NO FLAGS FOR THE WARRIORS

Press, 1 March 1989, Page 21

NO FLAGS FOR THE WARRIORS

Lieutenant-colonel Gennady Ivanovich Chistyakov, deputy commander of the Soviet Army Western Afghanistan Division, wore a roguish smile as his hands described the tricky movement of 12,000 troops through hostile territory. “Imagine a woman’s silk stocking,” he said with a wink of his eye. “We pull what is in the toe — our convoy — up through the leg, which forms our outposts on both sides of the road.

“As we go along,” he says, his smile broadening, our outposts fall in behind, just like the leg of the stocking and we have our rearguard in place all the way up to the thigh, and beyond.” A compact, cheerful man, Colonel Chistyakov beams with delight at the prospect of the town of Kushka in the Soviet Union, where his regiments will be safe from attacks by Mujahideen guerrillas for the first time in nine years, one month and 22 days.

A few weeks ago the colonel reached the top of the stocking.

There was no fanfare in the drab little Afghan border town of Towraghondi and the armoured corps of the Western Afghanistan Divison rumbled across the border with scarcely a single soldier’s voice or hand raised in exaltation. Unlike the contrived brassband welcome given to their comrades taking the Salang Highway route to Termez in the east, the troops arriving at Kushka were alone with their thoughts as they left Afghanistan behind. Their sunburned faces wore the same fixed expression as the handful of Afghans who looked up from the shabby roadside shopfronts. It is nearly over — nine years of Soviet occupation, of guns and bloodshed and defeat by stalemate. It comes to an end with this stone-faced, eyesfront armoured crawl across the river. The Western Division’s tanks and troop carriers made up the last big convoy of the Soviet withdrawal from Afghanistan. One senior artillery officer leaned across the gun turret we shared for the ride across the Kushka River, shouting: “We’re glad you’re here to see that we are telling the truth. We haven’t always done so, not even to ourselves.”

Having covered the Afghan War from the early months of Soviet occupation, I understood what the officer was saying. The Soviet Union’s official version of events spoke of friendly assistance, even as its military intervention created the largest migration of war refugees from one nation since World War 11.

But now the Soviet Army was in retreat. Specifically, the Western Division, one of the first to march on to Afghan soil in December, 1979, was leaving. And in the division, the Berlin Armoured Assault Regiment, named for its victorious drive into the heart of Nazi Germany, was finding itself, 44 years later, heading home empty-handed. Despite the official line about the Afghan campaign having been a successful fulfillment of the Red Army’s “internationalist duty,” many Soviet soldiers see it a different way. “It’s time for change in our army,” one tank commander says as he clamps a replacement tread into place. "It’s time we changed our whole attitude toward life.”

Others agreed, even while they were insisting that the Afghan campaign had not been a total loss. “I’m offended by the suggestion that it was a mistake for us to come here,” said Lieutenant Yuri Altchil, a battle-hard-ened 24-year-old from Anchor company. “But there’s nothing more we could accomplish here.” He was sceptical about the chances of the Afghan Government Army holding off the Mujahideen guerrillas on its own. “We could have tried anything,” says his fellow armoured assault leader, Lieutenant Victor Yevdokimov, “and the outcome would have been the same. It’s time to go home.”

It’s a 500-kilometre dash from the division’s base near Shindand to the border, and with the countryside thick with Mujahideen fighters and sympathisers — especially near the historic city of Herat — no-one in the convoy was sparing the horsepower.

Troops huddled on the tops of tanks and armoured personnel carriers, bundling themselves in coats, blankets and even rugs against the biting cold. Only one casualty marred an otherwise clockwork operation. An officer chancing a last look at Herat

from his speeding armoured personnel carrier was hit in the legs by a Mujahideen sniper. It was left to Afghanistan’s fast-changing weather to lash out at the departing troops with one last wintry blow. On the mountain pass north of Herat, the convoy crept along the icy grade, all but disappearing into thick clouds of snow; a legion of warriors yearning for home. “Home ...,” says one trooper wistfully as he hunches his shoulders up against the cold. “We all left during the period of stagnation.” There is a hopeful smile

on his face as he scans the horizon appearing faintly through the snow. He feels no need to explain. Perestroika and the “new thinking” in Moscow offer much more than mere escape from war. They promise work, the chance of a better life and new freedoms for all afghistsi or veterans. As the winding mountain road finally gives way to a descent to the border, the tanks, troop carriers and giant, lumbering self-propelled guns pick up speed with a deafening roar.

The assembly point is in sight — a sprawling array of armoured vehicles, trucks and gun barrels taking up ranks for the division’s last night in Afghanistan. A festive atmosphere develops. Rockets hiss into the air, unleashing blinding white illumination flares and coloured signals against the cold, starry brilliance of the night sky. Officers move briskly around the command post, verifying arrivals, ensuring their units’ places in the following day’s eight-kilometre journey across

the border. The division’s commander and Colonel Chistyakov’s superior, Colonel Vasily Vasilyovich Andriev, looks pleased — not pleased enough to become a fullblooded convert to glasnost: if the representative of the foreign press wishes an interview, he may talk to one of the regimental commanders — no-one more senior. I am introduced to LieutenantColonel Alexander Turlakov, commander of the Berlin Regiment. He sizes me up with a look which is engaging — in the

combative sense of the word —- and squares his chin at me as if bracing himself for my best interrogative punch. Considering the secrecy and outright malice shown to the Western press during the early years of the war, he is remarkably candid and forthcoming on technical questions regarding the convoy.

As to the legacy of the Afghan campaign, his answers stick to the official line. But he does take a moment to ponder my question as to whether the Soviet Army was not propelled into an impossible situation by the Kremlin’s decision to intervene.

“We are professional soldiers, and we go where we are sent,” he began. “But it has been openly stated that this was not a decision of all the Soviet people, nor of the whole Soviet leadership. I think it is now impossible for such a decision to be made again.” From private to colonel, all the veterans I spoke to echoed one comforting refrain: We hope the days of foreign intervention are over, the Soviet Army is a defensive force now.

One disturbing element, however, was the refusal to admit to — much less express remorse for — the catastrophic loss of life in the years of Soviet occupation: more than a million dead among the Mujahideen and their civilian supporters, a quarter million on the Government side, and at least 15,000 Soviet dead. One seasoned warrant officer told me: “Of course I feel sad about our own losses. But I think

these other numbers you mention — they’re exaggerated. I don’t accept them.” It was apparent that many of the men and almost all officers of the withdrawing contingent had another concern uppermost in mind: their futures within the military. While the winds coming down from the hills of Soviet Turkmenistan promised social changes at home, President Gorbachev’s troop reduction plans for Eastern Europe coupled with the growing debate on ending conscription prompted much discussion among the divisions’ career officers.

“Already there are not enough postings for our senior officers,” said one major privately. “Most of us will return to the base from where we were called up to Afghanistan, and wait.”

Few officers were keen to discuss their plans, but early retirement — not necessarily voluntary — was on the minds of more than a few capable-looking young men. “First we get home,” said the major, rubbing his palms briskly, “then worry about the future.”

But suddenly the future was upon us in the form of the Soviet border, and the issue hung over the returning war machine like a giant question mark. What do you do with the world’s most experienced, battle-tested army when politicians decide it is time for it to go home? Aside from the standard words of welcome, no-one among the small official reception party had an answer. Copyright London Observer

Bloodshed and defeat are behind Soviet troops who have pulled out of Afghanistan. Ahead of them is a changed homeland. ARTHUR KENT, of the “Observer,” was the only Western journalist in a convoy of the Soviet Western Afghanistan Division as troops drove back over the border: