Free Fall (24 page)

I never stopped being afraid in the war, not even for an instant, and I think this is actually the reason I stayed alive and didn't lose my mind. Every day I found myself facing situations that seemed to exceed my capacities; I had to make choices that forced me to surpass my physical and mental strength, and so I always tried to be very careful, precise and resolute . . . In war, the idea of death never leaves your thoughts. Everyone tries to exorcise it in his own way – some try to dispel it, others become obsessed with it and end up becoming its victims, still others act tough, trying to bring out the worst in themselves as if generating negative things in their minds deludes them into thinking they're deferring death's power . . . But the risk is turning into a stupid puppet, in the service of another.

With time, I learned that the fear of death had to be exploited, used as a resource that human nature offers to those who know what to do with it. All the things that make an individual what he or she is, attitudes related to conscience, morals, respect for others, elements that vary
according to culture and upbringing – all this disappears when confronted with the instinct for survival. In extremely dangerous situations, it's instinct that guides you. That's how I was, often without really realising it. I made decisions based on the fact that the primary goal was to save my skin. Everything else came second.

I talked to Nosov about this a few times. On the whole he agreed with me, but he always stressed the fundamental difference between fear and terror:

‘Fear will make you grow eyes even on your back, but terror makes you blind.'

That night in the mountains I had my eyes wide open, waiting to see what was going to happen.

Lieutenant Razumovsky came over to us, followed by Nosov. With all my lung power I took in the cool and pure mountain air, savouring every mouthful as if there soon wouldn't be any left.

As Moscow had predicted, our officers had decided to attack from above, thus making use of the surprise-effect. We broke up into two teams: the infantry explorers had to position the machine guns and grenade launchers at strategic points, and be ready to fire; my comrades and I, plus Nosov, had the task of taking out the guards and mining the territory around their base with explosives.

In truth, if there was one thing I hated it was planting mines, but you can't argue with orders, as soldiers would say, so I filled my pockets with explosives to put the ‘trips'
together. My comrades were nervous. Moscow started checking every bomb himself – he wanted to be sure that everything went right. Nosov and the infantry lieutenant repeated the plan one last time. Finally, after just a few minutes we were all ready to attack.

We came out of the woods and set off down the small path connecting the two mountains, running hunched over so we couldn't be seen. Moscow and the others who already knew the area led the ranks; Nosov brought up the rear and I was in front of him. We quickly reached the other side of the mountain, and then Moscow signalled for us to keep completely quiet and showed us the way. We had to go down along the brush, since the slope was steep and there was nothing to hold on to; thus we went, with our bottoms almost touching the rock.

The sound of the stream kept getting louder, and at a certain point past the trees' lush branches I saw the glittering water gliding between the rocks. We stopped near the stream. It must have been a metre and a half wide, and it wasn't very deep; you could see some big stones jutting out, polished by the water. We could hop across without any problem. It's always better to cross streams by jumping whenever possible, because walking on stones, however flat, isn't very safe; it's too easy to slip and fall.

Ten metres away from us sat two individuals. One with his back to the mountain was smoking a cigarette, covering
it with a cupped hand, and was chatting with the other guy. You could tell they were relaxed. They were sure we were going to come from below, where their other group was probably waiting to ambush us.

Nosov signalled to Moscow, who understood immediately what our captain meant. He gave Deer the rifle and pulled out his knife, holding it with the handle down and the blade concealed under his wrist to keep the steel from reflecting. Nosov handed me his rifle and took out his knife as well. Without a word, the two went out from behind the trees towards the guards. We observed everything in silence.

The one who had just finished smoking was stretched out on a rock. His rifle was resting on his thigh and his arms were straight at his sides; he looked tired. The other one was sitting up, his back straight, holding the rifle between his legs, every now and then lightly gripping the barrel. Nosov and Moscow took over five minutes to reach them. They moved slowly, creeping through the bushes, almost hugging the ground.

There were no trees near the guards. The water gave off so many gold shimmers we were able to see every detail. The smoker was young, while the other one was older.

Now that our men were no longer visible, our eyes were glued to the guards. We were waiting for something to happen, but everything seemed calm. Suddenly there was movement; the older one got up and went towards the stream. He set his rifle down on a rock and bent over, bringing his lips to the water and drinking on all fours, like wild animals do. At that moment his comrade lifted
his hands upward a little and made a noise, a sort of whimper. An instant later a shadow popped out from behind him – Moscow. The Arab was no longer moving. Meanwhile, the one who had gone to drink some water already had his head dunked in the stream and a knife plunged into his neck. Nosov was holding him fast under the water, clutching him like a spider its prey. The Arab's right hand scraped at the stones in a hopeless attempt to grab his rifle, but Moscow was already holding his weapon, and then had a foot blocking his arm. After a moment he ceased struggling. Nosov slowly slackened his grip, then turned him onto his side, lifted his left arm and to be sure sank his knife between his ribs, where the heart is. It was like seeing how one should kill an animal, not a man.

We went closer. Together, we hid the bodies in the bushes nearby. Now we had to move along the edges of the camp, planting mines to avoid leaving any passageway free.

The forest sloped down, but the enemy's barracks rose in the middle of a nice wide clearing that was visible from a distance. We crept along like snakes; we were so close that we could hear the crackle of the wood burning in the fire in the centre of their camp. Once we got within about fifty metres of the barracks, we split up, with Deer placing the bombs in the trees on one side, Moscow planting the tripwire, and Shoe and Spoon covering, keeping an eye on the area; we were on the opposite side, doing the same task.

