Excerpt Crooked Path

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Gallinger</div> <bR> <div> <B>A CROOKED PATH</B></div> <div> Chapter One</div> <div> “It has come! It has come!” the gray-haired woman shouted excitedly. She caught her breath as she ran up the steps of the dreary cottage two at a time. </div> <div> At the top, she stopped in front of Vladimir Antonovich, who was standing on the dilapidated porch out of the heavy rain. </div> <div> He rubbed sleep from his eyes as he reached to help her. </div> <div> She yanked an official-looking brown envelope from beneath her soggy sweater. “Here,” she said, pushing the thick envelope toward him, using both hands. “Take it before I faint.”</div> <div> “Mother, what is it?” </div> <div> He helped her sit on a rickety chair by the gray wall, waterlogged by frequent rain. “Where have you been? You should not have gone out in this kind of weather. I've told you before that it could kill you. Why won't you ever listen to me? I should…”</div> <div> “It came by special delivery,” she impatiently interrupted. “I caught the postman down the path, and thanked him personally for you and the village.” The words were chopped and breathless. “He told me the mail van from Moscow got here early today. Open it, my son.”</div> <div> He stood by the wall and tore open the envelope while she talked.</div> <div> “It must be your orders,” she said, starting to stand.</div> <div> He nudged her gently back onto the chair. “Rest,” he said. “You'll have a heart attack if you don't settle down. Please.”</div> <div> “Not today, I'm too excited. The envelope will be your opportunity, Vladimir, your chance to get out of here and away from him. God, I'm so happy for you.”</div> <div> “You should not have gone for the mail, Mother. You should have kicked my boot to wake me. </div> <div> "I must have dozed off here on the porch after they released us from our kolkhoz duties because of the inclement weather and the soggy fields. </div> <div> "What kind of a son am I? While I sleep, my mother gets drenched. I hope you can forgive me.”</div> <div> “Please, don't fret so. You needed a little sleep. God knows you won't get very much of that with the Army.” She used her wet apron to wipe her face. </div> <div> “Well?” she said, watching him scan the letter. “What do they say? You'd better hurry and tell me. He'll be coming before long, and you know what that means.”</div> <div> “Let him come. Soon, I won't be here for him or his stupid boot.”</div> <div> “Quickly,” she prodded. “He's due home early today. He could come any minute now. What do the papers say?”</div> <div> “Give me a chance to read, will you?” </div> <div> Browsing the notice, he noted the date stamped at its top right-hand corner. 2 April 1969. </div> <div> He pulled more papers from the envelope, and quickly scanned them. Then, sighing, he looked down into her inquisitive eyes. </div> <div> “I guess this is it, Mother. I'm ordered to the Course of the Young Soldier near Kiev to begin my basic Army training. </div> <div> "God, how I hate to leave you here alone with him, but what can I do? When the Army calls, you have to go or face the consequences.” </div> <div> He smiled weakly.</div> <div> “It will be fine, my son. I am sure. Meanwhile, I think I'll bake you a cake tonight.”</div> <div> For some reason she felt relieved that he was leaving this place, even though she knew how hard the Army could be, especially lately. </div> <div> Still, it might not be as bad there as here, so long as he remained careful and did exactly what he was told. </div> <div> At least there, he might have a chance to become somebody, not a brute like his stepfather always tried to make him be.</div> <div>  If only his real father were still alive. How different things might have been. But fate did not grant such choices often, only pain and grief, and sometimes, a loving son who cared.</div> <div> “Don't do anything that will upset him,” Vladimir said, interrupting her reverie. “You know how he is about being wasteful. And cakes to him are extremely wasteful.”</div> <div> “You deserve a party, and I'm going to give you one,” she said softly, “no matter what he says.”</div> <div> “Just be careful.” </div> <div> He suddenly wondered if he'd survive the brutal Army training. A conscript's life was not a pleasant one, he'd heard. </div> <div> Maybe his stepfather could advise him on the matter, but he doubted it. He'd never had any time for such talks with him before, why would he now?</div> <div> “At least they've ordered you to duty during the spring,” the mother said. “That's a lot better than having a snow bank covering your feet in the fall.”</div> <div> At her words, Vladimir remembered conscripts were usually called-up in the spring or fall depending upon when their birthdays were. Since his was in January, he was ripe for the spring call-up like all other eighteen-year-olds.</div> <div> “It doesn't really matter when,” Vladimir said. “It will be hard all the same.”</div> <div> “You'll make us proud, I'm sure of it.”</div> <div> “Oh, Mother, I don't see how I can make anyone proud. I'll only be a common soldier, not an officer.”</div> <div> “It will make no difference. Common soldiers have made their families just as proud as any officer could. It's not the grade that counts, it's this.” She placed a hand over her heart. “And this.” She touched her forehead.</div> <div> “He would never be proud of anything I did.”</div> <div> “Of course he would. You'll see. He'll help you all he can.”</div> <div> “I don't think so. I talked to Andrei, and he told me that his father personally visited the local military commissariat. Arrangements have been made for him to be considered for a position as a conscript sergeant. </div> <div> "He won't be required to attend the Course of the Young Soldier like the rest of us. He'll attend a six-month sergeant's school where he'll learn to command common soldiers like me.”</div> <div> “It will all work out, you'll see. Maybe they will even select you for officer cadet training when they see how bright you are. You did well on all of the tests, and you're more healthy than any boy in the village.”</div> <div> “It will take more than that, I'm afraid.”</div> <div> “Well, you were a member of the local Komsomol group since you were fourteen. That should count for something.”</div> <div> “I don't think so. I'm destined to serve as a soldier for my two years and that's that. And as far as the youth group is concerned, I never did very well with the politics of it at all. The hiking and camping were the only things I ever really enjoyed.”</div> <div> “I will talk with your father. He'll be home from the bureau shortly. Maybe he can talk to the commissariat tomorrow, and then we'll see.” </div> <div> She nervously twisted the end of her soiled apron when she mentioned the father this time.</div> <div> “He has already talked to them,” Vladimir said, looking out at the muddied lawn. “I found out that there are some in the village who have received deferments because of their father's pleadings with the authorities. </div> <div> "Others have been selected for conscript sergeant training, while others have been told that they would be sent to officer's school. All of this happened because their fathers intervened for them.”</div> <div> “That's what I've said, my son. Your father can…”</div> <div> “My stepfather can do nothing for me because he does not want to.” He sounded angrier than before.</div> <div> “Surely he can talk to the officials.”</div> <div> “As I said, he already has. He saw the chief of the local commissariat. He even bribed him, I've been told. A girl I know that works at the office told me she overheard the conversation herself. She has never lied to me. And that's more than I can say about my stepfather.”