Demob stories. Comic report on the thirty-five years of service in the Air Force (Part Two)
Somehow a tanker, a rocketman and a pilot argued: who has the best doctors?
The tankman says: “Our doctors are the best. Recently, one officer moved the tank along and across. He was operated on for two hours - now tank commands the company. ” Rocketeer: “All this is nonsense! Our military man fell into a rocket mine. They got two hours, four operated. Now - the commander of the starting battery. " The pilot looked at them, took a drag on his cigarette and said: “Guys, about two months ago, one pilot crashed into a mountain on supersonic. They searched for two days - they found a tongue and an ass, now in the first squadron a political officer. ”
I agree with folklore and declare that aviation the doctor is the best. Therefore, I want to tell you about this specialist of a wide profile, a bunch of kindness and medical humor, who accidentally found himself in military uniform. The lives of the aviation doctor and the pilot are so closely intertwined that both could talk about each other for hours: good and bad, funny and not very. While the doctor is busy - he measures the pressure before the flight, I will recall several episodes from our joint aviation life.
Garrison Zyabrovka. Pre-flight medical examination. In the receiving crew of the Tu-16: two pilots, two navigators, a gunner-radio operator (VSR) and the commander of fire installations (COC). The first doctor seemed HRV and KOU - two hefty ensigns. A cursory inspection: hands and feet are in place, one can see from the face that they have not drunk for about ten hours.
- All healthy, come through.
Then the commander settled down confidently in his chair. After a couple of minutes, confirming the pressure recorded in the certificate, he was allowed into the sky.
The next one is the navigator, and after him I am the co-pilot. And then came the turn of the second navigator, Volodya. I must say that Volodya was fabulously thin. Throughout his short life, he was in vain translating products. Vitamins, proteins, fats and carbohydrates reactive rations did not linger in his body. Therefore, already in 1982, he looked like a modern model, only wore not a dress by Vyacheslav Zaitsev, but a flight overalls.
And so, Volodya, on the move, wrapping the sleeve, approaches the table, at which the doctor records the results of my body tests in a journal.
- Go, you are healthy.
These words of the doctor stopped Volodin ass in the middle of the trajectory of movement to the chair. After receiving the installation, it begins to move in the opposite direction. Rolls the sleeve of the suit, trying to put on a jacket and then he wedges. A dumb question appears on the face.
- Doctor, why did you decide that I am healthy?
Looking up from the pre-flight inspection magazine and raising his kind eyes on Volodya, the doctor said quite seriously:
-Such as you do not get sick. They immediately die.
Kiev. District military hospital. Morning meeting with the head.
- Comrade Colonel! How long can this go on ?! These pilots drink every night, and throw empty bottles under our windows.
The face of the head of the intensive care and intensive care unit was burning with anger. He hated healthy pilots with red snouts, so strikingly different from his patients.
- What do you say, Alexander Ivanovich?
The colonel’s gaze rested on the head of the medical examination department.
- Comrade Colonel! But we have zero mortality, - after a second confusion followed by a vigorous response.
Ryazan. Preparing for the parade over Poklonnaya Hill. At the bed in the dispensary are two: the commander is full of anger and splashes with emotions, the doctor - diplomatically refrains from assessing the situation. On the bed, peacefully snoring (or grunting), lie a hundred kilograms of the body belonging to the squadron commander. Yesterday, having met fellow students at the school, he inadvertently opened the door to the anti-world. And here lies before the regimental commander, filled with alcohol for the most traffic jams.
- Doctor, in three hours setting the mission to fly. After two hours, he should be on his feet.
The commander rushed off like a whirlwind, while the doctor remained standing above the body, losing in his mind the options for performing the task. A few minutes later he left the dispensary, smiling mysteriously.
