In the Army Now

I can’t ever remember being more terrified.

I’m 40 meters up, standing on a windswept tower and being told to jump off.

I know I’m attached to a parachute. I know I’m not going to plummet into the ground (I’ve just seen two other people land safely). But every fiber of my being is screaming at me that, if I step over the parapet, I’m going to die.

I try to psyche myself up, but my nerve goes; I just can’t do it. I slink back down the tower, feeling like an utter failure. I’ve spent the last 10 days living with a Russian paratroop regiment and, despite the brutal physical training I’ve been through, this moment seems worse than any of it.

I’d moved to Russia to start my journalism career in mid-2005 and quickly found out that the country’s conscription system had a very poor reputation. All Russian men between the ages of 18 and 27 were supposed to complete two years of military service, yet draft dodging was rife. None of my male colleagues under 30 had served, some paying large sums of money to avoid it, because of the rumors of terrible conditions and rampant bullying.

In early 2006, graphic evidence of the army’s failures emerged. Videos of young conscripts being beaten went viral and the case of 19-year-old Andrey Sychyov, who was tortured so badly his legs and genitals had to be amputated, made headlines around the world. The Russian Defense Ministry was accused of turning a blind eye to the process of “dedovshchina,” the hazing of new recruits by senior conscripts, but gradually, they stated, changes were being made.

In 2008 military service was reduced to one year and, since then, the Top Brass has stressed that the bullying culture has been widely eradicated. Suspicion still abounds, however, and the army faces a grave shortage of troops. Around 650,000 recruits reported for duty in 2013, but that’s only 70 percent of those who were eligible.

I wanted to find out what Russia’s young soldiers have to go through, so in June this year we were given permission to make a documentary about Russia’s toughest regiment: the airborne troops (Воздушно-десантные войска), the VDV.

A few weeks of intensive gym sessions and a very extreme haircut later, I was ready to become Russia’s oldest ever conscript. For a few weeks I was going to be Private Brown, Russian paratrooper.

Since the UK abolished National Service in the 1950’s, my military experience was nonexistent. I had no idea what might be in store for me. The plan was to film in two barracks: a boot camp stage just outside the Moscow region in Tula, and then with more experienced troops in a mountain division in the Krasnodar region.

So, fresh from a medical examination that proved I should not drop dead from strenuous exercise, I found myself roasting in the back of a Kamaz truck with four brand new recruits, none older than 18. All seemed confident, smiling and joking as we bumped along the road, yet it quickly got quieter as we crossed the guard post into the barracks. Everyone realized there was no turning back.

Jumping out of the truck, we are unceremoniously greeted by the duty sergeant and marched into the barracks. It’s as crowded as I’d feared – around 100 double bunks with just a few inches of space between them. I’m assigned number 88 and we’re given a demonstration on how the army does domestic life. Hospital corner beds to be made each day without fail and white linings to be sewn into the collars of our uniforms. The poor kids next to me look totally lost. I hear one mutter to another that his Mum has always done this sort of thing for him.

The beds and collars are botch jobs, but they pass inspection and we’re left for a few hours to explore our new home. Alongside the dormitory there’s a large washroom with a row of squat toilets, a bunch of sinks with cold water taps and, more worryingly, only one shower. Apparently we get just 10 minutes to wash and change after morning exercises. The sleeping area has all the windows open but it’s still swelteringly hot. I try to fill up my water canteen from a corner dispenser and immediately drop it as scalding liquid hits my fingers. I’m told there’s no drinkable cold water on the base, just boiled water that’s left to cool down. The average temperature hasn’t dropped below 30º Celsius (86º F) in Tula for almost two weeks.

Before bedtime we head outside for dinner. People are already wondering who this strange, bearded foreigner in their midst is, and I field a few questions before the sergeant snaps us to attention and parades us to the mess hall. I stare at the feet of the man in front of me and try to fall into a rhythm. There’s strict etiquette here. You remove your hat as you enter and wait for the commanding officer to give the order to eat, although I’m not sure I want to dig in. The food is distinctly unappetizing: a small piece of fish on buckwheat, covered with a gray sauce, some raw cabbage, bread and a mug of boiling hot tea. It tastes as bad as it looks, but everyone falls on it like it’s a gourmet feast. Whatever they’re doing here, it’s making them very hungry.