</div> <div> “If he took the time to see the commissariat, he must be trying to help you. Why else would he go there, if he didn't want to help?”</div> <div> “He went to bribe them not to give me any special training or, what he called, easy assignments. He told the official he'd served in the Great Patriotic War himself as a private, and had met the Nazis head-on like a man. </div> <div> "He did not want his only stepson to begin an Army obligation with a gold coin in his ear. “His stepson must be a man” is what he told him.”</div> <div> “But why would he do that?”</div> <div> “It is his way. He is a bitter man. You know that better than me.”</div> <div> “I will talk to him. Sometimes, he can be an understanding man, at least agreeable, if I catch him in the right frame of mind.”</div> <div> “No, he is never in the right frame of anything. You will only make it worse if you try to talk to him. I will be gone to the Army in several weeks. I won't be able to protect you then. </div> <div> "You know how he is when any of his decisions are questioned, and as far as I know, he is neither understanding nor agreeable.”</div> <div> “I will talk to him.”</div> <div> “It will do no good.”</div> <div> “I will try.”</div> <div> Vladimir Antonovich shrugged his wide shoulders, and then opened the cottage door for his mother. He followed her into the living room at the edge of the kitchen. </div> <div> Touching her shoulder, he turned for the drab bedroom at the far wall, where he could rest while he thought about the Course of the Young Soldier, and the stories about it and its training sergeants. </div> <div> They supposedly wore heavy boots even to bed, so they would always be ready to jack up a new recruit day or night. </div> <div> It was rumored in the village that they enjoyed beating recruits for the fun of it and, at times, even killed some of them for little reason other than arrogant pride or prejudice, or simply mean-spiritedness.</div> <div> He'd heard plenty about the three to four-week course and the Army's atrocious discipline, and everything he'd heard sent shivers down his spine. </div> <div> He hoped that most of what he'd heard had been nothing more than simple exaggerations, but his heart told him otherwise. </div> <div> Even some newspapers had confirmed irregularities during the initial training period and after. A soldier's life was always in jeopardy in peace or war, especially before he'd learned to cope.</div> <div> He suddenly recalled what white-haired Nikolai, his older friend and neighbor, always told him about life and its brutal contradictions.</div> <div>  “You must take the tears with the joy,” Nikolai said. “Remember the good times and cope with the bad. That's what life is all about, lad, the tears and the joy, the good and the bad; wet and dry.”</div> <div> He would miss Nikolai and his wisdom. But he suspected that his eyes likely would be more wet than dry in the Army, especially at first during the initial training.</div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> *  *  * </div> <div> While Vladimir rested, the father arrived home in a huff like usual. He threw his jacket on the hook behind the kitchen door, and then flopped onto a hard chair at the hard table in the middle of the bleak room. </div> <div> Not speaking, he looked at his wife by the wood-burning stove at the far wall while he picked up the vodka bottle from the table. She had placed it there for him like every other day.</div> <div> He poured himself a half-a-water-glass full, gulped it down, and then poured another. </div> <div> Wiping his thick mustache with the back of two fingers, he continued to watch his wife at work by the stove, suspecting something was amiss by her unusual silence.</div> <div> She continued to prepare the evening meal without speaking, but periodically glanced over her shoulder at him as she worked. </div> <div> She knew most of his quirks quite well by now. After all, she'd been married to him for the past fifteen years or so, after his last wife had left him for a younger, less violent man.</div> <div> She knew he demanded that his evening meal be warm, and expected that she be punctual in its serving. </div> <div> Any deviation could result in a swift and oftentimes brutal admonition, which might include a severe blow to the head or worse, depending upon how many vodkas he'd consumed before he'd come home from work. </div> <div> Somehow, she was able to endure. He did at least provide shelter and food for her and her son, if nothing more, and that had counted for something, she'd often told Vladimir. She was forever trying to soothe the anger and hate that burned deep down in her son's throat.</div> <div> “Where's the boy?” the father finally asked, startling her thoughts. </div> <div> He poured himself another glass of vodka.</div> <div> “In his room. His notice came.”</div> <div> “Good, maybe the Army will make a man out of him. I never could.”</div> <div> “Don't be so harsh on the lad. He's a good boy.”</div> <div> “Good boy?” He banged on the table. “He's now eighteen. He must become a man soon or he may never live to see any glory in his brooding eyes. </div> <div> "He never listens to me no matter how hard I try to teach him with my words, or with the toe of my boot.”</div> <div> She saw that he was in one of his moods again. She wiped her hands nervously on her fresh apron as she walked over to the stone fireplace at the other wall. </div> <div> She used its fire to boil water sometimes while she cooked the main meal on the wood-burner behind her.</div> <div> At the fireplace, she picked up a heavy poker. She began to turn the crackling logs beneath the iron water pot boiling there. </div> <div> When the fire was sparkling better, she returned to the stove to stir the soup. She felt more confident now. She would ask him.</div> <div> She talked over her shoulder, avoiding his eyes. “I've heard that some of the boys in town have received early deferments,” she said softly. “Some have even gotten special military schools.” </div> <div> She wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, and then pushed a long strand of gray hair out of her eyes.</div> <div> “That will never happen with my son. He needs no such nonsense. He will be a soldier, or die trying.”</div> <div> “Tell me, my husband, is it true that you bribed the local commissariat?” She stopped stirring the soup a moment, and listened for a reply without turning to face him and his eyes and anger.</div> <div> At first, the direct question caught him off guard. He finally jumped to his feet and moved swiftly to the stove. He pulled her around by the shoulder, and placed his face inches away from hers while he spoke.</div> <div> “Who told you that? It's a damn lie.”</div> <div> “A girl at the commissariat overheard…”</div> <div> “Lies!”</div> <div> “Vladimir says he knows the girl well. She wouldn't lie to him, he said.”</div> <div> “Damn bitches in the commissariat lie about everything. That's their job. They're paid to deceive the newly conscripted boys in town, so they won't run away from their military duties even before they arrive at camp. </div> <div> "Those bitches wouldn't know the truth if it was pasted to their stupid lips like the cheap rouge they wear.”</div> <div> “But…”</div> <div> Holding her by the shoulder, he slapped her hard across the face. “I won't listen to such lies. Do you hear me? Now, finish your work here. A man needs nourishment after a hard day's work at the bureau.”