ArtOfWar. Andreev Pavel. The Bullet

Bullet.

Written by Pavel Andreev © Pavel Andreev

List of Characters:

Author, war veteran, lost both legs in Afghanistan

Kesha, war veteran, born in a uranium mining town in Kazakhstan around 1965.

Bullet, Kesha's battle moniker, a distinguished non-civilian personification.

Hun, platoon lieutenant

Khalimov, soldier. Killed in action.

Spook(s) - mujahedeen, Afghan fighter(s).

The text is divided into 9 segments, titled according to participating characters and their locations.

Kesha in a Uranium Mining Town.

I had no idea what to expect this time. I remembered the impression I got from the minimal change in his attitude the last time I saw him, three years back.

Then, I came to the neat little city he lived in on the eve of the Miner's Day. The following day, among the celebrations, I clearly saw that Kesha was not on the level with his current sit. He had changed outwardly, but I could still recognize the same guy I knew in Afghanistan. There was a kind heart beating inside his chest, but burned by the hot foreign sun, his soul left him. Still, I felt sure that given time he would recapture his old self.

Now, three years later, I again stood in front of his door. I pressed the doorbell. I was anticipating how we would greet each other, hug each other. The door opened and I saw him standing there. Somehow too mundanely, he shook my hand and with a puzzled look into my eyes asked me: "What's with you? Are you from the Field of Fools or what?" I couldn't handle my feelings at this question. The bewilderment and offence spilled out at the same time, and it must have been reflected on my face. Getting ahead of my feelings, Kesha hugged me belatedly, and clapping me on the back, said: "OK, what's up with you? You are like a small boy. I am happy to see you, old man. I just don't want any snot on my clothes."

The grudge at this stingy show of happiness, the resentment at his condescending manner, all that disappeared, when I stepped into his apartment. I was so excited by what I saw that I walked right in without pausing to take off my prosthetic shoes. What I saw was a miniature model of an AC-60 PB on the bookshelves, featured in the most visible spot in the room. On a side of this tiny vehicle there was a number 345 painted with yellow paint. The eyes of my friend burned with authentic pride for this unique show of his victories.

"I'll show you something else! I got a bush of Indian marihuana!"

I wasn't listening to him anymore, I was mesmerized by the model. But his words did get through to me, and I understood that he really went wacky, and that time won't cure him. He stayed there in the desert.

Bullet. Hun. Field of Fools.

The sun burned the back of his bold head. The cotton shirt turned crusty from the salt of sweat. The barely perceptible wind moved above ground like heated glass, transforming objects into liquid contours .

The soldier Bullet was lying in a trench dug out for a position Mad Minute, and looked into the swaying fog through his optical CVD. The Field of Fools, where it was his turn to imitate a sniper, was a piece of desert starting right behind the battalion latrine. It was a place reserved for beating your boots for those deemed to deserve it. The procedure was always more or less the same, simple, and therefore highly offensive. A belligerent had to dig out his own trench for shooting , using rules of land warfare 101. The way of guarding the trench was determined individually. The penalty consisted less of the fact that you had to stay on guard. Failure to do so was considered more of a shame, if the commanding officer came to check up on the making of the trench and on one's vigilance. Trust and independence were the maintained, encouraged qualities. The drill sergeant could show up any moment, and to idle and be caught with it meant to lose that trust. It resigned a soldier to a position of a `worm', one that could only show a worm's sleaziness in life.

In the two years, during which the best of boys from all over the Great Country joined the platoon, this penalty became a ritual with strict rules. The status of those who had served it rose accordingly. As a living memory of all Fools who had been there, this piece of burned land was covered with a multitude of scars - trenches. Bullet lay on the ground, and getting bored with the desert landscape, examined the platoon base through his rifle sight, trying not to think about the command master chief petty officer Hun, the acting drill sergeant, who ordered these moments of communion with the ravaged foreign land.

The first three months of service in this war divided people into two categories: those who saw in it only profit and those who were attracted to a war as such. There was also a third, in between group. The CMDCM called Hun was its bright representative. He was a professional in trading with the locals, and even more of a professional in conducting ambushes against the same locals. Bypassing inner compromises, Hun found an easy method of shedding any guilt, he did both activities with the same sense of a big responsibility. All his tricks showed a professional, who tried to do his job as carefully, as circumstances allowed. It was generally believed that Hun would not start anything, without first making sure that he had all the necessary gear "if he had to engage Allah".

