19 June 2000
The war in Chechnya has now reached the stage of a steady, long-drawn-out guerrilla campaign. How long it will go on, God alone knows. For decades, perhaps? There is one thing, however, that we already understand all too well. Thousands of men, from privates to generals, are quietly returning home but do not find the long-desired peace in our company. It's difficult for them, away from the fighting. They have altered dramatically and are now strangers to friends and family. People shrink from them and fear them. Some are even openly reproachful: "What can you do, apart from kill?" Those who survived the fighting, it seems, must not show their faces anywhere.
So how will the latest Chechnya veterans settle back into society? And how does the first among them feel today – Lieutenant-General Vladimir A. Shamanov, a decorated "Hero of Russia", former commanding officer of the Western group in the North Caucasus campaign, and now in charge of the 58th Army?
Vladimir Shamanov, 43 years old. Graduated from the Ryazan paratroop officers' college, and from the Frunze Military Academy and the General Staff Academy in Moscow. Served in Pskov, Ryazan, Moldavia, Azerbaijan, Ulyanovsk and Novorossiisk. Wounded during the first Chechen war. Now commands the Ministry of Defence's 58th army, with headquarters in Vladikavkaz. Married, with a son and daughter. Has had two heart attacks and suffers from an ulcer and chronic insomnia.
Q. All the country now refers to the two generals who led the latest campaign in Chechnya as "kind Troshev" and "cruel Shamanov". Don't you find that hurtful?
A. No. For me it's praise.
Q. But haven't you wondered about the consequences? Perhaps it was precisely your intransigence, your determination to wage war with such brutal methods, that has left soldiers so disturbed that they cannot settle back normally into a peacetime existence. What they witnessed in Chechnya was surely an unbearable burden for 18–20-year-olds. As their commanding officer, how much are you to blame for what they are going through today?
A. It is society, above all, that is to blame. We've accumulated a rich experience of military operations in so-called localised conflicts – Angola, Mozambique, Ethiopia, Egypt, Korea, Afghanistan and the various "trouble spots" [of the Soviet Union] – but there is still no well-organised system in Russia for the psycho-neurological rehabilitation of those who take part in such campaigns. Yet I am convinced that when a person returns from conditions of extreme stress to normal life, he must go to such a rehabilitation centre and undergo a process of re-adaptation under medical supervision in specially maintained conditions.
Q. Do you yourself feel the need for such rehabilitation?
A. Unquestionably. I'm just like everyone else. I'd like to say, you mustn't shift all of the blame on to the commanding officers. The decisions that I took during the war were intended to create the maximum conditions for preserving the lives of my subordinates and minimising their psychological stress during battle. Sometimes it proved possible: the armed clashes were of short duration. But when we began Operation "Wolf-Hunt", for instance, to lure the Chechen fighters out of Grozny, there were eight days and nights of continuous fighting. As commanding officer I managed no more than 30–40 minutes sleep and only by days five and six did I sleep for one-and-a-half to two hours. But the privates and junior officers, up to and including battalion commanders, did not even have that much rest. It's hard to withstand that kind of pressure.
Q. But it's not just a question of serious physical stress, is it? It's more the problem of uncontrolled looting and the deaths of innocent civilians. When you destroyed the bandits you were also destroying ordinary people?
A. That's all been much exaggerated by the media.
Q. What about the tragedies in Alkhan-Yurt and Novye Aldy?51
A. I wasn't in Novye Aldy. It did not come within the territory for which I was responsible. As far as Alkhan-Yurt is concerned, the premise is totally false. Four commissions have proved and confirmed that we gave the civilian population the chance to leave before the fighting began.52 Furthermore, the corridor was open for the entire week, not just one day.
Q. But you know very well that in Chechnya far from all the inhabitants of besieged villages use such official "corridors". Indeed they can't leave. People are afraid to abandon their cattle and houses.
