The Arabs had several models of explosive devices at their disposal, many of which were Italian-made, coming from San Marino. They had different mechanisms, but were all deadly weapons. Some of them had been scattered throughout the city we were supposed to attack, thrown in the street in order to attract our soldiers’ attention. They were made to look like mobile phones, watches, videocameras, and unfortunately sometimes toys or boxes of crayons. We all knew about these dangerous surprises, and if during the First Chechen Campaign a Russian or two had lost his hide, I don’t remember a single case of that happening in the Second. But many civilians died, including – disgracefully – children. When we saw those mines in the street we wouldn’t hesitate to shoot them to make them explode, thus rendering them harmless. The idea of picking them up and trying to deactivate them, on the other hand, never occurred to any one of us.
The explorers’ sniper had done everything alone. Besides making it all the way to our position, he had emerged from the sewers at several points to observe the enemy camp and had used a piece of hard lime to mark the areas of greatest danger on the walls. He had risked his life so he could tell us where and how the Arabs were positioned. To me he was a hero.
Now that I had a full stomach I went and carefully studied the map the sniper had drawn, trying to memorise all the points marked on the route, but there were so many I couldn’t even count them. So I took out the map they’d given us at the beginning of the operation, and with a pencil I traced every single enemy post.
In the meantime, Nosov was talking with the major, discussing the possibility of launching an attack to free the trapped soldiers.
‘Before we attack,’ the major said, ‘we have to wait for the planes to arrive, to bomb the perimeter, and…’
‘But that means sentencing our men to death!’ Nosov broke in. ‘We have to try a passive attack. We push the Arabs back to their positions, and take back control of the perimeter. Then from there, we create a path for us to get to the area where the soldiers are stuck…’ Nosov wasn’t used to having to explain things to other people.
The major barked:
‘Captain! You are an officer in charge of one unit. Do all of us a favour; devise strategies with your men however and whenever you see fit, but don’t try to resolve something that goes beyond your capacities!’
Nosov, however, didn’t want to listen. He went on with accusations, using the same old stories about Afghanistan, talking about how he had been abandoned by a bunch of ‘officers with no balls’ worried more about their medals than about the soldiers who were dying in the ‘traps laid out for them by the generals in the Kremlin’, people who had sold out to those ‘faggots at the Pentagon’…
At a certain point the major lost his patience and he went outside the tent, asking to be brought a field radio.
Three soldiers came running up. One carried the radio; the other two – Cossacks armed to the teeth, with vests, guns, Kalashnikovs and extra clips all over – went into a corner and started talking with the explorers’ sniper.
The soldier with the radio fiddled with the equipment a little, then passed the handset to the major. They were calling the unit of trapped infantrymen, who had been holding out heroically for hours.
‘Twelve thirty-two! Twelve thirty-two! Birch calling! Birch calling!’
They answered right away.
‘Birch! Birch! This is twelve thirty-two!’ You could hear the agitation in his voice, gunfire in the background.
The major took a deep breath, and said in a shaky voice:
‘Soldier, what is your situation? Request confirmation of your situation!’
For a moment everything on the other side stopped, you could only hear some shooting and a couple of loud explosions. We all stared at the radio, holding our breath.
After a moment the voice returned, even more agitated than before:
‘Birch, Birch! Confirming our situation! The unit is under siege. Lots of two-hundreds![6] The three-hundreds are almost gone,[7] we have no more medi-kits! The unit has run out of supplies, I don’t know how much longer we can last! We request air strike on our coordinates! Fire on us!’
The soldier’s voice seemed not to come from the radio, but to come from somewhere beyond. It was more than desperate – it was defeated. After a brief pause, he concluded the conversation:
‘Goodbye, brothers, remember us, and may God bless you! The whole unit and I salute you…’
Afterwards, we heard a long whistle; that sound meant the other side had ended communication. The major ordered the radio to be turned off and sat down on one of the crates, his face tired. He took an unfiltered cigarette and started smoking it with fury. He looked Nosov in the face, and then said quietly:
‘Captain, unfortunately you heard for yourself how badly off they are. Sending our units would be a futile sacrifice, pure insanity… Independent of whatever action we decide to take, command has already given the order, and soon we’ll have confirmation – they’re going to bomb the perimeter. All we can do is be ready for the attacks from the surviving enemy groups, who will most certainly try to flee the area.’
Nosov turned back to the map. The major got up and ordered the soldier with the radio to return to his unit. Only then did the two Cossacks approach the major. One of them, the older one, gave him a military salute. The major stood up, and before responding, checked to make sure his hat was on[8] – you could see that he was tired and worn out too.
The Cossack said:
‘I’m Osaul[9] Ustinov, Sixth Division of Free Kuban Cossacks… My son, Private Ustinov, is in the enemy-surrounded area. I ask your permission to join the attack group going to support our boys!’