It’s the first time I’ve had a good look at the rest of the soldiers here and it’s a real mix of faces. There are some that could have come straight from a prison movie and others that I doubt have even started shaving. My fellow raw recruits definitely fall into the latter category. Alexei, Alexei, Alexander and Sergei are all from Yaroslavl region. They tell me about the fitness training they’ve done to prepare, how they’re looking forward to their first parachute jump, and how proud their parents are that they’ve been chosen for the VDV. I ask if they considered dodging their call ups and all four shake their heads, saying it’s not something a “real man” would do. The idea of being respected is clearly very important to them. I ask if they have friends who’ve avoided the draft and their smiles fade. It’s obviously a sore point, so I drop it.

The next few days are a blur of intense exercise, drill and weapons training. We’re woken up at 6 am by a screaming NCO and given 10 minutes to get changed into our sport gear and assemble on the parade ground for morning workout. For the next hour, we’re beasted around the base, running, jumping and working the pull-up bars. Before long, my arms are ready to drop off, but there’s no let up and we finish with a set of push-ups, digging our fists into the gravel. It leaves you bloody and exhausted, and that’s all before breakfast.

We’re taught that our AK-74 rifle is our best friend and needs to be treated accordingly. Everyone spends more than an hour a day stripping, cleaning, and reassembling. The fastest can take their gun apart and put it back together in less than a minute. Me, I’m trying to focus on accuracy. The guns have a tendency to jam and, what with live fire practice coming up, I want to make sure mine lasts the course. Menial tasks, eating and a small amount of free time fill the rest of the day. If you don’t have the right phone, there’s no access to the internet. For the first time in years I watch people write letters to those they love.

Another daily constant is marching drill – the fundamentals of soldiering. Get your hands and feet in the right place, at the right time, to the right rhythm. We’re put through our paces by Major Ermolov, a 15-year veteran of the VDV who is far from your stereotypical drill instructor. There’s no screaming in peoples’ faces, but you feel his eyes on you constantly, and I’m conscious that my arms and legs are not going where I want them to. It’s deeply frustrating and we practice again and again. I’m beginning to see why they call it drill – it really does have to be hammered into your skull. The major later tells me there are no bad soldiers, only bad commanders. Everyone can be taught to get it right.

By this point, I’m just about keeping up, but am finding conditions hard. We’re constantly hot, dirty and tired. There’s not been a spot of rain since I arrived, and with the rigorous activity you almost never cool down. Most days, washing is limited to sticking your head under the cold tap for a couple of minutes and a quick strip clean with a bar of soap. Then the same uniform goes straight on again. You’re already sweating by the time you head back to work.

The Russians have a saying that something “stinks like a barracks.” It’s certainly true, but we’re all just too exhausted to care.

I’d been warned that the physical pressure was about to get worse and it turns out to be no idle threat. Early one morning, we’re lined up in front of our heavy equipment: some 25 kilos of flak jacket, helmet, gas mask and webbing. Then we are told “get ready to run.” This is what they call a forced march, and it’s brutal. Two kilometers would normally be a breeze, but soon the extra weight has my shoulders in agony and I can feel my new boots ripping the skin off my feet. A fellow soldier advises me to soak the insides with vodka. It seems there’s nothing that the stuff can’t do.

Our reward for suffering through the march is a session of live fire exercises. Magazines are handed out and we practice target shooting, heavy machine gun work, and then there’s a special treat, just for me. After a brief demonstration, I’m presented with a bazooka and a live grenade, while my NCO retreats to a very safe distance. My heart rate triples as I try to remember the procedure. Line up the target, control your breathing, keep your mouth open and squeeze the trigger. The shock wave rips through me – like a punch to the jaw that you know is coming but you can’t defend against – and turns my legs to jelly. The abandoned tank I’d been aiming at was still standing, but I’d got considerably closer than my instructor. He doesn’t speak to me as we head back to the rest of the group. Mind you, my ears were ringing so badly I wouldn’t have noticed if he had.

Conforming perfectly to the young male stereotype, my tale of explosions and heavy weaponry get an enthusiastic response from the other conscripts, most of whom haven’t been allowed to try their luck with anything quite as deadly. After plenty of initial suspicion, I feel I’m starting to win some trust.

The majority of the lads here have never spoken with a foreigner and my knowledge of military terms and some creative Russian swearing has increased in leaps and bounds. We bond over football and rather one sided debates on whether the British paratroopers are as good as their Russian counterparts. Most of them share similar backgrounds: small cities, working class or military families. A couple admit that their parents couldn’t afford the bribes for a medical exemption, but everyone I speak to, without exception, tells me how the VDV has changed them for the better. Some say it’s made them more responsible, that it’s given them a sense of purpose, others that it’s made them less selfish, that they’ve learned to look out for other people for the first time. A few are considering signing on permanently once their obligatory service is over, but most are looking forward to returning to civilian life. No one, it seems, is going to miss the food.