The regiment commander, twitched by the Moscow chiefs, recalled the komeske and ran into the dispensary to see how his order was being carried out. Opening the door, he was dumbfounded. A komesk and a doctor were sitting opposite each other on the bed, and they were talking about something spiritually. Full bottles of beer stood on the bedside table, empty - under the bed.
- Doctor, what the hell! I told you to stand!
The commander frantically grabbed the place where at the beginning of the last century the officers had a checker hanging. The doctor, whose beer fell into the stomach, also not on the porridge, hardly focused his eyes on the doorway:
- Comrade commander! Take a look! An hour has passed, and he is already sitting.
Hospital. The pilot passes a medical – flight commission (WFC). Having knocked and not having received the answer, he cautiously opened the door to the oculist's office. From the office could hear muffled:
- What he understands ... I drink with everyone ... Chief, you know!
And at that moment the gaze of the doctor, who had already taken in one hundred and fifty grams, settled on the new one:
- Who are you?
- I'm on wlc.
- Come in, sit down, let's book.
Pilot held out a medical book.
- So, Alexey Vladimirovich. Squadron commander, lieutenant colonel. Good.
The doctor thought a little, then opened the table and put on it an opened bottle of vodka, two glasses and a jar of vitamins.
“Come on,” he told the pilot, filling the glasses by a third.
- Doctor, I can not. I go to the dentist, then on the ECG.
The doctor with a casual movement closed the medical book.
- I will not inspect!
Realizing that the day is ruined, the pilot overturned the contents of the glass inside the body. When the door closed behind the inspected airman, the doctor looked through the wall in the direction of the chief’s office and, like a man feeling right, behind himself, said:
- Hmm ... I drink with anyone. I'm drinking with a lieutenant colonel!
Again the hospital. Again the pilot arrived at the WFC. The previous visit to this temple of health took place as many as three years ago. Feeling small flaws behind my body, and also as a sign of respect, the pilot, before leaving, bought, like last time, a bottle of branded Novgorod vodka. And now, entering the surgeon's office, after mutual greetings, he set it on the table. The white-haired doctor pulled away from studying the papers in front of him and stared at the beautiful bottle label. In his head earned a computer.
“Left shin, varicose veins,” he said confidently thirty seconds later.
All pre-flight inspection is completed. The pressure is one hundred twenty five to seventy, the temperature is thirty six and six. I'm on the flights. And the doctor - continue to take care of our health. And so to demob.
As I wrote in the newspaper
Somehow, after relocating my old papers to a new duty station, I found among them a copy of an open letter to the Chairman of the Supreme Council of the Republic of Estonia Arnold Rüütel and Prime Minister Edgar Savisaar signed by the chairmen of the officers' councils of units located in the beautiful city of Tartu. Among the names of the signatories was mine, as the interim chairperson at the time. This letter, and especially my signature under a serious document, reminded historyoccurred in the last years of our stay in Estonia.
We had the director of the military trade union, the former commander of the aviation technical base, and now a military pensioner. With his appointment it turned out, as in the Russian proverb: they let a goat into the garden. During the period of the general deficit, the distribution of goods by coupons, the Voentorg, like any other trade enterprise, was the "bottom". For their own and respected people, there was everything, or almost everything. A simple citizen (a modern term, because there are uneasy and very uneasy) could come with his coupon for a deficit and leave with it, since the TV set allocated to him (refrigerator, carpet, etc.) mysteriously disappeared somewhere. The ends are not found, but from the director, like water off a duck's back.
I rarely went to Voentorg, mainly for military items. Moving through the posts from one squadron to another, I constantly found myself at the end of the line. He knew about hearsay by hearsay, mainly from conversations in the smoking room and women's gossip.
Butch raised our neighbors and brothers arms - transport workers. The drop that overflowed the cup of patience was the traceless disappearance of the furniture set allocated to the widow of the deceased officer.
