Free Fall. Nicolai Lilin

      ‘You think that if he were all in one piece they’d keep him in that shithole? Zabelin’s a professional saboteur. If he were completely fit he’d be here with us right now.’ Nosov said this with anger. Then he stood up and stepped out of the vat, resting his feet on an empty wooden crate, the kind they use to transport Kalashnikovs.

      ‘Soldier, towel!’ he thrust out his arm, waiting for Moscow to pass him the green rag that he’d already been brandishing for a while, almost like a votive offering, the ones they would put at the statues of pagan gods in ancient temples. Just then I realised that it wasn’t a towel but a flag; it was green, with different-coloured stripes and some Arabic writing in white. Nosov took the flag and started drying himself, making the strangest faces.

      I couldn’t help laughing. His face turned serious and he asked:

      ‘What the fuck are you laughing at, delinquent? I put my skin on the line every blessed day to conquer these shit flags – I have the right to use them to wipe my ass, since they’re no good for anything else.’

      Moscow laughed too, and bit off another hunk of black bread.

      Nosov cut us short:

      ‘Listen, boy, this is how things work around here; until you’ve had some experience in the clean-up crew, our family won’t accept you for military operations. Now go and eat, rest, and starting tomorrow you’ll go and clear the fields. Just the other day we finished a mission close by, so you’ll have some work to do. Then, we’ll see.’

      He started getting dressed, throwing the green flag to the ground. It was soaking wet; it had become a useless scrap of fabric, destined to be buried in the mud.

      Moscow and I went back to the barracks, and on the way he told me how things worked in the unit. From what I understood, the two most important rules were: don’t try to escape, and eat at every opportunity.

      ‘What’s this business about the clean-up crew?’ I asked impatiently. ‘What fields am I supposed to clear? It’s not like I have to go pick tomatoes, right?’

      ‘Really? You haven’t figured it out?’ he said, giving me a sad look. ‘You have to collect the bodies. They make you do it so you get used to contact with dead bodies, so you won’t have a hard time at the crucial moments. We’ve all been there, friend – you’ll be on clean-up duty for a couple of weeks.’

      The next morning, following Moscow’s directions, I reported for duty at a big military truck. There, on the wooden benches placed along the walls, sat ten others. I said hello and took my place.

      The clean-up crew was composed of twenty people or so. Calling them ‘soldiers’ didn’t really seem right; they were like gravediggers, except they wore uniforms and drank a lot of alcohol.

      Our job was very simple. We would go wherever battles had taken place, often major clashes, and gather all the bodies – human and animal – that we saw on the ground. We would toss the bodies into the truck, then jump in with them and take a pleasant ride back to camp.

      My first ‘pick’, as we called them, was in a half-destroyed and long abandoned village.

      They gave me a pair of thick rubber gloves that went all the way up to my armpits, typically used in the chemical protection units. Then they gave me a long rope with a slipknot at the top, like the kind people hang themselves with. One guy explained succinctly how to move the bodies:

      ‘You take two of them, tie their legs together with the rope and then drag them to the truck. Don’t go through their pockets and don’t take anything from the bodies, otherwise you’ll be in deep shit. If you find any weapons, take them to the sergeant.’

      The battle had taken place a few days earlier. There were bullet holes everywhere, and the streets were filled with craters from the explosions from mortar fire and hand grenades. At the entrance to the village there was a Russian armoured car, gutted and burned. The wheels didn’t have tyres anymore, the back doors were slightly ajar and you could see a leg dangling out and an army boot. It was strange, like looking at a painting. I had the impression that I was entering a dimension where time had stopped: everything was dead, nothing living could pass there.

      I took a few steps in the direction my new comrade had pointed and I saw a corpse in a ditch near the main road that led to the centre of the town. It was striking, because it didn’t resemble any corpse I’d ever seen before – and I’ve seen quite a few dead people in my day. The ones I’d found the most revolting had been the bodies of the drowned that I’d pulled out of the river – unfortunately, some of them had even been friends – and the thing that had struck me most was the smell. When they were still in the water you didn’t notice at all, but once they were brought to shore they started to stink so badly just being near them made you want to vomit. The bodies of the drowned get terribly deformed; they swell up, full of rotting parts and leaking fluids, until they look like a big ball of gelatin. When I was a boy, in the summer of 1992, after the war between Transnistria and Moldavia, I saw many war corpses in the streets, but I’d been almost indifferent to those bodies. I was too occupied with trying to find the weapons and ammunition, and I hadn’t given the dead much thought.

      My first body in Chechnya, however, made a different impression on me. I felt pity, because it seemed like he’d been taken by surprise, at a moment when he hadn’t expected anything bad to happen. He lay straight, his legs extended, his hands joined over his heart, as though before dying he had tried to keep his soul from coming out. His face was completely white; his skin looked like marble, all taut over his bones, but the veins on his neck and temples were black. His eyes were wide open, so dark you couldn’t tell their colour. His mouth was slightly open and you could see his teeth, stained with blood.

      I studied his body for a moment and then I grabbed him by his bulletproof vest near his neck, and tried to pull him to the road. At first glance he had seemed hefty, but when I pulled him up out of the ditch I was shocked. He weighed almost nothing; it was like moving a wet rag. I carefully examined his uniform, which in certain spots was paper thin, as if beneath it there were no longer a body but only the impression of a human being, the depth of a piece of cardboard. Standing there, motionless, with that poor man in my arms, I felt a sudden hard, violent tug coming from inside his body. Terrified, I instinctively slackened my grip.

      The body dropped, and from the vest – where, a second before, my hand had been – came a giant sewer rat. His tail was greasy and disgustingly hairless, the skin glistening. As he came into the light of day, the rat gave me a look full of hatred, and then slowly crept back down into the ditch. Frozen, I tried to comprehend what I had just seen. Behind me, I heard the voice of someone else on the clean-up crew:

      ‘Never grab them by the vest, they’re full of rats. They’re dangerous, those beasts – they eat human flesh, so they’re strong and aggressive. Last year a rat almost tore three fingers off one guy in a single bite. Follow my advice; just grab the bodies by the legs and before you tie them, tap them with your foot a couple times, and those pests will run away.’

      I couldn’t tell whether the man was messing with me or telling the truth. Either way, from that day on I did as he said.

      When the truck was full, we climbed in and sat on the benches at the sides. The corpses were piled on top of one another in front of us. They made us eat in front of the bodies so we would get used to their presence. Sometimes, when the truck went around a corner on the trip back, the corpses fell on top of us. It bothered me the first few times, but after a while I got used to it. I’d shove them off and put them back on the pile. I learned to treat bodies like objects of no importance.

      After two weeks of corpses and rats, they told me that I could officially become one of the saboteurs.

      Everything in the saboteur unit seemed chaotic. At first glance one might think that we were a group of regular guys, people who had nothing to do with military life and had somehow ended up in the middle of a war. In reality, we had our own philosophy, a series of very precise rules and most importantly our own way of understanding war. The only thing the superiors really cared about was the outcome of a sabotage operation or the continual patrol