Military History Fable - The Invisible Spurs

Military History Fable
The Secret Weapon of a Cadet
In the mid-1980s, the Military Institute of Foreign Languages (VIIYA) was home to Colonel Ionchenko, a universally beloved figure known for his irrepressible zest for life. A man with a legendary and enigmatic biography, a WWII frontline veteran, and a brilliant military history professor, his face was perpetually adorned with a mischievous, distinctly non-regulation smile. Despite his unrelenting rigor in assessing his students’ knowledge, like any instructor, he had his “Achilles’ heels.” Naturally, a significant portion of the cadets’ ingenuity was devoted to uncovering these vulnerabilities.


During one of his lectures, Colonel Ionchenko decided to toss a question into the audience. The question was launched, and his pointer scanned the sea of green uniforms, settling on a victim. Fumbling with notes and markers, the chosen cadet awkwardly rose from his cramped seat. A pen cap, dropped in the commotion, skittered across the floor.

“Senior Lieutenant Stadnitsky…” the victim reported sheepishly, clutching his notes to his chest.


Colonel Ionchenko’s cheerful expression twisted as if struck by a sudden toothache. The question was forgotten. He paced the platform a few times, then turned to the blackboard, head bowed in thought. An unexpected silence descended over Lecture Hall 1101, drawing every gaze toward him. Suddenly, the colonel straightened, squared his shoulders with bravado, and, with a slight, hussar-like flourish of his forelock, spun to face the audience.

“Senior Lieutenant Stada-a-anitsky!” he boomed, emphasizing the central “ts” with gusto. I stifled an impulsive urge to applaud. The room stirred.


“Comrade officers!” Ionchenko called from the podium. “Every day, you pass by a treasure trove of self-respect! When you present yourself—your rank and surname—you do not merely convey your personal details to your interlocutor. You declare to the entire world that it is dealing with an OFFICER OF THE SOVIET ARMY! You warn the world that you have honor! You proclaim that jokes with you are ill-advised, that you respect yourself, your uniform, your insignia, and your awards, and that you will not permit anyone to treat them with less than due reverence! You make it clear that behind you stand countless regiments of grenadiers, hussars, sailors, tankers, and paratroopers, whose legacy obliges your counterpart to act accordingly! You unequivocally state that you will tolerate neither familiarity from subordinates nor insolence from superiors!”
Lightning flashed in Colonel Ionchenko’s eyes.

“You warn that anyone who disrespects your rank will pay, regardless of their rank or position, for you can challenge anyone to a duel—even a frontline colonel!”

A deathly silence gripped the lecture hall.
“That is what happens when a serviceman states their rank and surname!” Colonel Ionchenko’s ruddy face lit up with his signature roguish smile. “And now, we shall practice!”
________________________________________
A few months later, the course faced the Military History exam. The stuffy corridors of “Dubovka” were filled with the aroma of strong Indian tea—Colonel Ionchenko accepted no bribes, but he had a fondness for tea. “Gentlemen officer-cadets” emerged from the exam room like bullets, some with faces flushed with joy, others darker than storm clouds. My turn came. I marched briskly to the table with the exam tickets. Clicking my boot heels and reporting, I reached for a ticket. My heart sank. I knew only two of the three questions.
My usual attempts to “develop” fleeting memories related to the third question proved futile. Nothing surfaced. I scanned the posters on the walls. One vaguely related to the topic of the third question, and I frantically analyzed its charts and diagrams, hoping to extract something useful to breach Colonel Ionchenko’s exam defenses.

The exam proceeded as usual. Assisting Colonel Ionchenko was a young major from one of the foreign language departments, assigned to the exam as a mere “body” on the commission, with no real connection to military history. Steam rose from the tea on the table, and the major occasionally glanced at a thick textbook, checking whether the cadets’ answers aligned with the material.
In desperation, I decided it was time to deploy the secret weapon. I rattled off the first two questions confidently, barely drawing the young major’s attention. The third question, however, I knew with absolute certainty I could not answer.

