Love and War in Ukraine

By Stephen Miller

During a battle in East Ukraine in the summer of 2016, a squad of eight Ukrainian soldiers hunker down under intense enemy fire. Casualties mount, as one of the soldiers abandons the post to be with his girl back home. As their position becomes more tenuous, and the nearby woods explode in flames, a devout sergeant reveals his prayerful faith in God.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796045055

Stephen Miller

Stephen Miller was born in the USA and now lives in Canada. After graduating from Virginia Military Institute in 1968, he moved to Vancouver to concentrate on creative writing and theatre, starting as a stage carpenter and working his way up to becoming an actor and scriptwriter. A Game of Soldiers is his first thriller. He is presently working on a second book which will again feature Pyotr Ryzkhov, this time in the immediate aftermath of World War One.

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Copyright © 2019 by Stephen Miller.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2019909232

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-7960-4506-2

                Softcover        978-1-7960-4507-9

                eBook               978-1-7960-4505-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Photo of the author by Kora Nadin, Mykolayiv, Ukraine

Rev. date: 07/15/2019

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Book One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Book Two

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Book Three

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Book Four

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Epilogue

To my

granddaughters, Hope and Myla, with love

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Greatest humble thanks to God Almighty, who has given me life, direction, and purpose. Also loving thanks to Trisha for her support.

This novel would not have been possible without the help of Kora Nadin, my dear friend, who not only translated for me during my three visits to Ukraine, but, perhaps more importantly, opened my eyes and heart to the rich character of the Ukrainian people.

Words cannot express my thanks to Kora for her tireless assistance. I shall be eternally grateful to her.

Special thanks to Chris Orleans and Grey Edwards at Xlibris for putting this long over-due manuscript back on track. Every writer needs a few go-to guys at the publishing house. Chris and Grey have gone well beyond the call of duty. Also, a word of thanks to Lani Martin at Xlibris for her patient attention to detail.

I met and interviewed several people during my last visit to Ukraine in October of 2017. These names must remain anonymous for security reasons. As a newspaper reporter, I have interviewed thousands of people. But, the interviews in Mykolayiv in the Fall of 2017 were the pinnacle of my career. I can never thank these courageous people enough. God bless them.

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER 1

Turn off your phones. The lieutenant will be here any minute, the sergeant said. One of you will help Demchik unload the lieutenant’s van. He turned and walked away from the Jeep where two soldiers were sitting, relaxing and playing games on their phones. Suddenly the shrieking whistle of an incoming rocket pierced the quiet afternoon, and a second later it struck the Jeep, exploding it into flames and incinerating the two soldiers, pieces of metal and glass spewing into the air and a soldier’s burning leg landing three meters away, the burnt powder smell of the rocket, and the strong wind gust from the explosion knocking the sergeant to the ground.

Incoming! a soldier yelled from the trench. Get down! A mortar shell pounded the ground near the trees and exploded in a large orange red ball of flame, blasting a deep crater and shaking the camp and the trench violently, then another deafening explosion, dust and dirt and rocks spraying everywhere. Lying on his belly, the sergeant felt his phone vibrate and pulled it from his back pocket. It was the lieutenant calling.

The road here has been hit hard and nearly destroyed, Sergeant! Make sure the men are in the trench! I’ll be there in two minutes hopefully. The road had been cut into the slope with an army bulldozer three weeks ago. They tried to make it level, and before the shelling it was rocky and uneven. The previous road was worse and very narrow and tree roots bulked up above the surface of the road, so the vehicles had to drive slowly to avoid getting the differential hung up on the roots. The Russians couldn’t see the road because of the Poplars, but the shelling had been intense and several bombs hit the new roadway and damaged it badly. Now the bombing had gouged deep holes and made it almost impossible to drive on. Even the bombs that missed the camp by 50 meters caused serious damage.

The sergeant coughed and spat out dirt and crawled along quickly and leaped into the trench, breathing hard and looking around for the four remaining soldiers, and saw them squatting unharmed and smoking at the back of the trench, their backs to the dirt wall and looking nervous, the rattling of machine gun fire off in the distance.

In a moment it was quiet. The dust settled while the Jeep burned.

The two in the Jeep? a soldier asked.

