After he was expelled from the institute, his resume, showing his education and work, were very poor. His own father didn't even want to help him, saying, "Go on now; serve in the army. I served; now it's your turn. So, you didn't want to study? The army will help you to learn." And even though his father could've bought his son a way out of serving at all, or set him up in a comfy job somewhere, he did nothing of the sort. He had pretty much soured on his son.

The Spring recruitment round^[4] called up Zheka to serve. After his physical test, the Lieutenant-Colonel went up to Zheka and roughly addressed him, "So, you like to fight. You're a hot number, huh? What I'll tell you: let's just send you somewhere you'll get enough fighting and make good use of your talent. Do you want to be in the paratroopers? Not afraid?"

"No."

"Well, then, happy trails and God bless."

He was sent to join the Fergana paratrooper regiment in Turkistan. While they were on the train a few days later, they found out that most likely they would be sent to Afghanistan. In Fergana there was a boot camp and a regiment on active duty in Afghanistan.

Zheka had a terrible feeling about it all because – both in his home town as well as in Moscow – he knew a lot of people who had been wounded or killed, or who had lost someone in Afghanistan.

Newspapers weren't saying much about it, or if they did, they wrote articles of glory, and only people who could read between the lines in Soviet papers understood how badly things were going.

Chapter VI
Afghanistan

What awaited him in Fergana was an intensive boot camp,^[5] where soldiers trained, studied, and prepared for about three months before being sent to Afghanistan. It was no way out of it; it was tough, not least because of the strict boot-camp instructors. Their sergeants meted out severe punishment for the slightest infraction. Soldiers and sergeants called the officers jackals because of their even higher demands. Yet their grueling discipline was fairly justified since all officers and sergeants had gone through many field operations in actual battle. They would fly in for new recruits to refresh their ranks. They knew what would wait these greenhorns.

They were trained in firearms, hand-to-hand combat, parachute jumping, a number of desert combat scenarios, and went through extreme physical training. Then they were sent for a few weeks to the mountains, where Zheka thought he would die from exhaustion. Sometimes they would hike for 20–30 km. in full battle gear while still carrying on various battle engagement scenarios and shooting practice. His feet ended up looking like one big callus of blood and pus however he would try to wind socks around them. They got a half canteen of water a day.

But the real hell and torture began three months later when they were sent to Afghanistan.

* * *

Arthur's notes didn't contain the exact names of all the cities or people. The only ones written down were Kabul, Kandahar, Zelenka, and most of all – Bagram. On the one hand, it was easier in Afghanistan because there weren't any combat drills pulled on them in the middle of the night. On the other hand, there was continual psychological tension combined with a backdrop of steady, heavy physical labor.

The first two months they were stationed at a large base. Their part of the camp was fired on from the neighboring mountains in the first week and two from the first company died and several were injured. This was their baptism by fire and he understood – it was no joke.

Zheka began praying to God with the first shots: "God protect me. Save me if you are there!" He had not expected this to be coming from him of all people. After all, he had only heard of God from his old grandmother, way back in his childhood. She hadn't really told him a lot, just general sorts of things – how to pray, to cross your heart, and who Jesus Christ was.

Few months later, he got severe intestinal pains and after a couple days in the hospital, he was sent to another battalion whose duty was to maintain security over a remote region. They had to hold several high ridges in their hands, guarantee the security of various convoys, and carry out reconnaissance raids.

These were tough times in every way. Even though it was fall, it was hot and dry and it became windier every day. In November, strong sand storms kicked in and the nights became colder and colder. But the hardest thing to get used to was the heavy losses to the Soviet army. Death, injury, and missing in action were commonplace.

The mujahedeen were getting more experienced, trained by American mercenaries who provided them the most modern weapons. 'Stingers' were the most dangerous – they easily shot down helicopters. Shooting on convoys or laying down punitive fire on the paratroopers' motorized brigades was now the norm, using American and captured Soviet rockets.

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] 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.