Dmitry Ibikus — About the Railway Troops

Dmitry Ibikus

About the Railway Troops

Dmitry Ibikus 2:5004/16.111 21 Sep 97 17:30:00

About the Railway Troops

Picture One – "Morning in the Company"

It's a fact. But for our mech-battalion, those drying rooms were heaven on earth. Because in winter, the temperature in the barracks dropped to -8°C. And only in the drying room did the local kingpins sleep, completely out of their minds with insolence. As a rule, not very fair-skinned and with eyes not opened very wide.

And in the company, pure misery. Fungus on the feet, lice on the body. Pathetic, filthy wrecks, dreading the cold, slept fully dressed—which is a surefire way to get infested with lice. At night, one could hear the constant gnashing of teeth and the scratching of bodies unwashed since autumn, interspersed with the popping of unripe nits under fingernails.

The only way to avoid getting lice was to place your bunk right under a half-shattered window, and sleep stripping off your uniform for the night, covering yourself not only with two blankets, but also with a mattress and a greatcoat. A bit heavy to sleep under, but cozy. Granted, by morning a small snowdrift would pile up under the bunk. Snow blew right into your boots, too.

In the morning, about five downtrodden wretches would shuffle out, scratching themselves, to fetch the floor-mopping tool. The tool consisted of two sticks with a crossbar—a sort of great-grandfather of the mop. Wrapped around the bottom stick was a rag that looked as though it had already wiped down every single excavator and bulldozer in the company. The rag was never replaced or washed; simply, when it disintegrated on its own, a new one was wrapped on.

This instrument was periodically dipped into a bucket of sludge—you couldn't call that water. Then it was dragged across the floor. How strenuous this effort was, I don't know, but the lads carried out the operation with torment etched on their faces, crushing along the way any lice that hadn't been squashed overnight—a pointless endeavor, since far more were clearly being born. The point wasn't to actually wash the floor; the important thing was to show that it was wet. Nobody was going to scrub it clean anyway—in a year or two, another layer of Soviet "linoleum" would be laid on top.

Speaking of the washroom—since the latrines were outside, and it was -30°C out there, people took leaks right in the washbasins. You can imagine the stench by morning!

Around 8 o'clock, the rest of the mob would get up—staggering, they'd trudge toward the mess hall. In the mess hall, they served mashed, peel-ridden potato mush, frostbitten boiled fish complete with guts, and bread that clung entirely to the knife whenever anyone tried to slice it. The crowd would halt at an imaginary line, then charge on command, sweeping away everything in their path. Whatever you could snatch—a bowl of fish, half a loaf of bread, rotten spuds—that's what you ate. Nobody was going to share—there was no such concept.

Speaking of taste—the cauldrons were periodically washed with kerosene, so one could only guess at the true flavor of the food; which, by the way, was probably for the best.

Dmitry Ibikus 2:5004/16.111 21 Sep 97 17:30:00

About the Railway Troops

Picture Two – "About the Crappers"

Let us begin, perhaps, with the hospital. That hospital was situated near our garrison in a small wood. Just an ordinary birch grove: on the left, a railway line; on the right, an asphalt road. Chugging diesel locomotives rolled along one, while even smokier KrAZ trucks rumbled along the other. The ambiance, naturally, matched.

The hospital had been assembled from prefab slatted panels. The joints were supposed to be plugged with tow, but the building had been put together by demob-bound soldiers on a rush contract, so there was no tow whatsoever. Since there was also no central heating, little cast-iron stoves stood in the wards, and soldiers went into the woods for firewood. In winter. In their underwear and hospital robes. In slippers on bare feet. In -37°C frost.

Thank God, I didn't have to lie there during that time myself; I ended up in surgery for a medical board examination, and since I wasn't particularly sick and had already served my first year, I didn't overexert myself with anything. And, thank God, I had support.

Next to surgery was the infectious disease ward, known colloquially as "the Crappers." And they are our subject.

How does one end up among "the Crappers"? Quite easily, in fact: summertime, heat over 30°C, no Coke or Pepsi—couldn't possibly be, nothing around but rails and ballast. Often, water isn't delivered at all, and if it is, it's drawn from cattle burial pits. At least, its taste and smell pointed unequivocally to that. If no water was brought at all, the soldiers sipped water from puddles—replete with various infusoria, paramecia, and sergeant's boots.

