and rocket-propelled grenade fire. There was supposed to be a local Afghan (Soviet-aligned) army garrison there.
The mujahedeen used a very dirty tactic, especially in the last years. They would enter local residents' homes, set up battle positions, and shoot. The residents weren't permitted to leave. And so, when return fire came, many civilians died. The mujahedeen would photograph this and use it as propaganda against the Soviet Army. It also helped them win new recruits anxious to avenge the deaths of relatives.
The Soviet soldiers who had been sent to help had gotten pinned down – some behind a tank, some behind various stones – and could hardly move. One tank finally blew up under the intensity of the large-caliber machine-gun fire and from the rocket-propelled grenades.
They had called for assistance on the radio. Now, on the other side of the gorge, the helicopters were dropping off the paratroopers. They were encircling the town and beginning to fight back, aided by volleys from helicopters. Two of the tanks were shooting with their 30-mm guns. Virtually all the Soviet soldiers were actively shooting at the mujahedeen, whose fire had diminished.
Parkhomin's troops began to fire back with their rocket-propelled grenades and were steadily eroding the mujahedeen positions.
This was a fairly dangerous, well-armed contingent; you could call it a mujahedeen 'special forces unit' that had trained in Pakistan.
In the end, the division coming down from above took the village by nightfall. No one got away – two wounded mujahedeen were taken alive and sixteen killed. Unfortunately, several families of the local civilians died.
Parkhomin said, "What can we do about it? They chose to bring their people to death. If their religion, their world view lets them use their people as a living shield, what can we do?"
Their regiment's commander implemented a new tactic – shoot to kill even if the shooting came from residential homes. Before, only snipers had been allowed to do this. This new method saved countless paratroopers' lives but increased the civilian deaths. Of course, soon this worsened relations with the local population.
It was a bad scene – many dead and wounded, especially among our intervening forces.
In their platoon, six had died, among them Sergeant Zubin, who'd had so little time left to serve out and who had rescued wounded during the engagement, dragging them behind boulders. At the end of the battle, a dazed engineer had jumped out of a burning tank and Zubin covered him with his body. He received a posthumous Order of Glory. His mother and a girlfriend, whom he had loved from school days, were left to live without him in Leningrad.[7] He had studied with his girlfriend at the Polytechnic Institute and they had planned to marry. Later, when Parkhomin spoke of him, he said that only such a man, who could love truly, could honestly be called a hero.
Ten were wounded, virtually all seriously. Their radio operator, Saulyus, had lost his leg below the knee. He groaned and came in and out of consciousness. There was only one doctor, trying to help everyone. Helicopters started arriving, receiving the dead and wounded. In the half-collapsed mosque they found a large cache of weapons, mines, and books.
Zheka had earlier prayed to God, asking for his protection, but this time he turned to Him with despairing questions: "Why? Why do the innocent suffer? Why do the young become cripples? What is this useless war for? What did these good men do that displeased God so? Why are the mujahedeen become crueler the more religious they get? Tell me God, why is it happening? What good is our suffering to you? Why am I here, and Saulyus, and Zubin? I wasn't wounded but these good men, who have loving young women, and parents, and who studied well, were. I want to know – why? And, I want to do something so that it will never happen again."
They returned to base. Morale was low; everyone was despondent. They were given two days off to recuperate. There were 15 new soldiers, straight from boot camp, coming in as replacements. The second lieutenant brought some hard liquor to drink in memory of those fallen, and everyone drank except Parkhomin. He never drank or smoked and didn't encourage it. Bad habits make a person a slave and weak in every way, he was sure. But this time he didn't bother them about it; he was very busy and hardly ever left his quarters.
Two days later they received another assignment – establish a position at a high elevation and report on all enemy activity, trying not to engage them. They headed to a deserted village and took up positions. Already the next night some mujahedeen tried to enter the village. When they got close enough, they were shot. Two were killed but a third managed to escape. It was clear it had been a scouting operation and now the mujahedeen knew where they were.
And in fact, early the next morning they were back, shooting. This turned into a grim battle. Parkhomin took Zheka, two other experienced men, and the radio operator into an empty house standing a bit higher than the rest apart. This afforded the best vantage point from which to see the attacking mujahedeen and coordinate battle orders.
Parkhomin ordered them to hold their positions, to conserve their rounds, and only to shoot when they were sure. They were told that reinforcements would arrive, but hours went by and – nothing. As it turned out, that morning two helicopters had been shot down and an entire convoy destroyed. So now, the soldiers were shooting back as best they could, yet, slowly but surely, they became encircled.
The mujahedeen made subtle advances under cover of continual machine gun fire, making the fight very challenging. It was clear that they were seasoned fighters.
The village's houses had virtually no roofs and one mujahedeen who had been able to creep up closely enough undetected was able to throw a grenade in.
As Zheka was telling this part of his story, he blushed, closed his eyes and said, "I've heard people in similar situations say how at such times you feel an intensity to what is happening, and that everything slows down. That's how it was with me. Everything started going as if in slow motion."
The mujahedeen were attacking from the east and south sides, the sun was blinding, and then something flashed. Zheka looked up and saw the grenade flying slowly, to the side, a little closer to Parkhomin. He watched it spinning in the air, slowly falling. He was paralyzed with fear. His whole life literally flashed before his eyes and he knew, this was it – death.
He saw that he hadn't done anything in particular in his life, that it had been useless. He was afraid. Moments passed as slowly as syrup; everything had stopped. He looked at Parkhomin, then at the grenade. Parkhomin shouted something to the radio operator and suddenly noticed the grenade. Zheka saw a giant wave of fright in his eyes to be replaced a moment later with regret. He briefly glanced at the clay partition in the shelter. He still had a chance to save himself, but the other two – Zheka and the machine gunner – didn't stand the slightest, even theoretical chance. What's more, if the grenade blew up it would most likely tear through the thin clay walls and bury anyone in the other room.
There was only one thing to do. Parkhomin's face showed his clear decisiveness as he threw himself on the grenade. Zheka repeated several times, "I remember it clearly. Everything was in slow motion."
Just as in a rugby match, Parkhomin grabbed the grenade and curled up with it under a small table – a simple, wooden one, but solid. He yelled, "Lay down!" Zheka and Ruchnikov, both from the Ryazinski region, threw themselves down and covered their heads, as they had been trained, and then a deafening blast let out. They walked away from it without a scratch, just some temporary deafness. The mujahedeen aborted their attack on the house, having decided that everyone had died.
A little bit later you could see something flashing in the sky – helicopters, forcing back the mujahedeen advance. Reinforcements had arrived and they were saved.
The next events were a bit foggy for Zheka. He knew
Now called St. Petersburg
