Читать книгу Journeys in the Search for the Meaning of Life. A story of those who have found it - Rami Bleckt - Страница 9

What awaited him in Fergana was an intensive boot camp,[5] where soldiers trained, studied, and prepared for about three months before being sent to Afghanistan. It was no way out of it; it was tough, not least because of the strict boot-camp instructors. Their sergeants meted out severe punishment for the slightest infraction. Soldiers and sergeants called the officers jackals because of their even higher demands. Yet their grueling discipline was fairly justified since all officers and sergeants had gone through many field operations in actual battle. They would fly in for new recruits to refresh their ranks. They knew what would wait these greenhorns.

They were trained in firearms, hand-to-hand combat, parachute jumping, a number of desert combat scenarios, and went through extreme physical training. Then they were sent for a few weeks to the mountains, where Zheka thought he would die from exhaustion. Sometimes they would hike for 20–30 km. in full battle gear while still carrying on various battle engagement scenarios and shooting practice. His feet ended up looking like one big callus of blood and pus however he would try to wind socks around them. They got a half canteen of water a day.

But the real hell and torture began three months later when they were sent to Afghanistan.

* * *

Arthur's notes didn't contain the exact names of all the cities or people. The only ones written down were Kabul, Kandahar, Zelenka, and most of all – Bagram. On the one hand, it was easier in Afghanistan because there weren't any combat drills pulled on them in the middle of the night. On the other hand, there was continual psychological tension combined with a backdrop of steady, heavy physical labor.

The first two months they were stationed at a large base. Their part of the camp was fired on from the neighboring mountains in the first week and two from the first company died and several were injured. This was their baptism by fire and he understood – it was no joke.

Zheka began praying to God with the first shots: "God protect me. Save me if you are there!" He had not expected this to be coming from him of all people. After all, he had only heard of God from his old grandmother, way back in his childhood. She hadn't really told him a lot, just general sorts of things – how to pray, to cross your heart, and who Jesus Christ was.

Few months later, he got severe intestinal pains and after a couple days in the hospital, he was sent to another battalion whose duty was to maintain security over a remote region. They had to hold several high ridges in their hands, guarantee the security of various convoys, and carry out reconnaissance raids.

These were tough times in every way. Even though it was fall, it was hot and dry and it became windier every day. In November, strong sand storms kicked in and the nights became colder and colder. But the hardest thing to get used to was the heavy losses to the Soviet army. Death, injury, and missing in action were commonplace.

The mujahedeen were getting more experienced, trained by American mercenaries who provided them the most modern weapons. 'Stingers' were the most dangerous – they easily shot down helicopters. Shooting on convoys or laying down punitive fire on the paratroopers' motorized brigades was now the norm, using American and captured Soviet rockets.

The hardest thing to take was that everyone understood the senselessness of the fighting and that the so-called 'international aid' was not what this country needed.

Planes returned to the USSR full of wounded or with 'load 200 , as the zinc caskets were called. When there wasn't room, the caskets sat under the hot sun for some time before take off.

Many soldiers in this battalion who had been on repeated tours of duty with only a month left to serve did whatever they could to be able to return home alive and in one piece. It was considered to be the worst thing to have served two years in this hell and to be injured or killed just before being sent home.

For the battalion, the last year was the hardest of the whole Afghan campaign. About half of them either died or were wounded and those that survived suffered from infections. As a result, a lot of new soldiers and officers were brought in who mostly hadn't seen battle yet.

Zheka had a year and a half left to serve. It seemed to last an eternity, as every day for him stretched out painfully and despairingly. As if things weren't bad enough, he fell asleep on sentry duty one night, which had extremely unpleasant consequences. The battalion's guard cussed him out roundly, and after he was dismissed, the sergeant gave him a professional knockout punch, telling him, "Because of people like you, whole companies get cut to pieces." In the morning the battalion commander roared at him, "So, you like to sleep on guard duty? We'll pack you off to Parkhomin's unit. You won't fall asleep there."

