Hot August 2008
... It was necessary to see with my own eyes.
The air rang from the roar of the motors, the roll call of short teams and constant, unstoppable movement of equipment and people. A lieutenant paratrooper, busy checking a BMD platoon for the march, answered a question from a military journalist, and chopped up his look was so expressive that there were no more questions.
The lieutenant's eyes were cold and focused, the movements accurate and calculating. All that he had been taught for years, was to spill out in a few hours with quick and competent decisions, skill, and commander's will. His subordinates, already ranked in the battle calculation, waited for the general team and, it was felt, experienced a strange impatience. Not a single smile, not a single extra word.
There, in the south, behind a road winding between ancient watchtowers, behind a narrow mountain range pass, an alien and hostile force ironed with fire and tanks peaceful city.
And there was an unequal battle OUR ...
Then there was a long journey through the loops of a mountain serpentine, the twilight of a concrete tunnel filled with exhausts and an amplified roar of reflected sound of engines. When the tunnel was over, the sun and sky splashed into the faces and eyes with such light, so warm that the possibility of a battle seemed incredible ...
And then - charred Tskhinval, long before the entrance to it met Russian armored columns with smoking ruins of houses and cafes along the highway. "Jewish" two-storey quarter, demolished by volleys to the basement of the basements. Destroyed schools, kindergartens, nurseries, libraries, "Khrushchev" with burned out windows. Molten armor on the asphalt burned to ashes, torn down by the tank towers, the basement of the local hospital where operations were carried out and rescued people, resembling ...
There simply were no words ...
But they were with others. Those who have decided on this. There were many words, as always. These words of their indignation, protest, persuaded, turning to screeching and hysterical. In comfortable halls, television studios and offices, they threatened, expressed condolences to unknown sufferers, with the effort of imagination suddenly and massively changed their nationality and, possibly, sexual orientation ...
And the BMD, tanks, armored personnel carriers and infantry fighting vehicles, smoking diesel fuel in diesel engines, were torn forward, to the south. Slowly but inevitably embracing the tortured Tskhinval, and biting into the streets of raped Ossetian villages.
In those days and hours everything seemed slow.
... Then you could see those who just came back.
Out of battle, to be exact.
Yes, what kind of heroes?! ..
With such a boyish expression, they looked at the world that smelled so beautifully in flowers, buzzed with bees and deafened with silence, as if they had seen everything for the first time. All of them, officers and soldiers, among themselves at those moments passed on to "you." And the continuing appeal "commander" sounded from this completely different, recalling the negotiations of regular flight crews.
... Senior Lieutenant Alexander, the commander of a company of peacekeepers from Tskhinval, reluctantly, with an embarrassed smile, answered questions. Long thought before answering. He did not understand why such attention was suddenly given to him. After all, he - like everyone else. I looked at the glass lens of the camcorder in surprise.
What kind of heroism is there? Worked.
At the second hour of the battle, I felt a blow to the thigh, did not pay much attention, it was not before. Then he commanded and fought for three more days.
And only when the long-awaited help had already come, he noticed that the leg became numb and it became difficult to walk.
In the thigh was an automatic bullet.
On the way to the hospital on the outskirts of Tskhinval, an old Georgian man wounded by fragments of “Grad” was picked up. Army sanitary "loaf" together all. The old man turned out only forty years old. When they bandaged and made an anesthetic injection, he no longer moaned, only looked strangely at the wounded soldier, who thrust his last pack of cigarettes with a box of matches into his palm ...
And because all this had to see with my own eyes.
To understand.
What we do not throw.
Anyone.
Whatever everyone says there is alien to us, NOT OUR.
Under the hot sun, black corpses on the road from Tskhinval to Gori swelled to an unbelievable size, getting out of their ragged American uniforms. The sweeping BETRs heaved up the dust, scattering swarms of flies with a hot wind.
No glory, no ranks, just a dusty curb ...
Was their business worth this?! ..
... Then there were a lot of words. More than usually. Alien, angry, frenzied.