</div> <div> Returning to the table, he poured another glass of vodka, then sat back in the hard chair. </div> <div> He would have to talk to the commissariat again tomorrow. He must be informed that he had a talkative girl in his office, one that might be better used in the fields with a shovel in her hands rather than sitting on her brains in a warm office at a typewriter. He'd see to it personally.</div> <div> When Vladimir heard the commotion in the kitchen, he sprang from his bed, and rushed to the side of his mother. </div> <div> At the stove, he saw that she was upset and sobbing. He turned to his father with his hands clenched at his sides.</div> <div> “What have you done to my mother this time?”</div> <div> “Done? I've done nothing that is of any concern of yours, my half-assed son.” He smiled at the reference to the fact that Vladimir was his stepson by this, his third marriage.</div> <div> “Then why is she crying?” He moved closer to the table, and looked down at his stepfather with fiery eyes. He could take a lot of things from this man who called himself his father, but not the senseless brutality against his mother.</div> <div> The father stood and faced him toe-to-toe. He had the look of an experienced bull, readying himself to react to the slightest provocation.</div> <div> Vladimir, like always, was the tantalizing tease, the red flag blowing in the breeze, urging the bull to the fight.</div> <div> “I demand that you apologize to my mother.”</div> <div> The stepfather smiled wickedly before he slashed out with a fist that connected directly to the tip of Vladimir's nose. It knocked him to the floor.</div> <div> “Is that apology enough?” He stepped back so his stepson could stand, but readied himself in case the boy had not yet learned his lesson.</div> <div> Vladimir jumped to his feet. Blood covered his nose and mouth. His mother handed him a towel while she clicked her tongue and made a face. He wiped his nose quickly, and glared at the bullish-looking man still standing before him, smirking.</div> <div> “Please, he's but a boy.” The mother wrung her hands, and then reached out, pleading.</div> <div> “That's the problem. He's nothing but a boy, and will always be one unless he finally decides to become a man.” The father pushed her aside. “Get out of my way.”</div> <div> Vladimir threw the bloody towel to the floor. “You lay a hand on my mother again and I will kill you. I mean it this time.” He spit out the words like he wanted to kill him right now.</div> <div> Suddenly, Vladimir felt the back of his head hit the floorboards. He opened his eyes and saw stars in the whitewashed ceiling beams. He sat up and shook his head. </div> <div> He'd not seen the blow coming that time. It took him a minute, but he was finally able to stand. </div> <div> Taking a gulp of air, he wiped blood from his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his shirt. Then, he raised his fists to fight some more.</div> <div> “So, you want to play today, is that it? The father asked, rolling up his sleeves. “Then play we will.” </div> <div> He kicked out, almost knocking Vladimir to the floor, but he was able to catch himself. </div> <div> Vladimir bounced back like an agile ropewalker that had momentarily lost his footing. He struck his stepfather squarely in the forehead with his fist, and then jumped back swiftly as he raised his hands to guard his face. </div> <div> He could take a direct blow from a fist to the nose; he'd done it many times before, but the boots were something else again.</div> <div> Mr. Antonovich moved back and forth in front of him like a nervous wolf ready for a kill.</div> <div> Vladimir struck out at the smiling face, but missed it completely. </div> <div> The father moved to the left and punched him in the stomach, then the face, and then the back of the head while he was bent over. </div> <div> Looking up, Vladimir held tightly to his stomach. He felt bloody bile burn his throat. After a few more blows to the face and the back of the head, he fell to the floor with a loud thud. </div> <div> He heard his mother screaming in the background just before he passed out completely.</div> <div> When he woke up, he found himself lying on the kitchen table on his back. His stepfather was slapping his face, cursing him still. </div> <div> The mother tried to pull him off, but she wasn't strong enough.</div> <div> She pleaded with the husband while she tugged on his arm, but he wouldn't listen. He kept pushing her away while he continued to slap Vladimir hard in the face. </div> <div> She could see he was completely out of control. When she could no longer take it, she turned to the fireplace and picked up a poker.</div> <div> Shaking, she slammed it down at her husband's back. It missed the intended spot, but did catch him in the shoulder. </div> <div> He released Vladimir to rub the hurt, and turned to face her. There was foam at the corners of his mouth. He looked like a mad bull ready to make a second charge.</div> <div> “So, it has come to this," he said. "My own wife strikes me with a dirty poker.” </div> <div> She'd never seen him quite this mad before. His face was a blotch of fury, something from hell. The look and the voice frightened her so badly that she finally dropped the poker. She covered her face, and waited for the blow she knew would come.</div> <div> Antonovich slapped her hands away, and then smashed her in the jaw. The blow knocked her to the floor. With her down and out of the way, he returned to the business with Vladimir.</div> <div> Vladimir surprised him this time. He was up and waiting. He kicked him in the thigh, and then punched him in the face with a solid left hook. </div> <div> Bouncing around the room, he looked for another opening. He'd obviously caught his second wind, and was ready to fight somemore.</div> <div> Antonovich rubbed his jaw, and then his leg as he moved back into battle. He had a strange smile on his lips, almost evil. “Let's see if you can take it better than you can give it you, you <I>boy</I>.”</div> <div> He emphasized the word <I>boy</I> to anger Vladimir more. He knew he hated to be called that even more than getting kicked in the back of the legs with a heavy boot.</div> <div> Turning to the place where his wife was lying, Antonovich picked up the poker she'd dropped before. </div> <div> He lashed out quickly, beating Vladimir in the head, on the back, on the legs, in the chest, anywhere he could strike. </div> <div> He was a madman, completely out of control, crazed, in a world that only he could know.</div> <div> Soon, Vladimir was down again. He struggled to avoid the painful blows. He finally raised a hand, but it was ignored. </div> <div> The father continued with the beating. No son of his…by blood or marriage…was going to be disrespectful to him, not in his own home he wasn't.</div> <div> Mrs. Antonovich moaned as she tried to move herself onto an elbow. With effort, she was finally able to raise a hand. She called out to her husband. “Stop! For the love of God, stop.”</div> <div>  She was crying hard now. “He's my son, yours by marriage. Do you want to see him dead so badly that you would kill him right here on my kitchen floor?” </div> <div> She tried to sit up, but the pain was too great. She slumped over onto her back instead, and wailed loudly like before, gulping at the air.</div> <div> The father hesitated, and then finally stopped the beating and turned to his wife. He dropped the poker and rubbed his hands over his face like he was trying to wash away the pain and anger, the madness that had overcome him.</div> <div> He dropped to his knees by her, and held her in his arms, talking some kind of nonsense that she'd heard many times before. He finally picked her up, and carried her to the small living room off from the kitchen. </div> <div> There, he stroked her moist cheeks with both hands while he tried to make her comfortable on the sofa. On his knees on the floor, he asked her for forgiveness like he'd always done before when he'd lost control.