I've been at this war for six months. Half a year. That's probably a lot, considering the fact that I was not hanging out in the headquarters - my boots kneaded trench muck and kicked up roadside dust at the frontlines. Some things started to quietly slip into the past, the once bright and vivid memories began to fade and dissolve into a haze of oblivion... ... So I need to write it down. Any way I can, anything I can; chaotic, pieces, fragments, not thinking about elegance of style and lack of inspiration... I understand that there will be a sea of information. ... But the faces of my friends and fighting brothers, the suffocating odor of burnt rubber and iron in the August sun, the merciless scorched steppe, the sharp final clang of a rifle bolt closing on the last mag, the heaviness and warmth of a grenade, peacefully dormant for the time being, in a vest pocket - "in case of capture". All of this won't be in there. And I don't want to forget. I have no right. So I will try. I'm planning this as a series of short stories "in real time", as a look at this war from the trenches. Of course, all the names and callsigns of the characters, any relation to real events and geographic locations, etc. - are nothing more than the product of the hopelessly sick imagination of the author. ... http://ift.tt/1CT8ZYf http://ift.tt/19JB20H http://ift.tt/1OSdhUR Author: Don] CONFESSIONS OF A COMBATANT Part one: How to go to war. How else? Get on a train and go. But this is a very simplified explanation. What are the details? What should happen so that a guy who never served in the army, who's not too young anymore, sitting in the glorious city of St. Petersburg - suddenly rushes wildly to the station, buys tickets to Rostov on the first available train, and in the train car tries to collect his panicked thoughts, scratching his miserable noggin with stubby fingers: - What I'm doing, eh?! - We will emphasize that this man is not an exalted aristocrat with a maniacal gleam of "universal justice" in his eyes. ... Just a typical citizen of the top tier of the lower stratum of the population of this awkward anthill. Not an overachiever, of course. But family-apartment-work-hobby, it's all there. Everything is clear and planned - if not for the next twenty years, then for three to five years minimum. What was the problem? What the hell did he want?! .... Well, to hell with it, with analyzing the causes. This can be expressed much easier. Blame the easy access to first-hand evidence in modern globalized world, and an archaic vestige of the "mysterious Russian soul" called conscience. February 2014. Ukraine (who cares, really?). Independence, torches, raging crowds at the huge square, timid riot police barely defending themselves, Bandera is the pride of the Ukrainian nation, brutal stupid youngsters chanting "Muskovites on Lampposts" and "Jump or you're a Muskovite", tongue-tied Yanukovich fleeing to Rostov... ... I have read "The Inhabited Island" by Strugatsky. ... Who is that crazy director that staged a perverted version of their anti-utopia across an entire, once flourishing, country? March. "The revolution has won. Peremoga!". Jubilant people in the news, enthusiastic West, "What do we do with all the future loans?", Russian language goes to trash, the dull roar of awakening South-East, Crimea gracefully flips off the nationalist government, Putin is silent... Questions, questions, and insomnia. April. "Give us loans. Now, not in May. Why so little?", "Great poetry" from Maidan barricades - "we will never be brothers", everyone is looking for bullets of "unidentified snipers" in tree trunks on Grushevskogo st., but the new government suddenly chopped down and burned all the trees. Opinions are divided - GRU or the CIA. Crimea, manning oars in unison with hardworking "polite people", elegantly rows into the horizon. Ukraine - "We did not agree to this! Suitcase-Station-Russia is for Muskovites, not for the peninsula!". ... Kharkov, Lugansk, Donetsk - bloodshed, referendum, bloodshed. Unarmed protests in Kharkov crushed by State Security SWAT. The world's media filly utter the short, horrible word - WAR ?! Questions, questions, insomnia, no desire to eat or write my second novel... May. Tragedy in Odessa. The West doesn't care. Russians are breathless. Some, cursing under their breath, feverishly dig through their closets, excavating old camo and faded mementos of mandatory army service. - We will hold a victory parade in Sevastopol! - With a manly growl, a photogenic nationalist general kneels on a concrete