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

Viktor lay back on the pillow on someone else’s bunk, closed his eyes, and collapsed into sleep as if he had jumped off a high cliff into the unknown emptiness on a mountain slope.

“Home!” he thought as he fell asleep.

“Home!!! Go West! Home…”

Bobrov, Gleb Leonidovich was born in 1964 in the city of Krasny Luch in the Lugansk region. He completed his army service in the 860th separate motorized rifle regiment, located in Afghanistan (Badakhshan Province, Faizabad). Gleb Leonidovich was awarded the DRA medal “For Courage”. He is a member of the Writers’ Union of Russia. Currently, he is the Chairman of the Board of the Union of Writers of the Independent State of Lugansk. He lives in the city of Lugansk.

It was an autumn fall; a relocation of the 84th military division was postponed several times and the armed group was able to march again only in mid-November. That was the way! Three or four days to Kisima, one day there, and after one week we will be back. A day or two for unloading and then the convoy will be off again. With some luck, we will be back to celebrate New Year. Then will be holidays, and after that there will be a long-awaited replacement. And finally I will go home. I have had enough, I have done my service here…

The majority of my comrades have finished their service and gone. Only three of us were left in the third platoon from the fall of the 1982: Grisha Zubenko, Bogdan Zawadzki, and myself. Just like the famous movie’s name could be re-phrased as “Three glorious poplars in the mountains of the Badakhshan province of Afghanistan”. The three stupid experts of the glorious military service.

Grisha Zubenko, or Zubyara as we called him, is now stretched along IFV-1 snoozing, his noggin propped against the turret, the bastard… I would like to have a nap as well, but my position is in full sight of the commander of the turret model 147. I am not in the mood to start the day with a collision with the commander Seryoga. I am sitting with my legs dropping into the driver’s hutch and leaning on the turret aimlessly gazing around. So nice… The sun is hot, the day is warm. The road like a dirty stray dog zigzagging from one side to another. Heavy dust, pressed down by the night dew, does not come up higher than the tank’s skirt. Blue sky hangs heavily over my head, almost as if it could be touched.

The mountains around my head are swaying, kneeling and covering themselves with yellowish dandruff of fallen leaves. Soon this will end as we will be compelled into going down into the valley. Over there is the valley, with a couple of burnt patches which used to be green, then fucking Badakhshan, and then the beloved Kisima, the home of our 3d Division and tankmen.

Here they are: tankachi (see “Terminology and Glassary” — Editor). Obviously, they had put the guarded post for 24 hours beforehand, and now we are expected. It is nice: well done, guys. Useful welcome.

…We got up… A lovely voice of the platoon commander was crackling in the portable headphones:

— Hey you, assholes! Climb! Are you fucking mad? And push your fat-faced buddy too! Sappers will be coming soon…

What a fuck?!! What for?!

So I ask:

— What is it?

— I do not know. I heard at night by radio that we were twice attacked and maybe mined, maybe some other shit happened. Anyway, wake up, mother fuckers, and at least grab your rifles!

Well, do not overheat yourself, darling. Give me a second and everything will be all right….

I sat up and pulled my sniper rifle by its butt out of the driver’s hatch and then pushed my buddy Zubyara but he only mumbled in return. I pushed harder. The bro raised his left eyelid slightly and moaned lazily:

— Fuckin’… helll…

— It is not me, it is a platoon commander.

— Gee… platoon… — and he shut his eye again.

So that was our conversation, so meaningful…

I stood up and looked around. Everywhere I can see our tanks arranged with their main guns like a Christmas tree. We are at the head of the armored group. In front of us is only the APC (see “Terminology and Glossary”) with an officer from headquarters, three old army vehicles and two tanks with flails. I drove and stopped just as I reached the guard vehicle, I stopped looking at this direction and turned around. Our column, like a cavalry sword, got two-thirds of its blaze into the Kisima foothills and ripped its belly. It seems like everything is okay and quiet. In front of me and on the left I see neglected gardens and a small Afghani settlement with several destroyed houses, On the right are two shitty animal pens with a useless fence, and under the cliff is a river.

The place is very narrow, sandwiched between mountains and the hysterical river Kokcha with murky water roaring and rushing through. On the opposite bank, the rocks begin to grow into a mountain. Here, is a little bit, then more, then close to third bridge, they stretch out — nowhere else in the world can we see this sight — monstrous giant basalt needles, stabbing heaven.

There are also small mountains in clear visibility but they do not look small, and we are almost no distance away, only four hundred meters. Undoubtedly, from this direction, the shooting range of Allah’s faithful followers will bring no fun.

Yep… I could perhaps get them with my grenade launcher, but I have my doubts. Then I spotted a place from where they could easily get rid of us all! 150 meters away was a place which was neither a valley nor a corridor of rocks.

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?