Part 4 (1/2)
”You see him?”
”Oh yes, from time to time. We're good buddies.”
Sasha's mind was evidently dwelling on the IRA.
”Why be so soft with such terrorists?” he asked.
”Why not eliminate all? In Chechnya we shoot many rebels, no problem.”
”Yes but down there a lot of innocent people got killed as well.”
”Chechens vary primitive people,” Sasha said scornfully.
”If they come to Moscow they go beggars. They make things worse.
”And in any case,” I persisted, 'you didn't win the war.”
”And why? Because our army has such bad equipment. Many, many shortages. No guns. No ammunition. No food. But Zheordie - I tell you something... ”What's that?”
”The Chechen Mafia vary clever at stealing gold. They have more gold than all the other Mafias collected together. Chechens are gold specialists. Drugs also. They bring drugs from Central Asia and send to Europe.”
”What about the army?” I asked.
”How's morale?”
”The army? The Russian army?” He looked round wildly.
”Zheordie if I am to speak of army, I need vodka.”
”Is it that bad?”
He nodded.
”Vodka, then. Anything with it?”
”No thank you. Just vodka.”
When I handed him a double, neat, he raised the gla.s.s in my direction, smiled, called out, ”Vzdrognem!” and tipped it straight down. I'd got myself the same amount of water in another gla.s.s, and tipped that down with an answering ”Cheers!”
”Good vodka,” he said.
”No samogon.
”What's that?”
”Vodka made at home, from potatoes, wood even. What the soldiers get. It is very dangerous.”
”Don't they drink beer?”
”Beer too expensive. And anyway, drinking in barracks is strictly forbidden. So the soldiers go out at night and buy secretly from babushkas, old women. Then one junior soldier stands in the pa.s.sage' guarding, you say? while the others drink themselves crazy.
”But morale you say it's bad?”
”Zheordie, you must understand. There are too many armies.
For example, Ministry of Interior has own army, one and half million men Kulikov's men, we say, from General Kulikov, Interior Minister. That is more than the regular army. Then Ministry of Defence has own army. Special forces for this, special forces for that. You know, there is even special force for underground?”
”You're joking.”
”Konechno nyet! It is called GRU. Special troops trained to live in tunnels and work in missile silos. Altogether too many armies, no money. Food is very bad. Soldiers eat s.h.i.+t on starvation rations all the time.
”Like what?”
”According to the law, it is such kind of menu. For the morning, it is tea, two pieces bread one white, one black. Fifty grams b.u.t.ter, but only once a day. b.u.t.ter only once. And kasha, of course. Porridge. Always porridge.
”For dinner, they could get meat in their soup, but very small pieces. Usually young soldiers, for their first half-year, get no meat, because the cherpaks, the second-years, grab it. In the evening dishes, every day it is potatoes with piece of socalled fish, bread black and white, tea, and three pieces of sugar.
”For celebration on important days, state holidays they have special menu. What does it mean? It means, two biscuits per man, and maka roni poflotski macaroni naval style, with very small meats, like the s.h.i.+p's rat chopped up. Maybe piece of water melon, and one grape per man.
”That's what soldiers eat. That's why they are ready to rob, do anything.”
As I fetched another round of vodkas from the bar with a double for myself this time I wondered what the h.e.l.l we'd do about our own food once we got over there. None of our cooks had high enough security clearance to come on an operation as sensitive as this one, so we'd either have to eat with our hosts or fend for ourselves.
Again Sasha knocked his spirit straight down, with another cry of ”Vzdrognem!”
”Also,” he went on, 'there is much torture of recruits.”
”Bullying, you mean.
”Torture also. Many beatings. If sergeant does not like junior soldier, he drags him out of bed and makes him stand on one leg half the night. You have heard of velociped, the bicycle? No? It is what they do to young recruit. They come to him while he is sleeping, lift up bottom of bed, and put between the fingers on the feet-' ”His toes?”
”Yes between his toes they put paper or cotton wool, then set it on fire. When flames reach him, he does the bicycle.”
Sasha whirled his hands round in imitation, and I couldn't help but laugh.
”No laughing!” he said indignantly.
”It is very bad. Officers terrorise soldiers beat them, shoot them-' ”Not really shoot them?”
”Certainly! Many men are shot dead by own officers.
Absolutely incredible.”
”Do people get fined?” I asked.
”Fined?” Sasha seemed astonished.
”How can they be fined?