</div> <div> Groggy and beaten, Vladimir struggled to the table in the middle of the room. He flopped onto a hard-backed chair. The vodka bottle was still standing there despite the commotion that had knocked him and the vodka glass to the floor earlier.</div> <div> He picked up the bottle and placed it to his puffy lips, and drank deeply. Coughing, he suddenly fainted, and then slumped to the floor, his head resting awkwardly by the chair.</div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> *  *  *</div> <div> When Vladimir awoke the next day he was in bed, naked. </div> <div> The mother was at his side, smearing his body with lotions and salves and smelly grease made from special herbs that her mother and her grandmother before her had taught her how to prepare and use years ago before they'd both passed away.</div> <div> She knew the remedies would eventually soothe and heal the cuts and bruises covering her son's body. </div> <div> And she also knew that he'd been fortunate even though he'd suffered painful cuts and bruises. At least there were no broken bones, and her husband had not killed him, although, God knew, he'd tried.</div> <div> Vladimir raised his eyelids slowly when he felt the hands of his mother greasing his body. He tried to sit up but couldn't. He pressed himself painfully into the pillows, and kept his eyes closed to protect them from the light.</div> <div> “Rest, my son. That's the best medicine, it and my lotions.”</div> <div> “Where is he?” He squinted a moment, cupping his eyes. </div> <div> The eyes were black and blue and bloodshot like someone had slammed his face into the side of a cement wall, or like a bull had crashed into his face head-on, poking him in the eye with a pointed horn.</div> <div> “Gone. He went to the commissariat. He said he would try to get you a deferment until fall. He doesn't think you are in proper physical condition for the Army.”</div> <div> “Bastard.”</div> <div> “Please, rest, sleep. Soon, you'll feel better.” She rubbed grease into his legs as she spoke.</div> <div> Vladimir slipped into a deep sleep again. He slept fitfully for several days, moaning in the night with his terrible pain. His mother, and later a local midwife, continued to administer the salves and lotions.</div> <div> By the time he was able to sit up, a thin, gray-haired doctor with metal-framed spectacles came to examine him. He had to verify that he was unfit for military duty at the time.</div> <div> The doctor sucked in his breath when he saw the ugly cuts and bruises. He was a little worried, too, about Vladimir's reflexes. He suspected there was something wrong with the nerves in his back.</div> <div> When the doctor sat at the edge of the bed, he looked up at Mrs. Antonovich, who was standing nearby, twisting her apron. </div> <div> The doctor cleared his throat noisily. “Don't stand there like a pregnant hen,” he said. “Quickly, get to the kitchen and fetch me a bottle of vodka. It's very important to my work and me.”</div> <div> “Vodka?” the mother asked incredulously.</div> <div> “Vodka,” the doctor said. “A lot of it. And make sure it's warm. Not hot, not cold, warm.”</div> <div> Flustered, the mother rushed for the kitchen. She wondered if the doctor might have developed a new home remedy that she'd not heard about before.</div> <div> While the doctor waited on the mother to return, he talked briefly with Vladimir before he began to make out his official report. </div> <div> He told him he was sure that he'd get the deferment until at least the fall when the next group of conscripts would be called-up, “but,” he said, “do not worry, the Army will surely wait for you however long it takes.”</div> <div> “Will I ever be able to beat him?” Vladimir whispered. Groaning, he tried to sit straight in the bed.</div> <div> The doctor glanced at him, and then at the beamed ceiling, then back to his own wrinkled hands. “There are generally two ways to handle a problem such as yours, Vladimir.” He pushed his spectacles along his bloodshot nose as he pulled air in through his mouth, sighing.</div> <div> “Yes?”</div> <div> “You can bow to your fate, accept things as they are, and then continue on with your life, here or elsewhere, or…”</div> <div> “Or?”</div> <div> “Or you can eliminate the problem once and for all, using your own imagination to do the job.”</div> <div> “But…”</div> <div> The doctor raised a speckled hand. “That's all I can tell you, lad. You must think it out for yourself. Now leave me alone. I have a report to write. Lie back and rest. Tomorrow, or at least by next week, maybe in a month or two at the latest, you'll feel better, I'm sure.”</div> <div> The doctor made a short note to help him prepare his final report for the authorities later. He wrote, cause of accident: a charge from a wild bull.</div> <div> An insane bull that should be shot before he finally killed someone someday, he thought. He closed the thick notebook when he saw Mrs. Antonovich rush into the room with a warmed bottle of vodka and a large water glass in her hands.</div> <div> “Ah, just in time,” the doctor said. He stood to take the glass and bottle from her.</div> <div> “Do you intend to rub it on the boy,” she asked, “or are you going to use it together with other medicines to help heal his wounds?”</div> <div> “His?” the doctor asked. He shoved the glass into her hand, and then pulled the top from the bottle. “I hardly think so.” </div> <div> Smiling, he put the bottle to his lips and drank greedily. He emptied the bottle by a quarter at least before he took a breath. “Ah, that was good,” he finally said, holding the bottle up to see how much was left.</div> <div> The doctor sat on the edge of the bed, and held the bottle by its neck at the ready on his thigh. He looked at Vladimir, who was half asleep now. “You see, the vodka has clearly calmed him,” he said, taking another swig. “It works every time.” </div> <div> He started to replace the cap on the bottle, but changed his mind. He took another gulp before he stood by the bed, saying, “He'll be fine.” He handed the almost empty bottle to the bewildered mother. “Just keep the bottle handy in case I have to return.” With that, he left hurriedly without looking back.</div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> *  *  *</div> <div> During the next week while he was healing, Vladimir's mother and the midwife visited often to grease his aching body. Several men from the village, including the bearded social leader, visited him as well. The leader expressed concern for Vladimir's wounds, and hoped that he'd be healed sufficiently for the Army by the fall, and the glory that awaited him there.</div> <div> Vladimir's father never bothered to look in on him. “I'm too busy,” he always said, and then he'd gulp his vodka at the kitchen table like before, ignoring everyone around him. He was satisfied to be in his own world all alone, thinking of the things he'd missed in the Army himself.</div> <div> Soon, Vladimir began to feel a little better. He felt so well that one evening after his mother had left him alone with a warm bowl of soup and a chunk of coarse black bread, he slipped quietly out of bed. </div> <div> He moved carefully across the room to test his legs, touching sturdy furniture along the way to maintain his precarious balance.</div> <div> Finally, he stopped at the far wall where a cracked mirror sat, dusty but serviceable. He looked at himself, naked, in the tall glass that ran six feet up from the floor. </div> <div> He saw the cuts and bruises that covered his body, his face; the dark, puffy eyes; the thickened lips, bruised and red, split open at both ends. He moved to the right so his face was centered on the crack in the mirror.