Ghosts of Kiev

We ate well at the border, lots of sausages, pierogis, thick soup, and black rye bread. Polish women were holding signs in English, calling us heroes, calling us brave. American flags, Ukrainian flags, European flags all fluttering and waving in hands. One woman, so beautiful, with skin like almond milk and thick thighs a man could be buried in, was holding a sign with a QR code that linked to her Onlyfans. 30% off sale for her “boys” in Ukraine. Everyone has to do their part.

I crossed into Ukraine and that was it, I was a soldier. I brought some gear from home, but the man at the airport in Warsaw said we’d get everything we needed when we started training. Two weeks didn’t seem like very long, but I could forgive their expedience. There was a war on. I felt worried when one of the Ukrainian officers told us training had been cut down to ten days.

“Ivan’s stalled out East. We need to get you men there to kick them in their motherless asses.”

Or at least, that’s what Cooper said he said. I don’t speak Ukrainian. Cooper is a grad student from Portland. He’s writing his thesis on the inequity present in American Economics as demonstrated by the bombing of Black Wall Street in Tulsa, Oklahoma. He’s been part of the Black Block before, but he must have worn a beanie cause the pink hair stands out. He’s got an Antifa tattoo on his right arm. He doesn’t like Forest, who was an Army Ranger in Iraq. I don’t like him either, but he’s done this before and that’s more than I can say for myself.

A truck brings us to our barracks. One man asks about dinner and gets a cold stare from the Instructor.

“Dinner’s already been served. You’ll eat tomorrow! What’s wrong, didn’t get enough in Poland?”

The instructor is fat and surly and smells of cheap cigarettes and vodka, but he’s fat, which means there’s probably food, but I get a sinking feeling that there isn’t any and I worry I’ve made a huge mistake. There is unease on the faces around me, except Forest. That makes me like him even less.

That night, there isn’t much talking. In Poland, when we first landed and everyone was brand new, there was an electricity in the air. One man, a Spaniard, brought a guitar, and we celebrated. Celebrated what, I don’t know, but he played well and there was too much excitement for sleep. Tonight was different. I slept on a cot with just a wool blanket and my stomach started to grumble. The girl on the border came to mind and I pull out my phone. Her name is Oksana and I subscribe. Her breasts are large and real, as far as I can tell and there are videos of her with a man, whose face is never shown. They do this so as to help the viewer imagine it’s actually him, if only subconsciously. I step away to the latrines in another building across the road from the barracks and take some private time with Oksana.

Halfway through, I hear the loudest noise I’ve ever encountered and the ground rumbles beneath me. A huge force passes through my body, like being hit with an invisible wave. I read that being shot is like being in the middle of an explosion. I don’t feel any pain, and I check myself for blood. I’m okay. I get low next to the porcelain and put my phone away. My pants are still around my ankles and I don’t feel like I can move to put them back on. Would they tell my parents they found me like this? Will my parents know what happens to me at all?

I wonder if my Barracks are still there. I haven’t heard anything too close, so probably not. Or maybe the first one was the one that killed everyone I knew here and I was the last one. The Russians wouldn’t target a bathroom. Waste of a missile. But then I remember what they said about the Russian’s technology. It’s old, it’s unreliable, it’s manned by young conscripts. I’m more afraid than I ever thought possible. I piss on the floor, and it gathers around my knees and shins. I don’t move. I can’t move.

God, if you exist, please. Please don’t let me die like this. I’m sorry. This was stupid. I thought… I thought I could make a difference. My brother was in the army and he made it seem like no big deal. Please, I just wanted to try something different for once. I know the posters were stupid. I know I’m not Harry Potter, but I didn’t think it could happen to me. This didn’t seem possible. I read a study that said people can’t conceptualize their own mortality. Well, I can. Right now. Please God, please, don’t let me die tonight. I’ll change. I’ll be different. I’ll find a religion, even Christianity… maybe. I’ll be good. I’ll be a good person.

I stay like this all night as the explosions keep coming, prostrate on the concrete floor in a puddle of my own creation. I fall asleep and wake up the next morning. What’s that line in the movie, my breakfast will taste better than anything you’ll ever eat? That sounds about right.

They take roll before breakfast, my barracks is still intact, but half the men are gone. Cooper isn’t there and Forest is.

“You’re still here.”

“Yes. Was anyone hit? Where is everyone?”

“Gone. Left. Desertion.”

Desertion sounds like such an ugly word. They deserted their comrades, the mission. They abandoned the cause. But it’s not my fight. I mean, I just got here. I’m not Ukrainian. I’m not even related to Ukrainians. My parents are Irish.

“Why didn’t you go?”

He shrugged. “You smell like piss.”

Good morning to you, too.

I go back to my bedding to get my toothbrush. I find my pack strewn about the floor, the zipper broken. My bulletproof vest is worn by Pyotr, a huge Romanian with a long beard, and at least a foot taller than me. It’s too small for him, but he doesn’t care. He knows it’s better than what they gave him. He’s surrounded by a couple of other Romanians. I don’t say anything. I find my toothbrush on the ground and I hear laughter. They call me a faggot in broken English. I just want to cry.

The mess area was destroyed and so was most of the base’s food. No breakfast. Maybe no lunch. I take a walk around the base and I see craters and there are still a few fires that haven’t been put out yet. I think about helping out, but I can’t get my feet moving. This is so fucked up. I walk past another barracks and it’s gone, just a pile of rubble. There’s a hand sticking out but attached to nothing else as far as I can tell. I look at my own hand. It’s redder and clean and still attached to me. There’s a guy walking around here looking for his hand. Or. Or that’s all that’s left of him. My heart is racing. I’ve never seen a  dead body before. I shuffle without aim around the base a while longer. I wonder what my headstone will read? “Here lies Eric Blair, idiot.” I find Forest laying underneath a tree in the shade.