A. All the commissions confirmed that we only fired at those locations in Alkhan-Yurt that we had identified during the week the corridor was open. The houses were hit in which the bandits were located, and those basements in which fortified weapon emplacements had been established.
Q. But there were ordinary people there as well as the bandits. Didn't that disturb you?
A. After a week of the open corridor that was already their choice. Incidentally, when the commissions later requested that the graves be opened, only 20 bodies were found. Of those, 12 were bandits. Six weeks later the prosecutor's office issued a finding about the remaining eight bodies: they were people connected in one way or another with the bandits.
Q. What does that mean, "connected in one way or another with the bandits"? In your view, who is the wife of a Chechen fighter?
A. A female bandit.
Q. Why?
A. If she's not a female bandit then she should leave him.
Q. Vladimir Anatolevich, your reasoning is applicable to Russians.
A. What do you expect? They're living in Russia.
Q. They have their own laws and customs: she can't just leave him.
A. But what if "their" laws are immoral? We want to do everything with clean hands! It won't work. And it never will. Kindness must always have its limits. I don't agree with turning the other cheek. If the bandits do not understand our code of ethics they must be destroyed. If someone falls ill, they hurt the patient by removing the affected organ.
Q. But they don't operate on relatives in that case! Is the child of a bandit also a bandit?
A. Certainly. Tell me something: how can you tell someone's wife from a woman sniper? It's all very well for you to discuss things, sitting clean and comfortable here in Moscow, gazing at the TV screen. But for me, down there . . .
Q. Don't you get the impression that the ordinary soldiers don't always reason that way and don't even share your point of view? That's why, later on, they commit suicide.
A. I know no soldiers of that kind! The ordinary soldiers and I understand each other perfectly, we have clear visible goals.
Q. Probably, they simply don't talk to you about it.
A. I don't know. I spent 50 per cent of my time during the war in the trenches with the soldiers. That's why today they call me "the trench general". And it's my credo to be at the front line, to know what's really going on, and how those risking their lives feel. In the Western group of forces there was no gap between the commander and his soldiers, but a perfect understanding and I'm proud of it. I conclude that from the following indirect examples: when the CO appeared or another of the commanding officers, their subordinates did not run off and hide or look grim, they smiled! And you can't buy a smile like that, especially in those circumstances.
As concerns looting, it does of course take place and a string of criminal charges are now being brought. However, the roots of this shameful phenomenon lie not in the army itself but in the situation created by the presence of contract soldiers. As you know, the people who join the army as contract soldiers are those who have not found a place for themselves in normal life, so they go off to war to improve their material well-being. Looting is one of their ways of doing so.
Q. Were many contract soldiers under your command during the war?
A. At various times they made up from 3 per cent to begin with, rising to 15 per cent.
Q. Don't you think that it's wrong to create a professional army by inviting contract soldiers to serve?
A. Undoubtedly. You won't find a single officer who would oppose a professional army. And we don't need the kind of army that we're trying to create now. From the outset contract solders have false premises. They are not thinking of their duty. Drunkenness. Looting. A low level of professionalism. Elementary human laziness – living life "just to get through the day". Meanwhile the military machine is in operation and the lack of one bolt can cost us dearly. An organism that is potentially 100 per cent effective is reduced to 50–70 per cent. I personally don't need such a "professional" army.
Q. But what kind do we need? Do you have your own ideas about that?
A. I'd like to get $5,000–10,000 a month, like an American general. I'm paid $180.
Q. Does that seriously affect you? After all, you are an army general, a "Hero of Russia", and the State probably pays all your costs: food, medical treatment, transport and so on.
A. Where do they feed me? In the trenches. The rest of the time I buy the food and I feed myself.
Q. But perhaps, as a hero, you have other possibilities? You probably have an excellent apartment. And not just here in Moscow.