</div> <div> He looked like a two-faced monster. Opening his mouth wide, he clenched his teeth gently together and smiled. He saw that all of the teeth were still intact, aligned in their proper places. He smiled again. </div> <div> Blinking his puffy eyes, he stuck his tongue out and wagged it at himself. He said “Ah,” then held his throat with both hands, and said it again. He gagged.</div> <div> While he studied himself, he noticed that his long gray tie was lying on the top of the dresser. He wrapped it around his neck, then stood back away from the mirror and admired his bruised body. </div> <div> He thought about tomorrow's visit by Inessa Kostenko, his first true love, the one he'd soon have to leave behind when he left alone for the Army and his duty.</div> <div> Pulling the tie closer to his throat, he wondered what his stepfather would say if he could see him like this, naked with a stupid tie around his neck. </div> <div> He always made him wear the tie to school, “to keep up appearances,” he'd tell him. All it ever really did was keep him busy fighting the bullies who taunted him every day, calling him a sissy or mama's boy or worse.</div> <div> Vladimir won some fights, lost others, but he never stopped wearing the tie. It was one of the many disciplines drilled into him every day by his stepfather to prepare him for a glory he'd never known before, and never would unless he finally decided to become a man, or so his stepfather said.</div> <div> “Your future is not in your head but in your arms and fists,” the lectures always started. “Discipline the body, the mind will take care of itself.” </div> <div> After the talks, he more often than not would goad Vladimir into another bloody fight, “to the finish,” before he'd allow him any rest or time to think.</div> <div> Vladimir yawned and rubbed his belly as he moved back to the bed. He pushed in beneath the warm blankets, and pulled them snugly to his chin. Sighing, he placed his arms behind his head and closed his tired eyes.</div> <div> He slept fitfully at first, dreaming about Inessa Kostenko. He could feel her warmth near him even now. Eventually, he turned onto his side, moaning. </div> <div> He began to have visions of his stepfather's empty grave, and how he planned to put him there. He didn't know how or even when yet, but he did know one thing for certain. Someday he would kill the old man, if it took him the rest of his life.</div> <div> Maybe the Army would teach him the how of it, and then he'd only have to worry about the when of it. He could hardly wait for fall to arrive. </div> <div> Then, he could begin his arduous Army training which, he was sure, would teach him, among other important things, the skills he would need to do the final job, provide him the knowledge that would prepare him properly for the final battle to see who the real man of the family was, after all.</div> <div> Fidgeting in his sleep, he poked a naked foot out from beneath the blankets to touch the cool dampness of the room. </div> <div> Suddenly, his toes began to wiggle, almost like in cadence to the commands of a burly drill sergeant, who was shouting obscenities into his ear.</div> <div> In his sleep, he cringed.</div> <div> Excerpt from A CROOKED PATH. Copyright (c) 2001 by Robert A. Gallinger</div> <bR> <div> Chapter Two</div> <div> November came cold and windy, and Vladimir felt its icy fingers on his neck as he pushed through the heavy wooden door of Nikolai's cottage. </div> <div> After the incident with his stepfather the previous April, he'd been invited to stay with Nikolai Evonovich, a white-haired kolkhoz worker and his best friend. </div> <div> With Nikolai, he'd heal sufficiently for the next Army call-up, and be safely away from his stepfather, at least until after he'd become a soldier with an assault rifle in his hands.</div> <div> The local doctor told him while he'd been healing that the tangled nerves in his back from the beating might give him trouble in the future without surgery. But the problem was not bad enough yet to keep him from the Army.</div> <div> “Don't worry about my back,” Vladimir told the doctor. “Soon, it will be stronger than a bull's again. Then, we'll see what the old man has to say to my fists.”</div> <div> “You must control that anger, Vladimir,” the doctor said, concerned. “Someday, it could get you killed.”</div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> *  *  *</div> <div> Inside the cottage, Vladimir stomped his boots down hard on the wooden planks. He pulled off his parka, and shook it at the door. Sticky snowflakes scattered in all directions, wetting his face and watering the floor.</div> <div> He shoved an official-looking brown envelope between his teeth before he flung his parka onto a wooden peg by the door, and then he walked to the far wall where the fire was burning brightly. </div> <div> Nikolai was waiting patiently for him to say something concerning his short journey to the local post office at the edge of the village.</div> <div> “So, has it come?” Nikolai asked, not able to hold his tongue any longer. He sat close to the fire with his wide rump hanging over both sides of a short milking stool. </div> <div> Nikolai was a stocky man, his skin rough from the weather and age, and his thick white hair was always a shamble. </div> <div> He glanced at Vladimir, who was sitting in front of him now on the stone slab in front of the fireplace, and repeated the question. “Well, Vladimir, does your tongue no longer work? Did it come or didn't it?”</div> <div> Reaching down, Vladimir picked up the envelope by his thigh. “Yes,” he said, “the postmaster said it arrived yesterday. He would have delivered it himself, but his wife has been ill with the flu.”</div> <div> “When must you go?”</div> <div> “Here.” He pushed the envelope out in front of him.</div> <div> “No, please, just tell me what it says.”</div> <div> “I must leave next Monday.”</div> <div> “That's only six days away.”</div> <div> “Yes, and I'm ordered to Petropavlovsk-Kamchatka.”</div> <div> “So far away?”</div> <div> “Yes, all the way east to the Bering Sea. I will join the 7777th Red Banner Motorized Rifle Regiment there. I will be in a training detachment with one of their battalions.”</div> <div> “So far away?” He bent his face toward the fireplace to feel its warmth.</div> <div> “Yes.”</div> <div> “But why? Surely there are other motorized rifle regiments nearer by in Minsk or Kiev or…”</div> <div> “Yes, that's true. I was originally scheduled to go to Kiev last April. I can only guess why they changed the location. </div> <div> "It was probably the work of my so-called father. I suspect it is his way to get me far away from Mursk, from mother, from you and the kolkhoz.”</div> <div> Nikolai bent on the stool and turned his toes up, so he could briskly massage the bottoms of his stockinged feet. Finished, he sat straight, crossed his ankles, and looked intently into the sparkling fire.</div> <div> “I understand,” he said softly without looking at Vladimir.</div> <div> “Someday I will kill my stepfather and…"</div> <div> “Don't think such ugly thoughts. There may be another reason for all of this. Just think of it as an Army tactic. Yes, that's it. It is just another seemingly senseless Army tactic. </div> <div> "You know it's true that they are always moving soldiers who live in the west to the east, and those who live in the east to the west for one reason or another. It is their way.”