The major looked at our captain for a second and then, lowering his eyes, began explaining the situation to the Cossack:
‘I understand your request, but the boys have no hope. They requested fire on their position, I’m certain they won’t make it to daybreak alive… I officially apologise for our total powerlessness in the face of a situation like this…’ From his tone of voice, it was almost as if he were apologising for having personally killed the Cossack’s son.
The Cossack’s face went dark, like a cloud heavy with rain. I was standing beside him, and I had the impression he was going to burst at any moment.
‘How much time do we have before the first air strike?’ Nosov suddenly asked.
He was focused on the map and didn’t notice the expression that came over the major’s face. Naturally, the major didn’t want to take on responsibility for any potential plans that came from Nosov’s mind. Despite all that, he replied:
‘About an hour and a half, Captain… But I don’t understand – what does the time of the strike matter now? The situation is cut-and-dried, unfortunately…’
Nosov looked up from the map, took a piece of bread from the table and chewing it almost cruelly, said:
‘Major, with all due respect… In an hour my strays and I can break through the enemy defence, check out their position, free the boys and come back home. We’ll have time left over for breakfast…’
At these words my heart sank into my boots: Nosov was going to take us straight to hell.
The major took off his cap and sat down on the crate. He looked like he was about to have a heart attack; he was probably already picturing some superior stripping the stars from his uniform. He tried to object, without conviction, and raising his voice just a touch, he repeated:
‘That’s not within your competencies, Captain…’
But Nosov shot back arrogantly:
‘Major! Let the beasts in the forest cry, we’re soldiers and we must do our duty! My men and I will go into operation immediately. We’ll go through the sewers, you prepare a group to cover us, because within an hour we’ll come out at this exact point.’ His finger pointed to the spot on the map.
Nosov traced a line marking a little street that went behind the trapped infantrymen’s position and ended just opposite our units. Betw
een those two points there was a kilometre and a half with enemy positions. Looking at it on the map, the route seemed short and simple, but to physically travel it, on the actual perimeter, definitely wasn’t going to be a cakewalk.
The explorers’ sniper came up, shook my hand and said:
‘Good luck and may God protect you, do everything you can for our boys…’
I, at that moment, was thinking that if anything went wrong, there wouldn’t be anybody to do everything they could for us. If we tarried even a little we would get bombed by our own planes. Nothing to be cheery about.
The major looked Nosov in the eyes and said:
‘Captain, there’s nothing I can do to stop this insane endeavour of yours, but remember that if anything happens behind the line, no one will be able to help you… As an officer of the Russian Army, all I can do is restrict myself to calling your actions dangerous for the lives of the soldiers under you. Personally, I’m against anarchy…’ After these words, the major made a sly face, and whispered in a low voice, ‘But, Captain, if you need anything in particular, all of our magazines are at your disposal…’
Nosov spoke seriously, as he would do whenever he could already taste victory:
‘Prepare the support troops at the places I showed you on the map. In an hour we’ll be there.’ Without another word he exited the tent.
Before leaving, I paused to salute the major according to regulation. Looking at me squinty-eyed, he just waved his hand as if he were shooing away a fly.
*
Our captain was roaming around the yard looking for my comrades. The first one he found was Moscow. They spoke briefly, and right afterwards Moscow yelled:
‘Saboteurs! Battle alarm!’
As our men came from various places, running, throwing on their jackets, putting their clips and everything in place, Nosov slung two grenade launchers and a couple of bags of extra ammo over his shoulders.
Once we were all there he spoke in a low voice, as he did whenever he wanted to explain something important:
‘We’ll go on foot, without using the car. We’ll go through the sewers and then, following the map, we’ll come out directly on the perimeter where our guys are trapped. When we get there, hopefully we’ll find some of them still alive…’
We listened carefully. We too needed to know what sort of death awaited us.
Suddenly the Cossack came over with his young sidekick. The old man interrupted Nosov, his words full of desperation:
‘Captain, I beg you, take us with you, my son is there, you understand? How could I go on living knowing that I could have done something to save him and I didn’t?’
Nosov replied calmly, as if he had been expecting this question his whole life.
‘I understand you, Osaul, and for me personally it’s not a problem. But we saboteurs are a family, and we make decisions together. If even one of my boys doesn’t agree to it… I’m very sorry, Osaul, but you’ll be staying here…’
The Cossack turned towards us. He wore a moustache, and he looked dead tired. He seemed about fifty years old.
‘My boys, help me at this difficult moment! One day, God bless you, you will be fathers too, and I hope you never experience what I’m going through now…’ He gazed at us with sad eyes and stiff lips, as if a cramp had frozen the muscles in his face. You could tell he wanted to say something else, but couldn’t manage to get it out.
Moscow was the first to speak:
‘It’s fine with me…’
We all gave our assent.
The expression in the old man’s eyes changed instantly.
At that point Nosov said:
‘We have about an hour, so let’s try to hurry as much as possible, on the double, and no messing around…’
We quickly introduced ourselves. The old man was called Vasily, the young one – who was much less worried about the gravity of the situation – Yury. They were uncle and nephew, and they seemed like good people to me. I was glad that someone else was joining our group on such a dangerous operation – it was an unusual occurrence, and maybe it would bring a little more hope to all of us.