A. To this day I am a general without an apartment. I have my service accommodation. Just imagine, I am a lieutenant-general, commander of the 58th army and I don't have a flat of my own! Not since 1993. When I was studying at the General Staff Academy from 1996 to 1998 I felt totally humiliated and powerless. For months on end they didn't pay our allowance. I was already a general by then! I felt terribly ashamed in front of my family. In order to buy a packet of cigarettes all those in one class – three generals and seven colonels – had to chip in. There were other colonels and generals who were using their own cars as taxis to earn money in Moscow.
Q. Why didn't you do that? For the sake of your family.
A. I didn't criticise the others, but I couldn't allow myself to do that. It's a matter of convictions. I'd rather eat dirt. . . There've been generals in Russia before me, and there'll be others after me, and we mustn't dishonour the uniform. If the country has given me my stars then I have no right, no matter how hard I find things, to turn myself into a taxi driver. And if this humiliating position does not suit me I should resign my commission. Then I shall be free to do what I want. I've never understood those officers who want to go into politics, who try to pass comment and instruct others – that's not part of the profession. If you want to do all that then hand in your resignation, take off your uniform and do whatever you like. If you've remained under arms, then please live according to the rules established by previous generations. No one has the right to betray traditions, they must be cultivated and upheld.
Q. Is it true that your entire family is now scattered across the country? That your wife is living under one surname in one town, your children in another, while you are in Vladikavkaz?
A. In part that's true. I have been obliged to take certain precautions: there is firm proof that Chechen fighters are looking for my family.
Q. But that's no kind of life, without home or family. If you're a hero then you ought to be living like one. If you're certain, that is, that you acted properly. Was it really worth it? To fight as you did in Chechnya and then not be able to live a normal life?
A. Yes, I do have doubts that I've chosen the right way of life. I feel guilty towards my family. Since 1990 when I was made commanding officer of a regiment in the area of the Karabakh conflict [Armenian enclave in Azerbaijan, Tr.] all my time as a soldier has been spent in the struggle against Evil. Still . . . Someone had to do the job.
Q. The feeling of guilt towards your family isn't growing? Doesn't it make you want to turn your back on it all and get out?
A. There have been moments. Once I was ready to give it all up. Twice my wife said we couldn't go on like that any longer. We'd had enough. We were going to give it all up and live a normal life for as long as was left to us. But I couldn't take the final step. I'm 43 and since I've chosen to be a professional soldier I want to leave something behind me when I die. That's what's most important, and not that I've been made "Hero of Russia". Heroism isn't an end in itself. 1 never aimed for that. Four times during the first campaign [1994–6] I was put forward for the title, but they didn't give it to me. But after that both my pupils and my fellow officers felt more warmly towards me. I can say with pride that I have reared seven "Heroes of Russia".
Q. And you became a hero after all of them?
A. Yes.53 But, actually, I didn't do anything particularly heroic – I just did my duty.
Q. I suppose an army general is not up for Alexander Matrosov's type of feat. Generals don't take part in attacks, do they?
A. Why not? I did. I saved the spetsnaz.
Q. But that wasn't your job, was it?
A. If your subordinates are dying and there's no one to lead them, then you must go out there yourself and sort things out. That happened near Sernovodsk when a senior officer sent in the spetsnaz and they were ambushed. The weather was filthy. I had no radio contact with them. I set off in a helicopter. I'd decided to fly out to where they were fighting and assess from the air what their prospects were. The lads, it turned out, were badly placed and further fighting would lead to pointless losses. But they didn't realise that.
I took a decision: the military helicopters would open fire and I'd go in under their cover. There, in the ambush, I saw a major who had lockjaw from nervous stress and the soldiers were demoralised. There was nothing left for me to do but take off my jacket – it has no general's shoulder-straps (that's how I usually walk around) – so that they could see they had the general with them. The scouts had flown in with me and they opened fire, giving me cover as I walked about, sorting things out and giving orders. Twenty minutes later the fighting began to ease off. Reinforcements arrived, the five dead and one wounded were evacuated, and I flew away.