</div> <div> He took a deep breath before he continued. “Remember, I was a soldier myself once during the Great Patriotic War. The Army knows if they place soldiers far from home desertion will be less likely. </div> <div> "Deserters would have to run farther to get home under this arrangement, much too far for most of them to run before they were caught. And much too far to get away from their duties or the Army Manual.”</div> <div> He smiled into the fire. He remembered the old days, the old comrades, their smiles, their voices, and their meager graves. </div> <div> He missed the warm comradeship of his youth and the ones that had shared it with him before and during the war, but not so many left after it, since most were dead, poverty and disease taking a heavy toll.</div> <div> He at least had Vladimir to share some of his memories with, but now he was going away, too. He would be left alone like before. He did not want to think about it.</div> <div> He suddenly thought of something else. He turned, still on the stool, and spoke again even more seriously than before. “And don't take any valuables with you either.”</div> <div> Vladimir laughed loudly. “I don't have anything like that, Nikolai.”</div> <div> “I don't mean expensive watches or jewelry or such things. I mean other things.”</div> <div> “Other things?”</div> <div> “Yes. I saw with my own eyes when I was a soldier after the Great Patriotic War how important it was to safeguard valuables. I saw recruits…mainly the ones from the Southern and Eastern Republics; the ones who could barely speak our language…steal whatever they wanted. Never mind the value. To them, everything was valuable.”</div> <div> “Everything?”</div> <div> “Yes. I once saw one of them steal a used bar of soap from a soldier who'd just finished showering. It was covered with pubic hairs embedded in its sudsless face, what little was left of it. </div> <div> "The thief dared the naked soldier to do something about it…they are good with knives, you know. A bad lot. You must be careful of them. There are still plenty of them left in our Army, I understand.”</div> <div> “Don't worry, I don't intend to take anything of value to camp. I'll wear my most tattered rags as a matter of fact, and if they want them let them have them. I'll have a uniform by then. I will no longer have a need for rags.” He laughed again as he turned his face into the warmth of the fire and its glow.</div> <div> “There are other things you should know, too,” Nikolai said. </div> <div> He rubbed his wrinkled hands through his snow-white hair, which hung almost to his shoulders. </div> <div> He looked worried, almost like a bitch on the verge of losing her last pup from a new litter. “You've heard about dedovshchina, I'm sure. There are bullies everywhere in the Army, especially at the Course of the Young Soldier. </div> <div> "Whatever you've heard about dedovshchina, believe it. If it isn't true you'll have lost absolutely nothing. You will have been on your guard, and that's all that counts. Better careful than dead.”</div> <div> “I've heard some things about it," Vladimir said. "Nothing much good, I'm afraid.”</div> <div> “It's nothing more than institutionalized bullying at its very worst,” Nikolai said gravely, leaning forward on the stool to rub his swollen ankles.</div> <div> “Some of the soldiers called deds are as bad as the sergeants, I've heard,” Vladimir said. “Some are even worse, if that's possible. </div> <div> "I've been told that when they get within six months or so from demobilization they grow bolder. They enjoy bullying new recruits, the so-called dukhs, the free spirits, the most,” I've heard. “Why do some people have to be so mean-spirited, Nikolai?”</div> <div> “It's a way to get even,” he said authoritatively. “Once the deds have most of their obligation behind them, they feel it is their right to bully. After all, they've been bullied themselves night and day for eighteen months up till then. Now it's their turn. </div> <div> "After eighteen months of service, they're given the name befitting their status: ded, taken from our word, grandfather, a person considered to be wise, knowledgeable of things and places and of human nature, someone who has the right to push others around. That's what the ded is all about.”</div> <div> “I know it will be hard,” Vladimir said.</div> <div> “Hard, but not impossible. Remember, millions of young men have served in the Army; and many have even died during our great wars, but despite the bullying and the wars a good number have survived. And that's what you must do.”</div> <div> “I will.”</div> <div> “You must.”</div> <div> “I will.”</div> <div> “Just remember what I've said. If you hear anything about a bully incident, believe it. And be on your guard. That's all I'm going to tell you.”</div> <div> “I'll be very watchful, I assure you.”</div> <div> “Good.”</div> <div> After the afternoon meal, Vladimir shoveled a narrow path between the barn and cottage, repaired several sagging shutters, and then cut and stacked additional firewood, which he piled neatly in the woodshed at the rear of the house.</div> <div>  Finally, he rested. His leg had been bothering him a little since his walk in the snow to the post office and back earlier in the day. He hoped it would hold up in the Army.</div> <div> Rubbing his leg, he thought about leaving. He wondered if Nikolai would be able to make it alone without him. He shrugged off his concerns quickly. There was no reason at all to worry about Nikolai. </div> <div> The old man was strong. He could still swing an ax, harness a nervous horse to a stone sled, walk miles through the fields through snow or sleet or rain without a second breath, and based on the recent discussion with him, he could still tell a damn fine story, too, whenever he wanted to, which was always lately.</div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> *  *  *</div> <div> The time passed quickly for Vladimir Antonovich, each busy day filled with daily chores. On the fifth day he visited home for the last time. </div> <div> He picked a day and time he knew his stepfather would likely be at work. He didn't want to see him ever again, except perhaps in his grave.</div> <div> He made his tearful farewell with his mother first, an even more tearful one to Inessa Kostenko, his first true love, who met him there, sobbing. </div> <div> He told her she didn't have to wait for him. Many, he told her, never returned from the Army even in peacetime. For all he knew, he might be one of them.</div> <div> On the way back to Nikolai's cottage, he met the bearded social leader of the village.</div> <div> “Do not forget to do your duty,” the old man pleaded, holding tightly to Vladimir's shoulder, “for us all.”</div> <div> Serious, Vladimir shook the old man's hand, and then turned to go. “I will do my best, that's all I can do.”</div> <div> “You must do better, Vladimir Antonovich, regardless of what it costs you in the end.” Taking his hand, he squeezed it hard. “Above all else, you must be an honorable man.”</div> <div> Vladimir looked into the old man's eyes. “I will try,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “But now I must go.” </div> <div> Vladimir lowered his chin as he stepped off briskly away from the bearded social leader toward Nikolai's cottage. The Army waits, he thought, quickening his pace, and it's time for me to prove myself to all of them, here and there.</div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> *  *  *</div> <div> The next day, after they'd quietly eaten their bread and soft cheese and marmalade, and had finished their breakfast tea, avoiding each other's eyes, Vladimir stood. He cleared his throat and moved to the cottage door.</div> <div> He was wearing the oldest clothing he could find. He had a small bag slung over his shoulder.