Flaunting his higher education, paraphrasing Shakespeare, Hun would explain his view of the current reality, "A pocket with a hole in it is an inane thing. It causes light-headedness. Light-headed behaviour in the field leads to a hole in the head. No other alternatives in a radius of thousand miles, sons. All our life here is condensed to the necessity of survival, and we are slowly reduced to animals in this crazy fucked-up war."

Before meeting Hun, Bullet was a simple grunt "just off the plane". He even still had a civilian name. His mum called him Kesha, and his mum never told him about the war or the Soviet Army.

Kesha grew up in a uranium mining town, far away and lost in the steppes of the Great Country. Kesha had no way of knowing about the existence of another young man, a future lieutenant, who at the time was teasing his girlfriend somewhere in Ukraine. The war joined them together, filtering their worlds through a rifle sight, terribly simplifying life, making it unbearably concrete.

Kesha in a Uranium Mining Town.

When Kesha and I, lightly drunk and having smoked the whole stash of marihuana, moved over to the balcony giving Kesha's family a chance to get some sleep, the warm summer night filled the tiny apartment with coolness. We talked about the past. I tried to change the subject onto the present. But he, ignoring my questions, successively dragged me into the war. Looking through the glass door into the one room apartment, where covered with white sheets his wife and daughter were sleeping on the only couch, he suddenly said, "Look, it's like we are in a morgue!"

The simile he used gave me the shudders. Yes, there in the moonlit room were mattresses arranged for us on the floor; they were covered with white starched sheets. The people sleeping in the room only added to this eerie picture of night silence. What did Kesha think about? How did he look at this world? What did his eye sockets, the gun ports of his round impregnable scull, let into his brain to equal this white innocent silence filled with the peace of careless sleep, to equal it with a silence of a morgue?

"Kesha, what are you saying? Do you hear yourself?" I asked him.

He was sincerely surprised, "What do I say? It's what you say! You think it's all over? It's just beginning. Look around yourself. You forgot how in the hospital the only way you could get down to the street level in your wheelchair was by giving some money to the elevator boy? They are not gone! They have children imbued with all their habits. They are all around. They are all walking dead, and again we are alone. Alone, like back then in an ambush. This is my war, and I won't lose it." he finished, looking straight at me.

"Kesha, I am with you."

"You remember what Hun taught us?", he continued.

Hun. Field of Fools. Monologue.

"You have to understand that it's a stranger, somebody you don't know. Otherwise you won't be able to do it. You have to understand this stranger is a target, you're taking an aim. This is somebody else's life, not yours. If you don't kill him now, he won't give you another chance. If he lives, he will for sure give you a chance to go home. Only your mum will get you back packed in a jar. And then she will start writing letters to the platoon commander with questions like why the lieutenant did not return her son back alive to her.

"...Do you need all that shit?", Hun stood over Bullet, who swung his legs aside, demonstrating how to shoot lying down.

Bullet had a target placed in front of him. Hun personally carried it to the Field. It was a very old fairly large clay jar filled with petroleum jelly mixed with leftovers from the field kitchen. The top half of the jar was covered with a condom, smeared with dirt and pieces of felt, and other gruesome hairy stuff. All this was placed at a distance of five hundred meters from Bullet.

Hun said, "Here, son, here is your target. Imagine that your best effort to shoot the target determines my mood and therefore your future. If your first shot gets a hit, we all go take a break. No hit, I go for a break, you stay shooting. After killing the target, you may go and look at what your head is going to look like after you get a hole in it. This jar with a condom on it is the exact copy of your head. If you don't hit it now, it would be easier for me to kill you now than to take you with us, and then to have to drag you out from under enemy fire. The rules are simple, remember it. I won't be repeating it.

"First: your one advantage over the accursed Lee-Enfield that can hit you at a distance of up to 500 yards, is your outstanding speed shooting capability. If an Afghani spook is stoned or irritated, it takes about seven seconds of his brainwork to make the first shot. Considering that getting the target the first time around is superhuman, then just to readjust for the second shot, the spook would need at least ten seconds. You got it? The time of preparation for this second shot gives an advantage of thirty meters to a moving target, and that's if your pants are down, you can still move. Here's the thing: you shouldn't give them a break like this. The automatic is your bride . It saves you about five seconds, and that's some 15 yards that your target does not get to run. First good shot straight into the target is a dream! It does not harm to dream, but in the best case scenario, after a bad shot the target will get on his knees. Dependent on his life's and psychiatric experience, this momentary freeze imposed on him with your first bad shot will last about 5-6 seconds. That's you star moment. You have this moment thanks to your automatic rifle, value it.

