Fireworks Boy

My companions in the truck would not speak or make eye contact with me.  My wrists were cuffed together, as were my ankles.  A heavy chain was wrapped around both sets of cuffs, and around the thick metal post that supported the bench I sat on.  A padlock secured the chain.  I wouldn’t be going anywhere on my own.

 

If I bent my head down, and strained my wrists against the chain, I could feel the bruise on my forehead.  That went along with the pounding headache and the double vision.  It reminded me of the beatings Eastwood and I gave each other in my Samozashchita Bez Oruzhiya lessons.  I drifted in and out of consciousness and lost track of time.

 

At some point we made it to an airport.  The same chain secured me to a bench in a cargo plane.  I was disoriented and had no idea which direction, or how far I travelled.  But it had to be south.  When we landed, there were trees everywhere. 

 

I was on a Soviet Air Force base in Khabarovsk.  Twenty-two hundred miles southwest of Uelen, only 19 miles from the Chinese border.  The city of half a million people was the headquarters of the Soviet Eastern Military District.  With an MP on each arm, I was taken to an interrogation room at the base security building.  By now I was used to being chained to something.  The MP padlocked the chain to a D-ring embedded in the concrete floor.

 

A short, slim man walked in the room.  He spoke, in Russian.  “My name is General Malikov.  I will be conducting your interrogation.  I suggest you answer my questions honestly and quickly.  To start with, what is your name?”

 

I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and said, “My name is Josef Stalin.”  Despite the man’s size, when he slapped me with his open palm, it almost knocked me out.

 

“You seem to be even younger than my children, and my wife reminds me to be patient with them from time to time.  So I will give you one more chance.  I can assure you, one more sarcastic remark will result in broken bones.  I ask you again, what is your name?”

 

This time I answered.  “My name is Evan Anthony.  I am an American citizen.  I live in Wales, Alaska.  I am eighteen years old.”

 

When I said my name, I noticed the strange look on Malikov’s face.  Then he burst into laughter.  He asked, “Your name is Evan?  Are you the infamous Fireworks Boy?”

 

I had signed my name on the gifts I had left for the soldiers at Border Station 1, and treated them to a fireworks display.  “If you are talking about Big Diomede Island last spring, yes, that was me.”

 

He said, “Do you realize the seriousness of what you have done?  I could have you shot and no one outside of this base would know what happened to you.  If I thought you were a spy, you would already be on a plane to Moscow.  If I thought you were a common criminal, you would be on your way to prison.”

 

“But I had to see for myself, the man-boy who can slip in and out of shadows, who put three of my soldiers in the hospital with his bare hands, who can steal vehicles and supplies from under people’s noses.  How is it that you can do these things?  And why are you here?”

 

The first question was easy to answer.  I told him how I had come to live with my uncle, and the things he taught me.  Why was I in Siberia?  The best answer I could give was, “Eastwood died.  After that nothing mattered.  So I came here.”

 

The General asked, “So, how do I know you are not a highly trained spy and all of this is just a ruse?”

 

“I don’t care if you think I am a spy.  You can shoot me now for all I care.”

 

“I see.  Let’s take a different approach.  Have you ever considered the possibility of becoming a mercenary?”

 

Eastwood had taught me to be in control myself, and how to have a poker face.  But Malikov caught me off guard with that.  Later, it would occur to me.  That was the first time, since Eastwood died, that I had felt any emotion.

 

My cheeks reddened as I stammered my answer. “Well, I don’t know, sir, I guess I’d have to think about it.”

 

The General continued.  “Let me explain.  We have border conflicts with the Chinese.  This has been happening for a long time.  We also have problems with certain groups in Mongolia.  They do not agree with the control Moscow exerts over their country.  Recently these two problems have come together in an ugly way.” 

 

“The Chinese have begun supplying Mongolian rebel groups with arms and equipment.  And they allow them sanctuary.  They have been making guerilla raids into Siberia, then crossing the border back into China.  They are destroying bridges, burning buildings, and have on occasion, killed Soviet citizens.” 

 

“We send our troops after them.  But they use the terrain and the weather to their advantage.  We cannot fly airplanes or helicopters in snowstorms.  We cannot send tanks or trucks up an ice covered mountain.  The men we chase after are highly skilled outdoorsmen and on foot, our soldiers cannot keep up with them.  I have put in a request for Spetsnaz, but the priority for special forces now is in Afghanistan.”

 

“However…someone with your skills…”

 

“Otherwise, I will probably decide to put you in front of a firing squad and bury your body in an unmarked grave on the slopes of Ko Mountain.”