The officers' meeting in the garrison house of officers was stormy. The hall is packed to capacity, emotions were splashed out over the edge, accusations of violations and fraud flowed like kerosene from an emergency fuel discharge pipeline. The presiding of the last force tried to extinguish the heat of passions raging in the hall. To the hero of the occasion everything happening was deeply indifferent, like that horse running along the furrow. By his appearance, to brief explanations, it became clear to everyone how high he spits on a reputable meeting. Emotions abated, the hall thought, and then unanimously made a decision. The officer’s meeting decided to write letters to three addresses: to the management of the Voentorg, to the newspaper of the Baltic Military District, and to the newspaper Krasnaya Zvezda.
Remembering this story now, I can’t understand why the letter was assigned to our regiment? We were not instigators, during the debate we behaved not too violently. And suddenly - get it! But not to do anything. The next day the project was worked out and presented to the regimental commander, he is also the chairman of the officer corps meeting.
- Good very good. That's right! Just remove this.
And he pointed to the line at the bottom of the letter, where his position, title, surname were printed, and where his signature should have appeared.
- Enough and one - summed up the commander.
They brought me a letter. I ran through the eyes of the text: violated, engaged in fraud, we demand to understand. And in the end - the secretary of the officers' meeting major ...
- So what?
- The commander said to sign.
- Besides me, not to whom? Am I most concerned with the affairs of the Voentorg?
- Hard for you? Sign up, otherwise you should send it.
“Well, to hell with you,” I said, signing the document.
A few days later I forgot about the meeting and the letter. Service, flights, family - everything went in the usual rut.
More than a month has passed. I sat in class and prepared with the crew for the flight.
“Comrade Major, some civilians are asking you,” said the incoming officer in the training building.
In the lobby, three representative well-dressed gentlemen looked at the bulletin board with a bored look. At the sight of me on their faces appeared on duty smiles. After mutual presentations, it turned out that the gentlemen are representatives of the district military authority, and they came to me, and not to anyone else. The goal is to inform me, and in my person, the entire officers of the garrison about the measures taken to the director of our military trade union. The measures struck his severity - he was reprimanded. I said that it was wrong to say that people should be pitied, and it was possible to simply scold or, as a last resort, limit myself to the appearance. They looked at me as if they were insane, and they said that they should not ernichat, since the director was already very worried without it. Probably as much as deceived customers, I thought, but said nothing. Reprimand, so reprimand. An extra flea dog will not interfere. I didn't say that either.
The meeting was over, there was nothing more to say. We politely bowed and parted, not very pleased with each other.
I reported to the command about the conversation and again took up my official affairs.
Two weeks later, when the images of representative gentlemen had already disappeared from my memory, I was summoned by the political officer of the regiment. In his office on the table lay the district newspaper, on the first page of which was a devastating article about the affairs of our Voentorg.
- Take it, read it. Good writing, - smiled zampolit.
I looked through the text, in which not a word was said about the officers' meeting, his decision to send letters to various authorities. And it was not a letter, but an article in which the author with my name boldly criticized, stigmatized, talked about frauds, demanded that the guilty be summoned to account.
- Is that what I wrote?
“Your surname means you,” looking at my astonished face, the political politician smiled again.
“Commander read?” I asked.
- Praised and ordered to give you this newspaper, as a novice journalist. Learn, sharpen your pen.
- Thank you, I will go to sharpen, - I said goodbye and left the office.
For a couple of days, friends tried to spin me up for a drink as a joke, on account of the fee received for the article, they advised me not to quit my career as a journalist, and then everything calmed down by itself. But as we were taught in lectures on philosophy - the development goes in a spiral. So this situation has developed in full accordance with the philosophical law, that is, repeated at a higher level.
When everyone had already completely forgotten about the meeting and about the tricks of the director of the Voentorg, a small note appeared in the Krasnaya Zvezda newspaper, in which the indefatigable truth-taker or the scriptbook (if I may say so) with my surname again boldly criticized, stigmatized, and so on. etc., etc.
