Free Fall Read online

  Free Fall

  Nicolai Lilin

  Unflinching and unforgiving, Free Fall is a gripping account of a young soldier’s experiences in a brutal and bloody war.

  Nicolai Lilin, author of the international bestseller Siberian Education, was conscripted and trained as a sniper in an unorthodox Russian special forces regiment called the Saboteurs. Operating outside traditional military codes, this elite band fought their way through the inhospitable terrain of Chechnya, encountering mercenary fighters and anti-personnel mines, hand-to-hand combat and extreme torture.

  Nicolai Lilin

  FREE FALL

  A Sniper’s Story

  Translated from the Italian by Jamie Richards

  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’ details, she said:

  ‘Have you ever been arrested or had trouble with the law?’

  ‘Well, I myself have never had trouble with the law, it’s the law that seems to have trouble with me sometimes… I’ve been arrested lots of times, I can’t remember how many. And I’ve been in juvenile prison twice.’

  She looked up and examined me. Then she tore up the form she’d been filling out and took another, larger one, with a red line running diagonally across it, like that on the card I’d received in the post.

  We started again, covering all the personal information, this time including my convictions – article numbers, dates. Then my health: illnesses, vaccinations; she even asked if I consumed alcohol or drugs, if I smoked cigarettes. This went on for an hour… I couldn’t remember the exact dates of the convictions, so I made them up on the spot, trying to get at least the month right, or general period.

  When we were finished I tried to explain that there must be some mistake, I couldn’t do military service. I had requested and been granted a six-month deferral, assuring them that in the meantime I was going to finish a course of study and then enrol at university. If everything went as planned, I added, I was going to open a physical education school for children, there in Bender.

  She listened, without looking me in the eye, which worried me. Then she gave me a piece of paper. It said that from that moment onward I was the property of the Russian government and that my life was protected by law.

  I couldn’t understand what all this actually meant.

  ‘It means that if you try to escape, harm yourself, or commit suicide, you will be prosecuted
for damage to government property,’ she told me coldly.

  I suddenly felt trapped. Everything around me began to seem more serious and sinister than before.

  ‘Listen,’ I burst out, ‘I couldn’t give a shit about your law. If I have to go to jail I’ll go, but I will never take up arms for your fucking government…’

  I was furious, and when I started talking like that I instantly felt powerful, even more powerful than that absurd situation. I was sure, absolutely sure, that I could change this machine that was threatening to regulate my life.

  ‘Is there a general around, or whatever the fuck you call your authorities? I want to see one, talk to him, since you and I don’t understand each other!’ I raised my voice, and she looked at me with the same expressionless gaze as before.

  ‘If you want to speak with the colonel, he’s here, but I don’t think that will solve anything. I advise you to keep calm. Don’t make things worse for yourself.’

  It was good advice, thinking back on it now. She was telling me something important, I’m sure; she was showing me a better way, but at the time I was blind.

  I felt sick. How is it possible, I asked myself, that just this morning I was free, I had my plans for the day, for the future, for the rest of my life, and now, because of a little piece of paper, I was losing my freedom? I wanted to yell and fight with someone, to show how angry I was. I needed to. I cut her off, shouting in her face:

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Holy Lord on the cross! If I want to talk to someone, I talk to him, period! Where the fuck is this commander of yours, general, whatever the hell he is?’

  She rose from her chair and asked me to calm down and wait for ten minutes on the bench. I looked around and I didn’t see any bench. Fucking hell, what is this place? Everyone here is nuts, I thought, as I waited in the dark.

  Suddenly a door opened, and a soldier, a middle-aged man, called me by name.

  ‘Come, Nicolay, the colonel is expecting you!’

  I jumped up like a spring and ran over, eager to get out of that disgusting little room as quickly as possible.

  We went out into a small courtyard surrounded by buildings all painted white, with propagandist drawings and posters illustrating the exercises that the soldiers had to do to learn to march. We crossed the courtyard and entered a room filled with light, with big windows and lots of flowerpots. In the middle of the flowers there was a bench, and next to the bench a large ashtray.

  ‘Wait here. The colonel will call you from this door. You can smoke if you like…’

  The soldier was kind. He spoke to me in a very friendly tone. I’d calmed down and I felt more secure; it seemed that my situation would be cleared up and that someone would finally listen to me.

  ‘Thanks, sir, but I don’t smoke. Thank you for your kindness.’ I was trying to be as nice as possible myself, to make a good impression.

  The soldier bade me goodbye and left me alone. I sat there on the bench, listening to the soldiers who had come onto the courtyard for drills. I looked out the window.

  ‘Left, left, one, two, three!’ the drill sergeant shouted desperately. He was a young man in an immaculate military uniform, marching along with a platoon of men who didn’t seem to have any desire to march.

  ‘Nicolay, you can come in, my boy!’ called out a firm male voice. Despite its kind, almost sweet tone, the voice had something off about it, a false note you could hear underneath.

  I went up to the door and knocked, asking permission to enter.

  ‘Come in, son, come in!’ he said, his voice still kindly and brimming with friendliness. He was a big, strong man sitting at an enormous desk.

  I went in, closed the door, and took a few steps towards him, then suddenly I halted.