Surprised by Western correspondents of some of the Bi-Bi-Sisek at the temple in Gori, the Russian military leaders and officers accompanying them weapons. Igor Konashenkov, shifting the AKSU with his bandaged hands behind his back, carefully examined the motley crowd of local residents, who received two loaves of white bread at the store in one hand, and explained something to our fighter behind the wheel.
They greeted the foreigners, introduced themselves, shaking their outstretched hands.
- What do you want to watch here? We have armor, escort. Let's go with us to Tskhinval, you will see the city with your own eyes ...
Polka, German and American.
They looked at each other quickly.
Cute Polish blonde strenuously shook her empty head:
- Know, know! We and Don Mast ...
Your mother, Western journalism. And she knows Russian, a bitch, it was noticeable how she listened to our conversation and in a low voice translated to her colleagues. "Should not"! Even as you should ...
Stalin in the central square of his native city is looking somewhere in the direction of the West thoughtfully and sadly. Yes, Joseph Vissarionovich, you can see for yourself what Western education free from your motherland brings your descendants to. Such are simple solutions to complex problems. And it is you who are such that they call a bloodsucker and a cannibal ...
Behind the square is our extreme post, deploying a pair of BeeMPeshek wedge. Then - everything, we have no progress. Somewhere there, at the base of the mountains visible not far away, afrosakovsk nedobitki crawling, perhaps still holding our infantrymen on the sights.
... Again, Tskhinval, local self-defense fighters on one of the streets, not far from the burned down ground, the first night of the school bus. So different among themselves, serious muzhichischi and very young lads. After the battle, they, too, all on an equal footing. The warlords, exhausted by the heat, were called to a preserved courtyard, cooked meat was smoking on the dish, bread from the oven ...
- Are you from Moscow, guys? Come in, eat, weap on a little ...
Breath something old and native of this bass southern talk.
Suhpay, taken in a hurry from home, long eaten. Homemade wine and food after all the windings gave strength. But we must go further, a few more points to work out before sunset. Barely escaped after the "chopping" of the fifth glass. Mature men accompany us and look like relatives ...
Their. Our.
And not figs here to invent about the "right" and "wrong" nations.
Bullets and missiles do not choose the target. Only those who prepare them choose. Not the people start a war.
People, dogs and cats, at once left without houses and relatives, walk lost along the ashes and look at us blankly. Clenching teeth, remove. This is a must see.
Granny lost all her. House destroyed to the ground. Where to look for someone - does not know. Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. I came running from the village, only explosions and shooting had subsided. Two days walks around the neighborhood, asking questions.
- What is your name?
- Grandma ...
- So the name is ?! Granny?..
- Yes, that's the name ...
They took to the MCHSovtsam probably help ...
... We barely had time to finish the work, the rapidly piling up southern night pulls us up to the improvised camp of the Russian media, near the Tskhinvali hospital.
Local residents, by mutual agreement with the services of the Ministry of Defense, brought drinks and some food. Army cuisine feeds buckwheat. One huge happiness at all in the form of camp cuisine. Cooks do not refuse to supplement. Hot sweet tea from the boiler improves well-being. Someone of the most venerable military commanders got a can of local light wine for those not participating in night shooting. Late in between straight lines news On the background of a burned-down hospital, colleagues from all Russian television channels exchange impressions and information, gaining strength for tomorrow. Even the guitar came from somewhere. Life is shameless.
Tired of impressions and travels, well past midnight, everyone is slowly beginning to crawl under the shed-tents, where army canvas stretchers are lined up. To bury one's face in a hard tarp over a cheek and fall asleep - who would believe if you tell them that this is a supreme pleasure? ..
No dreams.
Dreams will come later, much later.
Strengthening everything that they were able to see and remember, with new, unexpected details, which in a hurry did not have time to pay attention to.
And the level of understanding of what was happening then, and how it happened, will grow much later.
Although the main thing was in those days and nights it is clear to everyone without any words, who so love to freely pronounce outside and within our national borders alien to all human beings.
And when the first sounds of the orchestra conducted by Gergiev over the war-torn streets sounded, it was much louder than all the volleys.
And weightier than any high words.
