Luka 04 - Twisted Yarn
“That Jenny,” I said, “She’s a proper stuck up bitch. Didn’t even offer us a tea.”
The speed and intensity of the invasion was totally different to the posting in Syria. Here, up against a “near peer” we had every chance of being blown out of the sky then minced on the ground. We were all watching videos on Telegram of what appeared to be atrocities that the Ukrainian troops were filming and circulating on their own channels. As the campaign worsened and developed, I saw someone stabbing one of our POWs in the eyes and chest while screaming at him, POWs being beaten and shot in the legs, and one Ukrainian who was fully identified shooting several unarmed, captive Russian soldiers in the head as they lay face down on the ground.
We left that first contact with Battle Charlie and Heavy 14 for Rally 68, a forward helicopter and ground unit refuel and resupply point. It was protected by mobile artillery, mechanized infantry and four tanks. Rally 68 and its protection could advance as the line moved deeper into enemy territory. Elsewhere, our mobile air defence units covered in overlapping arcs.
We refuelled, reloaded flares and chaff, had a leg stretch. When Razza and Ilya wandered over, Ilya was grinning like a school boy. Ilya was very well spoken, boyish in his good looks but when amongst only the unit he was full of filthy double entendres and the like. As Ilya ran to us, he waved at the nearest of our ground crew. They waved back. Ilya held up his full piss bag, pointed at it and shouted, “Where are your glasses? Join us for a drink!”.
“They're in the blue room, with the ice! Two lumps for me, please,” called the groundie. The “blue room” was a portable field toilet full of blue chemicals and a lot of shit and piss.
Gathered around our ship, the four of us reviewed the tactical picture and orders. We were to patrol back and sweep and clear the radar blips that we'd identified. That meant we were looking at two air defence units of some kind, then some vehicles and whatever was in a column to the north east that our forces were approaching and would have to engage. Our forces were bypassing the town. Charlie had withdrawn, Heavy 14 was back in formation.
It turned into an exhausting day. We left Rally 68 to focus on the armour and air defence units. Razza attacked from the front and we came in from the side. We snuck in low, killed the air defence radar and a launcher with two missiles then got closer and cleaned up Infantry Fighting Vehicles with rockets and guns.
When I pumped the trigger there was the instant “swootschpfffffsssss” noise of a rockets from both magazines, with smoke surging forward. The grey rocket smoke trails filled from the edges of my vision, changing brown into the windshield, then grey, white and black in the HUD as they impacted. On one run I kept closing with guns.
DUK DUK DUK DUK DUK DUK DUK DUK
A fast, steady thump came from the canon as my finger held the trigger and my feet simultaneously engaged to move the nose around and spread the fire out. Gentle pressures on the stick balanced the small recoil from the sustained burst and corrected for our closure.
The world in those moments was tiny. The HUD's green overlay symbology was visible at infinite focus as fast, bright off-yellow streaks of tracer ammo flew from periphery to centre. At the gun reticule, colours, textures, shapes and motion changed. Green, light green, brown. Flying turf, bursting dark brown soil, grey smoke, dull, dark green armour that burst and became fire. That bit of the world danced in chaos under my orchestration.
With the air defence gone, we attacked a mobile Grad rocket launcher. Razza hit it after it started launching a volley. We got to watch on the TV screen as it blew up mid launch and a few rockets spun out and raced off to hit some poor bastards off-screen who were nothing to do with war.
Having been lucky for one day, we came back to base and the four of us debriefed together in the tent then I went straight to bed. I was keen to sleep first and do anything else second. Maybe it was the day’s intensity, or the weirdness of the war, but I had a surreal dream of running through gardens while shouting, possessed by a desperate need to get home.
The next day we were sent out to attack a column of supply and infantry vehicles and a formation of dug-in tanks. Our boys had been working their way west towards it. Trouble for us was that getting around behind our targets took us into wooded foothills that were overlooked by radar further west and higher up that we didn’t know about. We got lit up by the radar and had to hide in the trees. Then we hopped from clearing to clearing to get across to the targets. Heading into one spot, as we cleared the trees we flew 5 meters over a house at the edge of barren fields.
“I think we're about to wake up Hansel and Gretel. Let's hope the witch isn't home.” Yaz laughed.
“That's lucky. Think they've got any tea?” I said.
“Maybe Jenny Esber's home…” Yaz teased.
