About Railway Troops

Rails are joined with fishplates and tightened with bolts. Even without recalling the famous writer's story "The Nut", one can easily imagine that under conditions of a total shortage of those very nuts, instead of six bolt pairs there were four or even two—people simply went over to other tracks and unscrewed them there. Meanwhile, trains rushed along the tracks, and cheerful, unsuspecting passengers calmly awaited the end of their journey.

The trackman's most accurate and only tool is the track gauge. It measures the distance between the rails and the height difference. I reckon that since the days of the world's very first kilometers of railways, they could have come up with something better.

Making turns is a curious thing. I never would have guessed if I hadn't seen it myself.

First, the rails are assembled into a track panel on the sleepers, with one rail securely fastened down and the second just lightly tacked on. Then the soldiers, armed with massive crowbars, align the panel into the bend—chanting in unison on the count of one-two: "Dembel, bring it on!" It takes quite a while, but the metal slowly yields, and the panel settles into place as it should. Then, using the gauge and sledgehammers, they set the track width, spike it down—and it's almost done.

That is, the rails are there, but you can't ride on them yet. Because they're simply lying on the sand. A switcher engine rolls in and dumps ballast over the sleepers. Now the track panel is hoisted with jacks, and the work begins with a cheerful tool—the tie tamper.

It weighs anywhere from 24 to 32 kilograms depending on the model; it's electric and vibrates violently. In biting frost, a soldier wielding this contagion without a pea coat starts dripping with sweat after just 15 minutes. Not only is it heavy, but the vibration is an order of magnitude worse than on a chainsaw.

But all of that is behind us, the rails are laid, and trains can start rolling. But that's no big deal—give it a month, and something will sag, wash out, hobos will unscrew the last nut, repeating the immortal feat of the rascal from "Road to Life", and our beloved, mighty babushkas in bright orange vests will arrive here, accompanied by a frail foreman with a blue-tinged face. And life will go on as usual.

Still, I remember the old saying—"what the eye doesn't see, the stomach doesn't grieve over." And that is why I prefer to travel by plane. It's no easier—there are plenty of adventures there too—but that's a story for another time, since it has nothing to do with the Railway Troops.

Dmitry Ibikus 2:5004/16.111 04 Sep 97 22:00:00

About the Railway Troops

Sketch Thirteen. "About Volchek"

Life in the army, despite various funny incidents, is pretty monotonous, and therefore any new events, and especially new people, are always greeted with immense curiosity. This applies particularly to the fresh recruits, upon whom, among other things, one can vent a good deal of accumulated malice.

Volchek arrived as part of a small flock of "geese" (fresh recruits). He was fiercely scrawny, looking as if he would snap in two in any passing breeze. His eyes were black, his hair too. His gaze had an elevated degree of pop-eyed bugginess, and he walked like an infant with a congenital hip dislocation—in short, all the trappings of mild imbecility were plain to see. Upon closer inspection, however, he turned out not to be so simple.

This took place in the escort company, so there was no question of the horrors of the punishment battalion—just a couple of slaps with a mess tin to the "goose" after lights-out, so he wouldn't get cocky and think he had the service all figured out.

After lights-out, the night life of a military unit begins. It differs from the daytime routine just as the official ceremony of a wedding differs from its universally anticipated continuation. That is, the night is much more fun—no officers around, and the soldiers are left to their own devices. At night, the unit is bustling—the duty roster is awake, the staff drivers are awake, both the "geese" and the "grandfathers" (senior soldiers) are awake.

Dark silhouettes dart back and forth from the company barracks to the motor pool.

The grandfathers watch the "Vzglyad" TV show and film projectors all night long, while the geese hustle through the night. After lights-out, the geese are hauled out of bed and given a proper detail lineup—some are set to tidy up, someone scrubs the latrine, someone services the kitchen.

And here we had fresh geese—time to break them in. Breaking-in is done on the latrine.

This craft is not as simple as it sounds. The toilet holes must be scrubbed until they shine, usually with a toothbrush, then disinfected and deodorized. Since air fresheners were impossible to find back then, toothpaste was used as a deodorant—a remarkably effective remedy.

