FREE FALL A SNIPER’S STORY FROM CHECHNYA NICOLAI LILIN Table of Contents AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book is a story constructed with true details, a distorted reflection of the reality that we experienced.
That is, I changed the names of characters and units to protect those involved; I omitted place names and also blurred the times when the events narrated here actually took place.
N.L. FREE FALL I was getting bored at home, coddled by my mom, Then one fine spring day, the dear Fatherland called me away. Now I’m not bored one bit, time flies like a bullet . . .
Russian army song
If any citizen, in the absence of legal grounds, fails to appear at the appropriate commissariat in response to the summons for military conscription, he will be considered a ‘deserter’ and tried according to the law of the Russian Federation. From the Russian Federation law on military service, Article 31.5 Walking with my shadow on the ground, going down the rocky road, boots making me cripple-toed, and my helmet slipping down. Rifle thumping on my arse, girls still on my mind. I trip on stones and fall behind, cursing every Russian curse. Op-lya, the army is me! Op-lya, the army is me!
From ‘The Army is Me’ by singer-songwriter Sergei Trofimov
Having a prostitute for a daughter brings a family less dishonour than a soldier for a son.
Old Russian proverb
When I turned eighteen, I already had a past behind me. But the world had one too, and it was decidedly more complex than mine. My country was turning into a realm of the absurd. Capitalism, so longed for, never came. The mentality of the crook reigned, the mentality of people out for easy money who wished to look smarter than God himself. Or, as my grandfather would say, ‘Everyone wanted to take God’s beard and try it on for size.’ In Transnistria people did nothing but talk about Western society. The United States and Europe were living examples of economic and social prosperity; everybody wanted to become Western, thinking that if they wore designer clothes, ate fast food and bought foreign cars, democracy would naturally follow, and take root in our great and beautiful Land. It was like an infectious disease, a fever whose origin and character nobody could explain. Post-Soviet society had erased the values of my forebears, the people who had raised me and who, for me, represented the pinnacle of human wisdom. The more this Western euphoria grew, the clearer it became that chaos would rule our days. It was in this cheerful context, as I was saying, that I turned eighteen. * One spring morning, I woke up and went outside, opened the mailbox, and found a white card with a red diagonal line across it. It said that the military office of the Russian Federation was asking me to appear for my physical and to bring my identification documents. It added that this was the third and final time they would send me notice, and if I didn’t show up within three days I could expect a criminal conviction for ‘refusal to pay my debt to the Nation in the form of military service’. I thought that the scrap of paper was a joke, a formality, something of little importance. I went back inside, grabbed my papers, and without even changing, headed across town in my slippers to the old Russian military base. At the door, I showed the guards the notice and they let me in without a word. ‘Where do I have to go?’ I asked one of them. ‘Go straight, it’s all the same . . .’ the soldier replied unenthusiastically, clearly irritated. What an idiot, I thought, heading towards a large office where it said: ‘Drafts and New Recruits Department’. The office was dark; you could hardly see a thing. On the back wall was a small window out of which shone a dismal, feeble yellow light. I could hear the tip-tap of a typewriter. I walked towards the window and saw a young woman in a military uniform at a table, typing with one hand and holding a cup of tea with the other. She took small sips and kept blowing into the mug to cool it off. I leaned on the counter and peered in. I saw that on her knees under the table there was an open magazine. It was an article on Russian pop stars, with a photo of a singer wearing a crown adorned with peacock feathers. It made me feel even sadder. ‘Hello, excuse me, Miss, I got this in the mail,’ I said, holding out the card. The woman turned towards me and looked at me for a second as if she couldn’t figure out where she was or what was going on. She snatched the magazine she’d been reading and flipped it over behind the typewriter so that I couldn’t see it. Then she set down the mug of tea, and without standing up or saying anything, and without expression, she took the white card with the red line from my hand. She looked at it for a moment and then, in a voice that seemed to belong to a ghost, asked: ‘Papers?’ ‘Which papers, mine?’ I asked awkwardly, pulling my passport and everything else out of my trouser pocket. She looked at me with a hint of disdain and said, through clenched teeth: ‘Well, certainly not mine.’ I handed over my papers and she put them in a safe. Then she took a form from a shelf and began filling it out. She asked for my name, surname, date and place of birth, home address. Then she moved on to more personal information. After asking for my parents’
