Free Fall (20 page)

Even back during the First Chechen Campaign, it was very common for the enemy to have the same equipment as us, even the latest models produced in Russia – which, for our army, were still considered experimental prototypes and thus were barely in circulation – sometimes ended up in their hands.

The Russian politicians of the time – led by that ‘stupid drunk Yeltsin', as Nosov always called him, ‘who sold out to the United States of America' – needed, according to our Captain, a black hole, a place that swallowed money and spat it out clean, supporting their so-called ‘democratic' regime, which was run the American way – that is, with wars, lies, illicit trade and total lack of respect for the people of the Russian Federation. That black hole was Chechnya.

‘The Americans gave Yeltsin and his men a huge helping hand – they were able to control the whole orchestration of this disgusting war,' Nosov vented for the thousandth time while we were on our way to base in the helicopter. ‘Who knows how much fun the strategists at the Pentagon had when they came up with this foul plan of local war right within the borders of their old enemy, the USSR . . . And through misinformation, political and ethnic agitation, they provoked us like a bunch of war dogs, straining at the leash.'

Essentially, their tactics were analogous to raping a dead body. It wasn't enough for them to kill the ‘Soviet bloc' – they still wanted to satisfy their sick thirst for dominion somehow, and to our shame there wasn't anyone in Russia capable of stopping them . . .

Our first day on the 46th infantry base went by without anything in particular happening; we saboteurs stayed in our assigned barracks, waiting for something. Indeed, we knew that sooner or later command would give us our orders; they wouldn't have moved all those units from one post to another without a specific reason.

The paratroopers, on the other hand – as often happened in times of calm – caused a ruckus, got drunk, hassled the girls in the infirmary and the kitchen, and ribbed the other soldiers.

Based on our captain's experience and advice, we got some rest. Whenever we could, we slept, and the rest of the time we ate like cows. Nosov personally requested a double ration for each of us and a little something extra when possible, stuff from the food depot that was usually
reserved for the officers, like sweet hot tea and a kind of cake that we really loved.

In addition, Moscow had made a deal with the helicopter pilot who'd taken us to the base: in exchange for an American pistol – a Colt, and we had quite a few – he gave us a bag of lemons, ten chocolate bars and five tins of red caviar. It was a great deal; usually for a pistol we could get two cartons of cigarettes and three bottles of whisky at most. All the drivers and pilots asked the guys in the active units to get them American or European guns, and since in war money doesn't mean the same as in civilian life – ‘the closer you are to the line of fire, the less money is worth' – we calculated the value of everything in food.

I should say that on that occasion the technical quality of the gun helped us out – it was really nice, and often for Russian soldiers, especially the ones who didn't fight on the front lines, a Colt was a status symbol, an object to show friends and family when they returned home, and who knows how many stories they told to show off, to look like someone who had fought a tough battle and in the end had won. We also had a saying:

‘All the girls go for the guy who brings back a Colt as a trophy.'

So, after going to the ‘store', we were able to spend a few peaceful days on base. Our group went by the ‘law of the camel': whenever you have the chance, eat everything you can and as much as you can.

On the second night, a friendly nurse who would visit the various units to chat a little and look for some ‘male
affection', told us that our comrades in the motorised paratrooper division, unlike us, would usually offer her vodka. And they were happy to do so, seeing her as a symbol of feminine virtue.

‘Don't you guys drink?' she asked us out of the blue.

I've never been much of a drinker, but the idea of downing a little good vodka didn't sound too bad at all. And the rest of the guys seemed to agree.

Zenith was the most eager; he had a real weakness for booze.

‘Well, I guess we could go for a sip or two . . .'

‘I know the tankers have quite a reserve,' the nurse said.

We started to think up a plan. It was pointless hoping that the tankers would give us any; we had no choice but to steal a few bottles from them or somehow force them to share their precious cargo with us.