After a week or two (or three), wild diarrhea kicks in, still bloodless at first. The entire contents of the bowel fly out in two to three hours, and after that, it's just pure water. In other words, front and back are identical. Mind you, no water comes out the front anymore—the body is severely dehydrated. The crapper has to drink a liter every 15–20 minutes and immediately sprint to the squat toilet—just like a duck. Then the diarrhea turns bloody. If measures aren't taken, a fatal outcome is entirely possible.

Such a crapper is brought to the hospital in an open-bed truck, because an enclosed one is strictly out of the question (guess why). At the hospital, he is issued a set of underwear. Soldier's underwear: an undershirt and long johns. In this establishment, they fundamentally have no buttons, so the warrior trudges across the dusty, trampled yard of the infectious ward holding up his pants with one hand. Since they don't make it to the latrine in time every time, naturally, the back of the long johns sports a delicate yellow streak. Clothing is changed once a week; there is almost no water. The odor corresponds.

The main structure in the infectious ward is the latrine. A formidable latrine, about seven holes, but there are never enough. There's an endless queue for it—and still, not everyone makes it. Every day, an entire bucket of bleach is dumped into the latrine; it stings your eyes clear across the yard—this ain't Comet.

How are the crappers treated? There are severe crappers—the ones who just arrived. They are treated with a savage dose of antibiotics, ensuring dysbiosis for years to come. Then they are given pine needle infusions to drink. As soon as a patient begins to get up and move around the yard, the most interesting part begins: occupational therapy. Group Number One hauls bricks from Point A to Point B; Group Number Two carries them back. All day, from morning till evening. A group of "cocky ones" makes sure nobody takes fewer than six bricks. What six bricks (silicate, white ones!) mean to a man who couldn't even stand on his feet yesterday—the Germans in concentration camps were probably gentler.

An offender is punished either by hauling bricks at a run, or with the "little shovel." The little shovel is a large scoop shovel: you scoop up cement with it (about ten kilos) and run across the yard. If the cement spills (and the wind scatters it), you have to run all over again.

How are the crappers fed? They aren't fed. Food is contraindicated for them. That is, they are entitled to rations, but those are eaten by the very same gang of "cocky ones" who have lived there for ages and perform the "duties" of orderlies and nurses. Naturally, they don't work—the patients work for them. So the maximum a crapper gets in a day is a spoonful of last year's potatoes, mashed with water. No salt! And a quarter-mug of tea without sugar. There isn't enough dishware for everyone; they eat in turns. Sanitation, my ass!

How do the crappers amuse themselves?

Oh, the amusements are broad and diverse: playing "snail" (crawling across the corridor floor) and choral push-ups with a synchronized cadence chant of "One-two, look how swole I got, look how fucked up I am!" After lights-out, patients train by raising their legs to forty-five degrees and holding them there for five minutes. Anyone who wants to, go ahead and try it! If someone drops their legs, the entire ward has to hold them for another five minutes. Discipline through the collective!

How do the crappers get discharged?

When a crapper finally decides he has recovered—which he decides on the very first day of intensive occupational therapy—he must take a dump on a piece of paper and present it to the doctor. If the doctor determines that the stool is sufficiently firm and dark, and smells accordingly, the patient (oh, joy!) is discharged. Buying stool was extremely common: whoever had firmer shit would crap on a paper, and someone else would bring it to show as his own. Deception was punished harshly: another week of treatment. There were NO lab tests whatsoever!

Let's summarize. The average crapper, staying for two weeks, lost 15–25 kilograms. Anyone who underwent three weeks looked like a Buchenwald inmate—and not without reason.

Overall, the system was engineered so that life wouldn't seem sweet. But then, the warriors did swear an oath—to steadfastly endure all the hardships and privations of military service...

P.S. Well, that's about it for today.

And whoever listened will draw conclusions, and won't go...
drinking water from a puddle. :-)

Dmitry Ibikus 2:5004/16.111 19 Aug 97 21:36:00

About the Railway Troops.

Since the storytelling style has taken shape, and there are still so many topics, I'll simply number these little narratives.

So, Picture 3: "About the Patrol".

Since there was a whole garrison of troops, and nobody dealt with democracy or protecting servicemen back then, the soldiers had to be guarded. First and foremost — from themselves.

