ABSTRACT
I could empathize with the oblivion-seeking soldiers. Alcohol sure helped pass the time. The problem was there wasn’t too much around. I managed to buy some booze from the wife of a Russian soldier living in the building next to ours over at the Red Army Sanatorium compound. She charged me $100 for two bottles of imported vodka, a liter of French Champagne, and a fifth of Armenian cognac. I didn’t want to think of what her husband would do when he found his stash was missing, so I just grabbed the bottles and went back to our barracks where I was met as a conquering hero. As might be expected, we got tremendously drunk and then we began to sing.
