went to see the dog. It is obvious that he is on the road to a recovery.
Young soldiers of my group reported: “The beast slept, drank, and waved his tail. Stepan checked him in the morning and left…”
Well done! I like when an army’s Grandpa, sleeps but service is carried on!
I came closer to the dog. What a joy… His tail was playing drums on the dusty ground, his tongue was licking my hands. I checked his both sides — he was healing. I looked under his belly and spotted a new bandage on the leg. Ha! Somebody yesterday suggested to put him to sleep….
I sat next to him and wanted to pull his ears, but a warning muffled roar stopped me at once. A seriously dangerous eyes warning, a slightly elevated lip, and dangerously opened teeth — all were convincing. Why? My hand dropped immediately.
The dog was huge. His resemblance to an ordinary Shepherd was minimum because ordinary Shepherds have a long but sturdy body. This one was a tall specimen with powerful backbones and wide jaws; anyway his head was too big to be an ordinary Shepherd. Definitely he was a half-breed. His body was covered with a short, dense coat, almost creamy, with brown dark stripes on the top. A tough cocky look… and now, as turns out, he is not a weak character.
I sat down blatantly and moved my hands away like a teenager on a first date, who received a slapping for an unwanted kiss. The dog put his head on my lap and looked faithfully into my eyes and moved the tail once again. What crap! Slowly I opened my palm and moved my fingers close to the red open mouth. He licked my fingers! I scratched his throat and his dark eyes softened, lips opened and, I can bet on this, this dog smiled! A strange creature, this Dusya: an appreciation for scratching but a roar for patting.
Twenty minutes later, we even did not heat up our food, two army tracks arrived with a de-mining commander and his boys. They immediately showered me with questions: “How…?” “When…?” “What…?” “Do you…?” Everything okay, dudes, relax!
All of us proceeded to Dusya.
As soon as Dusya saw his comrades, he began whining with his tail thrashing the canvas. He tried to get up but even with all our effort to hold him, he could not and kept falling back. Our guests patted him, stroked, kissed… guys in vain, but when they arrived they looked so harsh! We had a chat about Dusya…
Actually the dog’s nickname was Dick. Dusya was a soft affectionate name given by his owner Fedor who brought the dog to military service in May from a civil life somewhere near Boronezh where both of them lived. His owner, Fedor, was also wounded and yesterday was transported to a hospital. Guys said, he was lucky because he can count all his bones.
Whilst we were talking, I spotted that a military helicopter called “The Eight” started to land. Interesting, whom this beau will pick up? Who is a big dude here? It turned out that de-miners have arranged the famously established service for transportation of Dusya. Wow, this style I understand!
Towards the end of our chit-chat, I asked about some strange behavior of my patient-why he does not like patting? They all laughed.
— Say thank you! You are lucky that he did not chop off half of your fingers! No one can touch his head, except Fedor. Better not even think of doing it!
Well, we all have cockroaches in our heads…
The helicopter landed. Dick was lifted on a stretcher and loaded inside. A couple of engineers jumped on board. “The Eight” in three circles elevated from the ground, joined his second mate, formed a pair and took towards the mountains. In a few minutes it was just a dot behind the rocks.
Wish you well, Dusya…
The rotation was conducted without any necessary entertainment. We did not stay in the position of our regiment, no… we had rested on the banks of a river that was located not far from a de-mining platoon location where I know many guys…
After a good deal of oversleeping, uncounted visits to banya (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), and stuffing our bellies, to the point if disgusting, with properly cooked food, one evening I decided to make a visit together with Baldy to the Corps of Sappers.
When we arrived, a familiar noise welcomed us: I have met many friends from an Autumn enlisting. All were happy that we arrived just in time for baked potatoes or marihuana cigarettes, if you wish… No desire for potatoes, neither for dope. I came to see Fedor.
But it turns out that he was transported to Kunduz, a less dangerous place, if you can say it. Well, let’s make a visit to Dick… and again — bummer! Now Dick has a new owner, the fellow who is famous for his skeptical and unfriendly character, so-called the Ensign Trubilin, nicknamed by guys as Truba in short…