us. A hail of bullets came down around us, and pieces of brick flew off the wall and ricocheted. We took off running. In the chaos, however, we managed to keep calm; nobody changed direction or passed anyoneelse, and we moved as we always did; three covered, the others ran, then switch . . . We were in complete synchrony, linked parts of a single organism. As I ran with the others, that feeling gave me courage.
Of course, living together wasnât easy at first â each of us had led very different lives, until we found ourselves in hell alongside a bunch of complete strangers.
My comrades came from all over Russia, and obviously each had his own story behind him, but we had all been marked by the same things: run-ins with the law, unstable families, difficult personalities . . .
The oldest comrade was Moscow, who, as you can tell by the nickname, came from the nationâs capital. Heâd been called to arms two years late, because as soon as he had come of age he had run away from home to avoid military duty, but ultimately even he, like me, had been caught and sent to war.
One of our other brothers was Shoe. He had two juvenile convictions for burglary under his belt. His name was really Viktor, but he had earned his nickname because he never wanted to take off his shoes. Nosov was always yelling at him, telling him that if he didnât wash his feet, sooner or later the smell would poison the entire unit. Shoe was always cheerful and had an athleteâs physique: he was nimble like a mouse, and he could fit through even the narrowest of spaces.
Another was Zhenya, aka Deer, so called for his huntingskills. He came from the region of Altai, in southern Siberia. His parents were scholars; his mother was an archaeologist or anthropologist, something like that. Deer was a normal guy, but when he got mad or didnât believe what you were telling him his eyes became two slits so narrow that they disappeared.
Then there was Spoon, whose real name was Roman. He was physically strong, a little wild in his way of doing things. He would eat whatever he came across; he was always hungry. He was originally from a remote village in the woods at the foot of the Ural mountains. He got his nickname because of his surname, which in Russian sounded very similar to the word âspoonâ.
Finally, there was big, bulky Aleksandr, who was from St Petersburg. Even though he was incapable of stringing together two words that made complete sense he always talked a lot, mostly about wanting to become a footballer (his nickname, in fact, was Zenith, from his favourite football team). He was our machine gunner, and he always carried his RPK 7.62-calibre gun. Nosov would joke that Zenith was âMother Russiaâs last shotâ.
As for me, in Chechnya just as in Transnistria, everyone just called me Kolima. I was the sniper; I had to protect my comrades during transfers, participate in operations as a storm trooper, and find and eliminate the enemy snipers collaborating with other units.
In short, we of the 76th division were a group of men each cut to his own cloth, and despite the differences in age, background or social class, none of us ever felt alone. In fact, if I look back on it now, the only thing that trulyhelped us endure the war was finding in the others friends to lean on. Friends who strived every day with all their might to do the same thing you were doing: trying to stay alive.
We brought back trophies from every mission: the weapons and ammunition taken from the enemy. For this reason every saboteur had a couple of American and European guns, the most prized of which were the Colt .45 ACPs and their American clones. Having a weapon like that meant a lot; it meant that the person carrying it was a cutthroat, and commanded respect from the others. If a young soldier found a pistol like that, a senior soldier would swipe it from him, and thus the weapon would pass from hand to hand, until it wound up
Of course, living together wasnât easy at first â each of us had led very different lives, until we found ourselves in hell alongside a bunch of complete strangers.
My comrades came from all over Russia, and obviously each had his own story behind him, but we had all been marked by the same things: run-ins with the law, unstable families, difficult personalities . . .
The oldest comrade was Moscow, who, as you can tell by the nickname, came from the nationâs capital. Heâd been called to arms two years late, because as soon as he had come of age he had run away from home to avoid military duty, but ultimately even he, like me, had been caught and sent to war.
One of our other brothers was Shoe. He had two juvenile convictions for burglary under his belt. His name was really Viktor, but he had earned his nickname because he never wanted to take off his shoes. Nosov was always yelling at him, telling him that if he didnât wash his feet, sooner or later the smell would poison the entire unit. Shoe was always cheerful and had an athleteâs physique: he was nimble like a mouse, and he could fit through even the narrowest of spaces.
Another was Zhenya, aka Deer, so called for his huntingskills. He came from the region of Altai, in southern Siberia. His parents were scholars; his mother was an archaeologist or anthropologist, something like that. Deer was a normal guy, but when he got mad or didnât believe what you were telling him his eyes became two slits so narrow that they disappeared.
Then there was Spoon, whose real name was Roman. He was physically strong, a little wild in his way of doing things. He would eat whatever he came across; he was always hungry. He was originally from a remote village in the woods at the foot of the Ural mountains. He got his nickname because of his surname, which in Russian sounded very similar to the word âspoonâ.
Finally, there was big, bulky Aleksandr, who was from St Petersburg. Even though he was incapable of stringing together two words that made complete sense he always talked a lot, mostly about wanting to become a footballer (his nickname, in fact, was Zenith, from his favourite football team). He was our machine gunner, and he always carried his RPK 7.62-calibre gun. Nosov would joke that Zenith was âMother Russiaâs last shotâ.
As for me, in Chechnya just as in Transnistria, everyone just called me Kolima. I was the sniper; I had to protect my comrades during transfers, participate in operations as a storm trooper, and find and eliminate the enemy snipers collaborating with other units.
In short, we of the 76th division were a group of men each cut to his own cloth, and despite the differences in age, background or social class, none of us ever felt alone. In fact, if I look back on it now, the only thing that trulyhelped us endure the war was finding in the others friends to lean on. Friends who strived every day with all their might to do the same thing you were doing: trying to stay alive.
We brought back trophies from every mission: the weapons and ammunition taken from the enemy. For this reason every saboteur had a couple of American and European guns, the most prized of which were the Colt .45 ACPs and their American clones. Having a weapon like that meant a lot; it meant that the person carrying it was a cutthroat, and commanded respect from the others. If a young soldier found a pistol like that, a senior soldier would swipe it from him, and thus the weapon would pass from hand to hand, until it wound up
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