"Second: a normal spook's body is about 20 inches wide. Everything that makes him alive and fidgety is located at about 7 to 8 inches deep. With his chest as target, your MOA is more than 4 inches - that's much more than required for any long range shooting. At this distance, the only sniper able to reach you is one with identical equipment.

"You got a 9.5 g bullet in your rifle. It's got a steel shirt with a copper tip on top. At impact with a spook's body, it turns 90®, and then a fraction of a second later, it turns again 180® on its rear end forward, slightly damaging soft tissue on the way. At a depth of say 7 inches, the bullet will lose its momentum, passing it on to the body of a spook, who will already be dead of fright. Going through soft tissues, the bullet produces some damages, but going through solid organs, like lungs or lever, it destroys a spook completely. You got it? Your goal is to get into the target. The rest is not your business. But the trick is something else.

"At impact a bullet makes a body pulsate, like a water-filled balloon. Now, imagine, two or three of your bullets getting into a spook with an interval of two seconds? They will rumble his insides and blow it all up. Therefore, remember, son, first: when the optic sight aims at the target, oscillations should reduce, it should happen just moments before shooting.

"Third: a balanced positioning of your rifle, easy shifting, and a comfortable sighting will provide for good shooting. There is only one hitch - return reverb. So, just hold it, hold your rifle steady. With good positioning, and less oscillations, you get a 6 times bigger chance of hitting the target, than if you were unprepared.

"These are the reasons it pays for you to devote some attention to all this: you have an advantage in firing speed, you have pretty good optics for releasing at least three rounds at 400 yards, all that will guarantee success even if you're dripping diarrhea at the time.

"You got all the chances to go home like a hero! But now you got a chance to surprise me. Now, take your first shot at the target, then release, as precisely as possible, two or three shots in a row, and then we will go look at `his' brains in the jar. "

The first bullet went right through the jar neck, it cut straight through it, and left a dusty trace on the ground far behind. The two bullets following hit the middle of the jar with an interval of three seconds, breaking it into large pieces and tearing the condom at entry and exit points. Jelly-like substance burst through the holes in the condom that was still holding together the broken pieces of clay.

Hun picked up the jar and demonstratively looking it over spilled the rest of the jelly out. "No brains left, not even for a multiplication table", he commented on the remains. Bullet stood aside and tried to look away.

Hun clapped Bullet on the shoulder to cheer him up, "You got to get used to it, son. You got to understand that if you don't hit him in the first ten seconds, you can fall in love with him. And that means that you won't want to shoot. I got to trust you. They are waiting for us back home."

Kesha in a Uranium Mining Town.

Kesha was sitting erect, stretching his thin working arms out onto his knees. "When I flopped Math for the Petro Physics Major at the Gorniy Institute in Moscow, I went back to Kazakhstan. I got myself a job at the mine. There are enough hoboes here for me. They all know me. They all love me. It's easier for me to live with them, according to their standards, than with all these...

"One time I had to go to the mine party meeting. First, I went to the tramps to take some dope from them. And they say, "Kesha, we know you. You are going to smoke some on the way, sit there until it hits you, and then come back here and start schmoozing. It's better if you smoke some here, now, and then you can go rattle your head off there".

".... So, I smoked some good stuff they had, and then I went to the meeting of the communist fathers. I was sitting there quietly, listening to them, trying to get their game. Then I got it. I started talking. They gave me word, let the young have a say, so to speak. I applied for party membership before the end of deployment, you know, and when I came home I was good and chill. Half a year of active military, and you don't have to do any candidate probationary period. So, when I came out onto the stage there at the meeting, mind you, a week before that I had read exactly four pages of Gorbachev's New Thinking Policy. I splashed it all out on them. Everything I read, and then some more. I talked about how I would have liked to see it. Then, suddenly I became aware of total silence. All around silence. All the two hours I had been talking, they were listening. Before leaving, everybody wanted to shake my hand, they all kept saying "master, supervisor, shift manager". All that because the Local Party Chief came to me and said, "Well done! Good that you gave a speech, but you should have prepared some more." He was sincere. Can you imagine it? He took it all for real. And you say I talk bullshit. It's they talk bullshit and don't even know that".