That is, brought in from Central Asia, the Caucasus, and other regions far from Siberia, the railway soldiers were straining to break free. Understandably so — a guy came down from the mountains for salt, got caught, shipped off to where there's either snow or midges, shoved into cramped barracks, and forced to build some railroad whose purpose he never managed to grasp.

Moreover, outside the military unit there dwelt certain creatures whose numbers in the mountains were clearly insufficient, and they were called by the barely comprehensible word "wumman"!

The third reason why the personnel — so to speak, the top achievers of combat and political training (a title hard to overestimate, since these fighters had only seen an assault rifle on a wall chart, and their grasp of politics was at the level of "So that's what you look like, northern reindeer") — strained for freedom was purely gastronomic. For the food in the mess hall, though high in calories, could hardly be called tasty. Whereas at the tea room, besides cutlets and sour cream, there was also bread.

So yeah, folks of all skin colors and shades of eyes and hair (who said we didn't have people with black skin?) were itching to flood the city, which, though a regional center, was clearly too small for such a number of hungry soldiers' eyes, stomachs, and genitals. And therefore — it had to be dealt with. Which was assigned to a certain patrol platoon.

The job was simple — drive around in a GAZ-66 with flashing lights, catch soldiers in and out of uniform, and deliver them to the local stockade. But since the stockade was already overcrowded in those days, and active construction was underway in our unit, they brought them to us instead.

The re-education program was as follows.

1. Shakedown — all piercing and cutting objects, buttons, drawstrings, belts, and headgear are confiscated.
2. Pre-work warm-up. 1.5–3 hours of running in circles around the parade ground — under the scorching sun. If a detainee acted defiantly, his footwraps were taken away. There were cases where sand was poured into their boots. The guards were humane — they didn't pour salt.
3. After this procedure, during which the guard would periodically take a swig from his flask, push-ups began with the signature chant — going down: "How swollen I am," pushing up: "How fucked up I am." The number of push-ups started at 70–100.
4. Water procedures. "Anyone wanting a drink, step out of formation," the command rang out, and first-timers foolishly stepped forward. They had to drink from the company toilets. And not from the tanks, but directly from the toilet bowl itself — its design allowed their lips to touch the slurry. They were permitted to flush — "for coolness."

Cocky types, unwilling to be humiliated like that, tried throwing punches — retribution was swift. A troublemaker would be tied up and shoved headfirst into the toilet, where he'd stay resting until anyone who felt like it relieved themselves on his head.

5. Sufficiently warmed up, the crowd could finally get down to actual work. The work was simple — grab more, throw farther, and the methods matched — both the "little shovel" and brick-carrying records. Moreover, the quota was given to the guards: if the detainees didn't finish what was required, the guards would have to do it after lunch. Another matter was that 3–4 soldiers had to haul out chunks of asphalt and rocks so huge my YuMZ tractor couldn't lift them — and that's saying something!
6. After such a "fasting day," the detainees were driven back to their units, only to get another 3–5 days in the stockade there. By then, they had to be carried into the truck.

All in all, 4 to 10 hours under the sun, without a drop of water, without food. This regimen will pleasantly brighten up your leisure time and serve as a splendid occasion to shed excess kilograms — along with years of your life.

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Dmitry Ibikus 2:5004/16.111 22 Aug 97 22:35:00

About the Railway Troops.

Picture Four. "About a Junior Sergeant and His Scrape-avator."

Like many "junior commanders" who graduated from the training regiment, we were dispatched to distant battalions. Whoever got lucky with where they landed — or rather, had no luck at all.

Let me explain in detail. At the training regiment, they try to teach a soldier (though there they call him a cadet) how to command and operate some kind of machinery. Since all that was required of the railway battalions was to meet the quota for laying embankments or assembling track, this matter was quite pressing. It must be said, they taught very well — far better than many vocational schools, even. The facilities were wonderful, plenty of hands-on practice, and best of all — there was nowhere to escape. Study whether you want to or not.

And I say "tried" because quite a few cadets had little aptitude for Russian speech in particular, or human speech in general. They'd have been better off still hanging upside down from trees and stuffing their faces with bananas. Though I never did see a single tail. Those who had already climbed down from the tree and were at least capable of understanding Russian were gathered into separate platoons and given two "snots" on each shoulder. "Junior Sergeant" — "Juniah."

And so, having marched out the prescribed half-year and learned a thing or two, the little soldiers awaited their postings with trepidation. The posting consisted of being sent out across cities and villages. Mostly not cities, truth be told.

