CHAPTER FOUR
"What's the commotion all about?" Major Sokolov said. He rolled out of his bunk, one of the few priviliges of rank.
"Rodenskoi's men are back, they're alive," shouted the soldier and slammed the door.
"Only delaying the inevitable," grumbled Sokolov's adjutant. "God may have skipped them today, but he'll get them next time."
"Ever the pessimist," said Sokolov and adjusted his beret. "Let's go see what's going on."
"Can you blame me?" said the adjutant. "There's something desperately wrong with this war. Do you remember Lobachevsky's last words? 'Allow me to break this connection… I've been killed.' Then silence."
"Comrade Lobachevesky was a man of few words," said Sokolov trying to cover up a yawn. He stood straight up and took a deep breath of the fresh air.
"Major, the snipers," protested the adjustant. He had already taken up the perpetual slouch soldiers took while under fire.
"The hell with them," said Sokolov squinting in the sharp glare.
It was early in the morning. The forward command base of the 138th Airborne was situated to the south of the ghost town of Charikar close by the infamous Route 2 winding its way down from Salang Tunnel The sun touched the snow covered peaks of the mountain range on the horizon. Sokolov could almost believe he was on holiday in the Swiss Alps, the moment had the illusion of peace.
The whole camp had turned out to welcome the unexpected arrivals. It was almost a mob scene with the shouting and cheering going on. Sokolov had an image of the crowd being mortared by the bandits and winced. He turned to the Adjutant.
"Get the officers to break this up now," he snapped. "And get me Rodenskoi if he's still alive, he's got some explaining to do."
The crowd of soldiers was beginning to chant one word over and over. It took a moment for Sokolov to make out what was being shouted.
"Balalaika! Balalaika! Balalaika!"
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"We took a wrong turn," said the corporal "Then we drove around waiting to get blown up.
Sokolov winced at the commonly used phrase, all too accurate. They were seated on campstools in the command bunker.
"All right then, Corporal Boris -," he said. "All the officers killed off in the first few minutes. All the vehicles destroyed or put out of commission. But here you are, all alive and well after a fine hike through the mountains with Massood's criminals nipping at you all the way. I'm putting you up for a promotion as of this moment, though I can't figure out for the life of me what's with that gaggle of prisoners you brought in."
Boris smiled faintly. "I wasn't in charge, comrade Major. We were under orders not to kill anyone who surrendered. Balalaika wouldn't allow it."
Sokolov eyed the corporal intently. This Boris was a solid, capable looking Desantnik, one of those reliable types to be counted on in the front lines. Not the type to show humor in front of his superiors.
"You're the old man of Rodenskoi's troop," said Sokolov. "Who else was there to take charge?"
"Balalaika," said Boris promptly.
"And who the hell's Balalaika?" demanded Sokolov.
"I… I honestly don't know," said the corporal. Beneath the sweat and dirt he appeared to be blushing.
Nonplussed, Sokolov rocked back on the campstool. "What do you mean you don't know, corporal?"
"Well," said Boris. "One second were all down in the dirt getting shot up, the next thing we knew she appeared out of thin air with a Dragunov at the ready and a good idea what to do next. She was the commanding officer. After that we were all too busy trying to survive to ask who she was."
"Why hasn't this 'Balalaika' reported to me," demanded Sokolov.
"I'm sorry, comrade Major," said Boris to the Major's astonishment. "She's sleeping."
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"There's something different about them," said the adjutant.
The remnants of Rodenskoi's company were bivouacked at the edge of the base in a circle of low, brown tents that blended into the landscape. Nearby were a score of dark skinned, ragged looking Afghans, squatting in the dirt. Two hard eyed paratroopers stood guard.
"They've tasted victory," said Sokolov. He'd stood on the outskirts assessing the men and had gone through half a pack of cigarettes in the meantime. "I'd like a taste myself. She must be one hell of a cook. Where is she?"
"In the bunker, comrade Major," said Boris to his right.
"Of course," said Sokolov. Suddenly the layout made sense. The Desantniks had arranged their tents around a bunker they'd claimed as their own, almost as if they were protecting this 'Balalaika.'