runway in front of the high American guest, handing him a "Cossack sword", once-proud military tradition reduced to souvenirs... Start of heavy fighting in Donbass steppes. Krasnodon, Slavyansk, Kramatorsk. Stony-faced Strelkov reading an appeal for help. The numbers of dead nationalist soldiers and "zombie-suicide separatist mercenaries" climb into the hundreds. Number of dead civilians is not really counted by anyone. Europe expresses polite, unaddressed confusion, clearly looking sideways towards the Kremlin. Lavrov shows well-measured emotions. White nights, no sleep at all, the stomach seems to harbor a permanent, uncomfortable sucking chill. Not hurting yet, but something eating at me inside. Eat-drink-sleep. Ulcer or conscience? Can it be an ulcer? June. Daily reports from the frontlines. Websites. Newsreels. Blood, blood, blood everywhere. Multiple rocket launchers, attack planes (guys, have you gone totally nuts over there?!). Tanks being reconditioned by the hundreds, tens of thousands of shells are moved from arsenals to "Anti-Terrorist Operation area." Against whom?! Against this granny, who survived the nightmare of WWII only to find out that she is not a person but "a female Muskovite beetle"? Against five-year old kids, who, by hearing alone, can already determine the type and caliber of death flying at them? DEATH! FLYING! AT THEM! The thin streams of volunteers spread out and it seem to completely evaporate in the heated haze of the steppe. - Did you serve? - No. - Got it. Here is a rifle and two mags. Got no more. Then this. This is a single-shot RPG-18. Old, two out of three - fail to fire. How copy? - Understood. Where is my position? - You staying? - Where is my position?! "We are few, guys. We are very few." WELL?! D-damn it! Are there no real men left in Russia ?! And sparse, rare lines of gloomy, unshaven men keep trickling across the Izvarino border crossing. Arkhangelsk, Kursk, Mid-Kolyma, Moscow ... Is this it? Not yet! Vladivostok, Kronstadt, Novorossiysk, Chita, Ekaterinburg, Novocherkassk, Yakutsk, Murmansk ... - For what purpose are going to visit Ukraine? - Well, that's a hard question to answer, lady. Oh, sorry, comrade Customs Service Supervisor. I'm late. Slavyansk, Kramatorsk have fallen. It this it?! The end?! "We are few, guys. We are very few." Done. I can't! It Hurts. Very much. And it's not an ulcer. Tear off a scrap of some receipt. How fortunate - my darling is away. Sloppy, rushed scribbles. "My love. I am going to Novorossiya. If you can understand - good. If not - I get it. Decide for yourself. If anything happens, make sure munchie doesn't forget who her father was. Bye. Kisses." Sixth of July. Train. In the morning, turn on the phone. One text message. "Your daughter will be proud of her father. When I see you, you'll pay for this. Be safe. Kisses." PART TWO: Guys, who's last in line to be a "terrorist"? Rostov, morning. I leave the station. Well, now what? Okay, taxi drivers know everything as usual. Half an hour of chatting and an optimal option emerges, as it seems. Go to the Cossacks in Novocherkassk. They are rumored to have hidden paths to the other side, and in general, they seem to be fighting there. Okay, I go. A dying Soviet-era bus spits me out on a dusty street of the old Cossack capital. The asphalt is completely covered in flattened apricots falling off roadside trees. Impossible sight for a northerner like me. Shook myself awake and trudged on to look for the correct house. Here. On the second floor, in a fenced-off corner cubicle, a typical aged security guard sits yawning, wearing a captain's insignia. Turns out to be a centurion of the Don Cossack Army. Traditionally talkative, like all southerners. Yes, we are fighting. Yes, we occasionally take recruits to the other side. But not everyone, only Cossacks. You can come. Join our growing ranks, take our oath and go forth to glory. To my timid question: - What if I'm not a good fit for you? An immediate response: - Do not worry, dude. We have our... methods of making men. Small offense - a whipping, commensurate with the act. A big crime - firing squad. Works great. My next question, along the lines of: And if you aren't to my liking? - died in the throat. - Well, well. - I tried to find a compromise. - Can you just point me in the right direction? Well, who to talk to, at least? After all, I know nothing of local geography. - I do not know either. - The brave centurion suddenly loses interest in me. - Why would I bother? I get paid five grand to sit here and answer the phone. There