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I’ll go into a bit more detail here. One day, Major Kolbasenko fell ill. The Major was a most good-natured man who didn’t strain himself or us during lectures. That day, Captain Tertsvadze filled in. As luck would have it, I had a headache that day and decided to ask the Captain for permission to leave. This was a very big mistake.
When I approached Tertsvadze in the corridor — a short captain with a mustache like a cockroach — and asked to be excused, I got the reply: — Address me according to the regulations! — Comrade Captain, student Yakunin, requesting permission to speak. — You’ll speak in the classroom.
I trudged to the classroom. When the captain entered, I went to him: — Comrade Captain, permit me… — I’ll read the roster first, then.
I dejectedly slunk back to my seat in the last row. Every lesson, someone was the “on-duty student” for the room. This time it was a student from the Georgian sector named Gerkhelia — almost a carbon copy of the captain. The captain stood at the podium with Gerkhelia beside him; an inexplicable giggle rippled through the room. After a pause, Tertsvadze — without looking at the clean blackboard — habitually asked the duty student to “clear the board.” Gerkhelia, seeing the board was already clean and not being well-versed in the nuances of the Russian language, proceeded to follow the order literally. But removing a heavy blackboard from its hooks alone was difficult. Gerkhelia first lowered one side. The captain continued the roll call. The room was barely holding back; snickers broke out here and there. The captain took this personally and, turning red, stubbornly continued the roster. Gerkhelia turned to him for help, and everyone simply roared. The captain thundered: — Silence! — and measuring Gerkhelia with a look: — You, you mustachioed “meter-with-a-cap,” how long are you going to play the fool?
At this point, the laughter was impossible to stop, because there were now two mustachioed “meters-with-caps” standing at the blackboard! When everyone finally calmed down, Tertsvadze reached my name in the roster. Remembering his instruction to speak after the roll call, I stood up: — Comrade Captain, student Yakunin, requesting permission to speak! — Questions after the lecture.
I realized he had no intention of letting me go and quieted down in the back row. Но на этом разбор полетов не закончился. “Fear small men” — the captain was incensed by the laughter, which he stubbornly took as an insult to himself. He launched an attack on me, remembering Berezin’s “long war” with my hair. And then it started! — Yakunin, lift your head and take notes. — I don’t have a notebook. — I said — write! — Comrade Captain, I’m not bothering you. If you won’t let me leave, then just leave me alone. — Stand up when an officer speaks to you! Do you think I’m Berezin? I’ll have you shaved and in the brig for fifteen days in no time! You’re a clown, and everyone in your family is a clown, but this isn’t a circus — you have no place in this institute!
And then I remembered Vysotsky’s lines: He got drunker and drunker. I was right on his heels. Only at the very end of the conversation, I insulted him, I said: — Captain! You will never be a Major!
I insulted him too: — Captain! You will never be a Major!
The room burst into laughter. Then he cursed at me, and I cursed back at him! A dead silence fell… The captain spun around and ran out of the room! Five minutes later, I was summoned by General Zamtaradze, who informed me that I was expelled from the military department and that the order would be on the Dean’s desk tomorrow! This meant automatic expulsion from the institute.
My relationship with the Dean of the Energy Faculty, Zivtsivadze, was not the best, mainly because he could never force me to attend classes. A notice hung in the institute stating that 36 hours of absences per semester meant losing your stipend, and 40 hours meant expulsion. I had 180 hours of absences. When Zivtsivadze called me into his office, he never expected that I was an honor student. He couldn’t expel me for absences if my grades were perfect. So, he decided to cut off my stipend, seizing on an error about an uncompleted German language credit. When it turned out I had passed it early, he found a term paper I allegedly hadn’t done. Time passed, and I remained without a stipend. When it was proven I had submitted the work, the stipend was simply withheld anyway. I had to write to the Pro-rector, who issued a directive: “If everything is submitted on time, grant the stipend.” But even this resolution had no effect, as it turned out I was now being denied my stipend because of… long hair!!??
I had to go to Rector Buachidze. The Rector’s verdict on my application, written in blue pencil, was: “Give the stipend.” When I proudly presented the blue inscription, the Dean should have surrendered, but he couldn’t help himself and blurted out: — Who is Buachidze? I don’t want to give it, so I won’t!
Five minutes later, I was back in Buachidze’s office, relaying the Dean’s words with the exact same intonation. I won’t recount their telephone dialogue, which ended with a slam of the receiver so hard both phones nearly shattered. I’ll just say one thing: I received my stipend for all five months at once.
And then came my expulsion from the military department! Naturally, the order for my expulsion from the institute was written almost immediately after the report arrived from the military. The Dean didn’t deny himself the pleasure of handing me that order personally!
But Georgia is Georgia, and who is Captain Tertsvadze when Warrant Officer Shvangiradze comes to see General Zamtaradze? Especially considering this warrant officer was the adjutant to the District Commander and, by coincidence, my aunt’s husband. After warm greetings and a trip to a restaurant, the Captain and I were summoned to the office of the “Cycle Head” Zamtaradze. The incident was settled with mutual apologies; I was reinstated in the department, and the expulsion order was annulled.