Bullet. The Vineyard.

It was the 9th of May, 1982. Despite the official holiday, the platoon had to provide support for the passage of transport. Two squads went without a break on two ambush operations. The last one, groups of nine soldiers jumped out of moving armoured cars, blocking areas of possible enemy fire, getting ahead of enemy ambushes in places where green areas got dangerously close to the concrete. The one who got there first won in the end.

Worn-out green grass led up to a vineyard situated at a distance from the road. There, the squads further split up into groups of three. The vineyard was encircled along the entire perimeter by a low wall, locally called duwal, which also divided the vineyard into large inner squares. The assignment was to comb all squares; it all resembled small jungles, solidly overgrown with vines.

A shot, when it came, sounded solitary and almost imperceptible, lost in the growth, and perfectly aligned to the coordinated movement of the men. Sent by an experienced spook, it killed one soldier in Bullet's group. His name was Khalimov. Hitting his body to the right of his right nipple, it went through his left shoulder blade, crushing bone and colouring his cotton shirt red. Khalimov suddenly turned pale as a white sheet, and fell down from the edge of the duwal right in front of Bullet, who had crawled through the walkway first. The sniper made several more shots to prevent any other tries to cross the duwal, demonstrating exemplary use of a rapid-fire automatic.

The duwal divided the group. One of the three men was already dead. Mad fire, issued right after the first sniper shots, flattened the other two against the clay wall, but on different sides. Bullet was leaning over the dying Khalimov. He saw Khalimov's lips turning white, he heard Khalimov whisper "mama, it hurts". Instinctually, wishing to rid himself of the blood, Bullet pressed his palms into the dusty ground. Guiltily wiping the wet dust off his fingers, he tried to look around and determine the trajectory of the bullet they all missed. When a set of fire erupted again, Bullet was already on the move.

Approximating the line of a shot, he figured that the sniper will try to escape their range of fire, and that the best place for him to do it was the walkway on the opposite side of the vineyard, on a diagonal line less than half a mile from where he was. Trying to calm his breathing, spreading his legs wide behind him, he carefully separated two vines with the barrel of his Kalashnikov. He led his sight slowly along the duwal waiting for the sniper to appear. He was sure he would find him.

Behind him, despite the density of fire, the rest of the squad organised support. Hun together with two other soldiers hauled Khalimov's dead body over the walkway, where he was taken over by guys remaining on the outside. Realizing there had been a third soldier, now on the inside of the vineyard, Hun stayed to look around. The density of fire decreased just as suddenly as it began. Now the spooks were shooting only in self-defence, trying to keep distance. The sound of long throaty gunfire meant that the grunt was still alive and, thank god, still kicking.

A spook appeared in the walkway suddenly like an apparition. Bullet almost missed him. Afraid to lose the spook from his sight, Bullet released the trigger of his automatic and kept on firing until the dust, raised by his bullets, hid from him both the hole in the duwal and the dead body sliding down to its base. The Kalashnikov obediently followed Bullet's instructions with the only justification for it being a desire to punish, kill, prove to himself that he could do it.

That day they did everything they could. Bullet had traced and wiped out the enemy. Hun had dragged the spook's body with all its equipment from under ferocious fire out to where they could examine it. That evening the technical lieutenant, slightly drunk and not in the least embarrassed, spoke to Bullet.

"Like to war, son?", Hun looked attentively at the young soldier, who was called on his request to come to the smoking shed.

"No, I like to shoot bullets", Bullet tried to look unconcerned. Hun examined the clumsy figure in a wrinkled panama hat, but already sporting a dashing forehead and undusted boots with wire instead of laces.

"So, you like to shoot bullets", Hun confirmed. "And I thought it was the spooks moving in too, when you let your automatic go. You got quick reactions."

"With bullets", Bullet put up a self-satisfied smile. Hun went on examining this fool, who slowly filled with a sense of self-importance, not even suspecting the true situation.