are rumors that Izvarino customs checkpoint is now held by the militia. What's really going on - no one knows. But worth trying. Maybe it is. How to get there? The buses are still running. .... - Why are you still sitting? End of the road. - The driver turned his wrinkled face to the only remaining passenger. Me. Got out, squinting at the sunset filling the blue sky. Not good. Wandering around a warzone at night, figuring out how to get to Gorlovka, where Strelkov is rumored to have retreated, was not a warming thought at all. Someone will shoot you, and you won't even know who. Oh well. I'll figure it out at the Russian customs. Worst-case scenario, I'll hang out on our side till the morning, maybe pair up with someone. There must be other .... wanderers like me, after all. Empty customs checkpoint, neat girls in uniform, cleanliness, no customers. My passport, playfully jumping from a from a computer to the copier and back, froze for a moment in well-groomed female hands. - Do you even know anyone at Izvarino? - Compassionate gray eyes looked at me sympathetically. - Friends. - I reported bravely, chasing away a nasty chill from my spine. - Bon Voyage. - With a very womanly sadness, the lady gave me back the cardboard identifier of a Russian citizen. - Follow the path to the gate. After that, it's Ukraine. Or Novorossia. You'll figure that out onsite. Booth at the barrier, a short dialogue with a dashing border guard armed with only a bayonet on his belt. - What's next, man? - Trying hard to appear careless, I greet the soldier, handing him a passport. - Who's there, militia or ...? - Well, a little over a week ago, it was held by naziguard* for sure. Now, looks like militiamen took it. But actually, this is my first shift. So, you know. If anything, run right back. If you can, of course. So far, six others went today, I didn't hear anything. I mean, they did not return. Okay - good luck. ... - I'm walking like I'm on stilts. - Thoughts flashed back and forth in my head. - What if naziguard are still there? Play dumb and ask ... Damn, what do I ask them? There! From a glass booth, thirty meters from the customs, a colorful figure in shorts on impossibly hairy legs slowly stepped forth, an old Kalashnikov slung across the chest. A raspy greeting. - Got a smoke? My eyes got downright glued to the faded St. George ribbon tied directly to an unwashed wifebeater. Feeling like my lips involuntarily stretched from ear to ear in a smile of blessed relief, I take out a pack of Marlboro I've had since St. Pete. - Here you go. We slowly smoke, enjoying the smell. With a disappointed glance at my dystrophic bag, the lazy guy asked. - Joining us? - - Well, yes. - I did not deny it. - Where is the commander? - - Over there, behind the "Ruin", in a blue trailer. Callsign - Grandpa. Enjoy. ... - Knock-knock. - My voice duplicated the fist and I stuck my head inside. - May I? A lean man in shabby camouflage, with a black bandanna on his head, nodded and looked at me with interest. - Joining the militia?! - He half-asked, half-stated the obvious, slowly evaluating my appearance. - Well, yes. - I agreed. - Can I go to Donetsk today? - - To Strelkov? - Hint of a smile flashed in his eyes. - To him. So what? - - No, nothing. Everyone wants to join Strelkov. - He seemed to be amused by the conversation. http://ift.tt/19JB0pB ] - Is that bad? - I raised an eyebrow. - No, that's fine. - Grandfather did not object. - Only you will not go to Donetsk. Or Gorlovka. Or even Krasnodon. Two kilometers away, Ukies cut the highway and are hammering everything that moves with arty and autocannons. Did you serve? - - No. - I reluctantly owned up to it. - It's OK. - He sighed. - Seventy percent of people here did not serve. Here's the drill. If you want, stay with my unit. If you want, wait for the highway to be cleared. But it's not gonna be tomorrow, for sure. A week minimum. - - Will you give me a gun? - I gathered my resolve, ready for anything. - Of course. - He shrugged. - What's the point being here without a gun? Not much choice of course, but we'll find you something. What's your name? - - Victor. - - Callsign? - - Well, let's say Don. - - Where you from? - - St. Pete.. - - Respect. Okay, let's go. - He got up and walked toward the customs building, not looking back. - Once you get a rifle, find Beekeeper. Tell him Grandpa sent you. You will join his section. And look for a place to sleep. Generally, there is no problem with space. Only mattresses. We got nineteen people here for the whole checkpoint. Food is no