Esber is a slightly weird, artificial-looking Syrian actress of Ukrainian descent. Yaz was hinting at my distant love but she was far more beautiful than Esber in both real life and my mind’s eye.
“I bet you've messed up Jenny's hair. She'll never go out with you now.” Our rotor downwash and engine noise would've scared the shit out of anyone in the house and easily taken tiles off the roof.
“Forgive me, Father. I know not what I do.”
Beside that house we came up with a plan to split our attack. Razza went back to attack from the side of the contact line and we kept sneaking on our own. That was seriously intense teamwork. Yaz and I skimmed the trees and the ground as fast as we could to avoid radar, get to the targets and surprise attack. As we were readying to leave the clearing, a dark-haired woman came out and started telling us, through gestures, to fuck off.
“That Jenny,” I said, “She’s a proper stuck up bitch. Didn’t even offer us a tea.”
By the time we were in position to attack, we only had the fuel to fly a single pass on one line that swept through the targets. Razza’s flank attack and our advancing troops kept the enemy looking forwards as we surprised them from the rear. Yaz was constantly directing me with voice instructions while I flew the line and shot rockets and guns. He took care of a couple of missile shots into tank berms, then we took Jenny’s advice and fucked off back to base.
Despite the mobile nature of our unit’s facilities, that base wasn’t going anywhere in a rush. It had enough space for 10,000 troops. Our section of the base was a permanent walled enclosure designed around 16 concrete landing pads and a central maintenance hangar. Our briefing and command complex was a big tent, generators and containers that could all be packed, picked up and flown out as the line advanced. In reality, our boss didn’t need to be out close to the frontline. That was what C2 and secure comms was for. He could sit on his arse in a comfortable base and tell us what to shoot and when to come home. Our permanent billets with the troop attachment’s two large field tents suffered constant chopper noise. Earplugs were a must.
In the northern corner of our complex was a square, two-and-a-half story permanent building of late Soviet design that housed a permanent canteen, administration offices and the air controllers. Viewed from the air, our walled permanent base was surrounded on three sides anti-clockwise from southwest to northeast by field tent complexes on the open ground. At the north-eastern end a separate complex of accommodation blocks with a perimeter fence was being built from timber. At the start of the “exercise”, armour of all kinds, artillery, fighting vehicles, trucks and support vehicles had been parked and staged in blocks and lines according to some unknown logic. Once things kicked off, two thirds of those units moved but most of the expanded base remained for the recovery of returning forces and staging of reinforcements.
On my first morning jog from my billet I made straight for the rear main gate to take a route up towards the top half of the outer base. The first section I passed through was clearly Logistics. I could see open tents with packages, pallets and mixed stores, attended to by people with clipboards. I was intrigued by the level of complexity involved in supporting our activities on an active front. Logistics ended with a compact section of ammo and heavy gear. One hit and the whole op could go up in smoke.
To my right, through some of the long runs between the tent rows I glimpsed the Infantry Fighting Vehicles and Armoured Personnel Carriers that were parked southeast of the camp. I made a note to visit and get a feel for what life with Battle Charlie was like. I had a war story to share now with tank and mechanised infantry units that would get me twenty minutes and a seat in the gun turret.
Unlikely that Battle Charlie would come back this far any time soon. Unless they’re in the hospital.
To my left, deeper into the camp and away from the vehicles there were infantry and mixed personnel areas. I heard the clang of weights being dropped. I passed some kind of communal space that was open enough to see young men sat around, watching TVs, playing videogames and occasionally jibing each other. I found a wide lane and went in deeper. My nose lead me to the mess by locking onto the heavy, intertwined scents of delicious grease and caramelising sugar. It was 09:17. Grabbing food there made sense and no one gave a shit who was wandering in and out. Bench tables were laid in rows as dense as could be packed with a large field kitchen along a third of one side. It was staffed by three men of large, medium and thin build, all with equal permasweats. There were two coin-operated vending machines with the usual selection, which I thought strange. I couldn’t see a change machine and the vending machines were practically full.
I joined the queue and continued casing the faces. Probably more than 95% men, mostly below 30; the remainder women in similar age bracket. The few women I saw were sat at least in pairs. A threesome of sisters was competing noisily with their many surrounding brothers for a short time, until other blokes actually told them to pipe down, which I found a funny role reversal. The queue moved steadily as a result of limited choice and quality. Behind me in the queue was only one more man who stuck out from everyone else. He wore a well-stocked civilian toolbelt. His sidearm of choice was a bright yellow electric power drill hung on his right hip. A claw hammer and crow bar dangled off his waist and his front stowage contained joinery gear.
