Free Fall

by Nicolai Lilin

  ‘So you did it! My God, you’re lunatics!’

  He walked around the BTR looking at us one by one, as if we were objects on display in a museum. The car came to a stop and we all got out.

  The infantryman sergeant approached the major and saluted:

  ‘Comrade Major, permission to report!’

  The major stared as if he had a ghost standing in front of him:

  ‘Permission granted, Comrade Sergeant!’

  The soldier took a deep breath and began, with a tired but firm voice:

  ‘I, Sergeant Lavrov, from the explorer unit of the 168th armoured infantry division, report that the unit was surrounded by enemy forces and pushed into the occupied zone. We took defence of the perimeter, but sixty-seven soldiers, thirteen lieutenant colonels and four officers fell in battle.’ He spoke these words with his lips taut, almost like he was shooting them out with a machine gun. ‘Thanks to the assistance of the saboteurs, the unit returned to the safe zone, but during the course of the operation seven soldiers fell and one was wounded. Numbering nine soldiers, the unit is now at your command.’

  The major paid great attention to Lavrov’s report. He looked as if he’d been listening to news about his own family. At the end he shook his hand:

  ‘We honour your courage, Sergeant. The whole unit displayed real…’

  He wasn’t able to finish his sentence because, on the other side of the yard, three of our infantrymen jumped out from the entrance to the building, yelling. One of them had been hit in the neck, but from the way he was moving you could tell that it wasn’t serious; even if blood was gushing out the bullet must only have grazed him. Their shouting had interrupted the major, who’d been about to venture into one of those touching military speeches usually given by those who never go anywhere near the front line and are impressed by everything, placing grotesque importance on every little banality of war.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ the wounded man yelled. ‘What the fuck are you doing there, they’re pushing us hard! Everyone over here, now, or else we’re screwed!’ And with some more insults as well as a nice string of expletives the soldier went back into the building. A battle was underway. Some enemies had managed to escape the air strike and attack our line of defence. Although some had died immediately, others had pushed themselves all the way to our camp. Now, a group of Arabs – probably about fifty men – was trying desperately to get into the building under our infantry’s control. They were armed with light weapons, shouting, while our explorers, with ten support tanks, exterminated everyone they encountered on their path.

  The other two infantrymen went to a crate of ammo in the centre of the yard and began filling their pockets and side pouches with Kalashnikov clips. Without waiting for an official invite, we went to help them out. There was no time to tie all the clips together, so I took a few individual ones, throwing them in my trouser pockets, and I slid a couple under my jacket.

  The hammer of heavy machine guns on our tanks could be heard everywhere. I saw a spray of bullets hit a small group of about fifteen men; in an instant, body parts, arms, legs flew off. Everything was soaked in blood. Our tanks continued to advance, pushing them against the building. Although the building was defended by three machine guns shooting from under the roof, a few Arabs had managed to break through the defence nonetheless, penetrating the left wing on the ground floor and landing in a large room. We all ran towards the building to give the infantry our support.

  Smoke was coming out of the left wing, and long blasts of gunfire could be heard; one of our men was calling for help, others were shouting to be careful of the hallway, because some enemies had hidden in the rooms, waiting to shoot anyone who passed by.

  It was total chaos. It was impossible to tell where our men were or where theirs were. These situations are absolutely the most dangerous, because you can catch a bullet even from your own, or get trapped in gunfire from both sides, not to mention the shrapnel from hand grenades flying everywhere… In military slang, a situation like this is called a ‘hurricane in a box’, and the likelihood of getting wounded amidst all the chaos is very high.

  We went down the corridor; we had to cross it all the way to reach the room at the end. Moscow was running in front of us, with a hand grenade poised to throw. Nosov was behind him, then Zenith, with his vest unfastened, hanging off him like the armour of a medieval knight. I was running behind him. Suddenly I slipped on a piece of broken glass and fell, hitting the wall. I got up almost immediately, running again as if it were nothing, but my ankle kept getting worse.

