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

I have emptiness in my soul.

There is still no joy, there is no bitterness. These feeling will come later, not now.

Whilst I have time, I need to draw a line.

I hold my international passport; my fingers involuntarily stroked the red-burgundy cover of it. Thanks to you, my dear red coloured friend, now I perceive the world around me with completely different eyes. No, my romantic side has not vanished but it has acquired more tangible forms and now reflects life with its shades and coloured variations, not only in black and white as it used to be.

I close the last page of the passport with the stamp “Afghanistan: Departure before October 9, 1983”. It is no longer needed.

What was left behind? What lies ahead?

I dreamed about this day so much and how many plans were born!

All friends are there; here are no new ones. Now I know exactly the meaning of friendship. I know who is a friend and who is just a comrade. Here, in the Soviet Union, I will have only comrades and co-workers. My friends-brothers, including native Afghanis, were left back there.

It is no longer necessary for me to get a “sword from its scabbard” (to get angry — Editor) or any reason for “cutting off heads”. Thanks to my “Afghani teachers”, starting with the first company commander and finishing with the Extreme Battalion commander, I took their wisdom. My teachers were older than me only 3–5 years, but taking into consideration their “military” years, I am like a first-grader compared to them.

The military school, which I finished, turned out to be only a kindergarten considering the depth of profiling subjects. In two years, we speedily completed this school; in one month we did what normally would take three months. It was impossible to cheat. Immediately after the final exams, the combat work began. There was no time for relaxing in the training programs.

Afghan is my life’s “exam” where I learned “something and somehow” (a citation from the Russian classic comedy-in-verse “The Woes of Wit” by Alexander Griboyedov — Editor)

Assessments for this “exam” could be given not by the senior commanders or inspectors from the Union (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), but mothers and fathers of the soldiers who performed combat missions together with me. I think, in this “exam” I could receive a good mark; all the jingling rewards on my chest is not the way to judge me.

I will be the one who have to judge myself.

Looking at the soul, which was not burnt by the stresses and the Afghan heat, I could estimate a level of damage to my soul which I have to live with now and cherish the memory of those guys who will never be with me…

Later there will be holidays and disappointments, my wedding and the birth of children, joys and adversities. But all of these will be later, in my peaceful life. But when I sum up my own “exam” results in that pre-dawning morning, I understood that I will not pass.

My life was divided into “before Afghan “and “after Afghan” with a bloody trait between two parts. Afghan! How scary this word is!

But how to forget it, not to remember.

No need to repeat it.

…Leaning against the edge of the table and propping my head against my fists, I met my first peaceful dawn…

A replacement… Do you know what kind of meaning it had for us? For us, this word does not refer to the process of changing batteries in the radio or an oil filter in the engine. The replacement for us is the hope in our souls, the euphoria, it is the best feeling in the world. It was a time when everything around was singing, the heart was popping out of our chests, the birds were cheerfully tweeting. The replacement arrived, the most darling legs of the substitute emerges from the helicopter, and his boots touch the metal of the corrugated surface. In this moment everything is thrown aside by this person and even the images of the most loved ones became secondary.

Here he is, my darling replacement!.. Oh, a speck of dust is on his shoulder! Oh, the wind from working jets tore off his officer’s cap and carried it away to the minefield! Oh-oh-oh!

Damn this officer’s cap!

Get used to it. “If you want to eat jam, put up with the flies!” — as we said.

Pf-ff, ff-ff, — you blow off, accurately and gently, an invisible speck from his shoulder. — God forbid to hurt or to scratch! Give me your suitcase, I will carry it for you… do not worry, you will have time to carry it for a year, at least… Shit, it is heavy: did you put bricks in it? Or maybe you have some vodyara (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) in the suitcase. Be careful! put your foot here, please, step only there, do not look there… you do not need to see it now… you will see everything later and understand where you are…

Now tell me how is everything back there, in the Union? We were so eager to see you here! The table will be served with food for a dear guest. And your anger and hatred, that five minutes ago boiled your soul, suddenly will disappear and, you felt the nirvana state with only one thought ticking in your head: “You finally got it! This is the substitution!”.

Oh, my God! What eyes he had! There was no pain or fear in them. There was no emptiness either. These eyes were full of life, and, by the way, they reflected the most professional faithfulness and correctness.

Everything written above is a classic. It is how it should be.

But now how it happened in reality…

The main backbone, the officers, from our battalion are also preparing for a planned substitution because each of them had at least a year of military service. During July-September 1983, our battalion almost every day had a sort of celebration because the planned replacement of officers finally started. Substitutes were arriving, one after another, every day. During these days we have to celebrate the arriving substitute as well as to celebrate the freedom of the replaced one and his departure to the Union. Of course, between these celebrations we have some intervals to fulfil our combat tasks.

One day, we received a call from Kabul: 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.