“You should leave.” He said without even looking up at me.

“Huh?”

“You’re not a soldier. You’ve got no balls. You’re gonna die in Ukraine for no reason and the only thing people will have to remember you by is your stupid fucking selfies on Instagram.”

“Fuck you!” I shout.

“No, fuck you. Fuck you and everyone like you. How much money did you spend just to die in Ukraine? 1200 for the plane ticket. 2000 for all the gear those blyats stole from you. 30 per month for an international plan on your cellphone which won’t work once you get into the shit. Am I missing anything else?”

$15 a month for Oksana, I think, but dare not say.

“I came here because I believe. I came here because this is where a warrior can fight other warriors. You’re a fucking tourist. You want to be a hero, I bet. Well, take it in. You’re a hero now. Whoopdie-fucking-doo.”

I leave. He’s right. Fucking prick is right. My brother was right, too. And my parents. Fuck them. Fuck all of them. Fuck Harry Potter. Fuck Putin. Fuck Zelenskyy. Fuck Biden. Fuck me. Fuck. I find a quiet patch of grass and ball my eyes out. I try to keep quiet, but I know people can hear me. I just hope they didn’t see it was me.

There’s another gathering. A Brit is standing on a truck. I clean myself up and head over, sneaking in at the back and hoping not to be noticed. I catch the end of what he’s saying.

“We don’t belong here, mates. We came of our own free and good will. We were promised a fighting chance against the Ruskies, but look around. No food. No equipment. No training. I didn’t sign up to be a meat shield. When I joined the squaddies, a long time ago, I knew I might die. But I also knew that the United Kingdom would give me a fighting chance. No fighting chance here, chaps. Just pointless death. That strike killed a few of my mates I came here with. I’m going home. They can try to stop me, but I’m going home. The more that come with, the better. Whose with me?”

There’s chatter around us. One guy, a kid, or at least younger than me, keeps saying, “They have my passport, they have my passport.” He’s grabbing onto people’s uniforms and asking what he should do. No one has a good answer for him. “They said they should hold onto it. How am I going to get home?”

I don’t look at him. I don’t care. I have my passport. I’m going home. This was dumb. I’ll max out my credit cards, I’ll suck dick for money. I’m going home. Most of the others agree and we load into the truck. The Ukrainians don’t even try to stop us. I see the Sergeant instructor glaring. He spits in the dirt. I don’t collect my things, they can have them. I have my phone, my passport, and wallet, along with the clothes on my back and the stale piss in my crotch. The passport kid is in the truck and he still won’t shut the fuck up about how he’s not going to make it across the border. How he’s heard that they’re turning all the young men back. Another man tells him to shut up or he’ll throw him from the truck. Forest is still on the base. Asshole. What an asshole. Fuck that chud.

It’s a couple of hours’ drive to the border where we first crossed. There is so much traffic on the way there, a lot of people on foot. They get out of the way since we’re in a military truck. I guess they think we’re there to protect them or something. I just want to smoke some weed. I think that’s the first thing I do when I get home. I’ll go to a dispensary, but some of the dankest shit I can find, get baked and just sit on the couch and eat Oreos and watch cartoons like I’m a kid again. That’s going to be the best fucking feeling. My stomach grumbles, I still haven’t eaten. I wonder if they’ll feed me at the border again. Maybe I can pretend I’m going back in. Someone will feed me. They have to. It’s like, a fundamental human right. I mean, it’s food.

The truck stops at the border and the guard starts yelling at us to get out. The kid without a passport is near pissing his pants, hyperventilating. I wish he’d just shut the fuck up. The two on the end refuse to move and a soldier points his gun at the Brit. They go back and forth for a bit in their dirty pig-latin language. If I never hear it again, it would be too fucking soon.

The border guard looks us over with disgust, but I look back at him with the same. How could they do this to people? Especially volunteers. We came here to help and they just want to throw us at the meat grinder like cattle. I’ve seen slaughterhouse footage and from that barbarity, I can say, at least they die quickly. They let us go through and children start throwing rocks at the truck. One almost hits me, but I don’t care. They could hit me all they want, I’m not going back there.

I get a flight back to America the next morning. It’s the cheapest option, but it’s still eight hundred bucks. I put it on my credit card. I put this whole fucking trip on my credit card. I hope the vest stops a bullet for Pyotr, right before he gets one in his eye. I’d shoot him if I could. I try not to think about it, but the rage builds up.

I see Cooper waiting at the same terminal. I wave to him. It’s definitely him, he’s the only man here with pink hair. He looks right at me as if he doesn’t know me. I saw his posts online. He got a lot of upvotes on reddit when he posted his flight confirmation and held out his bicep like Rosie the Riveter. He turns away, back into his phone. Mining for upvotes.

I pull out my phone and Oksana’s page is still up. I’ve never jerked off in a public bathroom before, but the urge comes over me. As I go, I see a news crew interviewing a black man. He says he’s from Nigeria. I stop and listen for a moment, Oksana can wait. I recognize the interviewer. I think she’s from CNN.

“Why did you flee your home in Ukraine?” she asks. “Why not stay and fight for your home?”

He smiles and chuckles. “I am Nigerian. Why should I fight for Ukraine? I am Nigerian. Who would want to fight for Ukraine?”