I turned my gaze to his face and took out one of my earphones. When he looked at me, I said, “So, judging by your load out, you’re… flying the MiG-29 then?”
“Can you imagine! If that was the reality... you open the canopy…” he grabbed his crowbar and pretended to be levering something open, “…climb in, fit your personal stick,” now the hammer came out, “and soar into the skies!” He pulled back on the hammer like it was a control stick in his MiG. “And if anything goes kaput, you have to fix it yourself or you’re fucked!”. He squeezed the drill’s trigger as he spoke the last word and pulled a face of doom. I burst out laughing. He was certainly right about the last bit. My turn at the counter came and I asked for a full turn. If I didn’t like it, I had other options. Turning back to the man beside, I asked him what he was kitted out for.
“Just busy up on the top camp. Loads of stuff to do there. We’re trying to sling up the units as quick as possible without leaving any holes, you know.”
“No one round here will love you for a leaking roof, that’s for sure.”
“That’s not really that big a deal. In faaaact, I reckon our boss and customers will get us to put some holes in the roof at some point. It’s holes lower down that they’re bothered about.”
I was completely lost and had to admit my ignorance as he made his request with the chef.
“We can’t have any POWs escaping. A hole in their roof might loosen them up a bit, though.” Then I understood. He was working on troop accommodation, just not for our troops. As we slid our trays towards the drinks section, I admitted that I’d guessed the block’s purpose wrongly when I’d spotted it from the air. As we were both alone with a full meal to carve through and the beginnings of a conversation, we found a space together.
Chernoff was a Logistics Corporal building containment facilities that I’d seen from the air, hence the razor wire perimeter. Although Chernoff didn’t know of any actual POWs yet, some holding space here was required in anticipation. In his opinion, it would be like this up and down the border. High value prisoners would need to be held for whatever reasons. It was Chernoff’s bet that there’d be more than anyone might anticipate if Mother Russia’s efforts proved righteous. I paid him for his insight with a lightweight comparison between what had been seen in Syria and the story so far here, in respect of human shields and so on. He nodded grimly and with commitment.
“Tough for all our lads on every front. There’s some bad fuckers out there, aren’t there?” I said, “but I know we’ve got our fair share of tough bastards and some pretty special talent as well.”
“Special men and special machines, right?” he went along. “Some of the artillery teams were dossing next to us in the exercise and they were showing us how flash their kit is. Drones make the newest guns pinpoint accurate.”
“I saw that the other day. They took out an artillery position set up in a playground.”
“Playground! Christ. You know we’ve got our work cut out when you’re against bastards doing stuff like that. No surprise, though, to anyone who’s seen any news since Maidan. Until everyone loses their memory and suddenly loves the little comedian who’s got a hand up his arse.”
“I wonder if someone will take him out. Do you think we’ve got the people for that?”
“Course we have. Whether they’re in the right place at the right time is a whole other question. He’s short as well - hard to hit!”
“So, who are your customers? I never thought of Logistics as the army’s jailers?”
“We’re not! That job’s for people who don’t make friends as easily as us. They’ll all be a bit different, a bit special. Me, I like common delights and normal treats. Little taste for the exotic.” Beneath the table, he squeezed the drill’s trigger again and pulled a face like that of someone being treated in an extremely “exotic” manner. We shared a laugh together. I encouraged him to pay the air section a visit if he was interested in a vodka and a tour of the Hokum. I wished him well as he made to start his day proper.
I took a slow northeast line towards the POW facility to see Chernoff’s handiwork. What looked like infantry-specific facilities were there at the top edge of the base. Accommodation, signage pointing to a temporary range, weapons and ammo desk, mess tent and, at the far edge, a very long rectangular windowed tent that connected to a mixture of mobile buildings and some containers. The windowed tent was a fairly large gym and workout area, with some seating areas and TVs. The gym tent was oriented so its windows on one side looked onto the actual POW camp only 30m away across clear ground where some civilian cars, vans and pick-ups were parked. An unguarded entrance yet to be fitted with a gate or door led into the unfinished complex.