It was no longer a shame to live ...
The air rang from the roar of the motors, the roll call of short teams and constant, unstoppable movement of equipment and people. A lieutenant paratrooper, busy checking a BMD platoon for the march, answered a question from a military journalist, and chopped up his look was so expressive that there were no more questions.
The lieutenant's eyes were cold and focused, the movements accurate and calculating. All that he had been taught for years, was to spill out in a few hours with quick and competent decisions, skill, and commander's will. His subordinates, already ranked in the battle calculation, waited for the general team and, it was felt, experienced a strange impatience. Not a single smile, not a single extra word.
There, in the south, behind a road winding between ancient watchtowers, behind a narrow mountain range pass, an alien and hostile force ironed with fire and tanks peaceful city.
And there was an unequal battle OUR ...
Then there was a long journey through the loops of a mountain serpentine, the twilight of a concrete tunnel filled with exhausts and an amplified roar of reflected sound of engines. When the tunnel was over, the sun and sky splashed into the faces and eyes with such light, so warm that the possibility of a battle seemed incredible ...
And then - charred Tskhinval, long before the entrance to it met Russian armored columns with smoking ruins of houses and cafes along the highway. "Jewish" two-storey quarter, demolished by volleys to the basement of the basements. Destroyed schools, kindergartens, nurseries, libraries, "Khrushchev" with burned out windows. Molten armor on the asphalt burned to ashes, torn down by the tank towers, the basement of the local hospital where operations were carried out and rescued people, resembling ...
There simply were no words ...
But they were with others. Those who have decided on this. There were many words, as always. These words of their indignation, protest, persuaded, turning to screeching and hysterical. In comfortable halls, television studios and offices, they threatened, expressed condolences to unknown sufferers, with the effort of imagination suddenly and massively changed their nationality and, possibly, sexual orientation ...
And the BMD, tanks, armored personnel carriers and infantry fighting vehicles, smoking diesel fuel in diesel engines, were torn forward, to the south. Slowly but inevitably embracing the tortured Tskhinval, and biting into the streets of raped Ossetian villages.
In those days and hours everything seemed slow.
... Then you could see those who just came back.
Out of battle, to be exact.
Yes, what kind of heroes?! ..
With such a boyish expression, they looked at the world that smelled so beautifully in flowers, buzzed with bees and deafened with silence, as if they had seen everything for the first time. All of them, officers and soldiers, among themselves at those moments passed on to "you." And the continuing appeal "commander" sounded from this completely different, recalling the negotiations of regular flight crews.
... Senior Lieutenant Alexander, the commander of a company of peacekeepers from Tskhinval, reluctantly, with an embarrassed smile, answered questions. Long thought before answering. He did not understand why such attention was suddenly given to him. After all, he - like everyone else. I looked at the glass lens of the camcorder in surprise.
What kind of heroism is there? Worked.
At the second hour of the battle, I felt a blow to the thigh, did not pay much attention, it was not before. Then he commanded and fought for three more days.
And only when the long-awaited help had already come, he noticed that the leg became numb and it became difficult to walk.
In the thigh was an automatic bullet.
On the way to the hospital on the outskirts of Tskhinval, an old Georgian man wounded by fragments of “Grad” was picked up. Army sanitary "loaf" together all. The old man turned out only forty years old. When they bandaged and made an anesthetic injection, he no longer moaned, only looked strangely at the wounded soldier, who thrust his last pack of cigarettes with a box of matches into his palm ...
And because all this had to see with my own eyes.
To understand.
What we do not throw.
Anyone.
Whatever everyone says there is alien to us, NOT OUR.
Under the hot sun, black corpses on the road from Tskhinval to Gori swelled to an unbelievable size, getting out of their ragged American uniforms. The sweeping BETRs heaved up the dust, scattering swarms of flies with a hot wind.
No glory, no ranks, just a dusty curb ...
Was their business worth this?! ..
... Then there were a lot of words. More than usually. Alien, angry, frenzied.