So, Volchek was dispatched to perform this sacred duty. Stepping into the facility an hour later (I was the company duty officer that day), I was stunned by the sight: a gleaming latrine, and on the steps sat Volchek wrapped in a bedsheet, like a white phantom, muttering to himself: "With these toilets, I'm gonna forget all my damn culinary skills..."

Naturally, the talent search contest "Hello, We Are Looking for Talents!" operates in the army around the clock without breaks for lunch or sleep, so I immediately dispatched Volchek and another goose to the kitchen—to cook up some fried potatoes.

Volchek immediately laid eyes on a huge, thirty-liter deep-frying pan. They peeled some potatoes, scavenged about a kilo of meat from somewhere—the cook would be swearing up a storm by morning—and Volchek whipped up such a pan of stewed potatoes with meat that the grandfathers gathered in the mess hall (and it was already two in the morning) called him back for an encore twice—naturally, accompanied by extra servings of potatoes.

Thus did the soldier's culinary talent find a worthy application—though at the cost of chronic sleep deprivation. By the way, it was hilarious watching Volchek teach the Ukrainians how to salt pork fat (salo).

Heartened by such a start, and by the fact that scrubbing latrines was now a thing of the past, an utterly emboldened Volchek even started growing out his hair. For which he was caught by the unit duty officer—orders were given to shave the goose bald!

But surely a goose with a stylish hairdo shouldn't go to waste—in our parts, that was a rare bird, one might even say unique.

We clipped and shaved his head along the sides, leaving a narrow crest of black hair. The remaining mane was spiked up using some hairspray found God knows where. His face was painted with stars using gouache. Over his bare torso we strapped broad, poison-lemon-colored suspenders—someone had been hoarding them for demobilization. These braces held up standard-issue blue underpants. And boots, naturally.

The whole company was rolling on the floor. Punks in the company—that's no laughing matter!

Everything would have been fine, except the assistant operations officer happened to wander into the company quarters—an old-school warrant officer and a communist to the marrow of his bones. Catching sight of such a marvel, the old warrant officer clutched his heart—he had to be rushed to the hospital. By the time the official investigation into the incident took place, Volchek had been shaved bald and scrubbed clean. When asked about a rogue punk roaming around, everyone made wide, innocent eyes. The warrant officer was nearly packed off to a psychiatric ward.

Over time, Volchek ended up in our mechanized battalion, and that should have been the end of him—but a new talent revealed itself, what today would be called NLP. He so thoroughly overloaded the female paramedic with his wild stories that she took him on as an orderly. And more than once I had the chance to hear how Volchek stopped diarrhea and gonorrhea in fellow soldiers with his tall tales—that's the great power of suggestion for you. Who knows, maybe given time he'll turn into a new Kashpirovsky.

These are the kinds of personalities you run into sometimes—it actually makes life interesting!

Dmitry Ibikus 2:5004/16.111 10 Sep 97 21:21:00

About the Railway Troops

Sketch Fourteen — "About the Plumber"

Nicknames surround us our whole lives. They are especially prevalent in places where large crowds gather for extended periods, often people with unstable psyches, or none at all. That is, in schools, vocational trade schools, dormitories. But in the army, they are capable of truly replacing a person's real name, sticking to him so firmly that not only do others forget his actual name, but even he himself doesn't always remember what he was called at birth—so deeply does the damn nickname seep into the blood.

Santekh appeared in the support company a bit later than me—and that nickname immediately stuck to him. He was a "goose" (a green recruit), and so all the hardships and deprivations of army life lay entirely ahead of him.

His most important duty was to empty a huge cesspit, holding about four to five truckloads. To be honest, it was more of a pour-out pit than a dig-out pit, since its contents were more liquid than solid. In short, somewhat pasty.

Sometimes, once a month, an intellectual-looking, bespectacled vacuum-truck driver with two higher education degrees—both in the humanities—would arrive. He would put on long gauntlets and carefully lower the corrugated hose into the back pass... ptui, into the cesspit. Then his truck would do the work while he stood and smoked. As he used to say, these minutes could be the most wonderful in his life, second only to being with a beloved woman. Apparently, it is precisely at moments like these that strokes of poetic genius are written.