We knew that the tankmen, like many other units, had a mascot. It was a very common practice in war; soldiers would often bring dogs or cats with them, or even try to tame wild animals like squirrels or hedgehogs – some even had an ermine. Our tankers, however, were notorious because their favourite animals were sewer rats – probably because in military slang the tankers themselves were called ‘rats', since during combat they had to stay inside the small cabin space inside the tank yet still be able to move with agility. As a matter of fact, each tank had its own rat – everyone would feed it and it would get fat like an old spoiled cat.

Soldiers follow lots of superstitions in war, and losing the mascot is considered very bad luck . . .

Maybe we'd found the way to have ourselves a nice big drink.

Nosov had gone out a few hours earlier to visit an old friend of his, a major who'd fought with him in Afghanistan and now commanded one of the assault units stationed at the same base. When Nosov went to see his friends nobody was to disturb him, go with him or follow him. Everyone who had fought in Afghanistan had a tradition of sorts – they only met amongst themselves and didn't allow us young people to come.

That same night we left the barracks and headed for the area where the tanks were. It was a wide, unpaved clearing in the middle of the base. Down from the sky fell a light sharp rain that drummed on us insistently.

Autumn is melancholy in those parts, and since we were obliged to wade through the mud, I almost felt like we were in the famous folk poem by Sergei Yesenin, the one where he talks about this season in a rather crude way. It goes like this:

The tanks were side by side, half a metre apart. The cannons were lowered so that water couldn't get inside them. But if you looked carefully at the ends of the cannons, every now and then you'd see a rat's nose poking out. Our tankers often kept their mascots there, and the rats liked it. They didn't run away; sometimes they went out to get a little fresh air but they always went back inside where it was warm.

There were some tankers standing guard, but we avoided them without too much difficulty and quickly reached the nearest tank. We waited a little, quiet, until a rat's whiskered nose peeked out of the barrel.

Moscow signalled for us to keep an eye out, and we surrounded the tank. Then he put on a pair of thick leather gloves, the kind that machine gunners usually wear, because during a battle the gun gets so hot that if you reload it with your bare hands you risk getting burned. Moscow climbed onto the tank, then grabbed on to the cannon with one hand while with the other he made a quick swipe, clamping the rat by the head and pulling him out with a strong and firm sweep of his arm. As soon as Moscow jumped down, we ran back to our post.

Back in the barracks, we got to know the rat. He was a big, fat animal, with a long tail and very clean fur that shone as if he shampooed it every evening. He had a collar made from a piece of green tent fabric, with the rat's name and the number of the tank he belonged to sewn on with white thread. It was a boy; his name was Zeus.

Zeus never gave the impression he was scared of us,
even if he seemed annoyed by the kidnapping. We put him inside a zinc box where we usually kept bullets for the Kalashnikovs. Moscow was very attentive to him; he put a piece of bread in his box, and made a little water bowl by cutting a piece out of an empty tube of tomato paste. Then he made three holes in the top of the box so air could circulate.

After all that Moscow looked satisfied. He gave the rat's temporary prison a little tap with his knife and said:

‘In here, my dear fellows, we have not only the key to getting the vodka . . . but also the key to winning the tankers' respect!'

We started laughing. He seemed as determined as Napoleon must have been before his Russian campaign.

A delegation composed of Moscow, Zenith and Shoe communicated to the tank's crew the means, time and conditions for payment of the ransom. The tankers accepted our offer on the spot: a case of vodka in exchange for Zeus. We were ecstatic.

Around four in the morning five of them came knocking at our door, carrying twenty-five bottles of vodka in an equipment crate. We gave them back their animal, they quickly verified Zeus's health, and then we all decided to drink together in celebration of our happy transaction.

We sat down at the table and lit a small portable stove that ran on kerosene. Moscow took a zinc case to use as a pan and poured in four tins of stewed meat and some potatoes we'd nabbed from the kitchen the day before. At that point one of the tankers went to their base and came back with a big piece of salted lard; its smell was
so strong, intense and appealing I thought I was going to faint. We opened the first bottle of vodka, and after pouring it into a big iron canteen our party finally began.