  Moscow was going past a doorway when gunfire came from the room. He fell to the ground, letting out a yell, and then the hand grenade exploded in the room. I threw myself down, hitting a wall again, while the shrapnel from the bomb flew over our heads. Usually an explosion from a hand grenade makes holes in the upper part of the walls, which are made out of brick or another light material; whereas the supporting parts, made out of cement, can better withstand the force of the explosion and repel the shards.

  Moscow had a hole in his left leg. He was furious, and from a sitting position kept shooting into the room, out of which billowed dust and smoke – you could hear cries coming from inside, a man desperately shouting something in Arabic. It was hard to listen to, it was like an animal bellowing at slaughter. Nosov went into the room; the man said something else and our captain shot him, point blank. We scrambled to get a closer look; the Arab was stretched out on the floor, still moving. His body went through one last tremor of pain, and then went still. His legs were in tatters from the shrapnel; his right arm had been blown off at the elbow. Nearby were the bodies of three more; one of them must have tried to save his friends by jumping into the bomb, and had been literally disintegrated by the explosion. Bits of his body were stuck to the walls and there was a lot of blood.

  I went to the window and saw three more Arabs coming to jump inside. They were about five metres away; one of them was surprised to see me there but didn’t have time to lift his rifle before I’d framed him in the sight of my Kalashnikov. Trying to bend down, he let out a howl, and right after that my bullets hit him head on; I could see bits of his flesh flying through the air. I kept shooting, I couldn’t stop, and I knocked down the other two as well. I used up an entire magazine on them.

  Nosov looked at me and said:

  ‘It’s going to be a long day, boys…’

  We went out into the hall. Moscow had got up from the ground and had resumed leading the group. He was really agitated; his leg must have hurt like hell.

  Nosov yelled at him:

  ‘Keep up, otherwise today will be your last!’

  Moscow just made a gesture of irritation, and when he got to the end of the hall he went into the room first. The situation was really bad – our infantry already had six losses. There were so many Arabs: they were shooting from the windows and then hiding, probably waiting for the right moment to burst out.

  One of the infantrymen said that the enemies had reached the stairs, so we divided tasks: Zenith and I would go on reconnaissance on the upper floors while the others would fight in the room along with the infantry.

  We rushed up the stairs. On the second floor, we found three soldiers dead and one seriously wounded; he was lying down and couldn’t speak, blood gushed from his ears, his legs were filled with shards – a hand grenade must have exploded right next to him. As soon as we looked into the hallway to go up to the third floor, we were met by a short burst of gunfire at the top of the stairs. A round hit me in the vest and I fell to the floor. Zenith responded by firing the grenade launcher attached to his Kalashnikov. I got to my feet and moved towards the stairs, this time more carefully.

  I had almost reached the stairs, when one of our soldiers opened fire with an RPG heavy grenade launcher from the opposite side of the hall. I was hit by a powerful blast of air, which lifted me up like a leaf and propelled me all the way down the hallway.

  *

  I was stunned, I
couldn’t see a thing, and everything had suddenly become mixed up in my head. Scenes that I had gone through that day and other events in the previous days were getting confused with one another. I couldn’t tell which way was up – I had a whistling in my ears that kept getting louder and I could hear voices but they were very far away, as if they were behind a closed door.

  When my sight returned I realised that I was lying against the wall. Five infantrymen were running towards me, while Zenith was above me, trying to lift me off the ground.

  ‘Cease fire, cease fire! Saboteurs, 76th division!’ he yelled.

  Little by little it seemed like the vertigo was fading, and the ringing in my ears had become a little more bearable.

  I managed to stand up.

  The infantrymen were explaining to Zenith that more enemies had reached the building and were preparing to enter. Then they turned to me, checked that I was okay and asked me if I could set up a sniper position over the left wing. I said yes, but my head was still spinning. I started walking towards the exit. Zenith went with the infantrymen to the fourth floor, where they had placed another machine gun, to check the area outside.

