5

            Lt. Sergei Turganov dreaded the morning briefings with his battalion commander, Maj. Anton Karpov. The officer was one of those leaders who viewed mindless obedience as the highest ideal of the soldier. Orders are given, orders are carried out, and accomplishment is expected. Praise was never part of the equation; indeed in a particularly honest moment Karpov freely admitted that he had little inclination to heap acclaim on his subordinates. It took away valuable time from more important tasks, such as reprimanding those in his command who failed to measure up to his exacting standards.

            Turganov and the other junior officers of the 3rd battalion, 10th Special Forces regiment could not fathom the reasons for their commander’s perpetually foul mood in the weeks that they have been deployed in Afghanistan. By all accounts, even those in the foreign media that most every officer and enlisted man listened to in technical violation of orders; the Afghanistan operation had been a near total success. It had not been so much an invasion as a palace coup. Infiltrate small units of Special Forces, the famed Spetnatz, seize the airport and other key strategic points of the capital,decapitate the ineffectual Afghan leadership under the ruse of a domestic power struggle, install a new “provisional government” which promptly asks for military assistance from Moscow, and before the world realized what had happened, another nation had fallen firmly into the sway of the Soviet Union.

            Maj. Karpov’s unit had been part of the force detailed to capture and secure the international airport on the outskirts of Kabul. By all measures his troops performed admirably. They seized their objectives with a minimum of casualties; indeed more Soviet soldiers had fallen victim to combat accidents or so-called friendly fire incidents than from the ineffective resistance put up by the few troops at the airport that remained loyal to the former regime. But as Turganov and his comrades would soon discover, their commander had little tolerance for such miscues. The fact that after a few hours fighting, his troops had been reduced to guard duty for the past few weeks had not helped the major’s disposition.

            Suddenly the door to the conference room was opened. Almost as one, Turganov and his fellow officers shot to attention as Maj. Anton Karpov, followed by his omnipresent aide, strode into the room. At six foot four, with blond hair and blue eyes, Karpov could have been a model for the ideal soldier…of the Third Reich. Indeed, Karpov’s ancestry did have Germanic roots. He was part Volga German, descended from colonists brought to Russia by Catherine the Great two centuries earlier. More than one member of his officer staff had wondered if Karpov’s instinct to command was not in some way genetic.

            As was his custom Karpov began his briefing without military courtesies or formalities. His men expected no more, quietly taking their seats.

“Kabul is still a very dangerous place, my comrades. Two corporals turned up dead this morning, throats slit, their bodies thrown out in the middle of a busy street. And for what..?” The somewhat muted tone of Karpov’s voice tricked one of his subordinates into believing that his commander actually wanted an answer to the all too rhetorical question.

“Women?” wondered aloud the youngest lieutenant in the room, seated immediately behind Turganov, who soon cringed as Karpov fired back an answer that bored a hole right through his head to get at his hapless comrade.

“NYET!”. The major’s screaming reply was made all the more dramatic by the abrupt quiet that followed. Turganov suddenly became very aware of the ticking clock on the wall.

            Wordlessly, Maj. Karpov took out a small clear plastic package containing some sort of white powder. Waving it around for effect, the commander then quietly said “This”.

“Opium, converted to its more potent base, heroin. The medical staff tells me that the heroin peddled in the markets of Kabul is purer than the morphine they shoot you up with, if you’re wounded. So pure in fact that you can smoke it, rather than inject into your veins. Did you know that Afghanistan’s leading export is heroin? Military intelligence certainly knows that, though they pretended it would present no problems, just as there are no drinking problems within the Red Army.”

            Turganov cringed at the major’s tirade. He assumed that Karpov must have been reasonably assured of the fear-inspired loyalty of his subordinates. Had that last remark been passed on to the regiment’s political officer, Karpov would be lucky to be commanding a waste disposal company in Siberia. Not that his criticism was off the mark. Official Soviet policy viewed alcoholism and drug abuse as ills symptomatic of decadent capitalism. Still, Turganov personally knew of several officers during his relatively brief military career who had been cashiered for an excessive fondness for vodka. At their staging base in Tashkent, capital of the largely Moslem Uzbek soviet republic, Major Karpov had been able to run a tight ship, given the local prejudices against the consumption of alcohol. Going into another Islamic territory, he had correctly surmised that such temptations would largely be absent. But he had not counted on the nectar of the opium poppies.