 

“I realize this is a lot for you to digest.  For now, I am going to send you to an outpost we are building outside of Ushmun.  It is eleven kilometers from the Chinese border.  This is near where the worst of the attacks have been.  Colonel Kashuba is the commanding officer.  You will still be considered a prisoner.  The Colonel is one of the smartest men I know.  If anyone can figure out what to do with you, it will be him.”

 

It took three days, shackled in the back of a transport truck, to get to Ushmun.  It was obvious the outpost was new.  Several buildings were unfinished, stacks of lumber and supplies were everywhere.  There was no jail, and none of the buildings had locks or doors secure enough to hold me.  Colonel Kashuba solved that problem in a simple but effective way.  Around my ankle was a thick metal cuff.  One end of a chain was attached to the cuff.   The other end was bolted to a meter-long section of railroad track.  I was free to go anywhere I wanted in the outpost.  I just had to carry a chunk of iron that weighed almost as much as me on my shoulder.

 

The soldiers got a good laugh out of watching me, walking slowly and hunched over, with a hunk of railroad track on my shoulder.  I accumulated nicknames.  Fireworks Boy.  The Railroad Kid.  The World’s Worst Spy.  Not that it mattered to me, but life in the mountains outside of Ushmun, Siberia sucked.

 

I saw an opening, one day at the evening meal.  Colonel Kashuba made a joke about the poor taste of what had been advertised as “beef”.  The outpost was remote and getting supplies there in winter was not a simple matter.

 

I said, “If a skilled hunter had a good rifle, and didn’t have a meter of railroad track on his shoulder, he could hunt and kill as much as you can eat.  I can assure you there are tasty animals everywhere in the forest.”

 

Kashuba laughed.  “My best marksman went hunting and came back with one rabbit, and a broken ankle.  I banned hunting after that.”

 

I said, “I have lived my entire life in terrain just like this.  If you do not know the land, and you do not understand the habits of the animals you hunt, you will be in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and you will walk past clues that would lead to your prey.”

 

“If it walks on four legs, I can track it, kill it, skin it, gut it, cut it up, cook it, and serve it.  All you will have to do is eat.”

 

The colonel said, “So what would keep you from taking off if I let you go hunting?”

 

“Where would I go?  If I went south, I would end up shot or imprisoned in China.  Any other direction there is nothing but more of Siberia.  My home is more than 4000 kilometers away.  There is really nothing I want to do right now, maybe to eat something that doesn’t taste like cardboard.”

 

“Get this weight off of my ankle and give me a .22 rifle.  Your stomach will thank me later.  Also, there are chives, chamomile and other herbs growing wild in the forest.  When was the last time you tasted food seasoned with something besides salt?”

 

Kashuba raised his eyebrows at that.  “I’ll make a deal with you.  I’ll turn you loose tomorrow morning.  No railroad track.  You’ll get a .22 pistol.  No rifle.  If things turn out as you say…we will see.”

 

My backpack and everything I carried had made it with me to central Siberia.  Kashuba had it locked up in the security office.  I said, “The best hunting will be in the dark.  Small animals tend to be nocturnal.  I will need the Starlight Scope.”

 

The colonel said “Agreed.”  I said, “How about a little bet?  If you are not impressed by my results, I will do four weeks of KP.  If you are impressed, no more railroad track.  And, I get back all of my belongings.  I suppose if you don’t want to give me the Colt, I would understand.”

 

Kashuba laughed and said, “You’ve got a wager, Fireworks Boy.”

 

Sunrise the next morning would be at 8:15am.  By 4am, I was far enough from the outpost that the pistol shots would not wake anyone.  I picked my spots, sat, waited, and listened.  I fired as unsuspecting critters came into range.  When it was time to find the next location, my movements were deliberate and slow.

 

I quickly field dressed each animal.  That meant skinning and gutting them, then cutting off any extraneous body parts.  In addition to the meat, I kept the hearts and livers.  I packed snow around the meat and the organs, then wrapped them with strips of thin bark from birch trees.  After the game bag was heavy with squirrel, rabbit, and chipmunk, I turned around.  It was late in the afternoon.  I gathered the wild herbs I came across on the way back.    

 

My status as a resident of Forward Station Ushmun jumped up an order of magnitude when the soldiers realized I had a sack full of fresh meat.  Officers and enlisted men alike volunteered to assist with preparing the feast.

 

We sautéed the herbs in lard.  That was the best we could do for a sauce.  That was coated on some the squirrel and chipmunk carcasses.  We impaled them on wooden stakes and cooked them over an open flame.

 

The rest of the meat was deboned.  Most of the rabbit and the organs went into a stew, with potatoes, carrots, and onions.  Whatever was left was coated with flour and fried.