My daily quota of curiosity had been sated. I did a half hour weights circuit then jogged back, got ready for report and swung by our canteen for a second breakfast. Flying on an empty stomach was a total no-no and the food was all paid for. Shame to waste it. The day’s roster had us in base on a load of squadron admin duties. Spock and Dmitri were out with our ship. Razza was in base so Ilya was flying with Tomas, a junior who was shockingly keen and annoyingly good at picking most things up first time, unless they were women. In the early afternoon, we got a surprise. Razza had been given a heads up by the boss.
“You’ve got 6 hours to get some rest. We need to start briefing at 2100 to take off at 2200. This job could take several hours, so when I say rest, I do mean ‘sleep’. Once you’re on mission, you won’t know how long it’ll last.”
“Ooookayyy… sounds intriguing.” I mused. “Can we see the overview now?” Razza was already shaking his head. “So is it a mystery or can you tell us anything at all?”
“Mystery. I’ll have done most of your planning in time for the brief so you get as much rest as possible. Don’t worry, you’ll probably like this.”
We’d be doing a night run of some kind that could take a few hours. Details thin. Trying to sleep in the day when you’re kept in suspense is a little tricky. I had to think of her to free my mind of speculation in order to find sleep in the middle of the day.
Although Art may have seen the Army as an escape from the difficult atmosphere of his home, I was drawn to the Aerospace Force by something entirely different. It was space that drew me to it. I was fascinated by the adventures our cosmonauts and American astronauts were having. I had a bent for science and saw that the pathway from flying to space was the common route into Earth’s orbit. That became my distant focus from the age of 13. Despite my parents’ misgivings about Art’s choice, they didn’t overtly intervene. They later told me that they saw military flying as different to Army roles and they thought there was a good chance that I would change course along the way. They simply encouraged my broader education and tried to keep my mind open to life in general.
“You seem to enjoy dancing. You should keep it up. Your father and I love dancing. It’s how we met.”
She opened a small album and flicked to a few pictures of their younger selves in a ballroom. Their bright smiles offset the dour colours of the clothes. She stepped up from the sofa and called through the lounge door.
“My darling!”
“Yes, my love?”
“Remember the first time we went dancing?”
“Of course. Get the picture.”
“When was the last time we went dancing?”
“Now, there’s a question. Maybe the last time will be this weekend then?” I could hear the smile in dad’s voice and it was plain to see on her face.
“Would you like to try a few lessons? Mrs Kovtun can teach you. You know how sweet she is and you’d be in good company. Try something one-to-one for a while and see what you think?”
I was nervous for my first lesson with Mrs Kovtun. I was doing something on my own, in a feminine environment, that none of my pals did or knew about. My first lesson was two hours long, but for the first hour we just talked. I explained why I liked dancing, how Dinara had given me some little lessons, and how the music of The Nutcracker was embedded in me.
“Tchaikovsky does that to every human being on Earth. Anyone who says they don’t feel the same is either lying, or inhuman. My boys love it. They used to fall asleep to it. Dinara’s doing well, but then she works so hard. Maybe we can make that part of the plan?”
“Plan?”
“Motivate you. Let’s see if we can surprise Dinara the next time you dance with her. She’ll think you’re the dancer you are now, and secretly we’ll make you good enough to surprise her. That would be funny, wouldn’t it?” She had a gentle laugh that made me want to collude. She was a few years younger than mum and she made me feel older. It was her lack of condescension and openness. I always remember her perfume - jasmine, vanilla and maybe tobacco flower. What made her such a good teacher for me was that she taught me my steps at my speed and patiently helped me to memorise them. Then she would take her place and we would build up as a pair. She never tried to lead me. I always needed to learn physical things in my way, at my pace. She always knew that.
She was the first woman I fell in love with. But it was respectful, not childish or lustful. She was lithe and the same height as me at 14, with clear skin and light mousey hair. She didn’t really wear make up but she was always bright. It was a sign of her natural beauty, her smile and her manner or energy. Her hair was usually down in soft curling waves and as my steps improved, our motions lifted the waves into the air and about me. She taught me to simply be good at basic, core repertoires to build physical memory without sloppiness or bad habits. Later, boxing reinforced this and it served me well as a pilot in later life when I learned sequences that could save our lives close to the ground. I called her Elena, not Mrs. Kovtun, and when I first met her husband after a lesson, he introduced himself only as Andrei and shook my hand like I was a man. The next time I saw him he brought their boys, who were 8 and 6 and we all walked together for a while. Their youngest was Maxime as well, so I called him little Max and told him about my big brother.
