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

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.

The world from the sky to the deepest essence of the earth has burst, cracked, and there is a feeling as if nirvana has come to me. Then emptiness has blown up and unbearable pain is in my ears and the raging sound of millions of cicadas has hit every inch of my body and in the end poured a hot shower of fire in my face. Around me the fighting is continuing…my body has met a familiar feeling of nausea, confusion and loss of reality. Long live all who have suffered contusions!

Alright… all the tanks’ turrets have turned towards the river. Thank God!

I looked at Boldy and he is all right; he has not tripped up; he keeps on firing as if writing a school essay.

In the meantime, behind the river, the dirty asses “comrades” have gone really crazy. There is no doubt they are stoned, as they charge directly into our line of fire. Sanyok Kataev is really in business. All his military service he was in infantry but now he got a present — the automatic gun of the BMP-2. He keeps spraying the mujahedeens (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) with bullets, considering neither the bullets nor my hearing.

Me too: without any sense of saving bullets, I am showering the enemy blindly.

I spot three mujahedeens and do not give them a chance to hide behind the wall, Kataev spotted my tracer shots. He got my idea and joined me to move them towards a rock. Together we finished off those three. I started and Sanyok finished them off.

I was just starting to enjoy the craziness of this unhealthy fun, when I heard someone calling “Paramedic! Paramedic!” This was not good.

The sappers have their own combat paramedic. I knew him when I was in a field hospital. Insigne Stepan, our paramedic, is also going with them to help.

I am calling out to Zubov:

— Give me a full machine gun box!

This dick is so tight-ass, he gave me only a belt. I am not arguing because there is no time for it. Returning to him the empty belt, I reloaded my gun and run to the sappers. Hearing heavy breathing behind me, I turn around and…what the hell! Timur is coming towards me, dragging his gun — his “bitch” — behind him. What the fuck are you doing! Stay there! Kill you, bastard! Bloody hell, but this fool is already here; I cannot send him back.

And here is also a complete mess. Two wounded are already treated and waited when Stepan fwill apply his death magic on the third one. I see where he is now! Leaning backwards to the vehicle, another soldier is hosing bullets somewhere towards the mountains. Between the vehicles is a complete chaos. Covered with blood, two soldiers are trying to drag a third one, who is shouting, crying and resisting them. He is trying to reach his dead dog, whose half-crashed body was lying in a pool of blood. Everything is a complete mess. No clue which blood is it — human or animals? Who is crying? Who is wounded? But there is no time for emotion…