            Succinctly, Karpov laid down the law. Soldiers caught using drugs would be stripped of rank and sent to punishment units. Trafficking in narcotics would invite summary execution by firing squad. Pounding his fist on the table for emphasis, he threatened his subordinates that their careers were on the line.

“Five deaths due to this. Another twelve on the sick list. Within the week, I want a clean battalion or I’ll have a new cadre of commanders to do the job.”

            As if he had been discussing the latest ice hockey results for Moscow Dynamo or Central Army, Karpov continued the meeting in a much more subdued tone, discussing such mundane necessities as the weather and logistics. Finally, the major regained the total focus of the group when he proudly announced that their brief tour at the Kabul airport was coming to an end. “Gentlemen, we are going hunting and then we can all go home”.

            With that remark Karpov gestured to his aide who walked to the conference room door. Moments later after the door was opened in strode Karpov’s immediate superior, Lt. Colonel Fyodor Samsonov, trailed by two other officers.   Though Samsonov was only a year or so older than Karpov, the banks of impressive medals and combat ribbons that adorned his drab green uniform almost embarrassed the single row of decorations on his subordinate’s chest. The two senior officers were a study in contrast. The tall, thin blond Karpov overshadowed by the shorter, somewhat stocky Samsonov. Like many ethnic Russians, Samsonov had a somewhat darker complexion, as if somewhere in the distant past one of one his ancestors had hailed, not from Germany, but from the east. The differences between the two commanders did not end at appearances. While Karpov was cold, analytical, to the point, his superior was almost jovial with his officer staff. After more than a few minutes of casual talk, in which Samsonov made it a point to acknowledge every man in the room, he began his briefing.

            Pointing to the large map of Afghanistan that covered fully one third of an otherwise bare wall, Samsonov opened with the curious comment “There is our enemy.”

            When one of the officers began to give voice to his confusion over the remark, Samsonov waved him off and noted “Military lore holds that one cannot conquer a map. We must prove them wrong.”

            Quickly launching into his dissertation, the heavyset commander noted the logistical triumphs of the opening phase of the Afghan operation. Yet he soon doused the expressions of pride and optimism that he observed the faces of his officers. The rugged terrain of Afghanistan and its lack of infrastructure could negate much of the armored forces the Red Army had deployed. The few paved roads that linked the scattered cities of Afghanistan were narrow thoroughfares, often passing through steep canyons and winding mountain passes. Small units of Afghan rebels could easily delay troop convoys and tank columns with the occasional ambush. “It’s already happened,” noted Samsonov, with almost a touch of respect for the foe that they were about to engage.

“Its time you all were let in on a little secret. This operation has nothing to do with helping a fellow socialist government, provisional or otherwise. The late president Amin had to be replaced because he betrayed us. Yes, the Soviet Union helped his government countless times, yet he began was unwilling to rein in the fanatics who besieged his capital and threatened our borders.”

            No one in the room was surprised by Samsonov’s comments. The 3rd battalion had been deployed to their forward base fully two weeks before the supposedly domestic uprising that had deposed the former regime. Some of the officers had even heard from comrades in other battalions that Spetnatz forces had been rehearsing the storming of the presidential palace in Kabul for almost two months. Nor was anyone surprised that Samsonov basically admitted that the official party line from Moscow was a bold faced lie. Lt. Turganov wondered to himself if scores of decorations on the Lt. Colonel’s tunic provided sufficient armor to allow for such candor.

 Samsonov’s storied family history may well have also helped to immunize him from the need to exercise discretion in his political observations. Samsonov’s father had served with distinction in the Great Patriotic War against the Nazis. A distant great uncle was one of the leading generals in the Imperial Army of Tsar Nicholas II. General Samsonov had the misfortune to be ordered to lead an offensive against the much better equipped and trained forces of Kaiser Wilhelm II. When the almost inevitable military debacle did in fact occur, the general took a bullet from his personal sidearm. In the often tortured logic of Marxist philosophy, that suicide was viewed as act of rebellion against the corrupt monarchy. Now, 65 years later, another Samsonov was planning to lead Russian forces into combat. Only this time they would enjoy an overwhelming advantage in tactics and firepower.