The canteen was passed from hand to hand, and one by one the bottles were emptied. Amidst many stories of war, peace and life, we started to get a little drunk. The tankers were really nice guys – often the ones who have to be on the alert are more human than the others; knowing they're risking their lives every day gives certain people a kind of purity that's hard to explain. Their leader, a young lieutenant, was great company. He always had a joke at hand, and knew the right thing to say when the conversation went off track.

Around six in the morning – by then we'd emptied almost half the case and could hardly stand – Nosov came back.

Our captain was tired and looked like someone who had just finished a battle. He was sloshed and stank of garlic and fried potatoes. His Kalashnikov was slung over his shoulder and he seemed to be in a terrible mood. He greeted the tankers with a gesture that recalled Stalin saluting his Soviet comrades from the platform at Lenin's tomb. He took note of our little party, then took a piece of bread from the table and dipped it in the melted fat in the zinc pan, where a few potatoes and bits of stew remained.

As he finished his bite, Nosov started looking at each of our faces with such profound desperation in his eyes that despite the effect of the alcohol I had a premonition of danger, as if something tragic were about to happen
. . . Then he got up from the chair, shuffled across the barracks and fell into the first bunk he found. His Kalashnikov was still on him, and it poked out from the bed menacingly, right in our direction.

Shoe said to Zenith:

‘Brother, go and disarm our captain. Better not to tempt the Lord's patience . . .'

Zenith turned to Spoon and repeated Shoe's request verbatim.

Spoon went to move, but it was clear that it was a struggle for him to get up, so without anyone saying anything Deer stepped up. He carefully lifted our captain, who was already snoring, and unceremoniously grabbed the rifle out of his hands with a forceful and determined tug. Nosov didn't resist, and with his eyes closed he mumbled:

‘We're at altitude 216 southeast of Jalalabad . . . Everyone down, fucking whore of a war! Nobody goes on recon without my permission . . . Bastard helicopter, we're not leaving anyone . . .'

He went on giving orders for a few minutes, cursing at the helicopter and getting pissed off with who knows whom. Finally, mentioning some general whose surname was followed by a vulgar term (which in Russian indicates the female genital organs after sexual intercourse with an animal), he concluded:

‘Everywhere we've been, there's no life left . . .'

Then he fell into a deep sleep. We remained in silence for a little while, then we drank to our captain's health as the tankers started retreating to their post.

It was morning, but outside it was very dark. It hadn't
stopped raining yet, and the smell of fried food in our barracks intermingled with the smell of the rain. The air was damp and icy; you could feel the cold coming from outside all the way down into your bones. One by one, we fell into our bunks too.

Deer took off his shoes and lifted his stinky socks up to my face, but I was so tired and drunk that I didn't even have the strength to turn the other way, and I fell asleep inhaling the smell of his feet. Even that was overpowered by the odour that we were already used to – in war, everything is rank and foul.

We slept all day long. Around four in the afternoon my hangover had subsided, but I was still lying in bed, wearing a heavy winter coat. I stared at the ceiling without thinking about anything in particular, like a sick man just waiting to get better. I felt as if I had found myself in a place where we were condemned to stay forever, everyone in the rain, surrounded by the autumn air, pierced by a sadness that went through our souls like the dampness that soaked through our clothes . . .

Moscow and Zenith were sitting at the table and preparing their jackets, sewing the places where the fabric was torn and fixing the side pouches. They were talking in hushed voices about a previous mission of ours where Moscow had risked catching a blast of heavy machine gun fire but had been saved because Nosov grabbed his leg, pulled him down and dragged him into a trench that
had been made during the First Chechen Campaign after the explosion of an air bomb.

‘It was a close call,' Moscow said.