Santekh, however, had neither long gauntlets nor a vacuum truck. What he had was a pump, with which he was supposed to pump out the sewage from the cesspit. Because the pump was centrifugal, before starting it, you had to first fill the hose and turbine casing with water, then quickly lower it into the pit and rapidly flip a massive, elbow-long knife switch.

This task required considerable dexterity. Since there was nowhere to get water, it was scooped right from the very same cesspit using a bucket on a rope. To scoop the "water," Santekh would first swirl the bucket on the surface (you can guess for yourself what was floating there) to "skim the cream." The yellowish-brown substance bore little resemblance to cream.

Then the sacred rite began. Santekh would clamp the pump pipe between his legs and pour the "water" from the bucket into the hose. The outer surface of the hose was by no means clean, and a third of the bucket frequently spilled onto Santekh's knees.

The hose's capacity was three buckets. Sometimes, starting the pump properly only worked on the third or fifth attempt. In case of failure, the water would drain out before the pump engaged, and everything had to start all over again.

Having drawn the water, Santekh would quickly throw the hose into the sludge and sprint for all he was worth to the switch. If he made it in time, the pit would be drained in about an hour, only to fill up again in a couple of days. Naturally, when throwing the pipe into the pit, foamy splashes of an undeniably unappetizing color would fly out, lavishly dousing Santekh in the process.

Santekh reeked. Thank God, he had the sense to work in spare fatigues, and that after this procedure, washing up wouldn't be a bad idea. But that wasn't always how it went.

Once, his mother came to visit him, and not alone, but with his "beloved girlfriend."

And as luck would have it, the pit overflowed just as he had put on his dress uniform. Whether it was universal bad luck or the guy was simply intoxicated by happiness, that time he set a record—seven attempts at throwing the hose into the pit. I don't know what his mother said, but as for the girl... well, history remains silent on that.

Once, tired of cleaning the toilets in the headquarters women's restroom, Santekh hung a sign on the door: "Dear women, do not throw cotton wool into the toilet bowls." For this, he received seven days in the brig, where he continued his nightman skills training. There, he and five other wretches were forced to clean the garrison cesspool—and this one was exclusively from the latrine, meaning it had no diluting agents like dishwater. According to him, the layer of human crap reached the waist and went up to the armpits "in the deep spots." He himself claimed that this was healthier than a morning bath in fresh warm milk. Maybe he was right—who knows.

Once, Santekh was ordered to paint the summer outdoor shower black. A summer shower consists of a few barrels on a frame, a perforated funnel at the bottom, and a wooden grate to stand on. Plus plywood walls on three sides—protection more from the wind than from prying eyes.

Someone gave him the bright idea to use "free" paint: bitumen thinned with diesel fuel. If anyone ever advises you to do that—kick them out and spit in their eye. For this "paint" never dries; it smears for years and melts in the sun. Furthermore, it stinks, and dust and sand stick to it.

In short, after that paint job, the grate and walls had to be replaced entirely. Who said there are no Negroes in Siberia? We had them. After painting, Santekh looked like a classic Moor—pitch-black and glistening all over. After an unsuccessful attempt to scrub it off with washing powder, Santekh tried rolling around in the sand. The result exceeded expectations—true, down feathers would have been better, but lacking that...

Later, this wonder-beast was brought to the vehicle depot, where, with the help of two buckets of gasoline, they finally managed to wash the Moor clean. Nearby, the depot duty officer strolled with a cigarette, asking if anyone needed their back scrubbed.

In the end, they washed him down. Though it wasn't easy. But there's nothing to laugh at here—the guy had, you might say, found his calling in life...

Dmitry Ibikus 2:5004/16.111 17 Sep 97 20:31:00

About the Railway Troops.

Sketch Fifteen: "The Tale of How the Uzbeks Ate Porridge."

Many people love to travel, visit different places, gaze at the wonders of nature and man-made beauty, and see a variety of nations. But where else, if not in the army, can you get to know nearly a hundred different peoples, learn the inner workings of their souls, and understand their lives—even if torn away from their roots?