The small woman who sprung up and blocked Sokolov's entry to the bunker only confirmed his suspicions. She was a filthy looking excuse of a soldier desperately in need of a bath and a change of clothes. Her uniform wasn't quite right, and it took Sokolov a moment to realize she belonged to the Romanian contingent.
"The Warrant Officer's not to be disturbed," snapped Mirela. Her arm was heavily bandaged almost to the base of her shoulder. She could barely stand, but her eyes were bright with anger at the intrusion. "She hasn't slept in over four days, let her have some rest."
"Stand aside, private," said Sokolov amused at the show of loyalty. Boris gently moved the protesting Mirela aside. Sokolov crouched so he could step into the low roofed bunker and had to stay that way. He was too large to stand straight in the cramped quarters.
The commotion must have woken the woman for she had risen from the pallet. She was tall, probably about 1.8 meters in height. She also had to stoop to avoid hitting her head on the ceiling. He could barely make out her features in the dim lighting.
"Yes, comrade major," she said automatically and began to salute.
"No need for ceremony out here in the field," said Sokolov and offered her a cigarette. "I want to commend you myself on your impressive performance. I've interviewed several of the men and they all agree they wouldn't be here now, if it wasn't for your leadership"
"I serve the Soviet…"
"No need for that crap either," interrupted Sokolov sharply. She hadn't noticed that he had called the soldiers her men. "Who do you think I am? A political officer?"
"No, comrade major."
"Captain Rodenskoi was a piece of shit," said Sokolov. "He's one of the reasons the 105th got ripped apart in the Panjsher Valley. I strongly objected to his re-assignment to the 138th. I knew he'd get himself killed, along with a whole bunch of good soldiers."
"They're the best," she said firmly. "They only needed the right leader."
"Are you the right leader?"
"Yes, comrade major."
Sokolov stared at her. He wished it wasn't so poorly lit in the bunker. The unbrushed hair hung low hiding the woman's eyes. "I'm not entirely convinced."
"Is it because I'm a woman?" she said, her voice tinged with ice. She brushed back the bangs and raised her glance to look directly at him. Sokolov gave a start: she had intense blue eyes.
"It's because you didn't finish the job," said Sokolov, suddenly struggling with the words and feeling awkward. "Forget your sleep. I want to see you outside immediately."
He spun on his heel and left. Where had he seen this woman before?
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"Warrant Officer, what are you going to do?" Sokolov asked and pointed.
Balalaika stared at the silent group of Afghan prisoners. Boris and the others came up behind her.
"I don't understand," she said and shivered. But there was an inner cold rising within that no layers of clothing could heat, she knew where this was going. "They surrendered. I'm a soldier, not a murderer."
"They're fucking bandits," said Sokolov as coarsely as he could. "Forget any romantic twaddle about fairness and fairy tales. Forget all that crap they blather about bringing the joys of socialist brotherhood to this Muslim scum. The time's long past for that shit, its blood and guts out here, and I want it to be their blood and guts. So let me tell you a story, 'Balalaika.' The story of my dear brother: he got captured by bandits on his first patrol in country. Do you know what these mujahideen did?"
"I don't know," said Balalaika.
"They cut clear around his waist, then pulled the skin up above his head and tied it up in a knot. My brother was still alive when they found him, but not for long."
Balalaika pulled the great coat tight.
"We're doing them a kindness," said Sokolov after a pause. "We can't let them go, within a day they'd be taking shots at us from the surrounding hills. And I won't give them over to the Afghan Sarandoi for interrogation per regulations. I may be a hard man, but I'm not a sadist."
A BTR armored personnel carrier pulled up with Sokolov's adjustant in command. The crew on top readied the heavy machine gun. The guards stepped clear.
"We're all soldiers, Balalaika." Sokolov said. "But are you hard enough to be one of us? We didn't start this damn war, the old men in the Kremlin did. We're in the devil's vomit up to our necks. It's either them or us.
Balalaika licked her lips.
"Do it," she said.