However, I had made two enemies: the Dean, who constantly created student inconveniences for me, and Captain Tertsvadze, whom I forgot about for two long years, as he didn’t teach my classes. I shouldn’t have forgotten him!
I defended my diploma with an “excellent” grade, though the Dean didn’t miss a chance to interfere there either. But “there’s no defense against a sledgehammer” — the diploma work was done perfectly. It was a special diploma, the first of its kind to be processed on a Minsk-222 computer.
Military Training Camps
And so, the two-month military training camps in Sal-ogly began. Sal-ogly is a semi-desert, almost a true desert with sporadic patches of green in Azerbaijan — a watermelon paradise. Three tents for three platoons of forty men each were pitched directly on the sand. There was no water; in the mornings, they filled our flasks with “tea,” which had to be rationed until lunch in heat exceeding 40°C.
For the first month, our commanding officer was Colonel Glazkov, whom we hadn’t known before. The Colonel turned out to be a great guy — he didn’t squeeze us, and we didn’t let him down. It was a month of lenient lessons, constant pranks, and even occasional drinking. The married men, like myself, would quietly slip away on Saturday mornings to the railway station and catch passing freight trains to Tbilisi. During roll calls, 120 people would “cover” for the absentees, and everything was fine as long as you were back for the Monday morning muster. The officers knew, but they made allowances for those with families.
Because of the relentless heat, we were salted like dried fish; all our clothes were covered in salt stains, and there was nowhere to wash. Near the base, I spotted a fire station and persuaded Levik Schneider (now a top energy executive in Israel) to join me. Levik was constantly reprimanded at morning formation for being “unshaven,” though he shaved daily — his stubble was just so black and thick it always looked like a shadow. I suggested we wash our grease-and-salt-caked fatigues in fire-fighting foam, since they had technical water in abundance. We didn’t have to ask the firemen twice; they even offered us a vat. We threw our green uniforms in, covered them with foam, and sunbathed on the sparse grass while they soaked. An hour and a half later, we pulled them out and gasped! The cotton had turned almost white, resembling either winter thermal underwear or a sailor’s dress uniform. At formation, Colonel Glazkov was initially stunned, then ordered us out of the line and walked around us, unable to comprehend where we had gotten this non-regulation gear. When he heard the story, he laughed until he cried. We spent the rest of the month as “albinos” in our white fatigues.
The Most Dangerous Post
We students and the actual unit lived in parallel worlds, rarely crossing paths. But once, when the regular conscripts left for maneuvers and dysentery hit those who remained, there was almost no one left to man the posts. The brilliant idea was formed to use the students. Imagine students, who knew nothing of military service, armed with submachine guns and sent on 24-hour guard duty.
On the base territory, it was manageable, but the Checkpoint (the motor pool), located a kilometer away, was a problem. Recently, a sentry had shot someone’s cow because it didn’t stop when challenged at night, let alone show its face. When he fired a warning shot, the frightened beast charged at him, and the soldier shot the “intruder” dead. Legally, it was all correct: the owners were paid the price of the meat at the rate of cow tails, and the vigilant soldier was rewarded with ten days of leave. Upon his return, while back on duty at the same motor pool, the cow’s owner shot him dead. Therefore, this post was the most dangerous — terrifying in its isolation and desolation.
We were divided into three-man teams. One shift on guard (two hours), one sleeping, and one “awake.” Just like a real guard rotation. Except we were students, and for us, it was all a game. Geographically, Sal-ogly received TV signals from all three republics. On football days, the TVs in the Lenin Room were turned toward the window, and the crowd would watch three matches simultaneously. I was on the “awake” shift during a match, meaning I wasn’t allowed to sleep. With my bag, my rifle, and spare magazines, I went to watch the football too.
During the second half, regular soldiers started racing around the base, shouting that someone had deserted with a weapon and ammunition. I was surprised — who would do such a thing, and why? They started probing the outhouses with poles and running around with flashlights. After the match, I trudged back to the guardhouse. To my utter amazement, the “deserter” was me. Lieutenant Studennikov, nicknamed “The Student,” adjusted his round glasses and screamed that students would drive him to a heart attack or the gallows. He kept the incident quiet, as he would have gotten more trouble from the brass than I would.
Mustachios and Misfires
At the guardhouse, we were briefed: when the relief detail approaches the post, the sentry must demand they stop, show their face, and command: “Corporal of the guard to me, the rest stay put!” Then the changeover happens. I drew the “lucky lot” — the motor pool post. Before me was Todradze (Todradze was a walking joke, as suited for the army as I am for childbirth).
As we approached the motor pool, there was a wide alley of old oaks and a watchtower in the center. Todradze was nowhere to be seen. Studennikov grew nervous, called out the sentry by name — nothing. He shone a light on his own face — zero. He ordered us to stay back and walked down the lighted alley himself. We froze, remembering the cow story. Suddenly, Todradze jumped out from behind a massive oak, shoved his rifle into the Lieutenant’s chest, and screamed: — Surname?!
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