In the company, with dark humor, they used to sing a parody song:

"Quiet in the woods — only the boar can't sleep,
The boar knows he's headed to BAM,
That's why the boar can't sleep."

The funniest part is that we had a Borya Kabanov, and he went straight to BAM. Apparently, they sang that little song at headquarters too. For anyone who doesn't know what BAM is, I'll explain separately later. Older folks know — the "Baikal-Amur Mainline." One glance at a map tells you plenty. The Kolyma region isn't all that far away either...

All in all, while we didn’t end up on the BAM, it wasn’t Crimea either—Siberia, albeit Western Siberia; a battalion, though right on the outskirts of the city.

About ten of us arrived there—myself, that very same K., another sergeant with a Ukrainian last name, a young and hot-tempered Chechen whom I’d managed to buddy up with on the train—pulled him out from under the train car’s wheels—and a few cheerful Georgians.

Well, the Chechen went with the Chechens, the Georgians with the Georgians, but where were we supposed to go? So there we sat, crestfallen, in the basement headquarters on our duffel bags, while arrogant Azeris, Chechens, and people of various other ethnicities—names I couldn’t even pronounce—wandered around in slippers. And they were jabbering in their own tongues—a Tolkien fan would say it sounded like the Black Speech of Mordor, all plosive vowels, croaking like rooks—unbearable, truly.

On the very first night, around three in the morning, the first attempt was made to "break" someone in. That is, a newly arrived soldier, despite his rank stripes, is woken up with an order to sew on a collar lining, do laundry, or do something else for whichever cocky senior soldier demands it.

After telling them to fuck off and earning a split lip for my trouble, I went back to sleep. Fighting in such a situation is useless—you just have to stay silent and do nothing. They’ll go find someone else. If you submit the first time, you doom yourself to penal servitude. By the way, being woken up in the middle of the night is psychologically terrifying—the one roused only wants to sleep, trembles all over, and is completely incapable of resisting. That is, even if a man could fight back during the day, here there won't be any resistance.

K., unfortunately, decided to avoid conflict. That meant he sewed the collar lining for the swaggering soldier and went back to sleep, thinking that would be the end of it. Yeah, right.

In the morning, he was ceremoniously handed a mop—or rather, a makeshift substitute made of two unplaned planks with oily rags wrapped around them. The situation could still have been saved—yet he set to scrubbing the floor, or rather, smearing around a layer of grease a finger thick. Which meant that now, in front of the entire company, he had solemnly proclaimed himself broken.

Well, alright, life doesn't stand still; a week passed like that, and finally, K. was given his own excavator. The machine he got was wonderful—a miracle of modern engineering, though of ancient design. It was called an EO-10011. Basically, a giant cab on tracks that, if you got lucky, could push the rig up to a blazing two kilometers per hour. Since it crawled along so slowly, the operator would usually tie down the lever with wire and go about his business—you could even visit the local ladies while it crawled along. True, mishaps happened sometimes—when trying to climb a mound, the lock pin would shear off, and instead of crawling forward, the rotating platform would start spinning wildly—standing in place and horribly swinging its boom around. Impossible to approach! And that would continue until the diesel tank ran dry! A pure circus!

So anyway, they let K. loose on the digger—and he fell in love with it like a woman. They told him: load the KrAZ trucks with ballast. Well, so he loaded. With ballast.

And this, it must be said, was in winter. The frosts were fierce—down to forty below. This was how our K. took his meals:

A PM (mobile workshop truck) would arrive at the station, which served as the mess hall. Inside, there was a table, thermoses with tea or meat compote (worms floating around), porridge, and some semblance of soup. The warriors would climb inside, eat from the local plates, and clear out. There weren't enough plates for everyone, so they took turns eating—naturally, who was going to wash them?

Our K., however, had scrounged a shallow washbasin somewhere; he’d pour soup and porridge into it, and top it off with tea. To somehow achieve at least a semblance of uniformity, all this would be stirred together. Then he’d dart out into the freezing cold and dash back to his iron friend. It was about a three-hundred-meter run, so this gastronomic monstrosity would get coated with a thin crust of ice, and he’d have to thaw it out on the engine—but K. was happy. And indeed—the food of the gods, when there's nothing else around.

I remember once during the winter, I picked up a frozen, large apple off the rails and devoured it with great appetite. By the way, highly recommended.