</div> <div>  He was ready to travel what Nikolai had called a crooked path to glory, and what his stepfather had called a straight path to sorrowful disillusionment, eventual failure and, in the end, total destruction if he weren't careful enough in the beginning.</div> <div> “Perhaps your father has not taken you too far from the truth, after all,” Nikolai told Vladimir after he'd learned what the stepfather had said. “A crooked path to glory certainly would be a much better path to follow than a straight path to nowhere at all. </div> <div> "But regardless of how straight or crooked the path may be, lad, I'm sure you will succeed. You're already a good man in my eyes, and you have your health and a brain.”</div> <div> “I will do my best, Nikolai. I promise you that much.” His eyes began to burn.</div> <div> “That's all anyone can ask of you, lad, nothing more. Just remember what I've told you. Like everything else in life, the Army can be hard or easy on you but never boring. Just follow your nose. </div> <div> "It may one day lead you to a glory that you've never known before, and that would make both you and us happy. Just be careful along the way. And one more thing.”</div> <div> “Yes?”</div> <div> “Never forsake your honor and dignity for a taste of glory. It is never worth it in the end.”</div> <div> “I will do what I can, Nikolai.”</div> <div> “That's all anyone can do.”</div> <div> Vladimir's hand trembled slightly on the door latch. “It's time, Nikolai,” he said, rubbing his eyes clean. “I must go to Dubki to catch the bus. I mustn't be late for the Army.”</div> <div> Nikolai moved closer to the door. He gave Vladimir a bear hug, kissed him on both cheeks and on the forehead, then returned slowly to the fire across the room. </div> <div> He sat on the stone slab where Vladimir had sat many times before. Crossing his legs, he saluted. “Make us…your mother and myself, and the village…all proud, Vladimir. And always remember, lad, to be careful. </div> <div> "The Army can be deadly when it wants to be. You must watch your step on the path you travel as though there were a Bolshevik at every turn. Remember that and you'll be fine. I'm sure of it.”</div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> *  *  *</div> <div> Vladimir left the house and walked slowly through the November air toward Dubki. There, he would catch a bus that would take him to Moscow. </div> <div> Then, with appropriate changes and detours along the crooked path, as Nikolai liked to call it, beginning at the Great Komsomol Square of the Three Terminals in Moscow, a train would take him seven days east to the military port of Vladivostok. There, he was scheduled to obtain other transportation to Petropavlovsk-Kamchatka, and the training battalion that awaited his arrival.</div> <div> Vladimir could hardly wait to finish the Course of the Young Soldier. Then, he'd be able to return to Mursk on a short leave to face his stepfather one last time. </div> <div> As a trained soldier, a killer of sorts, he was certain that the terms would become more equal between them then, and the business of manhood would be settled once and for all.</div> <div> Excerpt from A CROOKED PATH. Copyright (c) 2001 by Robert A. Gallinger.</div> <bR> <div> Excerpt Chapter Three:</div> <div> At the camp, Vladimir found the first days at the Course of the Young Soldier long and tedious. There were many briefings, announcements and orientations.</div> <div> Everything was new and strange to him. He had to learn all he could about Army life, discipline, customs, duties, recognition of rank, basic drill formations, safety when handling weapons, and a multitude of other military and political subjects. </div> <div> And later, he'd have to learn about killing with weapons, and with his bare hands and feet.</div> <div> He thought at first that all he'd heard about the Army had all been wrong. He saw few signs of dedovshchina anywhere. </div> <div> “Maybe the bullies are in hiding,” he arrogantly joked to his new comrades. “They must have heard that Vladimir Antonovich was on post, and that he does not take nonsense from anyone, including sergeants and corporals.”</div> <div> Soon, the good times changed for all of them. For some reason, several of the training sergeants were replaced. </div> <div> Vladimir's company was called in front of the three-story, red-bricked barracks in platoon formation, where they were introduced to the sergeants and corporals who'd just been assigned for training duty.</div> <div> The recruits were all dressed in their winter, field uniforms. None were armed. Their weapons were stored safely in the barrack's arms room on the first floor.</div> <div> Sergeant Kosnov was nowhere in sight. He was the senior training sergeant for the company. He was the one who'd provided Vladimir's platoon many of the initial orientations. Someone said he'd been called to headquarters.</div> <div> Vladimir and the others were called to attention by a new training sergeant called Vassily Bugo. He was a short man with a square face, and a swagger in his gait that only a short man could possibly attain without falling over. </div> <div> He walked more like you would expect a cocky sailor on shore leave to walk than a proud soldier on a parade ground.</div> <div> Junior Sergeant Bugo faced the ranks and did not speak for a full thirty-two seconds. He didn't move any part of his rigid body or face except his eyes, which mercilessly raked each of the three ranks in front of him.</div> <div> Finally, he spoke forcibly. He grabbed each pair of eyes looking at him for a full three seconds almost like he was on the firing range. </div> <div> He quickly picked the target he wanted, held it several seconds, then shot it with rapid fire from his AK-47 eyes before he moved to the next mark that stood rigid before him.</div> <div> “I am Sergeant Bugo, and this is Junior Sergeant Borsky and Acting Corporal Susinlov, my newly assigned ded.” </div> <div> He pointed to his left at the other sergeant standing there, then to the acting corporal to the left of the sergeant. </div> <div> A senior man had an obligation to stand to the right of his subordinates. It was a place of honor and trust; perhaps even safety, since in this position, according to ancient tradition, the superior's sword arm would be free to ward off all surprises, which might include angry sword-wielding “friends” or foes intent on doing him bodily harm or worse.</div> <div> Bugo continued his little talk. “We've been ordered by the battalion commander to make you into soldiers. We fully intend to obey his orders.”</div> <div> A soldier in the front rank moved his hand to his mouth. He attempted to cover a persistent winter hack.</div> <div> Sergeant Bugo moved quickly to the coughing soldier, leaving his assistants behind.</div> <div> “How long have you been in the Army, Recruit?” Bugo demanded. His face was only inches away from the soldier's.</div> <div> “I…"</div> <div> “Speak louder! I can't hear you.” Bugo moved his face closer. He almost touched the nose of the soldier with his own.</div> <div> “For only several days,” the recruit said gloomily, almost a whisper.</div> <div> “For only several days.” Bugo turned his head. He motioned for Sergeant Borsky and Corporal Susinlov to join him by the ranks, and then turned back to the recruit.</div> <div> “Have you received any instruction concerning your responsibilities when in ranks, Recruit?” He held his hands behind his back like he was trying to restrain himself from striking the soldier in the face.</div> <div> “Yes.”</div> <div> “Yes. And have you received instruction on military courtesy, how you must address a sergeant in or out of ranks?”