Samsonov turned the remainder of the briefing over to one of aides. The bespectacled captain painted a somewhat sobering picture of the military situation in Afghanistan. While Soviet forces had quickly taken control of the major population centers, the countryside remained an unstable no mans land. The scattered opposition groups that had plagued the prior government still roamed much of Afghanistan at will. Pointing to the map, the captain noted that these bandits, (as he called them, apparently unwilling to bestow upon them military status), were especially active in the frontier areas adjacent to the borders of Iran, Pakistan and most worrisome the Central Asian soviet republics. It would take time, the officer noted for the Red Army to help the new government organize and train a loyal and effective military force. Until then, it would largely the responsibility of Soviet forces to disarm these militants and maintain order.

Samsonov’s deputy, Capt. Orlansky, viewed ethnicity, rather than geography as their chief obstacle. Afghanistan as a logical nation-state never made much sense. The land was merely a region that invaders passed through, on the road to some other realm to conquer, be it Alexander the Great marching east, Genghis Khan thrusting west, or Tamerlane trudging south. In more recent times, the British tried to set up a vassal state, if only to guard the approaches to their Indian empire from the avaricious eyes of the Tsars. But the efforts of the English, like so many would be conquerors before them ended in abject failure. An Afghan state did not so much develop as emerge from what was left over by the British, Turkish and Russian empires. Within its sometimes ill defined borders were to be found a kaleidoscope of peoples; Pashtuns, Uzbeks, Tajiks, with a smattering of Kurds, Persians, and Turkomens, not to mention a diverse host of mongrel tribes. The one unifying factor was Islam. Amazingly, a monarchy centered on Kabul had been able to more or less govern Afghanistan for decades. King Zahir, who ascended the throne while in his teens, ruled for over 40 years, successfully playing one power bloc off another through both World War II and much of the Cold War. The king, who was overthrown in a coup in the early seventies, was the last Afghan ruler that enjoyed any sort of legitimacy. Unlike either of his ineffectual successors, both of whom did not survive their downfalls, Zahir was still very much alive, living in quiet, comfortable exile in Italy, showing very little inclination to attempt a return to reclaim his throne, anytime in the foreseeable future. Then again, none of his erstwhile subjects had ever demonstrated much in way of a longing for restoration of the dynasty.

Orlansky noted flatly that the various Afghan ethnic factions, which were more or less geographically distributed, had a long tradition of making and breaking alliances on the spur of the moment. The one thing that generally served to unite these groups was an attempt by the government in Kabul to exert too strong a hand on their local traditions and activities. Generally this meant a crackdown on smuggling and drug trafficking, not to mention efforts to impose taxes. Now, for better or worse, the Red Army was the de facto national government of Afghanistan, a regime that did not even have the illusory bond of Islam with the people. As such it was the one institution that these disparate factions could band together against.

Curiously, the international political situation was much better. While the west had issued cries of outrage, precious little in the way of constructive reaction had occurred. True, admitted Orlansky, the Americans had managed to force a resolution through the UN General Assembly condemning what they termed the Soviet “invasion” of Afghanistan, and though only a handful of nations had joined the Soviet Union in opposing the question, scores of non-aligned nations in Asia and Africa, had abstained; in effect thumbing their noses at the imperialists. As Orlansky jovially noted, UN General Assembly resolutions were meaningless expressions; the only real power that the world body held was in the Security Council, where the Soviet Union had a permanent veto. The Americans were too consumed with their growing embarrassment in Iran to come up with any significant countermeasures. Almost ludicrously, the one American idea that was getting widespread coverage in the international media was a proposed boycott of the summer Olympics to be held in Moscow. Had the Americans and their allies realized just how precarious the Soviet hold presently was on Afghanistan, perhaps they would have been more bold in their thus far timid exhibitions of opposition.

The briefing closes with a few more frank observations from Lt. Colonel Samsonov. “This campaign is nothing about defending international socialism, or coming to the aid of the Afghan people. It is about protecting the security of the Soviet Union. We’ve seen the madness unleashed in Iran. Do we want the green plague of the crescent moon to infect our homeland from Central Asia to the Caucasus region to the Tatar lands along our Volga River?”

Turganov instinctively shuddered at the last rhetorical volley from Samsonov. The young officer was from the historic city of Kazan, capital of the province of Tatarstan. He could not imagine the diverse peoples of the town of his birth setting upon one another in some latter day crusade or holy war.

