For Red Army in Baltics, It May Be a Long Goodby : Independence: Confusion, chaos, corruption mark what is supposed to be the pullout of 120,000 troops.

One afternoon last month, the Red Army cordially invited the international media to observe what was being billed as a historic occasion: the first withdrawal of former Soviet troops from this newly independent Baltic nation after 50 years of occupation.

The gates of the army compound just outside Vilnius were flung open, and seven massive trucks bearing surface-to-air missiles revved their engines. With television cameras rolling, the usually taciturn soldiers began to ham it up, waving goodby and tracing their fingers along road maps pointing the way back to Russia.

The journalists waited. The Red Army smiled and waved some more. Eventually, the cameras were turned off. So were the truck engines. The exasperated journalists left. The Red Army did not.

Later, a sheepish commander explained that it was all basically a publicity stunt to signal the army’s readiness to retreat.

But the farce is no laughing matter to the Lithuanians, Estonians and Latvians who consider themselves still occupied by an unpredictable foreign army six months after the disintegrating Soviet Union recognized Baltic independence.

Confusion, chaos and corruption dominate what is supposed to be the withdrawal of at least 120,000 ex-Soviet troops from the Baltics; tensions already have led to shootings at border posts and dark threats of starving out the occupiers. Meanwhile, officers and soldiers have been selling everything from bullets to--in at least one instance--entire bases on the sly.

Although Russia has accepted responsibility for the army and agrees that the troops must withdraw, the debate is only now heating up over how quickly they will leave, where they will go and, most important, who will pay for all of it.

Further complicating the touchy issue are reports that many officers are vehemently opposed to giving up their apartments, villas and higher standards of living in the Baltics for an uncertain future back home in the former Soviet Union, where a lack of housing already has forced many military families who have been withdrawn from Eastern Europe to live in tents.

“It is just as dangerous to take an army out into a vacuum as it is to leave it behind,” said Sergei Shakhrai, the head of the Russian delegation negotiating terms of the pullout.

The Baltics have demanded that all troops leave by the end of the year, which government officials privately concede is an impossible deadline. Russian commanders say a seven-to-10-year timetable is more likely--a possibility the Balts find chilling.

The deepest fear in the Baltics is that political instability in the Commonwealth of Independent States, particularly Russia, will lead to another coup attempt and give military hard-liners still stationed in the Baltics a chance to crack down. There is also concern that fuel and food shortages in Russia will worsen, possibly curtailing supplies to the troops here and triggering panic among the soldiers.

Soviet troops killed 14 civilians in Lithuania and seven in Latvia in bloody attempts to crush Baltic independence a year ago. The Lithuanian Parliament still keeps itself barricaded behind sandbags and barbed wire, saying the siege mentality must prevail until the last soldier leaves.

“We cannot exclude the possibility of major conflicts, but we hope to avoid them,” said Toomas Puura, head of the parliamentary commission on defense in tiny Estonia, where the smallest Red Army contingent--about 36,000--is stationed.

Such warnings are unlikely to impress the military command.

With no real armies of their own, no international pressure being brought to bear on the occupying army, and weak economies still desperately dependent on Russian imports, the Baltics are virtually powerless to back up their demands.

“We can tell them to get out all we want,” said Mikhails Stepicevs, head of Latvia’s parliamentary commission on defense. “They’re going to withdraw, but they’re in no hurry. What timetable do we want? Yesterday. But the Russian side wants to stay a long, long time, as long as they can, and maybe even keep a military base here.”

So far, none of the Baltic nations have indicated any willingness to allow a continued Red Army presence, and the army in turn is loath to leave behind strategic air-defense, marine and early-warning systems that would be expensive to re-create in Russia.

The Russians have rebuffed even the most basic requests, such as an inventory of personnel, equipment and military installations on Baltic territory, and Baltic inspectors are denied access to the thousands of bases, airstrips and other facilities that sit on what is now sovereign territory.

Two nuclear reactors and at least six chemical weapons depots are thought to be in Estonia alone, and a general perception of disarray in the ranks leads Stepicevs to conclude with alarming certainty, “If I wanted, I could buy nuclear weapons.”

Night-vision equipment and small arms have reportedly turned up at local flea markets, and Estonian officials have discovered that an entire Soviet base--complete with barracks, a canteen, a central-heating plant and a peat farm--was sold illegally to a civilian for about $29,000. Who sold it and where the money went is anyone’s guess.

“They’re selling everything that isn’t nailed down,” said a Western diplomat in Riga, Latvia, where the Baltic forces are headquartered.

“They strip the wiring right out of the walls when they leave and take all the lights,” added the diplomat, speaking on condition of anonymity. “It’s one thing to sell off the occasional greatcoat or fur cap, but . . . Kalashnikovs and bullets are being sold. The real concern for the Latvian government is that all these arms are disappearing, and where are they going?”

The commander of the Baltic forces, Gen. Valery Miranov, says only that “some small parts” of his command are “disorganized.”