The political officers, known as zampolits, had instructional brochures titled "On the Specifics of Interacting with Southern Nationalities." Unfortunately, I don't have that pamphlet right now, but its contents were a pure masterpiece.

Every nation has its own national quirks, as it seems from the outside. We all seem funny to one another. Worse is when we seem savage, cruel, or stupid.

Although that is not the case.

Once, a batch of Uzbeks arrived at our training regiment. And they were about as raw as they come—straight out of the remote kishlaks. As for city folk, you could say their education was on par with the average Russian. But these guys were from the deepest local boondocks.

There were about twenty-five of them, so the decision was made to gather them all into a single platoon. So as not to, you know, disrupt unity.

They marched them to lunch. And as bad luck would have it, the soup had "bacillus"—pork lard. The first question asked by the newly arrived warriors was: "Whose meat is this?"

Upon hearing about the pig, they pushed their bowls away on the spot. And the sergeants, seeing that the soup had been left untouched, didn't give the command to eat the second course—they just got the platoon on their feet and marched them out. So went lunch.

For dinner, they served (oh, the horror!) rice porridge. Here, the famished Uzbek boys, salivating instantly, dug into the meal at once, and according to all the proper traditions of eating rice pilaf. Meaning, with their hands.

It must be noted: right before this, these fine warriors had been very successfully training in scaling the "ebun-gora" (the grueling steep hill), located in the immediate vicinity of the motor-pool latrine. Meaning their hands were far from fresh.

Seeing such sacrilege, the sergeants got the platoon on their feet again and marched them to the washstand—only the most agile warrior managed to stuff a sticky clump of rice, soaked in cooking fat, straight into his trouser pocket.

But what is hidden always comes to light—and the whole platoon ended up doing push-ups on the asphalt while the hapless hoarder ate the porridge. Naturally, until he finished it, everyone kept pushing the deck.

Naturally, educational work was conducted regarding the purpose of cutlery. Surprisingly, almost the entire platoon was familiar with a spoon and fork—yet it was noted that rice can only be eaten with hands, and a spoon only ruins the taste. If the sewage running abundantly down the slope of that hill could be called seasoning, then why call a pig unclean? Sure, a piggy eats its own shit, seen it myself plenty of times, but people aren't any better!

And since rice porridge was on the horizon for at least another couple of weeks, events followed a well-trodden path. At lunch, the warriors went without due to their refusal to eat pork soup; at dinner, upon any attempt to grab rice by the handful, the whole platoon was raised from the table.

This went on for about five days. The homemade mutton pasties had run out, and the warriors were a wild sight. Over five days of starvation, the already skinny Uzbek boys grew gaunt and acquired the look of chronic, primary dietary deficit.

And then the dam broke. One of the local ringleaders dipped his spoon into the soup once, twice—and everyone grabbed their spoons in unison. By evening, spoons were adopted as standard issue, and the rice was eaten strictly according to the rules—now universally accepted ones.

A couple of weeks later, prejudices were done away with, and the platoon was wolfing down pork lard without a second thought.

The second funny incident happened during an attempt to figure out the newcomers' linguistic abilities.

To the question of who spoke Russian, only two hands went up. The rest shook their heads in denial. It's what's known as "playing dumb."

Then another question was asked: who wants to be a driver? Now, driving a vehicle in the army is often a prestigious post. Consequently, absolutely every hand shot up. Well, how about that—deepest kishlak or not, they hadn't skimped on buying a driver's license.

And right then the lieutenant holding the debrief dropped a hint: "Alright, you and you, since you speak Russian, you'll be the drivers."

Instantly, EVERYONE started speaking Russian!

I remember having an Uzbek buddy once. Great guy. One day he got a parcel. We popped the lid and were stunned—inside was a thoroughly blended mix of hard candies, cookies, walnuts, peanuts, dried crabapples, and similar goods. When asked why it was like that, he explained: so that the barracks bullies wouldn't snatch up all the good stuff right away. That way, the pushy guys wouldn't bother digging through crushed cookies, and everyone would get some candy... A little bit at a time... But that's not about nationality anymore...