“Well done, you worked on yourself and reached a new level,” the political officer blurred in a smile, stretching a newspaper across the table to me. We met again in his office.
- You would have to joke, but I am not happy. Will it ever end?
“If you haven’t written anywhere else, then consider that this is all,” the zampolit successfully joked again.
And it really ended. The bold point in this story was the reaction of the division commander to my literary activity. If the regiment commander, after reading a note in the Red Star, kept silent diplomatically (probably presented his signature under it), then the division commander, strictly looking at the regimental authorities in front of him, asked:
- Will he ever get away?
The general, who already had enough worries, did not begin to remember how and why I became the author of these articles. But no measures were taken against me. Maybe, of course, he said something else in my address. For example, where can I shove my honed journalistic pen. On that day, for some reason, this place was itching. Or that I should eat a newspaper without having to drink in the flight canteen instead of lunch. His suggestions and comments remained a mystery to me. But with the journalism, I tied up. Dangerous profession. Better to be a pilot!
The king was dying. He did not die from the wound received in battle, not from the poison poured into a glass with Burgundy, and not even from old age. Died from ordinary jaundice. The disease tinkled at him not on the royal bed, but on the cramped soldier's bed in a module equipped for the infirmary. Because it was not a king, but only a pan. Nor was the Polish nobleman, but the Soviet PAN, the advanced aviation gunner, the thunderstorm and the headache of the “spirits,” sending the deadly fire of our attack aircraft and helicopters on them. The king was honored by the PAN, as evidenced by the Order of the RED STAR, lying in the nightstand and clinging to a faded Afghani in solemn occasions. His name was Sanya, and the nickname "King" was attached to him from childhood because of the name Korolev. He hooked so tightly that he sometimes called himself this title. Once in his free time from running through the mountains (and events occurred during the war in Afghanistan), Alexander sat up with his brothers in arms over a glass of tea. Friendly conversation dragged on for a long time and the PAN, being not at all bogatyr of physique, did not calculate his strength a little. Gathering all his will into a fist, so as not to hit the face in front of the helicopter pilots, he walked on his legs, walking to his module, in which he lived together with a friend. And ... hit the face on the floor! Sanya was awakened by a wild dry mouth and a grumble of a neighbor, once again stepping over the prostrate body. After another complaint in his address, Sanya barely tore off his cast-iron head from the floor and, pulling off his tongue stuck to the sky, slowly but quite articulately with an appropriate attitude, said: “The king where he wants, lies there!” That's what a noble origin means!
So the king was dying. His dull eyes stared blankly at the glass that separates the improvised ward from the workplace of the nurse on duty. The body was burning, for some reason, in the mouth there was a taste of mushroom soup, so beloved in childhood. Consciousness went away, then returned. In the brief moments of enlightenment, the King realized that there was a mess going on behind the glass. Constantly smiling chubby prapor insistently molested the nurse. The first stages of courtship were already passed, both were in an easy drunk, some of the clothes were undone. Kisses dragged on, the prapor’s dexterous hands fell lower and lower, the degree of love increased.
And so, once again, falling out of the darkness, the King witnessed the final act of the play. They did not pay attention to him, did not hesitate, considering it for furniture, and maybe already for a corpse. I felt sorry for myself. So it is a pity that a tear was knocked out of my eyes.
- I'm here dying, and they, bastards, what they do!
With an effort to put his hands behind his head, biting his lip from the strain, Sanya pulled out a heavy wadded soldier's pillow from under his head and threw it out the window with a long groan. The sound of broken glass, the mat of ensign - these were the last sounds that the King heard. The light faded and silence fell.
- Korolev! On the procedure! - the loud voice of the nurse (not the one that was in the previous life, and the other - the young and snub-nosed) raised the King from the bed. Already more than a week since he returned from the kingdom of darkness and now least of all he looked like Majesty and even looked like a weakly-nobleman. Very thin, fallen down, he slowly but surely returned to life.