The second attack I led was at the Tersk ridge in the middle of the war. We were pursuing the bandits. It was afternoon, about 4.30. There were still about 800 metres to the crest of the ridge. I noticed that the troops had stopped and couldn't move any further. We had to take that ridge! If we attacked at night it was ten times more likely that we would be ambushed. But the troops were tired and sitting down: some were chewing bread, others had opened tins of meat. No words would help. So I just said: "OK, lads, I understand how you feel, but I'm ashamed and I'm going to take that ridge myself." I jumped into an armoured vehicle and drove off. The road could have been mined. The officers who rode with me still shudder when they recall our journey. I'll admit I was also very scared. But I knew one thing: if we took that ridge before evening we would minimise our losses tomorrow. When I got to the ridge, however, I was only 15 seconds ahead of my men. They were in such a hurry – you should have seen them!
Q. How do you feel after all that when you find yourself back in Moscow?
A. I feel out of place here. Most of all I'm depressed by people's thoughtlessness. They don't understand that their well-being is not assured by the city's Outer Ring Road but by what is happening on our southern borders, in the Caucasus. I'm disappointed that I constantly have to repeat elementary and self-evident truths about many of the problems of the Chechen war. People just don't understand. I don't feel happy in Moscow.
Q. And where do you feel at home?
A. Among my colleagues. Fellow officers. My friends. I'm quite choosy about who I select as my friends and comrades and that's why, perhaps, none of them has ever betrayed me.
Q. How many friends do you have?
A. I have one very close friend. He was in the armed forces, but now he's resigned his commission. I've a couple of dozen comrades. No more. For me that's enough.
Q. Do you today feel that our State has treated you badly?
A. Not in the slightest. I'm aware that my country is in a bad way today. Now's not the time to rake over the past; and I feel an enormous urge to make a contribution, so that people don't talk badly of my Motherland. I always remember that although I came from a large and very ordinary family I was able to go to school and enter higher education three times, get a master's in sociology, and become a lieutenant-general and army commander.
Q. To which of your parents do you owe your harsh character?
A. Many of my qualities come from my mother. She's a Siberian and I was born there, in Barnaul. Mother was always winning the regional championship in cross-country skiing, light athletics and cycle racing. Her striving for achievement formed the main component in my character: never be satisfied with what you've achieved, but always move on, conquer one summit and immediately set yourself the next goal. I've passed this on to my children. When my son still lived at home my wife would say to me: "You're not bringing him up, you're behaving towards him like a fascist."
Q. She was joking, of course.
A. No. She would say that when she was really fed up with me. I'd reply: "Time will tell." I think that being a man means saying little and making sure your words and deeds don't contradict each other; the ability to withstand any blow; not to make a tragedy of your defeats but draw lessons; always move forwards. If you've started a family then you must provide for it; if you've got a child you must bring it up.
Q. You're like a robot.
A. I'm no robot, but I've set myself limits and a framework.
Q. So what's the next summit?
A. For now I'm taking a breather. Today I'm the youngest army general in the Russian armed forces and I find it quite difficult to get on with people who are over 50.
Q. They treat you like a boy?
A. Not directly, but I feel something like that under the surface.
Q. But you're quite capable, aren't you, of telling them: "You haven't led an army into battle, so I don't have to take orders from you."
A. That's happened, and more than once. I've suffered for it.
Q. What does it take to make you that outspoken?
A. Gossip and intrigue. For instance, the rumours that I'm supposedly a heavy drinker – you mentioned that yourself earlier. The intriguers among us are those with no professional or campaign achievements to boast about: they've spent their time behind a desk, working to please their superior and have earned the right to whisper in his ear. In recent years there have been quite a few like that in our armed forces. Several times they've dropped hints to me in Moscow that the war's one thing, but it will soon end; then we'll be living by their rules.
Q. That's probably right. But the war really will end and then everyone will have to adapt and live according to peacetime rules.
A. You know what, let's finish the war first. Then well see by whose rules we are going to live! Things are not that obvious in Russia today. Our self-awareness, which is gaining a stronger hold on us, means that if the rules are holding us back they must be changed.