“People called Max are the best brothers in the world. My brother Max is my favourite person. I bet you’re Pavel’s favourite person, aren’t you?”
“Not when he’s chasing me,” said little Max.
After about 6 months of lessons with Elena, she put her plan into action. Elena encouraged Dina to consider teaching little children to dance. Dina came to her kids lesson that was just before mine and my arrival caught her off guard.
“Wasn’t Luka your first pupil, Dina? How does he and what you taught him compare to the kids just now? Assess your own handiwork.”
That moment jumbled up fun, subterfuge, surprise, satisfaction, happiness, triumph and laughter. Dina was so light and free as we waltzed around the room and my better skills liberated more of her skills and spirit. She was impressed and entertained all at once. Looking back, I see Elena and Dina mirrored each other’s playful and generous spirits. Dina was the first girl I fell in love with, although it had happened ages before that moment.
Lessons with Dina were awkward at first. I couldn’t relax. Mum and Elena had given me a role to play that didn’t take into account what I really felt for Dina. It was the change in Dina that changed me. She had a determination to teach me something, somehow, and her demeanour changed. She became more serious, more detached and more professional, I guess. She showed off more of what she could do alone and what she knew, and how much more serious her dance was. That created a distance that birthed a new kind of respect. That was the first time I saw her entering womanhood, although I didn’t think of it consciously then. I knew Elena had given her some guidance because her style and patience in teaching me moves was the same as Elena’s, and I was grateful for that. If I’d become frustrated or Dina had been intolerant, I’d have given up and it would have spoiled something between us.
When I was fifteen, life started changing.
“You three are all brothers and that’s an easy way to be,” said mum. “It’s easy because you’re all boys. It’s harder for Dina to be included because she’s a girl and because she’s on a different path. Artyom’s like a brother but Dina’s not a sister, is she?”
“Art and Dina are the same, aren’t they, Luka?” I just nodded fast. “She just does more of her things and we see her less. We’ve always been friends just the same, mum.”
“OK, then… I have a favour to ask of you both. Art’s decided to start his training. That’s serious. She’s losing her brother. Dina’s starting at the Academy this year. That’s a whole other kind of serious. Dina needs you to be brothers to her. Brothers and friends.” Mum sighed like she remembered something harsh or frustrating. She raised her eyebrows at Elena.
“They were a lot of peacocks then, and nothing changes,” Elena replied. “The boys at the Academy aren’t like you two. The school’s not like yours. It’s difficult, it’s intense and the boys always mess the girls around and it’s…”
“It’s bloody turmoil and cruel and callous! And Dina’s none of those things.” Mum was exasperated. She and Elena smoked together in the kitchen when dad was out of the house and pointlessly wafted the smoke sort of out the door. “We’ll try and get Oleg and Dina here more, once a week, or we’ll go there…” She was pondering, coming up with a plan. “Why don’t you make Dina Luka’s teacher for a bit? And the boys can… teach Dina to cook. It’s about time we had a break from the kitchen!”
That was how we shifted towards Dina when Artyom joined the infantry. I trusted their judgement and I believed in helping, but it had nothing to do with how I felt. Or at least it seemed that way. When she and Oleg came over Max and I cooked with Dina while they all relaxed to music in the lounge. We taught her the recipes and took her through the steps, tasting along the way so things always turned out well. Then it wasn’t teaching anymore. It just became what we did every week. We would talk about school and friends, fun and plans, and occasional updates from Art while we cooked for our families. Oleg brought ingredients from the garden and if we were at theirs, Jelena would often join but she was muted. Her presence was the important thing. She didn’t come to ours. It was as though she felt that was Oleg’s domain and she had to avoid it. It wasn’t true but people think what they think and their own shame changes them and how they act with others. When Elena and Andrei came too, little Max and Pavel would bring a cuteness and a chaos into the kitchen.
Dina talked about what she did at the Academy and what she learned, but she didn’t talk about her classmates that much and never talked about the boys. She had friends, for sure, but she admitted that there was hierarchy and competition. Around the table the women supported and counselled her while we listened in on a world we’d never seen.