And so he was sent to join a hard-core marine unit under the command of Parkhomin. This lone platoon carried out the most difficult assignments and was always engaged in battle.

* * *

It was not hard for Zheka to remember meeting with the platoon commander – his demeanor lent itself to ready friendship. The lieutenant was sitting on his bed, reading the arrival papers of a new soldier to his command. He said in a warm, fatherly tone, "We're so glad you're here. Tell me something about yourself." That fatherly manner just about did Zheka in; he almost cried. No one had talked to him in that way for so long. His own father had been quite brusque with him when he sent him off to the army.

Zheka told him about himself, Parkhomin showed him where the mess hall was, and left him with some parting words: "Strive to serve well. We all depend on one another here and your little mistake could cost many their lives – your fellow soldiers and those we are trying to protect." He then gave him some important manuals and sent him off to sergeant Zubin.

And so began new battle routines for Zheka. They would get an emergency call, for example – a convoy had been ambushed so it would be their duty to fly out there. They would pull dead and wounded from the ambush site, lie waiting for several days in case the mujahedeen returned, accompany the rescue vehicles back to the hospital, and a number of similar tasks. By the end of spring, he had turned into a seasoned fighter.

He was a good shot, could easily go on 20-kilometer mountain marches fully suited up, quickly found the safest places to be during an engagement, could move silently, and could take his sleep in 30-minute sessions. He took life as it came – day by day.

All this time in the platoon no men were lost, which was surprising because losses in the battalion as a whole continued. Much of this was due to their platoon commander, who, in addition to his valuable experience, also had a certain 6-th sense, an intuition which saved the soldiers on numerous occasions.

* * *

One time they were returning to base after a two-day march, totally exhausted. They were about six kilometers out and intent on getting back before sunset. The path stretched out downwards and the lead men were jogging ahead because they wanted to eat, drink, and rest before morning. This area was considered to be safe territory – their own. But suddenly Parkhomin shouted, "Hold it! Don't move." He moved ahead slowly with a sapper.[6] And literally in ten meters they discovered a trigger-wire, a string attached to a bomb. If they had pulled on this string, a grenade would've rolled down and in a few seconds exploded. This had been calculated to be for a group heading down a narrow path. There was no time to defuse it, especially since another trigger-wire was found. He gave the command, "Walk around it, carefully."

They took up positions on high ground and noticed some mujahedeen getting settled on a neighboring ridgeline to shoot down on a convoy which they could already see below. The shooting started and the commander led the operation from cover. Suddenly he called to the machine-gunner on the radio, "Get out of your spot now! Leave your position immediately. Go 30 meters to the ravine. Fast! And cover your head!" In a minute you could hear a rocket-propelled grenade and it exploding right where they had just been. Even though they were a bit deafened by the blast, everyone lived. And this was far from the only such instance.

He also had a certain 'sense' about people. He always seemed to know who to send where and for what. He had chosen Saulyus, a Lithuanian, as radio operator, even though Russian was not his mother tongue and he spoke with a strong accent. A couple of sergeants had considered the matter once during a cigarette break: "So, will this Lithuanian be able to speak Russian while we're under fire? You know, what if he forgets how to speak Russian?" Once, they had been coming down from a mountain with him and some shooting erupted. Saulyus fell down, sprained his foot, and rolled down the hill, accidentally hitting the walkie-talkie a few times on rocks and it stopped working. Mujahedeen were trying to surround them and they urgently needed to call for help. But he sat down, started fixing the radio, kept a cool head, and in five minutes he had it working again. They called for help and two helicopters arrived, laying down fire on the encroaching mujahedeen. The artillery joined in, hitting the mujahedeen positions on the ridge from which they'd been firing. The attackers had to withdraw. One soldier was wounded, though not serious – some stray shrapnel – and he returned to duty in a few days.

Parkhomin was an officer that even soldiers from other divisions respected and would not refer to as a jackal, as they did to other officers. He could be harsh and demanding, but he was courageous and always saw to the needs of his own men.