“Sasha, I’ll open the service for you,” said a snub-nosed one, putting an enema to a reviving hero.
- Thank you, my dear.
The office toilet was an extension to the sanitary module, was locked, and was used only by medical staff. For the remaining mortal meters sixty of the module was built wooden toilet "toilet".
Pulling on his pants, Sanya walked into the ward, picked up a battered book, and a minute later stood up at the post at the door of the official toilet. Rolled up almost immediately. Confidently pulling the handle, Alexander was horrified to find that the door was locked from the inside.
“Hey, open it,” he said uncertainly. Silence.
- Open, crud! - Sanya growled and kicked the door with his foot. Silence again.
Realizing that the irreparable could happen, he darted to the exit, dropping the book. Ahead of him was shame, jokes of his comrades, or a world record in the sixty-meter race.
Neither happened. Not reaching the desired house fifty-five meters, the King convulsively stopped, thought for a moment, stepped off the path that had been trodden down, took off his pants, and sat down. After a moment, a blissful smile appeared on his face. So he sat, squinting in the sun and somehow smiling like a child as a military man passed by him. In response, they also warmly smiled at Sana'a.
Life is getting better!
Towards the sun
In one of the stories I described the summer Ukrainian night to the best of my modest literary abilities. Now I want to say a few words about its complete opposite - summer night in the "wild" north-west. In July, she is so short there that you just don't notice her. And if you're on a flight, then there is simply no night. First, there is no in order to sleep - what a dream, if you need to work. And secondly, on earth, it seems, it was already dark, but rose to the sky and on you, fell again in the day. Here it is, the sun, still clings to the horizon. Flew on the route to the west - plunged into darkness, returned to the area of the airfield - again brightened. Landed - on the ground. And it seems dark. Here is a whirl of light and dark almost until the end of the flight, until it finally dawns. But the story is not about that.
The regiment commander came home at five o'clock in the morning. It was already quite light, but all normal people were still sleeping. These are only residents of the “country of fools”, that is, the personnel returning from the flights, was still on his feet and smoothly began to fit in the bed. The colonel quietly closed the door behind him, but it did not help. A wife came out of the bedroom.
- How did they fly off?
- It's ok.
- No, it is better to sleep.
He was in a hurry for a reason. Often, at eight or nine in the morning, a telephone call rang out, a big or smaller boss was very surprised that the commander was still at home, then he recalled night flights, apologized, but still puzzled so that he had to get ready and go to work. Sleep "mandesa", as one famous general and president said. Having quickly rinsed with cold water (there was no hot water in the garrison), the colonel with pleasure stretched out on a white sheet. My wife was breathing softly nearby.
The dream did not go. There were episodes of past flights spinning in my head, pilot errors and shortcomings in support appeared in memory. A damned fog arose before my eyes, the entire last hour of the flight shift threatened to crawl out of the lowlands and close the airfield.
- It was necessary to give half a glass, I refused in vain, - the commander thought wistfully.
After half an hour of turns, he was forgotten by a restless sleep, before that he finally wrote down everything in his memory that he would say during a full debriefing.
After the commander went to bed, life in a military town did not stop. And in some places, not far from the commander’s apartment, it overlapped from the night on an early Saturday morning and, despite the tiredness that had accumulated during the week, acquired the character of bacchanalia. Therefore, the colonel did not wake up from a telephone call. Together with his wife, they jumped on the bed from a terrible roar from the entrance. Such a feeling that the stairs were rafting boards, accompanying it with a drumbeat.
- Volodya, what is it? - nervously asked his wife.
- How do I know! Now we will see, - said the commander, getting out of bed.
As he rose, the roar passed their third-floor landing and rolled down. Opening the door from the apartment, the colonel saw nothing. Neighboring doors began to open. In shorts in the entrance you will not get out, and did not want to dress. So he headed for the balcony. Behind him in a nightdress was his wife.