When I was nearly sixteen, Oleg bought ballet tickets as a present for Dina’s seventeenth birthday and he wanted me to take her.
“I know you’ll appreciate The Nutcracker just as much as she will, and you’ll share that memory for much longer than some other boy, or girl. And it wouldn’t be the same if she had to go with silly old me.”
By then, Max was busy at university, Artyom had been away training and I was as comfortable with Dina as I’d ever been. We were close because our families were intertwined and we understood each other, but we were separate as well. For a while we’d danced together every other week. Looking back, it was a good and a bad thing. Dina meant I wasn’t really interested in other girls, but she wasn’t my girlfriend. We straddled the lines of friends, cousins and potential young lovers. That night at the theatre was a key step towards patterns of adulthood while still in the clutches of teenage emotion. I loved sharing the ballet with Dina. On the walk back from the theatre she slipped her arm in mine for the first time and we strolled as just a bit more than friends. Maybe that was a chance to change things that I missed.
Life taught me that change happens anyway. Just a few weeks after her birthday she said she’d gotten a boyfriend at the Academy. She was at ours and mentioned him at the table, as though it shouldn’t have bothered me at all. I was flooded with anger and felt jilted, my leg began to shake under the table and I went quiet and moody. She must’ve known, and that made it worse. She looked at me almost expectantly, like she was daring me to react or say something but I wouldn’t let her have that. I felt spited and in response, I began to feel spite for someone I had loved for some years and known for even more.
Very quickly, I became isolated. I felt embarrassed about the feelings I had for Dina, how powerful they had become, and how my vulnerability had been betrayed. I harboured romantic images in my head about her, about us and a vague future. I’d been what mum and dad had wanted - a brother and a friend first and foremost. I felt a degree of betrayal from mum and Elena too, like they’d set me and my feelings up for Dina’s benefit, while not considering mine. It was like I was her springboard to new heights. But what about me! just about summed up how I felt. What I couldn’t do then was think much beyond myself and how my behaviour contributed or how Dina saw things. I didn’t understand her like I thought I did. All I saw then was the superficial now of what we did and said. Subtext and subtleties were lost on me and my boyish, practical nature.
My way of coping was abrupt and insular. I immediately found an alternative to dancing lessons. I thought I’d harden up and went with Ivan to boxing just so I could have a reason to not see Dina, and it helped me unload anger. I crushed up the feelings and buried them, although they would rise up some nights in bed, on the edge of sleep. Then I tried harder to spend more time out of the house away from the family when Oleg and Dina came over. Some weeks, I’d be there so I could show off the life I was leading. I got fitter and tougher, learned some skills, adopted some of the physical disciplines that became a part of me, and made new friends. I created distance, or maybe I gave myself room from Dina but we never fell out. In less than six months I’d become more brooding at home but more active outside of it. It was compensation - reaction to heartbreak that was so profound because she was my first and it was a love that was built through years of childhood and reinforced by the love across families.
Absence might make the heart grow fonder, but it also serves to highlight change. When Artyom first returned on leave, he was wrapped in a shell that the Army had begun to build around him. Art clearly loved what he’d been doing. He’d thrown himself in to it and stayed on base after basic training to do more than his peers. He’d saved up his leave and so came back for a month, instead of a week or two. Max had kept in touch on the phone so he was abreast of things at home. He was more confident and boisterous to the point of seeming rough, which he’d never been before. At first, I didn’t like him. He’d bulked up and his ears stuck out more because his head was shaved. He met us at the door in his striped vest. His arms were bigger, his body squarer. He hugged me tight and squeezed to show his strength. He dominated at the table with brief, boastful stories of his unit and training with people I imagined weren’t as good as us. In that first week of leave he spent the days at home while Max and I were studying. The first Wednesday we introduced him to our new dinner ritual, and Dina and I served pelmeni and beef stroganoff, to his surprise. Jelena was in better form and she was loving towards the new man at the table. When I wasn’t speaking I sank back in my chair and drank in Dina’s beauty when she wasn’t looking. She usually wore her hair in a bun and dressed in tight dancers tops and simple jeans, typical of Academy girls. That evening her hair was down and softly curled like Elena’s, and she wore a floral, thigh length dress. She never wore shoes at home and her feet revealed how the Academy had filled her lexicon with pain.
