Zinky Boys by Svetlana Alexievich

little torch and a stiletto knife once.
    We used to shoot wild sheep (they were ‘wild’ if they were standing five metres away from the rest of the herd), or barter for them. Two kilos of tea — captured tea, of course — bought you a sheep. We’d find money on raids as well, but the officers always made us hand it over and then shared it out among themselves before our eyes! So you’d put a few notes in a cartridge case and cover them over with gunpowder. Hey presto! A little nest-egg.
    Some men got drunk, others put all their energies into surviving. Others, like me, wanted to win medals. You go back home and what do they say? ‘So, what’ve you got? Sergeant-Major, eh? What, in the Pay Corps?’
    It hurts me to think how gullible I was. The political education officers managed to convince us of things they didn’t believe themselves. They’d known the truth for a long while. There was this slogan: ‘Afghanistan makes brothers of us all.’ Crap! There are three classes of soldier in the Soviet army: new recruits, ‘grandads’ or veterans, and dembels , conscripts nearing the end of their two-year service.
    When I got to Afghanistan my uniform was smartly pressed and neatly tailored to my own measurements. Everything fitted perfectly, buttons glistening, tapered jacket, the lot. The problemwas, new recruits aren’t allowed to have tailored uniforms. Anyway, one of these dembels came up to me. ‘How long’ve you been here?’ he asked me.
    â€˜Just arrived’.
    â€˜New recruit? Why’re you dressed up like that?’
    â€˜Don’t let’s fight about it.’
    â€˜Listen, boy, don’t get me angry. You’ve been warned!’ He was used to people being frightened of him.
    That evening the recruits were washing the barracks floor while the dembels sat around smoking.
    â€˜Move the bed!’ ordered the dembel.
    â€˜It’s not my bed!’ I said.
    â€˜You still haven’t cottoned on, have you?’
    That night they beat me up, eight of them, and gave me a good kicking with their army boots. My kidneys were crushed and I pissed blood for two days. They didn’t touch me during the day. I tried not to antagonise them but they still beat me up. I changed tactics: when they came for me at night I was ready for them and hit out first. Then they beat me very carefully, so as not to leave a mark, with towel-covered fists in the stomach every night for a week.
    After my first tour of active duty they never touched me again. They found some fresh recruits and the order went out: ‘Leave the medic alone!’
    After six months recruits graduated to veteran status. A feast was laid on (paid for by the recruits). The dembels stuffed themselves with pilaff and kebabs and began on the ritual: applying the buckle and the side of the belt as hard as they could to the backside. Twelve for the ‘graduation’, another six on account of being a para, another three for being in a reconnaissance unit, and a few more for cheek and bloody-mindedness. In my case it was twenty-nine strokes. You have to take it without a squeak or else they do it again right from the beginning. If you can take it — join the club! Shake hands! You’re one of us!
    The dembel’s departure was a story in itself. To begin with there was a compulsory whip-round to buy him a brief-case, a towel, a scarf for his mother and a present for his girlfriend. Then his dress uniform had to be prepared. The belt had to be brilliantwhite — you’re not a para without your white belt — and his aiguillettes had to be braided (we nicked parachute shroud lines for that). Shining the belt-buckle was a work of art. First you used medium, then fine, wire-wool, then a needle, then felt, and finally ‘Goya’ brand polish. The uniform was steeped for a week in engine-oil to restore its dark-green colour, then cleaned with petrol, and