For instance, he might call the regiment's administrative chief and demand replacement of expired soldering rods or a shipment of more foodstuffs. He might speak roughly, too, even though the person at the other end of the line was a major. He would do whatever it took to get the best for his men.

A lance corporal had been seriously injured (before Zheka had joined) and was sent back to the base hospital. Shrapnel had caused severe lesions in his right thigh. The shrapnel there hadn't reached the bone but gotten close to the knee and was touching the tendon. Other shrapnel had hit him in the side in his ribs. The corporal's name was Andrey Velichko. He lay in the hospital several weeks before his transport back to the Soviet Union, and Parkhomin, when he was on base, brought him his mail, his things, food. He gave him words of support and encouragement and thanked him for his service. His care meant exuded concern and support, and everyone felt it.

But Zheka felt this man's courage was his most striking aspect. He was lecturing two Dagestan soldiers who had been placed to hold a vital position – covering troop disembarkation. They had left their posts abruptly while under fire, giving the attackers the opportunity to fire on the whole group. Everyone lay down as the helicopter, which hadn't dropped off the whole contingent, took back off again. It was just a miracle that no one was hurt. When they got back to the barracks, Parkhomin hollered at them: "You pigs! Scum! Lowlifes! Cowards! I'm going to write to your whole family, so that your grandparents and parents know that they have raised cowards. He cussed them out unreservedly and said that next time, if someone dies, they will have to write the words for the soldiers' last rites and explain to their parents in their own broken Russian, "I am so sorry, mothers, I chickened out and ran, and they killed your son…"

This went on for some ten minutes after which he said that such low-lives would even ruin administrative or support operations. They tried to say something in their defense; their nostrils were flaring. They were from the Caucasus, hot-blooded, not used to anyone daring to address them in this fashion.

They were ordered for a month, every time after returning from maneuvers, to bring in all additional ammunition and to clean the latrines. The behavior they had shown couldn't, in principle, be permitted. The mujahedeen were a big enough problem to deal with. But now, you might have to worry if your own people were going to shoot at you – whether in the foot or the body – because you had been too harsh. Just knowing that the people covering your back hate you increases your psychological stress, and that was already at a high enough level.

To their honor, these soldiers never again exhibited their cowardice.

* * *

At the end of spring, Parkhomin took a month's leave. During that time, their unit was largely left alone. They only went on two big jobs and even then, they were attached to the whole recon company. Zheka noticed how everyone was feeling a little off, missing something or someone. They were all missing their officer.

Parkhomin returned from leave refreshed and enthused, but at the same time sad and self-reflective. While he had been on leave, an order had come through promoting him to captain.

He had a two-year old son and a wife whom he hadn't seen a year because his leave was always getting delayed. No one was available to replace him while he was gone, a problem that often occurred in the outlying areas in Afghanistan.

His parents had died in a car accident when he was in his last year of high school. That was one of the reasons why he chose a military academy to study at: the government paid for room and board. He graduated from a school specializing in English with good grades and was easily entered a military academy.

He had only six or seven months left to serve out in Afghanistan.

About the end of August some extremely serious fighting began. The mujahedeen were actively engaging them daily through arms fire and bombings. Hard times were setting in. Again, they heard rumors that they would be sent back to the Soviet Union.

Instead, they remained and continued to suffer greater and greater losses, and their battalion was no exception, however Parkhomin worked hard to protect them. Approximately two months after he'd come back from leave, they were sent in a paratrooper armored troop transport to rescue a scout unit.

All of a sudden, a town on the other side of the canyon was laying down heavy machine-gun and rocket-propelled grenade fire. There was supposed to be a local Afghan (Soviet-aligned) army garrison there.

The mujahedeen used a very dirty tactic, especially in the last years. They would enter local residents' homes, set up battle positions, and shoot. The residents weren't permitted to leave. And so, when return fire came, many civilians died. The mujahedeen would photograph this and use it as propaganda against the Soviet Army. It also helped them win new recruits anxious to avenge the deaths of relatives.