Nosov ordered me to plant the bombs in the trees. He
pulled the first one out of the bag and I wrapped the wire around the fuse; Nosov carefully tightened the wire, while Zenith kept an eye on our surroundings. The enemy was near – I could hear them talking, some were laughing. Nosov periodically showed me when the wire on the spool ran out, so I would pull another one out of the bag and hand it to him. We did everything fast – it was almost like decorating a Christmas tree. Within a few minutes I had completely emptied my bag. We'd already planted fifteen hand grenades, but that still wasn't enough. I signalled to Zenith and he immediately passed me another full bag.

We kept going more rapidly and efficiently – after a while my fear of explosives was almost gone. Our movements were precise, automatic and repetitive; while the body worked, the mind detached, as in yoga. I set up the bombs, thinking of my house in Bender, of the river where I used to go fishing, of the smooth, delicate water it was a pleasure to take a dip in . . . Often during the war, a projection came into my mind, like at the movies, a mental screen where the most comforting images from my past would roll by. Sometimes they were so real I could almost feel the warm summer wind on my face that blew on me as a boy when I would go sailing with my friends . . . In those moments I was really fine, I was able to relax, and even if everything around me was like an inferno, inside I was able to maintain great calm, an absolute peace. But immediately afterward, as soon as I realised that the pleasant sensation was fading, I would despair – it was like falling through an empty space.

We had almost finished mining our side of the camp, and backing up little by little we returned to the stream where the guards had been just before. There, we planted the last grenade. Zenith was looking in the direction from which our comrades were supposed to come, but we couldn't see anyone yet. We went back across the stream and hid behind the trees, waiting for the others to arrive. I had taken off my gloves to secure the bombs as well as possible and now my hands were freezing; I put them back on, trying to warm up.

A few minutes later the others finally arrived, almost in a rush – we were all afraid that some Arab would set off a mine early. As soon as the group rejoined us we went back up to our position where the infantrymen were waiting for us.

The explorers had already arranged everything as best they could. The machine guns were shielded by the biggest rocks, the grenade launchers were arranged on the side and in the centre, and there was a broad space for the rest of us.

Everyone took his place. Moscow and Zenith went to two machine guns, an infantryman was at the other. I prepared my Kalashnikov and placed it next to me, then I unslung my precision rifle, opened the stock, and loaded the cartridge in the barrel, trying to make as little noise as possible. I took the piece of cardboard from the fold in my hat, scrunched up my eyes three times – a little concentration exercise that helped me to aim better – then covered my left eye and started observing my targets.

I was in a comfortable position; the visual on the enemy
base in front of me was good. There were a few Arabs sitting, some were lying down. There was a fire in the middle, carefully concealed by the tent. It was clear that they had set up their camp so it couldn't be seen from below, but from my location – despite the dampness and the dawn that tarried to come – with the scope I was able to make out everything. First I noticed a group of five people – they were sitting on a log all in a row with their backs to me, warming up by the fire. I decided to start with them. They were awake, and when we attacked they would definitely be among the first to react. I aimed at the one on the far left. There was a big tree next to him, behind which he and his comrades could hide, whereas on the right was ten metres of open space; when the enemies realised that one of them had been shot down, they would instinctively jump to the right, and that's when I would have all the time I needed to kill them.

The Arab sitting on the left had long hair, wore an American jacket and was armed with a folding stock AKS that he had resting against his leg. Even if I was able to see only the back of his neck, he looked like a calm type. His movements were relaxed, and observing him made me feel calmer too – and I love calm, I can't stand chaos. Breathing slowly, I took aim; his neck was in my sight. Now I was just waiting for the ‘blessing' of our captain, who in the meantime had come over to me.

‘I'm ready,' I said, without taking my eye off the scope. Nosov made the sign to everyone to be on alert, then he whispered a very precise order into my ear:

‘Fire!'

I filled my lungs with air and held my breath. When my body got as hard as a rock I pulled the trigger. As I've said, my rifle was a very quiet model. Once it had been released, the bullet travelled through the air like an arrow shot from a bow – in fact, among soldiers the VSS was known as the ‘black arrow'. In an instant I had unloaded four more rounds, each time aiming at the neck. None of the enemies had even had the time to get up from the log they were sitting on. They slid to the ground one by one.

The bullets didn't have much force and therefore they simply
killed
, going through the men's heads without their bodies making the kind of violent spasms that would arouse the suspicions of those near them. It was a death poor in movement – seen from the scope, the target still seemed alive. If the bullet struck the head you could see the victim make a quick half gesture, as if he were tossing back a lock of hair that had fallen on his forehead. He would freeze for a second, and then immediately collapse like a marionette whose strings have been cut. If the bullet struck the heart, you couldn't see anything at all – the target would be still for a few seconds, and I would often shoot again until I saw him fall.

Once during a skirmish in the city, I found myself shooting at a guy who just wouldn't fall down. Although I had unloaded an entire clip into him he stayed on his feet. At
some point I hit his head, but nothing doing . . . When the battle was over and I was able to get a closer look, I saw that the guy was completely propped against a wall, his feet shifted forward a little, which kept him standing although he had already been dead for some time. His arms were folded across his chest, plastered with bullet holes; his head dangled, revealing two deep holes in the back of his neck. That occurrence made a strange impression on me; it erased the border in my head separating images of the living from the dead, and from that moment on I haven't been able to distinguish between them. When I look at the living I can perceive signs of death, and vice versa . . .

Seeing people die when they don't expect it, killing them while they're immersed in total calm, is a privilege reserved exclusively to snipers. Soldiers normally see another death, one that's more physical, full of facial contortions and bodily struggle. In hand-to-hand combat, when the firing distance ranges from ten to a hundred metres, you often can't tell exactly where or who you're shooting at. You shoot while running, amidst enormous confusion, with your senses spinning, and it's impossible to see things from the right distance. I, on the other hand, had learned to do my job with patience, to watch scenes of death with great calm, to look at them the way one looks at a painting.