Jokes aside, parcels were indeed shaken down ruthlessly. First by the officers, then by the barracks brass. So the recipient was often left with very little. Granted, even from what remained, the owner would only take what was necessary—the rest had to be put out for the communal feeding frenzy, to be eaten along with everyone else. There was no other way...

Dmitry Ibikus 2:5004/16.111 20 Sep 97 19:32:00

About the Railway Troops

Picture Sixteen: "On His Majesty Bromine-Compote"

Throughout our conscious lives, we are quite literally surrounded by gorgeous members of the fairer sex. Or maybe we are the ones surrounding them.

Well, anyway, it doesn't matter. What matters is that humans are wired for reproduction, and, accordingly, equipped with the mechanism to trigger it—the so-called libido.

This instinct is a magnificent thing—and how could we do without it? Humanity would have simply gone extinct. It's not for nothing that the absence of this essential drive is considered a disorder, one that gets treated, often unsuccessfully.

Yet there is one place where this very spark of the human race is fought against quite successfully. The Army. Why? Let me explain.

Once you find yourself in the training unit, a persistent sense of unreality hangs over everything. As in: "I'll just pinch myself right now, wake up from this nightmare, in my own bed; Mom will make me breakfast, and I'll head off to college to see my girlfriend."

Pinch yourself all you want—till you bleed—you won't wake up, she won't make you breakfast, and you won't go. Because Mom, the bed, breakfast, and the girlfriend are three thousand kilometers away.

So, one day I caught that feeling when it finally dawned on me that every single person around me—and there were quite a few—had legs that were pitch black up to their knees. In other words, boots. I shut my eyes, opened them—everything was still there, nothing changed, everyone was still wearing boots. It felt like my roof was slowly sliding off.

The second realization: there were zero female specimens present here. None. At all.

That was precisely what our commanding officers were fighting against: the risk that youthful nature, rising to the occasion, would find a target in the form of the officers' daughters. (Oh, that's a whole separate story—about the daughters :) ).

There are several ways to fight it. For instance, the theory of "bromine-compote" is widespread in the ranks. Namely, that they lace soldier beverages with bromine—to pacify their flesh. Mostly the foreskin.

I don't know if there's any truth to that, but while serving on kitchen duty and as duty officer, I never once spotted a malicious medic pouring evil bromine into the compote or kissel with sadistic cackles.

I don't know about other places, but in our unit, it resolved itself simply.

Male individuals, especially in their prime, often catch themselves noticing that their business down below takes on larger dimensions and a somewhat different stance than at rest. And you don't even necessarily need to ogle female legs for that. It happens periodically, and quite often, all on its own.

Yet upon entering the army, everything changed—nothing stirred for anybody. Not even when catching sight of the officers' tender daughters. The libido was just gone, period. Vanished without a trace. Days and weeks went by, and—nothing! You could have had a belly dancer right in front of you, and you'd just sit there like a hundred-year-old grandfather trying to recall how many seeds are in a hybrid apple. Just like that starving rooster who gave up treading hens.

That was when the rumors about bromine-compote started spreading. But soon, they cleared up.

The time came to take the oath. And many were visited by their mothers and other family members. Naturally, they brought various delicacies—smoked sausages, Tambov hams, and all kinds of sweets. Everyone got something—everyone ate their fill. I remember I got a bit of pastila, half a ring of dry-cured sausage, and some Georgians shared that grape leather stuff. Great thing, I must tell you!

And in the dead of night, the warriors were woken up by their feet freezing. The erections were powerful, and if the blankets had been tied to the beds, the entire company would have had to start darning them.

The next morning, the platoon gathered and decreed that it was the malnourishment that had been to blame. Though there were a few other reasons as well.

A minimum of six hours of running and workouts, 2–3 hours of drill practice, being torn away from home—combined with starvation, this crushed all sexuality, and right at the root.

The parents left, and the men grew even more homesick than before—meaning everything went limp again. But time went on, the body adapted, and everything returned to normal.

In other words, in our case, the legend about bromide in the compote was not confirmed—it was all much simpler.

Dmitry Ibikus 2:5004/16.111 26 Sep 97 20:15:00

About the Railway Troops.