The Soviet soldiers who had been sent to help had gotten pinned down – some behind a tank, some behind various stones – and could hardly move. One tank finally blew up under the intensity of the large-caliber machine-gun fire and from the rocket-propelled grenades.

They had called for assistance on the radio. Now, on the other side of the gorge, the helicopters were dropping off the paratroopers. They were encircling the town and beginning to fight back, aided by volleys from helicopters. Two of the tanks were shooting with their 30-mm guns. Virtually all the Soviet soldiers were actively shooting at the mujahedeen, whose fire had diminished.

Parkhomin's troops began to fire back with their rocket-propelled grenades and were steadily eroding the mujahedeen positions.

This was a fairly dangerous, well-armed contingent; you could call it a mujahedeen 'special forces unit' that had trained in Pakistan.

In the end, the division coming down from above took the village by nightfall. No one got away – two wounded mujahedeen were taken alive and sixteen killed. Unfortunately, several families of the local civilians died.

Parkhomin said, "What can we do about it? They chose to bring their people to death. If their religion, their world view lets them use their people as a living shield, what can we do?"

Their regiment's commander implemented a new tactic – shoot to kill even if the shooting came from residential homes. Before, only snipers had been allowed to do this. This new method saved countless paratroopers' lives but increased the civilian deaths. Of course, soon this worsened relations with the local population.

It was a bad scene – many dead and wounded, especially among our intervening forces.

In their platoon, six had died, among them Sergeant Zubin, who'd had so little time left to serve out and who had rescued wounded during the engagement, dragging them behind boulders. At the end of the battle, a dazed engineer had jumped out of a burning tank and Zubin covered him with his body. He received a posthumous Order of Glory. His mother and a girlfriend, whom he had loved from school days, were left to live without him in Leningrad.[7] He had studied with his girlfriend at the Polytechnic Institute and they had planned to marry. Later, when Parkhomin spoke of him, he said that only such a man, who could love truly, could honestly be called a hero.

Ten were wounded, virtually all seriously. Their radio operator, Saulyus, had lost his leg below the knee. He groaned and came in and out of consciousness. There was only one doctor, trying to help everyone. Helicopters started arriving, receiving the dead and wounded. In the half-collapsed mosque they found a large cache of weapons, mines, and books.

Zheka had earlier prayed to God, asking for his protection, but this time he turned to Him with despairing questions: "Why? Why do the innocent suffer? Why do the young become cripples? What is this useless war for? What did these good men do that displeased God so? Why are the mujahedeen become crueler the more religious they get? Tell me God, why is it happening? What good is our suffering to you? Why am I here, and Saulyus, and Zubin? I wasn't wounded but these good men, who have loving young women, and parents, and who studied well, were. I want to know – why? And, I want to do something so that it will never happen again."

They returned to base. Morale was low; everyone was despondent. They were given two days off to recuperate. There were 15 new soldiers, straight from boot camp, coming in as replacements. The second lieutenant brought some hard liquor to drink in memory of those fallen, and everyone drank except Parkhomin. He never drank or smoked and didn't encourage it. Bad habits make a person a slave and weak in every way, he was sure. But this time he didn't bother them about it; he was very busy and hardly ever left his quarters.

Two days later they received another assignment – establish a position at a high elevation and report on all enemy activity, trying not to engage them. They headed to a deserted village and took up positions. Already the next night some mujahedeen tried to enter the village. When they got close enough, they were shot. Two were killed but a third managed to escape. It was clear it had been a scouting operation and now the mujahedeen knew where they were.

And in fact, early the next morning they were back, shooting. This turned into a grim battle. Parkhomin took Zheka, two other experienced men, and the radio operator into an empty house standing a bit higher than the rest apart. This afforded the best vantage point from which to see the attacking mujahedeen and coordinate battle orders.

Parkhomin ordered them to hold their positions, to conserve their rounds, and only to shoot when they were sure. They were told that reinforcements would arrive, but hours went by and – nothing. As it turned out, that morning two helicopters had been shot down and an entire convoy destroyed. So now, the soldiers were shooting back as best they could, yet, slowly but surely, they became encircled.