When they came out onto the balcony, they heard the front door slam below. Simultaneously looked at the ground. The wife gasped. The tips of the skis appeared from under the visor of the entrance. Then the skier himself appeared, in which the commander recognized the navigator from the second squadron. In his hands, as it should be, there were ski poles. Carefully descending from the steps of the porch, he went out into the middle of the sidewalk. Swinging, turned ninety degrees. Then, proudly straightening his shoulders and working steadily with sticks, the navigator went to meet the rising sun.
Electronics and hammer
Tu-22М3 number 43 did not want to fly. Outwardly, this did not manifest. He stood firmly on his chassis legs. The swift profile: a pointed nose, a swept wing pressed to the fuselage, an even hum of the APU (auxiliary power unit) - there are all signs of readiness to fly into the sky. But, something in his electronics-filled innards was going on that which engineers and technicians could not understand. They, driven by a senior technician, scrambled around the plane, opened hatches, changed blocks, performed system checks - all to no avail.
I, the young squadron commander, stood by the plane with the crew.
Sad thoughts flooded my head. It was necessary to be so different with a minus sign. The fact is that the upcoming flights had a number of features.
Firstly, the newly appointed division commander participated in them. He himself led the order of the regiment. Secondly, the crews were supposed to fly along the route, conditionally strike a guided missile at enemy targets, bomb the targets at the test site and land at the operational aerodrome. There refuel and - in reverse order: a blow, another blow, landing at home. Solid "tactical background", as in the teachings, and then such a bummer. All in the air, and komesk on earth. Mood - below concrete.
Only the senior technician of the aircraft, Fedor Mikhailovich, did not lose faith in success.
- Right now, fly, commander! - he shouted cheerfully, once again, running past.
“Aha, now,” optimism did not increase.
Ten, twenty, thirty minutes have passed - nothing has changed. People fussed, the plane stood still, enjoying this useless bustle
Once again, it sounded vigorous: “Let's fly now!” We flew, but not us. Crews in the specified sequence were taxiing and taking off. On the airfield stood the roar of jet turbines. The parking of my squadron is empty. A little more and the whole regiment will fly away.
- Commander, done! - Startup shout threw us to the plane. Quickly took jobs, and work began. When we were taxiing to the runway, the regiment’s combat order was already leaving the airfield area.
Installed the aircraft on the axis of the runway, received permission to take off from the head of flights, turned on the maximum afterburner and released the brakes. The body pressed into the chair. The rapid run and we are in the air. Forward! In pursuit. Further there was nothing interesting. Regular flight, if the definition of “normal” can approach the flight. They fired a missile (conditionally), otbombilis at the site (really and well) and almost caught up with the "tail" of the regiment.
When they sat down at the airfield in Belarus, there was already in full swing preparing the aircraft for re-departure on the route. We are again lagging behind. Two tankers drove into the parking lot, the technical personnel who arrived earlier on the transport plane began to prepare our airliner for the flight. The senior technician, Fedor Mikhailovich, led the process and refueled the aircraft with kerosene, sitting in the cockpit in the place of the right pilot.
Tu-22M3 shone with the included headlights and aeronautical lights. In general, sheer idyll. I looked at all this and thought that a man with his will and mind would conquer any iron, even the most intelligent. In vain thought!
Since our "duet", the crew and the aircraft, became the weak link in the regiment's order of battle, the division commander sent us to control the engineer and navigator of the division.
- Well, how? - getting out of the car, asked the navigator.
“It remains to fill up five tons, and we are ready,” I reported cheerfully.
“This is good ...” the senior chief philosophically held out.
For some time, we silently looked at the glittering parking lot, in the center of which stood an airplane surrounded by special vehicles. For many years, the picture is visible, but still exciting the soul of a pilot.