Many of the officers within Major Karpov’s command were initially excited about their new deployment orders. After the tension of their first few days in Kabul, their mission had become almost routine. The daily reconnaissance flights they undertook over the dirty streets of the Afghan capital monitored little in the way of armed resistance. The greatest risk the helicopter squadron of the 3rd battalion faced were the unpredictable winds, which combined with the dry, dusty terrain, could turn suddenly turn unlimited visibility into a hazy trap. Turganov himself had experienced had experienced a few hard landings due to sudden “dust outs.” To date, one chopper had been lost and three others damaged due to these capricious conditions.

 One particular morning though, Turganov and his comrades thought that they were finally seeing actual combat action. A trio of attack helicopters observed what appeared to be a sustained burst of antiaircraft fire from one district of Kabul. In the lead chopper, Turganov directed the aircraft to launch a coordinated barrage of air to surface missiles to suppress the ground fire. Flying over the smoldering ruins of a block of mud brick hovels, the Lieutenant radioed headquarters that the brief outbreak of resistance had been crushed. A few days later, Turganov and his comrades were presented with the sobering news that the ground fire they had observed was not directed at them, but rather a group of Afghans at a wedding celebration, firing guns into the air as part of some curious tradition. Noting the shock on his subordinates’ faces, Karpov curtly noted “what do you expect from a bunch of savages whose national sport is dragging horse carcasses around a football field.”

Turganov was appalled, though not amazed at his superior’s cold blooded view of civilian casualties. He for one was glad that the unit was moving out of the city, into the northern hinterlands, where everything that moved across the crosshairs of his gunship was fair game.

A month later few men in the 3rd battalion were voicing approval for their new posting in northeastern Afghanistan. While Turganov and many of the other aircrews had trained in high altitude settings in remote Azerbaijan and Armenia, many of their support crews had little experience operating in a light air environment. He and several of his colleagues wondered amongst themselves whether Lt. Colonel Samsonov and his superiors had thought through the notion of positioning an offensive unit into such harsh terrain, in the dead of winter, no less. As one junior officer sarcastically muttered, ‘this wouldn’t be the first time that someone named Samsonov led his troops headlong into disaster’. While the deployment of the aircraft themselves went quickly enough, the transshipment of essential logistical and support components soon fell far behind schedule. Then there were the elements. Though the turbine engines of the attack helicopters, fueled by high octane aviation gasoline, could withstand the altitude and the cold, the diesel engines that powered the unit’s ground vehicles and maintenance equipment proved much less tolerant of the extreme conditions. Neither was many of the younger enlisted man, who had little if any mountain warfare training. The battalion’s sick list became filled with cases of altitude sickness. Without the necessary logistical support, the warriors of the 3rd battalion were effectively grounded. For Lt. Sergei Turganov, the situation had been perfectly encapsulated by a veteran sergeant. On one particularly bitter morning, the NCO opened a canister of lubricating oil and demonstrated to a group of impatient pilots why their aircraft were still not combat ready. Tipping the can upside down, the sergeant and his audience watched and waited and waited some more until a thick, dark rubbery blob slowly oozed out from the opening. “Zhrrrropa” muttered in the sergeant in his guttural Baltic accent. Shit.

Though the 3rd battalion 10th Special Forces regiment had deployed by the first week of February to what they had christened “Forward Base Zhukov”, named in the honor of the greatest Soviet general in World War II, they were not ready to begin combat operations for over a month. While their ground crews feverishly worked to bring their gunships up to at least minimal operational standards, Turganov and his comrades spent much of their time reviewing detailed maps and intelligence reports for the area. The strategy that they were being asked to undertake was bold; in Samsonov’s words “offensive reconnaissance”. Seek out the enemy, draw fire and return it. The Americans had tried a similar approach in Vietnam, noted one officer. They called it “search and destroy” he muttered. Inevitably, the waiting began to erode unit morale. Tempers grew shorter as the days gradually grew longer. Their collective spirits reached a particularly low point when shocking news came from America of all places regarding the stunning upset of the heavily favored Soviet hockey team at the Winter Olympics.

 Finally, the morning came in mid March when the men, the machinery and the weather were all in accord. Standing on the tarmac outside his helicopter, Lt. Turganov looked off into the northeast, watching in awe as the dawn’s early rays illuminated the stone ramparts of the Hindu Kush range. Someone had told him that the name Hindu Kush, which dated back to a time when India tried to subjugate the land of the Afghans, meant slayer of Hindus. Sergei Turganov could not help but wonder if those mountains would soon run crimson, not with the early morning sun, but with the blood of young Russians.

Lyle Brewer – “The Course of Empire”

Harold Richards – “Witness to History”