The mujahedeen made subtle advances under cover of continual machine gun fire, making the fight very challenging. It was clear that they were seasoned fighters.

The village's houses had virtually no roofs and one mujahedeen who had been able to creep up closely enough undetected was able to throw a grenade in.

As Zheka was telling this part of his story, he blushed, closed his eyes and said, "I've heard people in similar situations say how at such times you feel an intensity to what is happening, and that everything slows down. That's how it was with me. Everything started going as if in slow motion."

The mujahedeen were attacking from the east and south sides, the sun was blinding, and then something flashed. Zheka looked up and saw the grenade flying slowly, to the side, a little closer to Parkhomin. He watched it spinning in the air, slowly falling. He was paralyzed with fear. His whole life literally flashed before his eyes and he knew, this was it – death.

He saw that he hadn't done anything in particular in his life, that it had been useless. He was afraid. Moments passed as slowly as syrup; everything had stopped. He looked at Parkhomin, then at the grenade. Parkhomin shouted something to the radio operator and suddenly noticed the grenade. Zheka saw a giant wave of fright in his eyes to be replaced a moment later with regret. He briefly glanced at the clay partition in the shelter. He still had a chance to save himself, but the other two – Zheka and the machine gunner – didn't stand the slightest, even theoretical chance. What's more, if the grenade blew up it would most likely tear through the thin clay walls and bury anyone in the other room.

There was only one thing to do. Parkhomin's face showed his clear decisiveness as he threw himself on the grenade. Zheka repeated several times, "I remember it clearly. Everything was in slow motion."

Just as in a rugby match, Parkhomin grabbed the grenade and curled up with it under a small table – a simple, wooden one, but solid. He yelled, "Lay down!" Zheka and Ruchnikov, both from the Ryazinski region, threw themselves down and covered their heads, as they had been trained, and then a deafening blast let out. They walked away from it without a scratch, just some temporary deafness. The mujahedeen aborted their attack on the house, having decided that everyone had died.

A little bit later you could see something flashing in the sky – helicopters, forcing back the mujahedeen advance. Reinforcements had arrived and they were saved.

The next events were a bit foggy for Zheka. He knew that Parkhomin had saved them from sure death by paying a dear price – his own life. Sappers from the reinforcement group laid mines through the village and everyone was ordered back to base. Back at the base, the wounded, and those who had carried them onto the helicopters, said that one man had died, but that they couldn't really carry him back because his body had been torn apart. They presumed he was the radio operator or a commander. No one wanted even to think that it might be Parkhomin. When it came out that it had indeed been his body, everyone took off their helmets and many soldiers cried openly.

First lieutenant Semenko – soldiers just called him 'Sema' or 'jackal Sema' – felt no shame, cried and groaned at them, "Why could not you take care of him? You dogs." He cussed them out. Semenko had become good friends with Parkhomin. While he was first arriving at the base, they fell under artillery bombardment. Two men were sitting in HQ – a sergeant, assistant to base security, and a friend, the sentry chief. They were going to be demobilized in a few weeks. Seeing a 'green' junior lieutenant on his way to headquarters, they started yelling at him on the base speakers once the shells started falling. "Lieutenant Semenko, take cover, immediately! Duck, now. Good grief, get down!"

They were laughing at him. They were all in a safe zone where the shell shrapnel couldn't hit, and they were just entertaining themselves: "Duck for cover! Crawl! Cover your head and crawl." When the lieutenant really did start crawling to the battalion he knew that they were making fun of him. But he couldn't just ignore a seasoned sergeant, much less since he was from another division. It happened when Parkhomin appeared and furiously laid into them: "You're playing games?! Are you nuts? I guess you've been on headquarters staff for so long, you've forgotten what it's like out there. I'll fix that with an assignment tomorrow. You'll join me in a convoy to protect a diesel transport. I'll set it up with the battalion commander." Ashen-faced, they fell over themselves apologizing. They had good reason – they only had two weeks left to serve in combat. In their thoughts and dreams – they were already back home. They knew Parkhomin didn't make idle threats.

