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

I remember that a leg was also broken. It was obvious no need to turn the dog for a further examination, no need to torment the animal. Without any doubt the dog was at the end of his unfortunate life. But as a four-legged soldier of the de-mining division, he deserved a better option to die rather than on the sidelines of this god forgotten road. As usual in this situation, I wanted to inject him with promedol (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), but then changed my mind — who knows how the dog will react? So, we gently put him on the cape and carried him to my 149 division, absolutely sure that we will bury the dog this evening.

We did not have time to have a rest. When a platoon commander arrived, the orders were followed one after another, and this bedlam was going on until we reached Kishim almost in the dark. But the order was given — no light or bonfire. Why? It was a mystery to me because after such a fruitful day, a single Allah soul could not be found in the whole area. Everything was combed, no fleas! The order was a complete nonsense!

But dinner time was fast approaching. We put the BMP’s ejectors under the cans of porridge and stewed meet and started to wait… it is indeed a long procedure of heatting up the dinner. Whilst waiting, I decided to have a stroll to see how the dog, Dusya, was doing… Surprise! He was alive! He even moved his tail to greet me! I called Tatar Timur and together we carefully moved the dog to a better place. Indeed, the dog felt much better: he was holding his head, his eyes were sharp and he was curious towards the things around him. At the same time, I spotted a deep sadness that seemed to be nested in the bottom of his eyes. So much understanding and anguish in his eyes….We fetched water for him from the jar — he gulped it at once.

I did find a couple of cans “Buckwheat with chicken broth.” This valued porridge, you know, can beat everything to hell. I throw these cans on the ejector, and went to get more, I whispered a couple of nice words to the guys….

“Yes, Glebych, no question, dear, take few more!”

I put everything together, tested how hot it is — just right! — and put the food, the size of just about the entire helmet, in front of Dusya, in the hole dug up by Temir.

Food, as they say, is a life….

The poor dog was working on the food so hard that I understood — it is time to call a military nurse and doctor Stepan. It was not easy. After a long conversation on the radio with a number of people, I was connected to Stepan who hectically was fixing wounded soldiers in different locations and therefore was constantly on the move. In the beginning of our conversation, when he realized the nature of my call, he swore at me in any possible and impossible way (I want to say, that Stepan was a professor in this department), and after both of us got enough satisfaction from a heated argument, finally he instructed me to boil plenty of water and promised to come.

Considering the order of no fire under any circumstances, we found the way out how to boil water and our superior just scratched his head observing how enthusiastically and clever this challenge was overcome. The platoon commander only shook his head, watching this circus.

Finally Stepan arrived dragging his sack, full of medicine supplies. The dog was examined on the spot. I ask:

— Well?

— Yes, there is a lot of sewing that should be done: the leg, body… then look at the breast as you can see his dick is coming out but what a hell? It is not official, I suppose, we can try…Okay, lets do it! Come on — time is everything now!

So, we began…

We took Temir, a lantern, the Stepan’s medical kit, water and started to mend our Duxya.

The first step was to clean the numerous wounds, then to inject anesthetic. After this, we disinfected and covered in penicillin this poor pal, injected intramuscular painkillers, and flooded with iodine his entire wounded body.

Stepan spread the curved needle around with antiseptic conventional army harsh thread and says:

— What are you looking at? Grab the clip and go ahead!

— Gee! Should I to do sewing?

— Who else?

Well, it was not the right time to get myself into an argument with Stepan, thanks that he came at all. So, we began to sew. Stepan worked, shouted and cursed in such a highly professional manner, that at the end of surgery I could not laughed any more. I wonder, where he learned to swear so professionally? I cannot imagine the place….

Dusya was laying motionless… Only when nerves sometime distorted the skin, then Stephan had his go and vocalized a possibility to sew his dick to the tail. Oh, some funny stuff like this, until I could not cope any more, tiring from unstoppable laugher.

Serge, a platoon commander, also spend the whole evening with us, laughing until he could not continue to do it and convulsions spread over his body exhausted from laughing. Of course, what else can you expect from him, a lieutenant, on this cool day?

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.