Surprised by Western correspondents of some of the Bi-Bi-Sisek at the temple in Gori, the Russian military leaders and officers accompanying them weapons. Igor Konashenkov, shifting the AKSU with his bandaged hands behind his back, carefully examined the motley crowd of local residents, who received two loaves of white bread at the store in one hand, and explained something to our fighter behind the wheel.
They greeted the foreigners, introduced themselves, shaking their outstretched hands.
- What do you want to watch here? We have armor, escort. Let's go with us to Tskhinval, you will see the city with your own eyes ...
Polka, German and American.
They looked at each other quickly.
Cute Polish blonde strenuously shook her empty head:
- Know, know! We and Don Mast ...
Your mother, Western journalism. And she knows Russian, a bitch, it was noticeable how she listened to our conversation and in a low voice translated to her colleagues. "Should not"! Even as you should ...
Stalin in the central square of his native city is looking somewhere in the direction of the West thoughtfully and sadly. Yes, Joseph Vissarionovich, you can see for yourself what Western education free from your motherland brings your descendants to. Such are simple solutions to complex problems. And it is you who are such that they call a bloodsucker and a cannibal ...
Behind the square is our extreme post, deploying a pair of BeeMPeshek wedge. Then - everything, we have no progress. Somewhere there, at the base of the mountains visible not far away, afrosakovsk nedobitki crawling, perhaps still holding our infantrymen on the sights.
... Again, Tskhinval, local self-defense fighters on one of the streets, not far from the burned down ground, the first night of the school bus. So different among themselves, serious muzhichischi and very young lads. After the battle, they, too, all on an equal footing. The warlords, exhausted by the heat, were called to a preserved courtyard, cooked meat was smoking on the dish, bread from the oven ...
- Are you from Moscow, guys? Come in, eat, weap on a little ...
Breath something old and native of this bass southern talk.
Suhpay, taken in a hurry from home, long eaten. Homemade wine and food after all the windings gave strength. But we must go further, a few more points to work out before sunset. Barely escaped after the "chopping" of the fifth glass. Mature men accompany us and look like relatives ...
Their. Our.
And not figs here to invent about the "right" and "wrong" nations.
Bullets and missiles do not choose the target. Only those who prepare them choose. Not the people start a war.
People, dogs and cats, at once left without houses and relatives, walk lost along the ashes and look at us blankly. Clenching teeth, remove. This is a must see.
Granny lost all her. House destroyed to the ground. Where to look for someone - does not know. Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. I came running from the village, only explosions and shooting had subsided. Two days walks around the neighborhood, asking questions.
- What is your name?
- Grandma ...
- So the name is ?! Granny?..
- Yes, that's the name ...
They took to the MCHSovtsam probably help ...
... We barely had time to finish the work, the rapidly piling up southern night pulls us up to the improvised camp of the Russian media, near the Tskhinvali hospital.
Local residents, by mutual agreement with the services of the Ministry of Defense, brought drinks and some food. Army cuisine feeds buckwheat. One huge happiness at all in the form of camp cuisine. Cooks do not refuse to supplement. Hot sweet tea from the boiler improves well-being. Someone of the most venerable military commanders got a can of local light wine for those not participating in night shooting. Late in between straight lines news On the background of a burned-down hospital, colleagues from all Russian television channels exchange impressions and information, gaining strength for tomorrow. Even the guitar came from somewhere. Life is shameless.
Tired of impressions and travels, well past midnight, everyone is slowly beginning to crawl under the shed-tents, where army canvas stretchers are lined up. To bury one's face in a hard tarp over a cheek and fall asleep - who would believe if you tell them that this is a supreme pleasure? ..
No dreams.
Dreams will come later, much later.
Strengthening everything that they were able to see and remember, with new, unexpected details, which in a hurry did not have time to pay attention to.
And the level of understanding of what was happening then, and how it happened, will grow much later.
Although the main thing was in those days and nights it is clear to everyone without any words, who so love to freely pronounce outside and within our national borders alien to all human beings.
And when the first sounds of the orchestra conducted by Gergiev over the war-torn streets sounded, it was much louder than all the volleys.
And weightier than any high words.
It was no longer a shame to live ...
Information