K. slept like this: next to the engine, on the iron floor, lay a small mattress, stuffed back in the spring by some kind demob soldier with assorted rags mixed with straw. That’s where he slept. It should be noted that diesel engines from past eras constantly seeped fuel oil in all its forms and directions, and it had a habit of dripping onto K. while he slept. The service fuel tank was mounted right under the ceiling, which didn’t do much to deodorize K.’s rather intimate bunk either. Until spring, the machine's engine was never shut off, so apparently, it was warm to sleep—albeit somewhat loud. The engine farts, chains clatter, the torque converter howls—Dante's Inferno in miniature.

Once every two weeks, K. arranged a wash-down—he would heat water on the engine and try to wipe himself down with a rag. Although I don't really believe it. As for the filth found there, it wasn't just fuel oil—it was also ballast, consisting of gravel and asbestos. The fine asbestos dust sticks wonderfully to fuel oil.

Once a day, a fuel tanker would drive up to the excavator. The excavator operator would shove the hose into the tank, and the diesel, once the tank filled up, would often shoot out in a powerful geyser straight up—right onto the operator (by the way, I didn’t manage to escape that pleasure once either—try it sometime, you'll love it!).

Speaking of the work—the work was simple: pull the levers and stomp on the brake pedals.

In short, everyone in the company had practically forgotten about K., when suddenly—oh, the horror!—his beloved and only excavator broke down! And he was brought back to the company. After three months of Robinson Crusoe life! If only he’d found himself a Friday out there or something.

Good God! You had to see it to believe it! His clothes were a blackish-gray. If he tried to sit on a stool, diesel fuel started dripping onto the floor from K. His hair was ash-colored, streaked in places with patches of engine grease. Three months of stubble! He’d managed to lose his pea coat and was wearing some kind of woman's jacket, tied together with a once-colorful scarf due to the lack of buttons.

He hadn’t combed his hair that entire time. He practically hadn’t washed—the only reason he didn't have lice was that there weren’t any in the excavator beforehand. The soles of his felt boots were completely worn away; the boots were wrapped in some rags and tied with wire.

His face had a bluish tint—the blue actually peeked out from under layers of ash-black grime. Ballast was crusting out from under his eyelids. We won't even mention the smell.

He moved like a chicken—jerky head turns, a slight tremor in his hands.

In short, we washed him in the boiler room with a blast of hot water, scrubbed him with ash, and shaved him with clippers (his beard at first, too). We didn't even bother washing his clothes—we just found some old rags.

He came out looking somewhat human—had he been French, he would have said, "Charmant, blyat!"

What a fate, for a man to be born in the USSR and end up in a railway battalion. Turned into a savage.

"Man—the word has a proud ring to it!" Yeah, right. Plenty to be proud of.

Dmitry Ibikus 2:5004/16.111 22 Aug 97 23:34:00

About the Railway Troops.

Pouring some tea, I begin the tale of picture number five—"About the Vertushka."

The first time I heard that word in the battalion, I remembered the shuttle bus that used to take us to vocational training. As it turned out, I was almost right. It really does carry things. But—not people...

The "vertushka" [shuttle train] in our battalion was something akin to a religion. And at the same time, the pinnacle of communist labor. It united everyone and leveled everyone—be it the lowest rookie or the senior major.

A "vertushka" is a relatively short train of about 30–40 (and sometimes 60) cars, hauled by a shunting diesel locomotive out of the quarry. These cars are called "dump cars." In principle, this is a remarkable feat of engineering. A dump body is mounted onto a frame, tipping over to the side. Dump cars come in small and large varieties: 60 and 70 cubic meters. Factoring in density, that comes out to about a hundred tons per car. This thing is loaded with a magical mixture called ballast. It’s used to bed the tracks. Ballast consists of fine-to-medium crushed stone and asbestos. Nowadays we know that asbestos is a carcinogen. That said, they didn't use it any less in the USSR.

The dump car is loaded with ballast, then the vertushka arrives at the station, and the cars dump their load to the side, into a long pit stretching the full length of the train. In the pit, a massive 56-ton Komatsu bulldozer moves back and forth. It scrapes the dumped ballast into a mound at the end of the pit. An excavator sits there, loading the ballast into KrAZ trucks. The KrAZes distribute the ballast across the station.

They meant well, but it turned out the way it always does.

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