  That whole day I went around in the midst of the battle like a ghost. I don’t remember exactly what I did, I just remember that at some point someone gave me a grenade launcher and told me to shoot outside. I couldn’t swear whether it actually happened or I imagined it, but in my head I have a very clear image of lifting the grenade launcher to my shoulder, trying to find a good room to shoot from, as perhaps someone from command had ordered me to do.

  I had just taken position at one of the windows and was aiming at an armoured car when Shoe arrived.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing, Kolima!’ he yelled, startled. ‘That’s one of ours!’ and he pulled the grenade launcher out of my hands.

  Only then did I notice that it was already dark outside – it must have been late. I’d wandered around the building all day under the effect of the concussion.

  ‘Go down to the courtyard and sleep with the others!’ Shoe said.

  Obediently, I went to the exit.

  I walked down the hallway of this building where people had once lived and now there was only destruction, while the shards of that ruined peace crunched under my feet: glass, pieces of paper, broken furniture, pipes, burned books, bricks… in some places the ceiling had caved in; a block of reinforced cement leaned against a wall, it was straight and whole as if it had been cut out precisely, with a chisel.

  I was so exhausted I felt like a magnet was holding me to the ground. My body didn’t hurt anymore, the blows I’d taken on that never-ending day had been completely absorbed by the emptiness that my tiredness had plunged me into. I was limping, dragging my swollen foot; I could see it bent in an unnatural way but I didn’t feel any pain. My headache, too, had become almost pleasant. Reality had gone and hidden somewhere else; a cloud of fog had fallen before my eyes, and like a giant strip of gauze, had dressed all my wounds…

  Around me ran our infantrymen, paratroopers, the spetsnaz – they were all agitated, shouting, repeating the commands they’d been given. Right as I was passing by a room with windows overlooking the street, a violent burst of fire came. The bullets crossed the room and lodged into the wall in front of me. A cloud of dust rose up, and small bits of cement and plaster hit me in the face. Instinctively, I closed my eyes, but without making too much of it, and I continued down the hall. About ten infantrymen came in and started shooting wildly from the windows.

  The rhythmic sound of the bullets calmed me down. It was hypnotic, it made me feel the calm and comfort you feel when you climb into a bed with clean, warm sheets after a day of tiredness and cold… Everything around me was moving at maximum speed, the battle was going ahead even if we had already condemned the enemy to defeat…

  These are the moments in war in which human strength goes beyond its absolute limit; a sort of second collective breath comes on and everyone becomes fast and synchronised, like machines. But I saw everything as if in slow-motion; I felt like I was outside that reality.

  I went out to the courtyard, where there were four armoured cars and a tank. There weren’t many lights around, but the clearing was full of our soldiers, bustling around like ants. Ten artillerymen were placing two heavy mortars right in the middle of the yard, and within seconds they were ready to fire. Everywhere there were open crates with cartridges for AKs, hand grenades, ammunition for grenade launchers, and coils for submachine guns.

  To one side, our dead were laid out in a row. There were ten or so. One of them had the infantry insignia on his sleeve; someone had put a lit candle in his hands, which were folded on his chest. Another had lost an arm, which they had tied to his neck with a piece of fabric from his uniform. Some of the bodies were completely charred, but seemed tall as normal. They were covered with military tent fabric, but the cloth had shifted a little to the side, perhaps it had been the wind. One had the skin on his face burned off; he didn’t have a nose or ears and his teeth stuck out, as if he were growling. Last, there was a body with just the left arm – he had lost both legs, and around him there was a pile of other arms, legs, pieces of ankles and hands. A piece of cardboard was attached on top with the date written in ballpoint – it was the day before our arrival, when the infantry had suffered a night attack from the enemy – and someone had added, in handwriting like a three-year-old child’s: ‘Boys, here are all the pieces of the 201st unit, there was nothing else left in the area.’

  An infantry lieutenant was standing beside the armoured car. I went over to him, and saw that he had a hole in place of an eye – the wound had been plugged up with a rag. He grimaced with pain, but he still continued giving orders to three sergeants, one of whom had a bloody bandage around his left arm.