</div> <div>  He moved his fists to the front of his body as he shoved his face closer to the soldier's. He stared directly into the frightened eyes, and then held them tightly like gold.</div> <div> “Some.” The recruit's nose dripped onto his lips, but he made no effort to wipe it away. A mad dog was staring him in the face. He'd best stay as still as possible.</div> <div> “Some,” Bugo said snidely. “Well, my snot-nosed piece of pig shit, I intend to teach you some more. You're a disgrace to my Army, to my uniform, and to the Army Manual of Discipline.” </div> <div> He stepped back a pace, and nodded at Sergeant Borsky and Corporal Susinlov, who took up close-interval positions to his left.</div> <div> On Bugo's command, they moved immediately to the soldier in the ranks, and one on either side of him, grabbed an arm. </div> <div> They pulled the soldier roughly out away from his comrades to the center front of the formation, where every man in every rank could see what they were doing.</div> <div> Sergeant Bugo turned about. He swaggered out to where the new recruit was being held between his two assistants.</div> <div> “Now, what did you tell me?” Bugo asked the recruit. “You've been a recruit for…what did you say…several days? And what else was there? Oh, yes, you did receive some instruction on military courtesy. Isn't that what you said?”</div> <div> The soldier's mouth was quivering uncontrollably. He looked confused and afraid. </div> <div> The sergeant and corporal held him tightly between them as they faced Sergeant Bugo, whose back was to the formation of the other nervous soldiers.</div> <div> Bugo turned abruptly to face the men standing in ranks. “I am now going to give you a quick lesson in military discipline and courtesy, Comrades. Listen very closely. You may be tested on this instruction yourselves someday before your training is finished here.”</div> <div> He moved several paces closer to the formation, and hooked his thumbs into his leather belt at the waist. The new recruits still wore uncomfortable plastic belts.</div> <div> “This is a basic instruction. You should have already been taught it, but no matter, if you have or have not, I will teach it to you now the right way.” He cleared his throat.</div> <div> “The Army Manual is clear on this. Whenever you speak to a superior you must not say yes as this pig behind me has done. You must say <I>tak tachno, </I>exactly so. And you are never to say no, but rather <I>nikak nyet</I>, absolutely not.” He waited for the instruction to sink in, and then continued. </div> <div> “You must never move in ranks when you're at attention either. No talking. No moving. No coughing. No pissing in your pants. No nothing. </div> <div> "Pretend that your life depends on how still you remain in ranks, regardless of what else is happening around you.”</div> <div> He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.</div> <div> “This thing behind me insulted me with his actions and with his speech. He said yes, he moved in ranks when he was supposed to be at strict attention, and he did not address me in a respectable manner at all. </div> <div> "In other words, the stupid ass insulted me and my position.” He had a smug look on his face. Clearly, he was having fun.</div> <div> He turned to the soldier behind him, who was still being held by the two assistants. “Did you learn from my instruction?” he asked the soldier. He moved close to him as he spoke.</div> <div> Frightened and nervous by all the attention, the recruit said, “Yes.” Then he coughed again, and automatically wiped his nose with the back of his hand.</div> <div> Sergeant Bugo shut his eyes for a moment. He shook his shoulders like his neck was suddenly cold. He started to turn back to the formation, but halfway around he changed his mind. </div> <div> He turned without warning, and kicked the soldier squarely between the legs with the toe of his heavy boot.</div> <div> The soldier would have fallen to the ground if it hadn't been for Sergeant Borsky and Corporal Susinlov, tightening a new grip on his arms. The soldier pitched back and forth violently. </div> <div> He struggled to free himself while tears flooded his eyes. He raised his legs from the ground, crossed them in the air, and kicked out at nothing. He tried to stop the terrible hurt in his stomach and the one between his legs.</div> <div> The sergeant and corporal held him with his legs slightly up, away from the pavement. They let him kick and turn and squeal all he wanted. </div> <div> They would not allow him the luxury of falling to the ground where he could hold himself, trying to relieve the awful pain that made his eyes swell red.</div> <div> With a smug look on his face, Sergeant Bugo watched the man struggling with his two assistants. He finally nodded at them, giving them a silent command. </div> <div> The soldier was allowed to drop to his knees. He vomited immediately.</div> <div> Bugo and his men moved back to the front of the formation. They were careful not to dirty their boots in the mess the recruit had left behind in the company street that was now filled with attentive eyes.</div> <div> Looking up and down the ranks, Bugo caught the eye of a man in the first rank. It was Recruit Vladimir Antonovich.</div> <div> “Come here!” Bugo commanded.</div> <div> Vladimir hesitated a moment longer than he should have.</div> <div> “You! Yes, you,” Bugo called out again. He pointed at him. “Move your ass over here, I said. At the quick!”</div> <div> Vladimir jumped the few steps it took to place himself directly in front of the sergeant.</div> <div> Bugo pulled his shoulders back stiffly. He rose up on his toes, and looked Vladimir almost directly in the eyes.</div> <div> “Name?” Bugo asked.</div> <div> “Ah...Vladimir,” he finally spurted out.</div> <div> “Vla-di-mir. What a stupid name. What whore gave such a name to you?” He smiled arrogantly.</div> <div> Vladimir raised his hands slightly away from the sides of his trousers. His fingers started to curl into a fist. His neck felt warm and his head throbbed. He took a deep breath as he began to raise his fists away from his trouser legs. </div> <div> Suddenly, he remembered the words of Nikolai during one of his many lectures.</div> <div>  "Be careful," he had said. "<I>Dedovshchina</I>. Many will try to test your patience so they can beat you more, or kill you. Grit your teeth and hold your tongue. You will live longer."</div> <div> Excerpt from <B>A Crooked Path. </B>Copyright (c) 2001 by Robert A Gallinger.</div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id28_m.htm" TITLE="Excerpt Crooked Path">Back to Top</A></div> <div> <A HREF="id3.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Synopses">Synopses</A></div> <div> <A HREF="id39.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE=" Order Info">Order Info</A></div> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="home ">Home Page</A></div> <div> <A HREF="id42.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Site Map">Site Map</A></div> <div> <A HREF="id49.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Reviews ">Reviews </A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id30.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Excerpt Dead Light">Next Page</A></div> <div> <A HREF="id24.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Excerpt Deadly Encounters">Previous Page</A></div> <div>  </html> </head> http://www.bookworldinfo.com/acrookedpath_excerpt.htm <title>Book World Info - provides Novel Excerpt, Book Excerpt, Book Summary</title> <meta name="description" content="Book World Info - Offers Novel Excerpt for Mystery Suspense Book by Robert A. 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