Anarchy Unit: Emergence

Глава II: The General

 I was born in the United States back in the seventies, but moved to Russia just after Richard Nixon became president. My father was a Russian truck driver in the United States. He received a massive amount of hate from other citizens because they didn't trust my father, due to the fact he was Russian. He was hell-bent on starting his company, however he couldn't because of excuses the United States said to him. In actuality, the Government didn't like him for the same reasons why citizens didn't. My father eventually returned to Russia, with my mother and I, after a quick run into a truck stop turned violent. My mother was an American from the South, or what they referred to as the 'Bible Belt.' It was hard becoming stable for my parents. My dad wasn't trusted by trucking companies, and my mother was certainly not trusted by anyone. After a long time of finding a new job, he met a Ukrainian who owned his own trucking company. My father was hired into the man's company, and hauled vast amounts of trailers to all parts of Russia. While my father was on the road, my mother taught me the Russian she learned from my father- the basics. It was enough for me to learn, in order to get into school. However, it was still very difficult to get me enrolled into a school, since I was born in the United States. But after persuasion, I was enrolled into pre-school. From then on, I learned more Russian that I ever could, and at home, I spoke English, and some Russian. Years on down the road, I even taught my mother the Russian I knew, so she could understand, speak, and read the language. She eventually got a job as an assistant, in an immigration office.

Years went by, and my parents continued to work hard to stay in the country, meanwhile I just started high school. On the first day, I walked in through the doors, and walked down the hall. I walked into the cafeteria, got my breakfast, and sat down. I took out my drawing pad, and began to sketch a Russian tank in battle as I ate. Drawing was a favourite pastime for me, because it involve little human interaction.
Suddenly, a short ginger girl plopped down at my table, and sat across from me, "What are you drawing?" She asked in Russian.
I looked at her confused, "Uhm... I'm just drawing a tank," I replied back in Russian.
She scanned me as I continued to sketch the body of the tank. She looked at my necklace that held my American grandfather's dog tags, "Nice necklace." She said in English. I looked at her astonished.
"Whose are they?" She asked.
I stopped drawing and looked at her confused, "You know English?"
She nodded. "They're my grandfather's from World War II."
She had a look of intrigue on her face, "Oh, that's cool!" She smiled at me, and extended her hand from across the table, "I'm Anastasia. Anastasia Sharov. But some just call me Ana"
I looked at her, and slowly extended my hand to shake hers, "My name is Boyan Veselovsky."
"Well, nice to meet you," she said with a big smile on her face.
From that day on, Anastasia and I were what you called, best friends. She was actually my first best friend, since I didn't have any throught my school experience. We always ate lunch together, talked all about history and war, and hung out after school. Three years went by, and it was my senior year. We're still exceedingly good friends, and saw eye to eye. One day at lunch while we were sitting down and talking like how we normally talked.
"Boyan, did you see the new posters hanging around in school?" Asked Anastasia.
"To be honest, I don't even bother to look at the posters," I replied as I bit into my bread. "What about them?" I asked after I swallowed the portion of bread.
"Well, the headmaster had a few of the other students put them up, but I thought it was something you'd be interested in."
"What did the poster have on them? And I swear if it's ballet dancing-"
"No, no, no! They were putting up posters advertising the Russian military. It had all sorts of information on it, and I thought since you enjoy learning and drawing things about militaries, you'd be interested."
I looked at her hesitantly, "I don't know. I don't really think that's a good idea."
"Serving your country isn't a good idea?" She asked, trying to guilt trip me.
"No, no, no. I have reasons not to join."
"Like what?"
I glanced down to my grandfather's dog tags, and looked back up to her. She looked at them, then back at me, "What does the dog tags have to do with it?"
I sighed, and opened my mouth, "Back in World War II, my grandfather was part of the second wave of landing crafts that invaded the shores of Iwo Jima."
"What do you mean?" She asked.
"The Battle of Iwo Jima was the fiercest and bloodiest battle fought in the Pacific. It was practically the D-Day of the Pacific."
She pondered for a moment, she looked up, "So, what does this have to do with you not wanting to join.?"
"My grandfather had to witness thousands of soldiers being mowed down my machine guns, artillery shells battering the shoreline, killing his fellow comrades, and having to kill men. Miraculously, he survived the gruesome battle. He was found sitting on log, just by the shore with his M1 Garand held tightly in his hands. He was covered in a mixture of his blood, the enemy's blood, and the blood of the soldiers who fought beside him. They could barely get his attention, and when they did, they knew something was wrong with him."
"So... you're afraid of going to a war like that?"