"There are moments in the war, son, when one has to act cruelly and violently - these are moments of conscious enlightenment, when one knows exactly what one has to do and do it quickly and precisely, directly and naturally. At such moments, one belongs to one's body, full of instincts. And the quicker you understand it, the better off you are. If in the future you will continue to think with bullets, your daddy may be proud of you. But for now", Hun looked into the eyes of the young soldier, figuring out how far Bullet will go, "lose the attitude, fix the fold on your panama, you may change the wire for real laces and try not to walk like a turkey any more. Lose your Paraguayan habits - all your daily problems are related to the difficulties of war. Tomorrow with the same courage and machine gun on the Field of Fools. We are going to make an Indian out of you."

That was how Bullet came into being. Many others who came with him on the same plane were still `myths', `devils', `Paraguayans', `bellies', `skulls', `spirits', or `worms'. Many of them already lost their names, while they still hadn't acquired new ones.

Kesha in a Uranium Mining Town.

"Does your roof blow off often?" I ask Kesha, trying to assess if he understands that other people do not understand him.

"Last time my roof blew off, I got divorced. Now it seems OK. Nobody `s complaining. But that time, then I did everything for real. They think I had gone mad, but I wasn't really."

His story didn't surprise me.

"...I was thrown out of the Institute. I came back to the mine. The management didn't give me an apartment, but they put me on the waiting list. So, I started waiting. Deciding against living with my parents, I rented a room from an old Kazakh-woman, in the neighbourhood with old wooden structures that earlier housed the builders of the mine: prisoners and those released from the prison, who had to stay in the vicinity by law.

"The Kazakh-woman was of the old stamina, she chain smoked, had a tattoo on her arm, and sometimes she cursed in Russian. The only condition she put down was not to eat pig meat in her house, respecting her as a Muslim woman. That's how we made the deal.

"Everything went fine at first. I got friendly with the old woman. The Ukrainian girl with whom I got married didn't do everything the way I wanted it. But that didn't worry me. I didn't know myself yet exactly what it was I wanted, I was coming home almost unconscious from the mine.

"Then one time I came home. The Kazakh-woman was sitting on the street, lighting one cigarette from another. I saw she was grudging something. I went to my room, and to my surprise my not so little Ukrainian wife was frying bacon, smell all over the house!"

I asked her, "What are you doing? Why do you want to offend the old woman?"

And she said, "Like OK, the old woman can bear it, it was not for nothing that you - my husband fought in Afghanistan, so that you have to obey her Muslim laws here."

"That's where my curtains fell down. I saw my wife for what she was. It took a lot not to kill her on the spot.

"I went out into the street. I went to the oldie and asked: "What do I have to do to atone for the misdeed my wife committed?"

"And what do I do? How do I clean my house? You are not going to kill her for that", she says.

"Why not?" I say. "It's a serious business, and we have to solve it in a serious way".

"I dragged my better side by the hair out onto the street, and pulled down a rope with laundry on it that was hanging in the courtyard. Then I put a sheet over my wife's head, and a lasso over her throat. The rope was nicely hooked on the pole, and a chair was ready. The oldie didn't say anything, but she didn't interfere either. My wife stood with a sheet over her head, a lasso on her throat and whined like a dog a little bit, low like that. I saw people beginning to come around. Those are totally different types of people living in ground houses there, some of them are born with tattoos.

"Then the oldie started howling that she was ready to forgive, that I shouldn't sin against Allah. Allah is all powerful, and to hang someone is a big sin amongst Muslims. As if I didn't know. But I said then: "And what do we do about the house despoiled by pig meat, what do we do about the unbeliever?" By this time, everybody around us was screaming and cursing. So I decided, if they wanted to kill her for the despoiling of the house, let them do it. Only then, I would kill one of them, in return, because who would forgive me a silent participation in the death of my wife? So I offered it to them: "I kill my wife, they kill one of their own". I started to nudge my little Ukrainian towards the chair, so that they wouldn't take too long about their decision.

"Later, when everything ended with the whole neighbourhood getting drunk, everybody wondered how I could do something like that. And how could they do something like that? Who offered me such a solution, for which nobody wanted to take any responsibility?

"But the old Kazakh-woman turned out to be a worthy woman, after all. She put all her medals and ribbons on and went to the municipality. As a result I got this apartment. Only my little Ukrainian wife disappeared from the house, and I never saw her again."

Hun. Meeting His Destiny.

Hun died tripping on our own smoke mine. The group got into an ass-ambush in a green area. The spooks started enveloping our guys. Hun managed to take the squad over an irrigation ditch to support those encircled. The fire coming from both sides was non-stop, and getting the wounded out could only be done in between the gunfire rounds from the mortar squad, trying to keep the spooks away. The spooks were converging on the scene like flies on a turd. Hun had already led three groups to safety, when one young soldier from the mortar squad accidentally pulled the trigger at the wrong time. At the time when Hun was down there, leading another group out.