I paused dramatically. A tense silence hung over the room. I stepped to the blackboard with some diagrams, standing with legs slightly apart, as if studying something known only to me. Heads lifted from papers and crib notes tucked in sleeves, boots, jacket lapels, and under desks. Even Colonel Ionchenko stopped blowing on his constantly refreshed tea and turned his attention to me.
I clicked my heels with a resounding snap! Interest sparked in Colonel Ionchenko’s eyes. I squared my shoulders, spun with a flourish to face the audience, and declared in a voice worthy of a Bolshoi Theater professional announcer:
“Senior Lieutenant Salyakhov! Question number three!” Like a glass of wine raised for a toast, I held the exam ticket to my eyes and recited the topic. “The development of artillery (dramatic pause) during the Great Patriotic War!”
The old, patched-up pointer in my hand transformed into an elegant saber as I gestured toward a poster entirely unrelated to the question. Colonel Ionchenko forgot his tea and leaned back slightly in his chair. I subtly adjusted the angle of my puffed-out chest to ensure my medal ribbons remained in his line of sight at all times.
And then I unleashed utter nonsense! I spouted complete gibberish—something about Napoleonic-era artillery and its significance for the Battle of Stalingrad, Chinese Emperor Qin’s experiments with gunpowder, and “Katyusha” rocket launchers. The young major dove into the textbook, while Colonel Ionchenko and I exchanged knowing glances, as if to say, “What can you expect from an ignoramus?” At one point, my voice faltered, and I paused briefly to clear my throat. I seized the moment to turn sideways to Colonel Ionchenko, letting him admire my hussar-like posture, and took a few steps along the blackboard, as if gathering my thoughts. Returning to my starting point, I spun sharply on my heels, clanging imaginary spurs.

Electricity sparked in Colonel Ionchenko’s eyes!
The major looked up from the textbook, glancing at Ionchenko, then at me, then back at him, and again at me. He was baffled. I was spewing blatant drivel, yet the colonel not only refrained from stopping me but watched the spectacle at the blackboard with evident approval.

“Uh…” The major raised a hand, as if seeking permission to ask a question.
This was the moment of truth—or, as modern democratic politicians love to say, the Hour of Courage.

I locked eyes with the major. Straight into his eyes! Into one of them, precisely! I poured into that gaze more than a mere look could contain. I did not simply convey my personal details. I declared to the entire world that it was dealing with an OFFICER OF THE SOVIET ARMY! I warned the world, this major, and even Colonel Ionchenko himself that I have honor! (Just don’t think about artillery development!) I proclaimed that jokes with me are ill-advised, that I respect myself, my uniform, my insignia, and my awards, and that I will not permit anyone to treat them with less than due reverence or ask idiotic follow-up questions! I made it clear that behind me stand countless regiments of grenadiers, hussars, sailors, tankers, paratroopers (and artillerymen, damn it!), and their legacy obliges the major—and even Colonel Ionchenko—to act accordingly! I unequivocally stated that I would tolerate neither familiarity from subordinates nor insolence from superiors! (Lightning should have flashed in my eyes at that moment!) I warned that anyone who disrespects my rank would pay, regardless of their rank or position, for I could challenge anyone to a duel—even a frontline colonel, let alone a major from some gibberish language department!
The major shut his mouth. Colonel Ionchenko and I exchanged the understanding looks of two old frontline veterans. With a tremendous effort of will, I kept the fire in my gaze for a few more seconds. I turned to the blackboard to place the pointer in its narrow slot, giving my eyes a brief respite, where the terror of a student flunking an exam lurked. But when I faced the colonel again, my eyes were… (see above!)
The major chewed his lips, baffled by the colonel’s reaction. Meanwhile, Colonel Ionchenko was already reaching for my grade book. The flame in my eyes nearly drowned in a froth of undeserved joy as a confident “5” appeared in the book.

I retrieved my grade book without bending my spine a single degree, spun with a heel-clicking flourish, and marched to the exit.
In the corridor, a tense crowd buzzed with anticipation. I opened my grade book to confirm that the “5” saving my “red diploma” wasn’t a dream. It was real!
The door cracked open to admit the next cadet, and in the brief moment before it slammed shut, a thunderous voice echoed from the room:
“Senior Lieutenant…”

The secret weapon had worked.