  The colonel was about fifty and was very stocky. His head, which was shaven, was marked by two long scars. His green uniform was snug; his neck was so wide that his jacket collar was completely taut, as if it were about to tear open. His hands were so large that you could barely see his nails, they were so deeply set. A split ear suggested he was an experienced wrestler. His face might have been copied from the Soviet military propaganda posters of the Second World War: unrefined features, a straight wide nose, big resolute eyes. On the left side of his chest a dozen medals hung in a row.

  Jesus help me, this one’s worse than a cop… I could already imagine how our meeting was going to end. I didn’t know where to start; it was like there was no way I would be able to express myself in front of somebody like him.

  Suddenly, interrupting my thoughts, he spoke. He was looking through a file similar to the ones in which police keep confidential information on criminals.

  ‘I’ve been reading your story, my dear Nicolay, and you’re starting to grow on me. You didn’t do very well in school, in fact you didn’t do much at all, but you did play four different sports… That’s good. I played a lot of sports when I was young too. Studying is for the weak; real men do sports, prepare themselves for combat… You did wrestling, swimming, long-distance running and target shooting… Good, you’re well prepared; I think you have a good future ahead of you… There’s just one flaw: Tell me, why do you have two convictions? Did you steal something?’ He looked me straight in the eyes and if he could have done he would have looked right into my mind.

  ‘No, I didn’t steal anything; I don’t steal from people… I beat up a few guys, twice. They charged me with “attempted murder with serious bodily harm”…’

  ‘That’s nothing, don’t worry… I got into fights when I was young too; I understand completely. Men need to make their space in the world, to define themselves. Fighting is the best way – that’s how you find out who’s worth something and who’s not even worth spit…’

  He was talking as if he were about to give me a prize. I felt uncertain; I didn’t know what to say and above all I didn’t know how to explain to him that I had no intention of doing military service.

  ‘Listen, son, I couldn’t care less about your jail time, your criminal convictions and all the rest of it; I think you’re a good kid, God bless you, and I want to help you out because I like you. I have your whole life written here, from your first day of school…’ He set the file on the desk and closed it, tying the two ribbons on the side. ‘I’ll give you two choices, something I do only in exceptional cases, for people I really care about. I can put you in the Border Guard and send you to the Tajikistan border – you’ll have a good career, and if you like mountain climbing, it’s perfect. Or, I can put you with the paratroopers, a school for professionals – after six months you’ll become a sergeant and you’ll go far there too. Eventually you could even get into special forces, in spite of your background. The army will give you everything: a paycheque, a home, friends and an occupation at your level. So what do you say? Where do you want to go?’

  It was like listening to the ravings of a madman. He was saying things that made no sense at all. The army giving me all the things that I already had! How could I explain to him that I didn’t need an occupation at my level, or friends, or a salary, or a house…

  It was like when you get on the wrong train and suddenly realise there’s no way to make it turn back. I took a breath and blurted out my response:

  ‘To be honest, sir, I want to go home!’

  He changed instantly. His face turned red, as if a pair of invisible hands were strangling him. His hands balled into fists and his eyes took on a strange glint, like the sky before a storm.

  He took my file and threw it in my face. I managed to put up my hands in time to ward off the blow. The file hit my fingers and came open, and the papers scattered all over the room, on the desk, the windowsill, the floor.

  I stood as still as a statue. He kept glaring at me, full of hatred. Then he suddenly began shouting in a terrible voice, which I could immediately tell was his real one:

  ‘You thankless bastard! You want to rot in shit? Then you can rot in shit! I’ll send you to a place where you won’t even have time to
pull your trousers down you’ll be shitting in them so much, and every time you do, think of me, you ungrateful bastard! You want to go home? Then from now on your home will be the saboteur base! They’ll teach you what life is really like!’

  He was screaming at me, and I stood there, completely drained.

  ‘Out! Out of here!’ He pointed at the door.

  Without a word I turned on my heel and left the office. Outside the door a soldier was waiting, and he saluted me.

  ‘Sergeant Glasunov! Follow me, comrade!’ he said, with a voice that sounded like a Kalashnikov when it sends a cartridge into the barrel.

  Your comrade is a mangy dog, I thought, but said humbly:

  ‘Excuse me, Sergeant, may I use the toilet?’

  He gave me a strange look, but didn’t refuse.

  ‘Certainly. Down the hall and to the right!’

  I walked down the corridor; he followed, and when I entered the bathroom he stayed and waited for me outside.

  I was able to reach a small, high window, and since it had no bars I jumped down without any problem. Out in the yard behind the office, there was no one around.

  ‘To hell with this madhouse, I’m going home…’

  With this and similar thoughts in my head I headed for the exit of the base. There, the guard stopped me. The soldier was young, maybe my age, very thin and a little cross-eyed.

  ‘Papers!’

  ‘I don’t have them on me, I came here to visit a friend…’

  The soldier gave me a suspicious look.

  ‘Show your permit to leave the base!’

  At that my heart sank into my boots. I decided to play stupid:

  ‘What permit? What are you talking about? Open the gate, I have to get out…’ I moved towards the gate, going past the soldier, and he pointed his machine gun at me, shouting:

  ‘Stop or I’ll shoot!’

  ‘Get out of the way!’ I replied, grabbing the gun by the barrel and ripping it out of his hands.

  The soldier tried to punch me in the face, but I blocked him with the butt of the rifle. Suddenly someone hit me on the head from behind, hard. I felt my legs wobble and my mouth went dry. I took two deep breaths, and at the third I passed out.