We checked our equipment one last time, while Moscow and Zenith explained to the Cossacks what they needed to remove and what they should keep on. The two immediately lightened their jackets, tossing their guns that would have made noise and restricted their movement. The Cossacks were expert soldiers – no one had any doubt as to their training – but we didn’t have time to explain saboteur rules and conduct.
We had to cross the street, go through a yard and from there go down into the sewers. In the darkness of the early morning there was a cool wind that caressed our faces; you could still see the stars up in the sky.
As we moved in silence, I noticed a cat, an old male tabby, perched on a half-destroyed car. He observed us attentively, while we prepared ourselves covertly for the mission. The presence of cats, according to Siberian tradition, brings good luck. I hadn’t forgotten that terrible darkness I’d seen inside the vat of water, and the cat seemed like a positive sign.
The yard shown on the map was full of empty cases that had held the explosive charges for the cannons. There in the middle was the entrance to the sewers, sealed with a heavy slab of iron. So as not to get lost, we had to follow the indications the explorer had drawn on the sewer walls. Along the entire route, as the captain had explained, we would find his unit number, 168, serving as our guide.
One by one, we jumped underground. Nosov and Moscow – the first and the last in line – had flashlights with red bulbs so as not to arouse the enemy’s suspicion. The sewers were paved; they formed a very narrow tunnel that forced us to walk with our heads down and bent almost halfway over.
I had only one thought in my head: the fact that the explorers’ sniper hadn’t blown up didn’t mean there weren’t any mines down there.
We ran behind Nosov, and it felt like we were mice. It was dark, it was dead hot, there was dust everywhere, and I felt like I was breathing sand. At multiple points we heard the Arabs’ voices coming from above.
Suddenly Nosov froze, stiff as a rod. We stopped behind him, breathing hard. Moscow spat on the ground and cursed softly. Nosov studied the map with the flashlight, then pointed the light at the wall, looking for the sign. When he found the number with a little star drawn next to it, he didn’t waste any time. He turned to us and said:
‘Ready for action – let’s go!’
We loaded the barrel, Zenith and Shoe put two charges in the grenade launcher.
‘Kolima, you and Moscow go up on recon. If it’s all clear, one of you come back down here to lead the way.’
I climbed up a narrow stepladder that went from the sewer tunnel to the exit. You couldn’t see a thing, Moscow was climbing up after me with a flashlight, but that weak red light didn’t help. I groped my way up.
After a while my head touched the ceiling. There was an iron cover, it must have been five metres wide. I tried to lift it but that thing didn’t even budge a centimetre. I thought something heavy was blocking the exit; maybe a car was parked on top, or maybe there was a light cannon. I kept pushing, even using my shoulders, but I really couldn’t lift it. My sweat was cold.
‘What the fuck are you doing? Take off the bloody cover!’ Moscow yelled at me.
‘Holy Christ, they’ve put something on top, it won’t open!’
‘Bullshit!’ Moscow came up and I moved aside, balancing myself on the ladder with one foot off the rung. ‘Fucking hell, Kolima! You’re not even capable of moving a bloody manhole cover?’ He was raging now.
‘They’ve put something on top, I’m telling you, it won’t move!’ Any more and I was going to cry.
‘Stop saying that. Let’s try together.’ Moscow started pushing on one side and I on the other. The cover lifted a little.
Slowly inching it aside, we managed to clear an opening. The cool morning air came rushing in, and my lungs greedily took it in.
‘They’ve put somethi
ng on top…’ Moscow made fun of me, in a simpering little voice. ‘Eat more, otherwise you won’t even have the strength to take a shit!’
I went out into the yard first. Outside it was brighter than when we had left. The sun wasn’t out yet, but there was already that strange morning light that at times seems like a reflection in the distance.
There were open crates of equipment everywhere, all empty. There was absolute silence, no sound of gunfire. On one corner there was an armoured car like ours, a BTR with one side burned out and the rear doors open. Someone had dismantled the machine gun from the turret – it was clear that, once they had realised the danger they were in, the infantrymen had tried to gather every weapon they could.
For a second I thought we had got there too late. Then I noticed movement in one of the windows of the third floor of the building. Someone was pulling a rope, lifting something. Moscow pointed towards the entrance; lying on the ground, there was a soldier. I couldn’t see the details; I could only make out a dark spot. He moved slowly, crawling towards the door as if he were afraid to get up. He went a couple of metres, then stopped; I thought maybe he was wounded.
Moscow touched my arm and said:
‘That’s our guys, let’s go!’
We hurried across the yard. Partly because we were used to the dark and partly because day was starting to break, we realised that the bodies of our soldiers were scattered here and there; none of them had his vest or gear. We could see that the living had pillaged the dead.
Sneaking along the walls, we peered in the windows. The building was square, with identical rooms and a wide, long hallway with high ceilings – it seemed to be a school or hospital. It was completely destroyed, and our soldiers’ bodies were in piles on the floor.
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