Глеб Бобров: The Torn Souls: An Anthology of Prose About the Soviet War in Afghanistan

I turned around towards this cry — there was a something like an earth-gray creature lying on the ground and moving in an absolutely unnatural way. I remember, how I tried to compose my thoughts to comprehend a jerking leg with bloody scraps hanging above the place where there should be a knee.

It takes seconds. Plotnikov, and someone else, runs up to him and I understand that Gene Grishin is lying on the ground. Running towards Gene, the platoon commander briefly asked me why my face is blooded — but, I did not feel anything — and making sure that it was scratched from small stones, he rushed to Grishin. Plotnikov already was there, trying hastily to apply a bandage in order to stop the bleeding and fix a tourniquet to his leg. “Scheinin, do you have a belt?” — he shouted towards me.

But I am still in a stupor of dismay. I do not understand why he needs my belt — a narrow canvas strap for keeping cotton pants. Having no time for explanations, the platoon commander pulls up my bulletproof vest, pea jacket and takes the belt out.

All this time Grishin keeps furiously resisting helpers, trying to get up and look at his leg. Plotnikov tries to hold him but this effort is useless. Gene is screaming horrifyingly. In my head is a terrible non-stop ringing and I feel sick but through the cotton wool in my ears and my head, I realize what he is crying: “Kill me, kill me!”. This cry as well as these words can make you mad but it affected me differently — I had unexpected clearness in my mind, emotionally I did not feel better.

The groundsheet that was placed under Gene, immediately became wet with his blood. Plotnikov eventually managed to bandage the leg but to do more was not possible. The Grishin’s lower limb was covered with blood.

They turned Grishin over and then Plotnikov sweared helplessly and hopelessly…the second leg of Grishin was ripped off. While Plotnikov was tightening his stump, heavy bleeding occurred, the cause of which was not understandable; even more, at that time, Plotnikiv did not pay much attention to it, thinking that the second leg was the real problem. None of us knew that before climbing into the mountains, Grishin placed the grenade into his pocket and this inexplicable action cost him his life.

Apparently, when he heard voices of friendly troops from the pinnacle, he walked towards the right — through the bushes that I had just passed but I did not yield for the first impulse to cut my way to the top of the mountain.

Actually “walked” will not be quite the right word to use for his action. He just made only one step to the side. The step, as it often happened at war, has determined his fate. He stepped right on the mine buried by a mujahidin in the bushes. This “mine” was actually a can from our own dry ration. It was stuffed with blasting material and was a trip-wire mine. The mine exploded, and the grenade detonated in Gene’s pocket, and he lost his leg.

But Plotnikov does not know anything about all of this at that time. He tried hard to stop the second wound bleeding and he had no idea how serious it was. For the platoon commander it was more important to figure out how to send Grishin to the hospital as quickly as possible. The choppers have already been summoned. Plotnikov together with the soldiers from the first platoon picked up the groundsheet with Grishin on it, who was calmed down after a promedol injection. The groundsheet was dragged to some nearby hill, where the “Eight” (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) will soon be landing: an orange smoke appeared in the distance.

After returning from the operation, we found out that Gene was not taken to the hospital. He did not make it. He lost a lot of blood, the tourniquet proved to be useless….

In later years I realised how one step in one split second, or a tiny instinctive motion can change your entire life. But on that day it was very new to me and to Gene who went in the same direction as I was going. He stepped towards the mine a few seconds earlier. But it could have been MY mine….

However, all of these thoughts will occur later, much later, even, probably not in Afghanistan. Over there, I hardly had time to think about it, but the destiny of events will give me a lot of such occasions. And, unfortunately, it will be very soon.

Back then, after the feverish bustle, some strange silence unexpectedly covered everything. All this time I was motionless. Nobody looked at me.

I remember how I tried to move and my legs obeyed me badly. My face is aching and when touching it, it seems to be covered with some blisters. But I need to move forward — I feel that something did happen on the hill, strengthed by the despondency of the incident.

Struggling, I am making my way to the hill and see over there a pit covered with something looking like a plank. I notice what looks like a manhole was in the dugout. In my somnambulistic state I am approaching it, I just want to sit there for a second, and then I hear the Mordvin’s voice:

— Hey, Penguin! What are you doing!? Don’t go here! Let the sappers examine everything around first.

I obediently sit down on the edge of the pit and wait.The sappers arrived soon, they examined the bottom of the pit, and found two more homemade antipersonnel mines hiding there…

For the last half an hour, fate saved me twice from paying a heavy price like Grishin did. Thanks to my guardian angel and to Mordvin who looked after me with his warning.

We moved less than 15 metres, when someone spotted a strange object on the road. After a closer examination, it turns out to be a half-ripped jackboot with remains of a human leg. That was all that left from Gene Grishin’s leg…

Someone, who picked up the terrible thing, got himself into an awkward situation. No doubt, it was useless to carry, but to throw it away was even harder. Whilst the decision-making process was going on, the stern voice of the platoon commander switched on to the reality: “Why the hell have you stopped again, go ahead, the second company!”

A ringing in my head was still bothering me. Chmyr cleaned my wounds, pored iodine on half of them, and now the bandaging on my head does not look so foolish. However, the ringing in my head, the aching face, the heaviness of my backpack — all of these have merged into one continuous rhythm of movement. We kept walking for some time…

As it turned out, we should not have climbed to the mountain, as I overheard from a traffic platoon radio. We should go lower…

The next few days I could hardly remember: it was like one endless day, in which flashes of light outlined some actions.

This whole military operation was my “first Aliheyl” (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) that was divided into two parts: before the death of Grishin and after.

Much later, when I returned home, from time to time the incident with Gene Grishin was haunting me in my dreams with the realistic screaming: “Kill, kill me!” in his inhuman voice. And only then, I understood that my life was slashed into the unmatchable parts: BEFORE the death of Grishin and AFTER.

Kartsev, Alexander Ivanovich was born in 1964. He graduated from the Moscow Higher Military Command School as a military intelligence officer. He was involved in many military operations in Afghanistan, and the anti-piracy campaign of the Indian Ocean and the Red Sea. He has an extended list of service in Poland, Germany, France, Austria and other countries. He is a member of the Writers’ Union of Russia.

Yes, it was a big problem to find a real goose quill. Its absence could pose a threat to a whole idea. Great French writers were known for writing their books just for using goose quills. The only question was arisen — where they got them: definitely not from a shop.