“How’s the boxing, Lu? You’re looking feisty. We should have a go together. I’ve been doing a bit myself,” he mimicked ducking, weaving and jabbing like he was good. At the gym, I saw his tattoo - just the flag and the year he’d joined - etched onto his right shoulder blade. When he saw me looking, he winked.
“Part of me forever now.”
In the ring, I stood off to let him reveal his style. Although I was a novice, I knew to look for signs and tells as best I could. He was aggressive and keen, but imprecise. I had to take several hard blows that he seemed to enjoy landing, which piqued an alien desire to hurt him. In a headguard and his vest, he was not a brother I recognised. He tried to exploit his size by overpowering me with a painful barrage of body shots that opened my head and he put me onto my knees in a daze. He goaded me by bouncing around as I recovered and caught my breath. Max offered me some whispered support from under the ropes.
“He’s overconfident. Draw him in close.”
Art had the reach advantage and the sting in my arms grew as I kept taking his jabs. It was luck borne out of his lack of style that gave me an opening. He jabbed to set up the distance for a hook, which half beat my guard and clipped my head. I dropped back. He closed and did it again but I ducked the hook, stepped in and went for his body. Luck gave me the right distance and practise gave me the co-ordination to power from my hip and into his open solar plexus. I heard his breath leave him fully and his chin was up and forward. Winded and with poor form, he was an open target for anger released in a basic but textbook left hook to his jaw then a deep right jab to his nose. Pride fell onto the canvas. The Army’s thin shell was broken. As I left the ring, Max patted me on the shoulder.
“I think you got through to him.”
The Army had begun to fill Art’s lexicon with pain too. I’d hurt him and that took away his pride, reminded him of his roots and taught him that I was not a boy. Without his pride, he became the brother I remembered. Art’s stories gave way to more questions about what we’d all been doing in his absence and I felt like family was being rebuilt on old foundations. On Friday afternoon, Artyom opened a door between our world and his. He was waiting for me outside school wearing fatigues and boots and his big pack. He had another, smaller bag.
“Come on, get changed and we’ll get Max.” He’d brought our training clothes and some others in the bag. He led me the ten minutes to the University and jumped Max at the door of class. Art couldn’t have looked more out of place as a military nothing in halls of academia but his back was straight and his heart was full. Art shoved Max’s thick book in the top of his pack to remove our excuses.
“You can read us a story about… Marketing Essentials… around the fire. That’ll send us to sleep.”
And then we were off, following him with barely a question. It was a five mile run out to the small lake in the nature reserve where we’d learned to sail. A third of the way there, Art stopped, dumped his pack and showed Max how to fit it.
“Your turn now, Max.” It was my turn on the last third.
“Fuckin’…” It was far heavier than it looked. “What’s in here?”
“You’ll see.”
My face was as red as Max’s by the time we were halfway around the lake. Art began his lessons by showing us how he picked a place to set a camp and then talked us though his bivvy kit.
“You might be prepared but we’re not. There’s only one shelter and sleeping bag.”
“That’s what the axe is for, Max.”
On that spring evening, Art showed us how to build a shelter, set up a fire and heat deflector, and prep the ground for comfort with just materials to hand. We gathered water from the lake in his pans and set fishing lines off two hand reels.
“It’s not your beef stroganoff, but it’ll do.” Art pulled boxes from the bottom of his pack. Max and I broke into the 72-hour Army ration pack and Art talked us through its packets and ingredients and the do’s and don'ts of their use and combination, before we decided on a menu and set our dinner to heat in the pans.
“Let’s just check the lines. You never know.” At the lake edge we reeled in empty hooks. As we set and cast again, Art froze and pointed.
“There! Can you see it? It’s… too big for the line. Hang on.” He stripped down to his pants before we could remark, ran to the bank and jumped into the water. A couple of meters out, he dived below the surface and was gone.
“I think you hit him too hard, Lu. He’s fuckin’ nuts.” We just waited, half expecting disappointment or some incredible demonstration of Army barehanded fishing skills. A minute passed and our calls betrayed confusion and concern. Two four packs of Baltika beers broke the surface with a splash, followed by the head of a grinning idiot.
That was the start of how Art kept us connected to him and made us into a little platoon. He shared his skills and knowledge and taught us that there was value in the kind of education he’d picked for himself. As we sipped the beers and munched the rations, he explained infantry routines, weapons and squad tactics. He enjoyed the big team sport that played out against the backdrop of the most serious of tests. His romantic notions of the purpose and nature of what he was involved in were yet to be tempered by truth and reality, but that was inevitable and natural. I would find myself in exactly the same place eventually. We spent the next day doing more of the same then we relaxed, sipped more beer kept cool in the lake and cooked fish as talk turned to family and our lives in his absence.