problem as long as there's gas left in the cylinders. Guys will show you which side of the rifle bullets fly out of. Don't be shy. There are no Rambos here. And who are you really - will become clear after your first real fight. Which will probably be tonight. Sergeant! - He called to a pot-bellied old man. - Open the stores. I brought a newbie for you. - The guy readily opened up his closet for us. - Well, what have we got in stock? - He flipped open a crate. - Here are your choices. Saiga hunting rifle, Simonov carbine, SVD sniper without a scope, folder 7.62 AK without a strap and a fixie** 5.45 AK with one. Take the fixie. We've got three magazines for it. And a carrying strap, of course. - I carefully pulled the rifle out of the box. Sergeant helpfully gave me a mag pouch and thumbed the pages of a school notebook, then silently looked at me. - Passport? - I guessed. - What use is your passport to me? Name, last name, callsign. I'm gonna write down the rifle serial number, as well. - I dictated. - Take as much ammo as you need and go. - He slammed the book shut. I looked around. Grandfather was gone. - Go to the lads. They are there, by that thing. - The Sergeant pointed in the direction of another inspection booth and, swaying on his feet, disappeared around the corner. - Private Don! Congratulations on joining the ranks of the valiant Novorossiya militia! Yay! - I chuckled and went to meet "the lads". Things seemed to be falling into place. PART THREE: Izvarino Alarm Clock. They were wonderfully nice ... Loosely shaking tanned satin thighs, slyly draped in transparent, weightless silk gauze, tantalizingly toying with tight bosoms, swaying to the beat of the dance, gleaming wet dark eyes promising crazy and endless pleasures... ... One of them, young and impatient, threw her arms around my suddenly stiff neck and s-slowly, with a wide motion, put her sharp little, pink tongue and coral lips to my ear and searing it with her breathing, on the verge of a moan ... hysterically screamed with Beekeeper's torn voice: - IN-CO-MING!!! Aircraft, screw it!!! Men, all to the trenches Fast-ah!!! - In a split second of tearing myself out of a corrupt web of immodest dreams, my disturbed mind and lips very vigorously expressed my completely vulgar attitude towards Vitaliy AKA Beekeeper, the unknown flyboys, this war in particular and my sad fate in general. And then hushed down, feeling how, at most half a mile away from my bed, someone very large and evil tore a giant sheet of thick canvas to shreds - RAAAATATA. And then the howl of the afterburner of an attack jet gaining altitude hit the ears. http://ift.tt/1CT8ZYj ] The adrenals habitually jerked and instantly threw the body out of sluggish sleep with a generous dose of adrenaline. I found himself approaching the familiar trench position and, jumping into its protective cool, belatedly noticed another terrible noise of torn canvas - heard, but not registered in time. Already much closer. Three hundred meters. - F*ck! - I reflexively dove to the bottom of the trench, trying to establish at least some order in the chaotic functioning of the brain. - Rifle, mags? With me. Already good. RPG-18s I left here yesterday. Yeah, here. Awesome. And what time is it, I wonder? - Feeling that I'm lying on a working jackhammer, then understanding that this is just my jumping heart, I stood up and, carefully craning my neck, peeked out into the daylight. The chubby yolk of rising sun has just come unstuck from the horizon. - Sh*t, not yet past 6 am! I did not even sleep a couple of hours?! Damn it all to hell ... and thirty-three submarines! Where Shura? Where is everybody? Okay, later. - Sensitively scanning fearful silence with my ears, I sat down, leaning back against the cool reliable parapet, and slowly pulled out the first of today's cigarettes out of a totally flattened pack. - Oh, let's smoke - boomed a disheveled presence of my new partner, Vitalik. - Who else is where, did you see? - I regretfully parted with my precious pack. - Beekeeper on left flank. Three more with him. Shurik in the next cell on the right. I'm in the next one over. That's it. - Smacking thick lips with pleasure, he released a thick cloud of smoke. - Our Marine is having serious fits, you know. We're short-staffed as it is, plus that guy... the weakest link, so to speak. Oh, here that flying bastard comes again. - I looked at the sky. Seemed empty. A-ah, there he is. - Ra-aa-ta-ta. - Another familiar convulsion shakes the air. But much further away. On autopilot, I hunch over, ducking