They’re dead, the sergeant said in a low, dull voice. His face and beard and helmet were covered with dust. He coughed out more dirt and saliva. Stay in here. I’m going to look around. Before he could crawl up and out of the trench, the Jeep gas tank exploded in a bright orange yellow flame, sending a hot wind blast across the top of the trench and scattering dust and rocks and dry leaves. The sergeant watched in horror as the burning remains of the two soldiers blew apart. He crossed himself and prayed silently.

A dark blue van towing a beige artillery gun drove up quickly and skidded to a stop. Lieutenant Evanko stepped out of the van and cursed as he glanced at the burning Jeep. Sergeant, get the two large fire extinguishers and do what you can to douse the flames. Have a corporal help you. Demchik, get up here and unload the van quickly. Put the ammo and the bandoliers in the locker. The big artillery gun goes over between the trees. He looked again at the burning vehicle. We will eat in a few minutes, if any of us has an appetite now.

Oleg Demchik was out of the trench quickly and jogged to the van and began unloading cases of bullets, stacking them on the ground, and hung the two bandoliers around his neck and shoulder.

Put the bullets for the pistols over there toward the back, under the shelf.

The sergeant perspired heavily through his khaki T-shirt as he extinguished the flames, looking carefully for any remains of the dead soldiers. The lieutenant stood next to the van, glancing at the burning Jeep, a clipboard in his hand, checking off each item as it was unloaded: Ammo, cases of food, toilet paper, batteries, two pairs of regulation boots, and a Kaleshnikov light machine gun. Put the boots at the back and pull the laces tight so the mice won’t get in them. He thought about the dead soldiers and the body bags in the trench. When the burned- out Jeep was cool, any recognizable body parts would be bagged and labeled. He would have to tell the commander general, who would inform the families. He had informed the general of the deaths of more than 30 soldiers. His jaw tightened with the greatest anger and sadness.

ONE WEEK LATER

Oleg Demchik and the sergeant sat in the trench drinking tea and smoking.

More than three thousand soldiers dead.

Yes, probably a lot more. Closer to four thousand.

Including Crimea?

No, just here in East Ukraine. A few more if you include Crimea.

Have they taken all the dead bodies away?

The sergeant took a long drag off his cigarette and exhaled. Yes, of course. There may be a few they didn’t find. Sometimes the body parts are scattered, so it’s almost impossible to identify who they belong to. When they get hit by a big trench mortar, arms and legs get blown off and fly everywhere. Sometimes, there is nothing left to bury except a few charred bones. He stroked his dark beard and took another drag off the cigarette. They try to get the dog tags for identification. He spat on the ground. Try not to think about it, ok? It’s bad for you. They’re in God’s hands now. The sergeant had seen many charred bone fragments and had smelled the burnt flesh.

It’s impossible not to think about it. Two of them were friends from when we were on the soccer team together. We almost won the national title. He wiped his face with his dirty hands. The dog tags are worn around their necks. What if their head gets blown off? The dog tag would get lost maybe.

The sergeant stood up and walked slowly to the other end of the trench. I remember you telling me about the soccer team. Don’t think about it, ok?

"Will they have a Christian burial?’

Everything will be done correctly, don’t worry, the sergeant said. Full military honors.

But will it be a Christian ceremony? Oleg Demchik asked again.

I’ll see to it, Oleg, the sergeant said somewhat irritably. Everything will be fine. Were they Russian or Ukrainian?

Tatar Christian.

Tatars are honorable people. the sergeant said quietly. During war, he thought, there is no ethnicity. A man is either your friend or your enemy. When he is shooting at you, you shoot back, you don’t stop to ask about his family history. In the past, he might have been your neighbor and friend, and he probably worked at a job in your community, and when you saw him, you waved to him and smiled. But now he has become your adversary, armed with a sniper rifle or machine gun and pistol, hunting you down like you’re a wild animal.

The sun set over the corn fields and farms to the west. Did you check the water supply?

Yes, Sir, we have enough water for three days only.

The lieutenant said the bullet proof vests would be brought by the lady volunteers tomorrow. They will also bring tactical flashlights and two pairs of night vision goggles.

