Journeys in the Search for the Meaning of Life. A story of those who have found it

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 - A sapper is a mine-clearing engineer] 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 - Now called St. Petersburg] 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.