my chin to the sternum. After a moment, I straighten back up. - Quit badmouthing the dude. He is now losing his virginity, you know. Under fire for the first time, it's ... life-changing crap. - Feeling like a seasoned veteran, I launch the cigarette butt on a flat trajectory. - Let's go, support ... our brother in arms. - I rose and walked to the right along the trench. - Yup. Hot brotherly love.... - Vital grimaced. - Mark my words - he is not a fighter. When I heard him talking - Somalia, Somalia, when he came in like a Rambo, show off... "M-ascow is na-mber one...". Go wipe his snot yourself. I'll go to my position. - - Hi. Well, how did it go? - I greet Shurik with deliberate cheerfulness. He nodded in response, frantically gazing around. - Why are you so nervous, Shura? Relax. We will all die someday. Hehe. - I took my first crack at trench psychotherapy. - Oh, no. I'm fine. It's just all very sudden. And most importantly, it is unfair. - Hurrying to talk, he swallowed words. I showed keen attention. - Freaking A. Some bastard like this nails you, and you won't even know where from, boom and that's it. You're gone. Completely. And you won't even see his filthy mug in the end, not to mention being able to shoot back. - ... - Forget it, Shura. Everyone feels this, their first time. ... - Yes, I understand. - He exhaled, gradually recovering. - It's just different from what I imagined. Do you really not care? - I vaguely shrugged. I could not really tell him how, evaluating how my excess winter weight does not "work" in the harsh realities of this war, I decided to fast - a couple of weeks without any food, to gain the needed lightness and agility. Not the first time I've fasted. And how on the fifth day of fasting, after spending two hours in the trenches under a full-power mortar barrage, I visited our "boys room" with great enthusiasm and need, whereupon I promptly produced an amazingly generous amount of "solid waste". - I do not know how to explain it to you, Alex***. Just believe my words - you'll get over this. Do not let your imagination run wild ... and hold on to your balls. Hehe. - I cheerfully continued my attempts at gentle psychologic rehabilitation. - And, in general, who are we? Free people in a free f*cking country. Pissing yourself a bit? Well, okay. It happens to everyone. Piss everywhere you like. Overhead, in your pants, all around... do not deny yourself the pleasure, friend. Just don't forget your mission in the meantime. ... -2- Shura joined us last night, immediately after evening formation, when Grandpa announced that twelve of us are going to hill 9/2 for the night, and the rest will enjoy the dubious pleasure of holding the customs checkpoint. And then, catching signs of a slight confusion in the ranks, expressed by a radically critical assessment of mental abilities of our high command (all of it in most vulgar terms), he judiciously clarified: - Do not sweat it, guys. If tanks attack after all, fire off everything you got, evaluate the effect, and if we're still screwed, trot on to Russia. Just do not forget to get rid of weapons. But smartly. So we can find them later. - And that was the plan everyone agreed upon. The customs checkpoint was manned by our section, so, a little later, the glorious Marine Shurik ended up with us. Having received the "folder" AK that I rejected, and dressed in dapper, brand new camo, thoughtfully brought with him from the capital, he looked, frankly, very dashing. ... In a brief conversation, with thoughtful and weighty phrases, he told us about his recent, glorious past as a Baltic Sea Marine. ... Me and Shura stood guard from two to four am. Well, you know the rest ... -3- So here I lay, under a shabby acacia tree, hiding from the fierce rage of our "favorite star". I lay, scratch my belly and physically feel how, like sparkling sweet droplets of amber honey heated by the sun, the precious minutes of silence reluctantly slip into eternity, each one full of unexpected and seemingly bottomless silence. Can not enough of these, ever. It's Good ... Guys already came back from hill 9/2, stressed and extremely pissed, carrying a sluggishly resisting Ara, nearly dead after an extremely strong shell shock. Already, having received some special shot in the behind from our worried medic Marconi, he passed out here under the bushes, after swearing aplenty in three languages



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Confessions of a Combatant: One volunteer's war [abridged]

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