  Moscow was sitting on our car, treating his wounded leg. When he saw me he called me over right away, asking for help. I climbed up onto the BTR like a zombie; I didn’t want to do anything.

  Everything around us was black; the only light came from the machine gun turret, which Moscow had turned towards his leg. He was holding surgical pliers and a scalpel – the hole was about ten centimetres above his knee, towards the outside of his leg. The good kind of blood, the kind that’s not too thick, was coming out of the wound, but there was a lot of it.

  ‘You were so lucky,’ I said, looking at his leg. ‘A few centimetres and it would have hit your artery…’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about!’ He was irritated, but his voice didn’t betray any trace of suffering. ‘There’s no way they’re going to get me in this war. The gypsy told me…’

  Without replying I took the scalpel from his hand and made two cuts around the wound a few centimetres wide. That way it would be easier to extract the bullet; pulling the skin down on both sides, I would try to pull the bullet as far out of the flesh as possible.

  Moscow intently observed the way I cut the wound, disinfecting it as best I could with a dirty rag that smelled like gasoline.

  As always, he found something to complain about:

  ‘Is that what you call a cut? Come on, go deeper!’

  ‘What, have you got a missile in there?’ I responded. ‘That’s enough, don’t be annoying… Just hand me the pliers.’

  Moscow made a disgusted face and passed me the pliers. I noticed that my hand was trembling from tiredness. Trying to gather my last strength, I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Behind my closed eyelids, instead of darkness, I saw flying stars, white circles and flashing lights – a clear sign of exhaustion.

  ‘What are you waiting for, I’m tired too!’ Moscow shouted at me, bringing me back to reality.

  Then he took his leg with his hands and violently pulled the skin down. The wound widened immediately and blood started pouring out – the skin was almost turned inside out. The light was directly on his leg, but even with that I couldn’t see much. I strained to put things into focus.

  I stuck the pliers into
the wound, and they went down, sliding around smoothly. I pushed slowly, until the point hit the end of the bullet. I opened the pliers slightly, closed the bullet in the grip and tried turning it a little to make sure I had a good hold. The bullet seemed pretty firm and stable, so I tightened the pliers until they went clack.

  Moscow was still. After all the action he was still full of adrenaline; the shock caused by the trauma hadn’t yet subsided. At that moment I could have taken his appendix out without anaesthesia and he wouldn’t have felt a thing.

  With my hand trembling, I very slowly extracted the bullet from my friend’s leg. It was a 5.45-calibre, it had definitely come from a model of Kalashnikov that has a short barrel, which had not put much force on the bullet. If it had been shot from a long-barrelled rifle, that same bullet would have entered the body but wouldn’t have stopped, it would have travelled, slicing through the flesh, leaving little hope… A bullet like that could go into your leg and come out of your neck, making a pâté of your internal organs. Moscow had been very lucky.

  I cleaned the wound a little more, since it kept bleeding, then I took out one of my medi-kits. Moscow didn’t have any more: he’d just given his last one to one of the infantry soldiers.

  ‘Hang in there, boy, you’re all grown up now,’ I said, passing him a needle and thread. ‘You should sew it up, my hands are shaky…’ He took the kit without a word, but he gave me a friendly slap on the back, his way of saying thanks.

  I jumped down from the car, and walking unsteadily as if drunk, I went over to the back where Shoe was already sleeping.

  I set down my rifle and couldn’t even get my vest off before a superhuman force pinned me to the ground.

  The soil was hot, boiling almost – I could feel it vibrate with every explosion. Thus sleep came over me, and looking up at the starry sky I felt a piercing sense of fear and weakness. I could no longer tell whether the stars I saw up there were real, or if they were just fiery bullets that were going to rain down over me. I wondered what those lights could be, and in this state of uncertainty I fell asleep. I was too tired, so tired I would have let myself be killed by the stars which I confused with the flaming lead mercilessly falling all around me…