“Dina said you’ve got some pretty good moves, Lu,” said Art. “You surprised her. She told me about it on the phone. I wish I’d been there to see her face.” What Art and Max never had was contempt for life or all the things in it. They never mocked me for dancing, like many brothers would have. We understood our differences and our strengths, and how those contrasts enriched our own and each others lives.
“You should try it. I reckon you’ll be a hit with the ladies if you can spin them around in your uniform.”
“One thing the Army doesn’t have is dance teachers. It’ll have to wait till I get back and I can steal Elena. She’s hot stuff!”
We talked about Art’s family and how he felt having been away for a while. Jelena had calmed down in temperament but was also more withdrawn. She still drank but was quieter and less volatile. Oleg’s and her relationship seemed to have settled at a form of mutual existence. Oleg’s closeness to us, the garden and his commitment to Dina was the mainstay of his happiness.
“Dad cried when I came home. I’ve never seen that before. It felt really weird,” Art said. “On Tuesday, we sat down by the bees and we had some wine. He told me he was really proud of me, but then he said sorry.”
“What for?”
“He said he knew that I went because he’d not paid attention.” Art hung his head with deep sadness. “It wasn’t his fault, it was mum. She’s… a fucking embarrassment. I told him that he should’ve set her straight and stood up for himself.”
“Jesus… What did he say?”
“Nothing. I was angry, but it’s true. And now, when I come home, she’s acting a bit fake with me, trying to be all nicey nicey. It’s a bit fucking late, mum. I’m not there, but Dina is. She should sort herself out and be nice to her. I reckon she’s made a mistake with the Academy… full of ponces and assholes.” He shook his head, snatched clumps of grass and threw them on the fire. “Smoked fish tastes better, by the way. D told me about the ballet. She said you took her? Thanks for that. She really loved it.”
“Your dad did it for her birthday, but he asked me to take her. It was awesome. If you’re home at Christmas we should all go. The music’s great. So many hot ballerinas. Seriously, that’s the best bit.”
“Look, I said this to Max on the phone a while ago. I’m worried about D. She’s not happy at the Academy.”
“But she’s doing well. She’s told us she’s getting the grades and she’s still doing piano and her maths. She told us it’s OK.”
“It’s not the work, Lu,” said Max. “It’s the people. Some people.”
“She hasn’t said anything to me.”
“But she’s told me,” said Art. “I told Max. It’s annoying because I’m away, otherwise I’d… fucking sort that bastard.”
“Who?”
“Some dick called Valentin. He’s messed her about and keeps messing with her head. They went out for a bit, he dumped her but she thinks… well, I don’t know what she thinks. He’s just a dick to her at school and it’s messing with her head. Apparently he just pisses girls around because he’s some cocky shit. We need to sort this.”
Max and Art had come up with a plan already. My part was mercifully simple.
“Me and Art are gonna have a word with this prick. If we leave it, he’ll keep on. Bullies need to be dealt with. We need you to look after D and try and get her mind off this fucking arsehole.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“D’s always in that world, around that lot, unless she’s with us. We need to get her away and with normal people. The Academy lot are rich, stuck up, weird shits. If you invite her out with your lot, that’ll just give her a break. What do you think?”
“It’s not like I’ve got loads of girl mates.”
“Doesn’t matter. We’ll go out with my mates from uni, there’ll be girls there. You do the same with your mates. We’ll drag her along. Let’s try and do that while Art’s here. Better than nothing. If she sees normal lads, she might realise how much of cock Valentin is and sack him off. Don’t tell D. We’ll just do it and she doesn’t need to know.”
“Let’s get her up here then,” I said. “It’s only two miles to the phone. We can get some more drinks and get your dad to bring her up. Let’s nick a kayak tonight and take her night fishing.”
The rest of that weekend took me back to our sailing lessons and the happiness of childhood. Knowing that Dina was suffering because of someone else’s callousness made me want to get her out of it and get rid of whoever had come between us. With us altogether I could tell that she felt safe and happy. That was enough; it was worth protecting.
Wow! Loved it, thank you.