The division commander in his suspicions was right. Idyll over in an instant. At first, we heard the APU turnovers falling, then the plane lights went out, and everything plunged into darkness. Following the darkness, there was silence. Everyone froze, not understanding what was happening. Only the senior technician jumped out of the cabin and rolled head over the stepladder. From the last to the first step, it swept perplexedly - reproachfully:
- Oh, you b ....... b!
This is an airplane. And already from the ground in my direction many times heard this day:
- Right now, commander!
That “right now,” only Fedor Mikhailovich understood. Drivers woke up from his exclamations and lit the parking lot with headlights. In their light, we saw Startech confidently running to the container in which the tools were stored. Back to the plane, he darted, holding a huge hammer in his hand. Those who stand in his way unwittingly moved in different directions. Together with the representatives of the division headquarters, I looked at what was happening, fascinated. Everyone was silent. Running up to the fuselage, Fyodor Mikhailovich found a well-known point on board for him alone, measured the necessary distance with his fingers and, with some force, he used a hammer on the casing. Such a blow would have knocked down a bull. It seemed to me that inside a huge forty-two-meter bomber something sank. The shock wave swept through its electronic entrails from nose to keel, and the plane came to life. Started and began to gain momentum APU, lights turned on and aeronautical navigation lights.
“Wow,” said the navigator.
“Indeed, nothing,” the engineer finally began to speak.
The silence in the parking lot was replaced by a roar. All seemed to spell. The people moved, rustled. Preparing the aircraft for departure re-entered the desired track.
Having handed the hammer over to the technician’s hands, Fedor Mikhailovich climbed into the cabin to refuel the plane. I waited for the usual "right now, commander, let's fly," but did not wait. And so it was all very clear. We really flew.
After the debriefing at the base airport, the division commander, who told the navigator colorfully, joked that a Russian man could fix any mechanism with a hammer: be it a sewing machine or a spacecraft. The joke sounded pretty serious.
How I commanded the teachings of the North fleet
There is not a word of truth in this sentence. I never commanded the fleet teachings. Not released growth. Service. Yes, and he served in aviation, so he flew in the sky, and did not surf the sea. But these words, like a question or suggestion, sounded several times in the monologue of the senior commander when talking with me on the phone. That became the name of a little story. And although the name is a hoax, only the truth will continue.
As a pilot of Long-Range Aviation, I, together with my comrades in combat, almost annually took part in joint exercises or, as the sailors say, in the gathering - the cruise of the Northern Fleet. The fleet was going to sea, the aircraft rose into the sky, and everyone was amused by the fact that they fought with a conventional opponent, and even with each other. They fought on land, in the heavens and at sea, while leaving only space for peace.
So it was this time. Stepping on the concrete of one of the airfields of the naval aviation, I gladly set myself up to the rays of the bright, no longer sun setting the horizon. I want to say that how many times I have not been in the North, I have always been lucky with the weather. It was warm, the sun was shining. Depending on the month, the eyes were pleased with flowers, berries and mushrooms. And the latter grew literally under the tails of airplanes. It even became jealous. We there, in the north-west, are covered with mold from dampness in one salary, and here they warm for two. Although I understood that the North was not extreme here, but with the weather really lucky.
At these teachings, I was not able to fly. They were appointed as a senior task force, and at the same time as the head of flights from Long-Range Aviation, since our crews were supposed to get in here after the task was completed. Despite the then post-Soviet deficit of everything (I will not list what), the exercises turned out to be very representative. Only long-range launched several missiles, and even sea-launched missile, ships, submarines. The fighters, deck and land, who tried to shoot down ours with their missiles, did not remain idle either. In general, there are a lot of people and equipment, not enough kerosene.
It is only a few years later, after the President and Supreme Commander-in-Chief landed on the strategic Tu-160 rocket carrier at this airfield, the army learns that oil is still being produced in our country. And in large quantities. Fuel will flow like a river, and everything will run in, fly in, swim. In the meantime, they counted every liter. So for me, one of the tasks was to keep the issue of allocation of fifty tons of aviation kerosene to our aircraft to be controlled at all levels. And immediately report to his command, if the sailors try to pinch at least "Troch".