 

After the meal, men were grinning and slapping me on the back.  No one called me Fireworks Boy.  Colonel Kashuba said, “Evan, my stomach forces me to admit you won the bet.  Come with me.”

 

We went to the security office and he unlocked the storage room.  He said, “Grab the pack.  It’s yours.”

 

Then he said, “General Malikov’s staff have been doing some research on your case.  They sent me a report.  So far, they haven’t come up with any reason to doubt your story.  I tend to believe you as well.  Also, they uncovered some interesting facts about your uncle.  Apparently, he made quite an impression on his opponents in Korea and Vietnam.  He was so hated and feared that the Viet Cong had a bounty on his head.  From what I read, you are very fortunate to have been raised by a man such as him.”

 

“I have a pretty good idea of the sense of honor your uncle must have instilled in you.  So I will offer you a deal.”  Kashuba opened a drawer and pulled out my Colt M1911 pistol.  “If you give me your word of honor that you will follow my orders, the same as I would expect from any of my soldiers, you may have your weapon.”

 

I said, “Yes sir, I give you my word.”  He handed me the pistol.

 

At that point, I was essentially an unpaid private in the Soviet Army.  I pulled guard duty.  I peeled potatoes.  I did what I was told.  But everyone likes fresh meat so I was put on hunting detail more often than anything else.  The only thing that could have made the time I spent in the forests of Siberia any better, would be if Eastwood was there.

 

As the days went by, it began to feel like I belonged there.  I made friends with some of the soldiers.  We even formed a band.  Corporal Andreyevsky played guitar.  Private Sadovnichy could sing.  I played harmonica.  We were quite the trio.  Andreyevsky was very tall and impossibly skinny.  Sadovnichy was short and muscular.  I looked very average compared to my partners.  I named our band The Three Stooges.

 

We were a great team.  It was not unusual for the three of us to end up on work details together.  I revived Eastwood’s habit of making a game out of everything.  We had frequent wagers on who could peel the most potatoes, or chop the most firewood.  It was in August, on a construction detail, when the game we played changed everything. 

 

The order of the day was to finish the roof of a new building.  The Three Stooges had been tasked with carrying supplies up the ladder to the nailing crew.  I offered my bandmates a wager.  Whoever could carry the most plywood up the ladder, the other two would have to split his KP for the next month.

 

Almost immediately, I realized I’d made a poor bet.  A sheet of plywood is not heavy, but it is large and awkward for one person to carry.  Particularly up a ladder.  But Corporal Andreyevsky had an advantage.  Even though his arms were painfully skinny, they were long.  He could easily handle the plywood.  When he realized a month without KP was within his grasp, he shifted into high gear.  Sadovnichy and I did our best to keep up. 

 

We ended up doing extra KP a lot longer than a month.  When Corporal Andreyevsky bent over to pick up the last sheet of plywood, he kept going.  By the time he hit the ground, he was dead.

 

Years later, I would read an article about a famous basketball player who died suddenly during a practice session.  The story said he had a heart defect, caused by something called Marfan’s syndrome.  One of the common characteristics of people who suffer from this is that they tend to be tall and slender.  When I looked at the man’s photo, he could have been Andreyevsky’s twin brother.

 

I didn’t know that when Colonel Kashuba called me into his office the next day.  I assumed I was in trouble.  He told me to sit.  He said, “Do not get me wrong, I am not blaming you for what happened to Andreyevsky.  He had some kind of problem with his heart.  He would have died one way or another.  However, I am ordering you to stop these competitions of yours.  Bad things tend to happen to Soviet soldiers when you get frisky.  If you wish to gamble, restrict it to card games.”

 

“But that is not all I wanted to speak to you about.  I see this as an opportunity.  I have been struggling with how to deal with the unique challenge you have presented to me.  There isn’t anything in the Soviet Military Code that covers adopting Americans teenagers.”

 

“It seems your friend Corporal Andreyevsky was an orphan.  He had no family.  It appears the only people who will miss him are those of us who knew him here.  So, these are yours now.”

 

Kashuba tossed me an envelope.  It contained Andreyevsky’s identity card, dog tags and locker key.  “From now on, as far as I am concerned, you are Corporal Ivan Andreyevsky.  We will provide your friend a respectful burial here at the outpost.”

 

“Congratulations, Ivan.  You have been promoted from honorary Private to Corporal.”

 

“One more thing.  I have decided you have proved yourself enough.  Tomorrow morning, be in my office at 7am.  We will have a frank discussion about how to deal with Mongolian rebels.”