Q. Don't you find it odd, that the anti-terrorist operation has now been going on for so long, almost a year?
A. How long have the Turks been fighting the Kurds? What about Northern Ireland?
Q. Am I right to think that you intend to remain in the army, a fighting man, for the rest of your life?
A. I would gladly not have fought a single day. Believe me.
Q. I can't.
A. It gives me much greater pleasure to see soldiers on training exercises and manoeuvres, and know that all of them will come back alive.
Q. Nevertheless one gets the impression that this war could not have been timelier for the army. No matter how much you now assure me you would happily never have fought.
A. We gave a worthy reply to the sceptics in the West who had written off54 our army: there is no one stronger in this world than the Russian soldier. This isn't an abstract idea, the Russian soldier, but quite specific. You will not find anyone less demanding or more devoted, self-sacrificing and capable of adapting to difficult conditions than the Russian fighting man.
Q. But you can't hide the truth behind lofty phrases. There is a war going on inside this country. The losses are enormous. Is it worth paying such a price to prove to the West that we are still strong?
A. Someone had to do it. It's fine to have these dilettante discussions, sitting here in Moscow. Things are as they are. I'm not saying that because I'm a fatalist. Nevertheless the first and most important task has always been to preserve the life of our soldiers and minimise the risks.
Q. You're afraid for your family. Do you yourself fear the vengeance of the Chechen fighters?
A. Not in the slightest. I've already stopped being afraid. After the other war, I was very concerned to begin with. But you can't remain in a state of constant fear. That leads nowhere. So I said to myself: "Shamanov! You're an upstanding citizen. From this day on, don't you fear anyone else." That was in October–November 1996.
Q. But many officers behave quite differently after fighting in Chechnya. They feel unsure of themselves, change their names, and don't tell anyone who they are.
A. I can only answer for myself. I am Shamanov. It's quite possible that I might be physically eliminated, but I'm not afraid of that. Twenty-one years with the paratroopers have left their mark. Starting with the first jump, you must constantly overcome your fear, leaping into the void with nothing but a small bundle of nylon on your back and, to some extent, simply trusting in fate. You confront your fear every time you jump.
Q. When did you last make a jump?
A. With my son. He was on his first jump. It was the 153rd for me. Summer 1996.
Q. Why did you jump then?
A. It was my son's first jump. I thought it a father's duty. Everyone must respect the main principle of the army: do as I do.
Q. You were there to protect him?
A. No. I jumped first, he went after. You can't protect anyone in the air, anyway.
Q. Where did you get such a strange surname?
A. Honestly, I don't know. My father grew up in a children's home. He left our family when I was still little. Since the second Chechen war several other Shamanovs have written to me. In two cases there's some hope that they're relatives. I've now realised that's something I need.
Q. In your view what would count as victory in the war?
A. That I could go and visit my friends in Chechnya without any fuss or worry, that the buses were running and life went on as usual.
On 15 June the "Fighting Fraternity" of the airborne troops held an event in the Podolsk Palace of Youth, not far from Moscow. Former paratroopers gathered at the rather oddly titled "Anti-Sniper" evening, remembered those who had died in action, and watched the visiting dancers and singers.
Shamanov sat for a long time on the stage, shoulders slumped, hands hanging loosely, as a guest of honour. He sat motionless, as though he was tired and ill at ease; behind him there was a large poster advertising alcoholic drinks. There was movement and bustle all around, frantic noise and flashing lights enticing people to relax and enjoy themselves. Once in a while the former paratroopers in the hall wiped a tear from their eyes.
Shamanov's sturdy, powerful figure expressed nothing but his total and irreversible loneliness. It was painful to look at him.
MOSCOW
*
In December 2000 elections were held to pick a new governor for the Ulyanovsk Region. Shamanov stood for the post and won. This gave him considerable local influence and a seat in the Federation Council, the upper house of the Russian parliament, where he joined the other regional governors and republican presidents.