Picture seventeen — "Comrade Sergeant, I gotta pee!".

Practically every normal human being possesses a certain set of instincts that allow them to exist in society without being cast out in disgrace. Among these is, for example, the ability to relieve oneself. A child who has learned to do this independently feels proud of himself.

Let us not speak of those suffering from enuresis, or those dodging service by faking this affliction—that is a separate conversation, interesting in its own right. Instead, let us talk about how perfectly healthy young men are often forced to resemble infants incapable of controlling themselves.

As I have already mentioned, meals in the training unit are held under the sergeant’s command—he determines when you may move from one "course" to the next. To a normal person, this might seem savage—but alas, that is only the appetizer. The real treats, as always, lie ahead.

Picture the scene. Six in the morning, the most wretched foreboding of reveille. It is bizarre in itself—you always wake up about five minutes before the wake-up call, anticipating a new, harrowing day. Then the fluorescent light tubes flicker on, soldiers begin to stir. Then the company orderly barks: "Company, fall out, dress code two!"

Meaning, you have to quickly, in some 40–50 seconds, pull on your trousers, wrap your footwraps, and shove your boots onto feet that haven’t even recovered from yesterday.

The sergeants shove the stragglers out by the scruff of their necks. After sleeping, many are seized by violent shivering—no wonder, it’s six degrees Celsius outside, and a bare torso is clearly not suited for such weather.

But the main thing, of course, is the bladder. In the morning, nobody is let into the latrine, as a rule, even though they should be. What’s more, the company orderly usually doesn’t let anyone into the latrine during the second half of the night either—because it’s already been scrubbed, and must stay spotless for the company commander's arrival.

So—you snooze, you lose! The most cunning manage to visit a hiding spot—ducking behind the barracks. But that’s only if you managed to get dressed before everyone else—and there lies the advantage. The nimble one wins everywhere. There aren't many like that—maybe a dozen per company. It goes especially hard for the sluggish boys from the villages.

The company sprints out through the gates of the base. And it’s a long run—our daily morning physical training is six kilometers. Add to that an overflowing bladder and footwraps slipping down your boots, and, understandably, things get rather bleak. It isn't just unpleasant—it's painful and humiliating. Even though there is forest all around, sergeants run along the flanks and the rear of the column, making it practically impossible to just step out of formation. Well, it is possible—a bit later, having learned the route, I managed to slip away from the column quite successfully, cut roughly half the path, and breathe some fresh air along the way. And what nature was there! In summer, the mushrooms were endless! Porcini, chanterelles, brown birch boletes—take as much as you want!

But again, that was for those who cheated. The law-abiding ones suffered.

And so, after running through such an ordeal, the men are finally allowed into the latrine. The throughput of the company latrine is six squat holes. The real capacity is half that. Three holes are off-limits to cadets—those are for sergeants, the dembel, the ded, and the goose. Starting from the window. You cannot take them—at the very least you’ll get punched in the face.

And still—after everything endured, freeing oneself from that sacred burden is pure, indescribable bliss. Completely comparable to an orgasm, in fact. Don't believe me? Try it yourself!

The day passes, and evening comes. Before taps—evening roll call. And after that—you have to make it again, but that’s not simple either. You have to march up to the sergeant with a parade step, salute, and ask: "Comrade Sergeant, permission to use the latrine."

It wouldn't be so bad—but when the whole platoon starts asking for the same thing, the sergeant gets fed up and barks a stern "After taps!"

Yet even after taps, you might not manage it. As long as officers are in the company area, soldiers must sleep, not wander the corridors. Consequently, the latrine is locked until one or two in the morning.

Which means you have to wake up, get up, and overcome all the hurdles. Not everyone can do that. You have to have an internal clock—and simply push past yourself, get out of that lovely bunk, wearing only an undershirt and underpants, boots on your feet (quite a look, by the way!), and head into the latrine, which is ventilated through large open windows all night long—so it doesn't stink...

Having read The Gulag Archipelago, I was struck—there was so much familiar! For nothing in this world disappears without a trace; taking on different forms, senseless cruelty continues to live on.