Parkhomin set off for the lieutenant, embraced him and said, "Don't let it bother you. Here – anything can happen! Everyone is afraid at first. The main thing to know is whether you can overcome your fear." And that was so; he didn't say anything special, he just reached out to him, man to man.

Lieutenant Semenko also earned the respect of his soldiers in time, because he knew how to lead well. After several battles he earned the order of the Red Star[8] and just in half a year, the rank of first lieutenant. In a year he was experienced enough that no one laughed at him anymore. He never forgot those words of encouragement, though: "Don't let it bother you. Everyone is afraid. The main thing to know is whether you can overcome your fear."

Now this man, the hero, having overcome his fears and paid his life to save others, is no longer with us. He'd had so little time left to serve in Afghanistan, too.

* * *

The soldiers with minor wounds were brought back to base and given two weeks rest and rehab. The first week they didn't even don their uniforms. The battalion's political officer came by and gave Zheka the task of writing an unofficial funerary speech in remembrance of Parkhomin to give to his parents and wife. He wanted them to know the details of his heroic death. He told him, "We're sending his valuables back home, but everything else, you take with you and give them personally. After all, your tour of duty is almost at an end."

Zheka found Parkhomin's old paratrooper knapsack in the weapon's room. In it were photos of his family, some T-shirts, books, two thin notebooks full of writing, and a letter to his son. Under some things in a drawer of a small table in the captain's quarters, Zheka found a black book. It was in English and had some comments and a few unidentifiable words written in the margins. There were also some pages of full translation. He started to read some of it and understood – this was a Bible.

He found Parkhomin's diary and was taken aback, because if something like this were found with a soldier, it could mean disciplinary action for the whole battalion. Now he remembered that half a year ago, before Parkhomin went on leave, they had gotten word from the regiment's military intelligence that there was an American mercenary in one of the villages. It hadn't been the only time; these mercenaries operated right under their noses. Their spying operations were highly professional. This time was no exception. Once they reached the spot, their scouting party couldn't find any mercenaries, but they did get some trophies, so to speak. They found assorted weaponry and various things, among which were books, apparently a Bible.

Zheka read the translation of biblical passages and he was stunned by the text's depth and unusual nature, calling to mind a message sent from another world. It was forbidden to keep a diary, especially with entries detailing where they had been and what their assignments had been. But on these diary pages were philosophic ideas, written in very small, but legible handwriting.

It was clear that the handwritten notes were for him, not others, which pointed to the fact that Parkhomin was a spiritual, deep person. Several prayers were even written out. In his things, Zheka found an Orthodox Russian Christian prayer and an amulet (as it turned out, it belonged him before the war), though, for some reason Parkhomin hadn't taken it with him on the last mission. Later, after meeting Parkhomin's relatives, Zheka found out that his grandfather had kept it with him throughout World War II, and so he finally understood the source of Parkhomin's ideals.

There was also a letter to his son. On a large envelope was written: "If something happens to me, send it to my son. Let him read it when he turns 16."

Zheka read a few paragraphs which had been translated from the Bible. They impressed him deeply, even though they were only words. Since that time he began to pray and remembered how his grandmother had taught him to cross his heart and he did same, too. He did it when nobody was near because no one would understand it.

Insofar as he had been slightly wounded, they assigned him to security detail on the HQ and warehouse. Now he had a lot of his own time to reflect on his life. He gave his word of honor to God yet again, but this time with much greater awareness: "God, if I return alive, I want to serve You; I want to read and learn the Bible. I am only alive because such people as Captain Parkhomin sacrificed their lives for me. I have no right to live without virtue."

In a few months, he returned to the Soviet Union. He later remembered going through the border crossing station. He had used his saved-up soldier 'scrip', at the time valued higher than regular rubles, to buy himself a Japanese radio/ tape player and a watch. At the border crossing, the guards were being excessively attentive to customs rules and took it away from him, reprimanded him, and, to top it off, right in front of him discussed which of them was going to get to keep them. (At the time, these were unusual, valuable items.)