I make friends with Vitaly, a 19-year-old private, who’s been at the base for six months and who says that, if there is hazing going on, he hasn’t seen it. The idea of brotherhood is drummed into the conscripts here early on. In a combat situation, you have to rely on each other completely. He makes the excellent point that it’s never a good idea to piss off someone who might be behind you with a gun one day.

I’ve never been a big fan of heights, so the thought I might shortly be jumping out of a plane was constantly playing on my mind. As you might imagine, the parachute regiment has little time for people with vertigo. Each soldier has to go through a minimum two-week course and, unsurprisingly, plenty of time is allocated to packing your parachute correctly. We’re split off into pairs and I end up working with Ivan, a new recruit who’s barely been here longer than me. I notice his wedding ring, the first I’ve seen on the base and ask him how he’s coping, being away from his wife. It turns out they’ve only been married a few months and he clearly misses her. Like the soldiers of old, he keeps the first letter she wrote to him in his pocket. I’d heard that military service is notorious for breaking couples up; I hope they can beat the odds.

Over the next few days we learn how to prepare the chute, how to land without breaking a leg, and how to control yourself in flight. Some of the maneuvers take serious arm strength and I begin to understand the purpose behind the heavy upper body workouts we’ve been doing. Everything goes smoothly, including our first practice jump from a replica plane. Attached to a harness, we leap out one by one and zoom down the wire to the ground. So far so good.

Then, within a few hours, everything goes to hell. It’s my penultimate day in Boot Camp and time for my toughest test, the 40-meter jump tower. It’s an authentic landing simulator where a parachute is wheeled up to the top on a pulley, you’re strapped in and then you jump. I watch two other people hit the ground and then it’s my turn. Everything starts off fine, but I’m already hyperventilating by the time I’m three quarters of the way up the tower. I try to stare straight ahead, but then stupidly look down.

At the top, I get to the edge twice and pull back – another mistake. This is something you really can’t spend time thinking about. My director comes up to speak to me; even the NCO comes over with a few words of advice. While I’m delaying, a small crowd gathers to watch, which only makes things worse. I step to the edge once again and still can’t jump. Out of the corner of my eye I see the NCO behind me making pushing signals to someone on the ground and I’ve had it. I trudge back down the tower, I know I’ve blown it and I’m furious with myself.

Down below, everyone is surprisingly supportive. Several of the more experienced recruits admit they had to have two or three attempts at their first jump, if they weren’t given a helpful shove of course. It makes me feel a little better, but I realize that if I’m going to get a chance to redeem myself, it’s not going to be here. The following day I take part in a grand oath taking ceremony and watch hundreds of recruits take their pledge of allegiance to Russia and to the VDV in front of their families and friends. Just like that, my time in Tula is up.

Russian boot camp was the most physically demanding experience of my life. Yet, very quickly, I came to realize that I was part of something special. The sense of comradeship is very genuine here, even for an outsider. I really believe that, in a combat situation, these guys would lay down their lives for each other. Among a group of non-professional soldiers, many still teenagers, that’s what surprised me most of all. Some of them will stay in Tula; others, like me, are destined for other regiments around Russia.

A few weeks later I’m finishing up a stint with the VDV mountain division in Novorossiysk. I’ve been taking part in punishing assault courses, full contact sparring sessions, and I’ve even had a tank drive over me.

Now it’s time for a last psychological test to see if I’m ready. I’m lying on my back staring up at a rainy sky, waiting for the clouds to clear. A huge airplane rolls down the runway in front of me. Just over a month since my failure to jump 40 meters, I’m about to try 800.

There are more than a hundred of us shivering on the landing strip, sandwiched between our main and reserve chutes. Hours seem to pass before we get the all clear. Good weather’s due on the horizon – perfect jumping conditions.

There’s no backing out this time. I’m going to have people in front of me and behind. If I don’t go, no one else can.

The equipment’s checked one last time and we’re ready to fly. There are guys here who’ve already jumped three or four times, and there’s me, who’s never done it. As the plane takes off, I’m trying to think about anything other than what’s about to happen. This is it. This is what it means to be a paratrooper.

The doors open and everyone gets ready for the signal. The guys have told me that the rush once your chute opens is the greatest feeling they’ve ever had, that the step into the abyss is easier from the plane because you can’t see the ground.

I stand up, take a deep breath and hope they’re right. RL