Just then, the lieutenant jumped into the trench. Sir, I need to go home soon to see my girl, Oleg Demchik said. The lieutenant heard but answered nothing. It was getting dark quickly. The last thin ray of sunlight shone through the corn fields.

I’ll park and lock the van, Sir, Demchik said. Over in the same place, beyond the fuel cans?

Of course. Don’t lock it.

Demchik climbed out of the trench and drove the van 25 meters away from camp and killed the engine, got out and jogged back to the bunker. Sir, about that leave? The lieutenant was now at the back of the trench checking the supply shelf. I really need to go home for a couple days.

Sit down, Demchik. We’ll discuss it while we eat. Obama sent supper.

The soldiers all laughed. One of them lit a lantern.

I can’t wait to taste this one. If it’s like the last time, the latrine will be busy in the morning. They all laughed again.

The six of them sat shoulder to shoulder on wooden pallets near the trench and opened the MRE’s. They heated the meals one by one and began to eat. Our American friends sure know how to cook, the sergeant said with a mouth full of food. They all laughed. Mystery meat and mashed potatoes.

Probably these are not made in America. Nothing is made in America anymore.

Babies are made in America. They laughed again.

That looks and smells like chili con carne, said the corporal. Those are beans in there.

Maybe they are not beans. Look again. There’s lots of gravy to hide what’s actually there, said one soldier. The soldiers laughed with their mouths full of food.

Thanks, Barack. No troops, no weapons. Just four cases of MRE’s! said the sergeant.

Don’t forget the Humvees.

The Humvees are nice vehicles, but do you see one parked here? Maybe Joe Biden will drive up in one, all washed and waxed. They all laughed. Biden and Hillary.

Hillary is in Moscow, buying and selling things, one corporal said. She took her shopping list.

No, Putin has the shopping list. He has his plastic bank card.

What is Mr. Hillary doing while she is away visiting Putin?

Oh, he has his little friends to entertain. The soldiers roared with laughter.

Their laughter was interrupted by a loud, powerful explosion off in the distance up north. "Turn your phones off. Turn off Vkontakte. No more Facebook or Skype. The quadcopter drones see everything, said the lieutenant. I’ll confiscate the phones if necessary." He jumped down into the bunker and found his rifle, checked the magazine, then pulled himself up the dirt and brick steps and out. It was almost dark and soon the soldiers could not see their officer standing in the shadow outside the trench. Another loud explosion and a bright flash lit up the north sky, closer than the last, then another closer still, and with the bright flash they could see the silhouette of the lieutenant standing near the trench looking around, his rifle slung over his shoulder. The men felt thankful to work under his command.

Why are they now changing targets, the lieutenant wondered. Earlier, they hit our camp squarely, but now they’re bombing further north. Russians are masters at deception and ruse, he thought.

Sergeant, will you trade me a cigarette for peanut butter? asked one of the corporals.

The sergeant tossed him a Captain Black cigarette rolled in dark brown paper. Keep the peanut butter. I don’t want it. Feed it to the mouse, but toss it out far from the bunker. I don’t want mice in here. They carry disease.

The lieutenant lowered himself back down into the trench. Now it was dark. Turn the flashlights off. Put the lantern toward the back. They’re hitting closer again. They must have a new gunner doing the firing, he said. Private, ask me in the morning about your visit home.

There was no more shelling that night. A full moon lit up the corn fields and the farmhouses and farmland along the north-south highway to the west beyond the corn fields. The Poplar trees, with their dense July foliage, overshadowed the area where the trench had been dug, next to the tree line. Lieutenant Evanko slept in his sleeping bag outside the trench at the top of the dirt and brick stairs. The sleeping bag, good quality and made in Britain, had a hood at the top, and he pulled it up and over his head. Four soldiers slept in the trench. Private Demchik was not given a leave. The lieutenant told him that possibly time off would be granted in the winter.

CHAPTER 2

In the early morning before daybreak it cooled off and the dew covered everything. Thick gray fog rested low to the ground between the trees and over the trench and across the corn fields, but by noon it had burned off and a fine blue sky made everything seem pleasant and peaceful. The sergeant sat back in the corner with a cup of tea, reading from his leather- covered Bible. He quoted out loud from Psalm 27: Though an army may encamp against me, my heart shall not fear; Though war may rise against me, in this I will be confidant.

"Probably