Miranov says there are 120,000 troops in the region, but other estimates by Western diplomats and Baltic authorities run as high as 400,000. Some troops already have left, but there are no official figures, although Estonia calculates that up to one-third of the forces there have already left without fanfare.

At least 80,000 officers also are believed to have retired in the Baltics, particularly in Latvia, where the population is almost equally divided between Russians and Latvians. Radical nationalist groups in Latvia have been demanding that the citizenship law now being drafted exclude Russians and force the deportation of all retired officers.

Miranov recently linked the citizenship question to withdrawal of the troops, much to the ire of Latvian leaders who complained that he has no right to meddle in their domestic affairs.

“We have to solve the question of citizenship of army members and pensioners and all Russian-speaking inhabitants first,” Miranov said at a briefing of Western journalists who had asked when troops would withdraw.

Miranov also bitterly complained that 15 Latvian border guards had “physically assaulted” two Russian officers last January when they drove from Latvia into Lithuania. He gave no further details but stressed that such incidents could easily escalate into violence.

“It is impossible to predict what will happen if the person involved isn’t calm,” he said.

In Lithuania, border guards earlier this year tried in vain to shoot out the tires of a Red Army truck that roared past a checkpoint into Belarus.

There have been several other incidents viewed by the Baltics as deliberate provocations. Estonian authorities at the border angrily unhooked railroad cars carrying new conscripts to Tallinn, forcing them to hitch a ride on the next train. Two trainloads of military supplies were also seized in the Estonian town of Tartu.

The question of ownership is one of the main stumbling blocks in negotiations over withdrawal, since each of the Baltic nations is trying to nationalize all or part of the military property and equipment currently in Red Army hands. They argue that this will partially compensate the Baltics for the military equipment and private property seized when the Soviet troops began their occupation and for the environmental damage they leave behind.

But the Russians are presenting their own bill to the Baltics, saying they must be reimbursed millions of dollars for the property they cannot take with them, such as postwar buildings, airstrips and military hospitals.

In addition, Moscow has indicated that the pullout might be speeded up if the Baltics follow wealthy Germany’s example and pay for housing to be built for officers back home. Estonia already is exploring the possibility of using Western credits and Estonian construction workers to do just that.

“When the Soviet Union occupied Estonia, they took away all the arms and equipment of the Estonian Defense Forces--the equipment of 130,000 troops--the submarines, the airplanes, the airports. . . . Everything was confiscated,” recalled Puura, the Estonian lawmaker.

“We’re just now beginning to calculate the environmental damage, and nobody could ever estimate the moral damage done to our people over 50 years,” he said. “Tens of thousands of people were deported and killed, and our country went from a normal, modern, developed country to an underdeveloped Third World country.

“And now, after all the damage they’ve inflicted, they’re still trying to make us pay for what they did to us,” he fumed.

But current hardships have imposed at least a partially symbiotic relationship, with local military commanders trading fuel for food from private farmers.

Oleg Popovitsh, minister of the Russian Embassy in Estonia, agreed that his country should pay for any damages but said Russia “does not accept the nationalization of all Red Army equipment.”

“If the Estonian Defense Forces are interested in arms, we’ll be happy to sell to them or make deals as part of the compensation. But seizing them? That’s impossible.”

Popovitsh estimated Soviet property in Estonia at well over $1 billion--about 30 times the entire Estonian budget.

Conscripts themselves are reluctant to discuss going back home, even when commanding officers leave the room.

“Do I consider myself an occupying force?” said Jahanger Mamaturoyev, 18, pausing for several long minutes before answering in a low voice. “Yes, I do.”

A fellow soldier at the antiaircraft missile base about 15 miles from Tallinn acknowledged that he is worried about what awaits him when he returns to his village in Kazakhstan.

“We’re not very glad about our prospects,” said Marat Mosik, a 19-year-old sergeant. “We have food in the army.” He ticked off a typical menu: macaroni for breakfast, pilaf with a little beef for lunch, mashed potatoes for dinner.

His deputy commander is also worried about leaving. “I’ve served in Estonia for 16 years,” said Lt. Col. Vassily Vassiliyev. “Of course, I had my plans for retirement. Sixteen years is a long time, and I haven’t been in my native country--Russia--for 20 years. I had been cherishing a hope of settling down in an apartment in Tallinn. My children grew up here, and the feeling deep in my soul is to stay in Estonia. But I will leave.”

The brigade commander, Col. Alexander Zharenov, figures that the 2,000-man unit will not complete its withdrawal until 1999.

“As commander of this brigade, the biggest problem is finding housing for every single officer,” he said, noting that 400 come under his jurisdiction. “I’d feel ashamed to look my subordinates in the eye if I can’t guarantee them a decent place to live. The only thing holding us back is housing.

“The biggest problem is uncertainty and the dark future,” he added.

There is no overt animosity between the soldiers with the hammer-and-sickle emblems still on their uniforms and the Balts who have grown accustomed to seeing them in their cities and villages over the years.

“They always answer us politely and look right through us,” said Lithuanian journalist Algimantas Cekuolis.

“But it’s better than being shot.”