They were all covered with smoke. The three in the front were badly injured by shell pieces. The other two following Hun got burned by the smoke mine, which exploded right under the base of Hun's neck, burning his body and tearing his head off. Hun was carried out. Afterwards, somebody brought his head that just minutes before sat on his shoulders. The grunt from the mortar company literally had to be saved from lynching. That day the life of so many from our platoon got divided in two parts: before and after.

On the inside of Hun's beret that he kept in a box previously containing hand-grenades, together with all the rest of his private things, there was a sentence crocheted with gold letters: `I REX, Airborne, not a grease pot.

Remembering Hun often, I later thought a lot about what I saw in that senseless war, and about what I had experienced, while my sides were getting tired in the hospital bed, or even later, while getting blisters from the narrow prostheses, drinking litters of vodka with my other shell-shocked brothers, and listening to the condolences of those who had stayed behind.

Hun got us all in a tight place, where one had to be honest with one's scruples and skills. He made specialists out of us all. He deprived us of a belief in immortality, and he spared us from an illusion of impunity of evil. We learned that a simple pencil can become a weapon too, and that only the efficiency of the local first aid will be a guarantee of a successful recovery.

Already there, every one of us learned that weapons give one the right of strength over the locals. Everything and everybody could be wiped off with a couple of rounds. What most happened was that you had the ultimate power to either punish or let a spook go. There'd be no surprise, if you went beyond the allowable, perhaps only to prove it to yourself that you can do it. If that happens, if you succeed in that, then you will continuously try to widen the limits of your power, till you meet an invisible wall, a border set by your fate that is the only obstacle that can stop you in a war.

Fortune is like a sniper's rifle. As soon as you get into its sight you don't belong to yourself wholly. As a warning you get small shivers. Later, ignoring these small warnings, you come against a thick wall, which gives only two choices: you may live within its boundaries, or you may get over the wall and die free. The main thing is to understand that one has reached one's wall, one has gotten to the limit of allowable, to the limit of one's power.

Eighty of the one hundred, who had deployed to make up our company, had reached this line and couldn't overtake it; or having been over it and having come back a couple of times, they couldn't deal with the fear of their own courage. The rest stepped over this edge a few times a day, getting drunk on a sense of freedom, and impunity from punishment. That bit of luck, their ability to safeguard themselves, is what determined their marksmanship.

Hun told us: "Life is beautiful, but not expensive. The main point is that we have to put the price on it ourselves. It's important not to undersell your courage too cheap".

Afterword.

Interwoven with the combat stories, I was listening to stories out of Kesha's civilian life and thinking how alike we all were. We all walk as if in the same magic circle, trying to open all the same doors, looking for and not finding those wise flexible decisions for daily problems. Turning each simple situation into our own small war, hoping for luck, not looking at the price or loses, stepping over ourselves , is what gives us a distinctive connection with each other.

The government that sent us there was not prepared for our comeback and encountering a growing opposition from our numbers, it assumes now its normal role - to control the exercise of public rules and private agreements, to defend citizens from each other and itself from us, slowly shedding all obligations it has ever accepted on our behalf.

Hun died. In the early spring of `82, the commander of our company died in the vicinity of Khalat. On the 22 of April, the company got caught in an ambush at the Combat Outpost Senjaray in Afghanistan's Kandahar province, and many, too many stayed there. I lost my legs, Bullet got shell-shocked, did we luck out?

Life has thrown us around. We have all been there behind that wall, and everybody made their choices. Every one of us knows what he wants. Every one of us is aware of his own capabilities. We all know what's waiting for us out there.

List of neologisms, calques

1) Spook(s) - Pashto word for a mujahedeen is Duch; as the Russian word Duch means a spirit, apparition or a spook, it seems appropriate to use this translation to identify Afghan mujahedeen.

2) Duwal - a clay wall used in Afghanistan as borders between neighbour properties.

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Updated: 26/01/2020. 34k. Statistics.
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Annotation: Translation by © Katerina Turevich (katerinaturevich@gmail.com) Corrected version, 01.2020

Andreev Pavel The Bullet

Andreev Pavel
The Bullet