Joyful day of our entry into the teachings was approaching. The fleet had already set sail, while the air force remained on the ground. But the chiefs had already taken their eyes off the cards with blue and red arrows and turned them towards the personnel. The purposeful movement of small groups in different directions began. Here is our so-called dispensary, but in reality the wooden hut, which marked at least a half-century anniversary, joyfully buzzed. To us was added the arriving technical personnel, as well as the crew of the An-12 aircraft, on which our technicians flew. Our most important task force headed by the deputy commander began work at the fleet aviation headquarters. At the very edge, at the point of guidance, the squadron commander was abandoned by helicopter to lead the crews on the missile launch route. Aircrew and aviation technology at the airfields in readiness for immediate departure. In general, up to the time "H" remained a matter of hours.
And so it began! It was a sunny day, there were almost no clouds, fly — I don't want to. After the preflight instructions, I finally approached the commander of the local division. Having received from him and from the head of the rear, another confirmation of the allocation of the required amount of kerosene, with peace of mind went to the control tower (command and control center), located behind the runway. Further, everything went according to a developed plan. Reports began to be received on take-offs, training camp formations, exits to the area of targets, launches, performance of other tasks, etc. I tracked the section I was cut, not at all preparing to direct all the exercises. At the appointed time, the crews of the naval aviation returned to the airfield, and then ours also landed.
Everything is almost a victory! As the saying goes:
“And let the infantry finish off the enemy of the hated.
Kohl weather is not flying - cover the plane! "
Aviation fulfilled its task. Only not us. It remains to get out of here, and on the way home bang a couple of targets at the range.
In the atmosphere of general euphoria, I hardly found a transport to get to the aircraft parking. There is also a complete exultation. Still, the first joint exercises this year, and so everything went well! Crews who performed “excellent” were handed over fried pigs, like submariners for the sunk enemy ship. In this joyful turmoil finally got to his. Congratulated on success.
- You will eat pigs at home. Dine and get ready for departure.
There were no tankers near our planes, only technicians fussed, preparing the materiel for re-departure. To speed up refueling, you need to find local management. And I, sending the crews to the dining room, moved across the parking lot. It was lucky - in about five minutes I ran into a divisional commander, accompanied by a rear commander.
- Well, far, congratulations on your success!
- Thank you, comrade general. We would still have to refuel and fly away.
- You see, we have overspending, so I can only give ten tons.
The head of the rear confirmed with a solid nod the words of the division commander. In the pocket of my jumpsuit, a baton of a command commander appeared and began to grow.
- Comrade General, and how to go to Peter from you?
- Why do you want it? - asked the division commander in astonishment.
- With ten tons, we do not fly, but only on the highway to go and refuel at the gas station.
- Joker ?! - the divisional commander looked at the head of the rear.
“Okay, take fifteen and that's it.” And now we start to fill their own.
Fifteen is directly without a landfill, just enough. But no where to go. Soon, this fuel will not be - pour into other tanks. Mobiles in our localities were not yet in operation, there is no simple phone nearby either. To consult not like no one. The tip of the wand began to pop out of his pocket.
- Let it be fifteen!
- That's good. Let's command the gas station, ”the general turned to the head of the rear.
Deal done, more input should not be. Caught the car. On the way to the KDP drove through the parking of our planes. Already arrived TK, and began refueling.
It took quite some time after my arrival at the KDP, as the crews requested permission, and drove to the runway. In the flight control room there was a phone call. The flight manager handed me the phone. The colonel from our operational group, which was in the fleet aviation headquarters, called. Wow, I completely forgot about them. Perhaps it is the damn rod's fault.
- Hello. How are you?
- Good morning. Normally, I decided not to go into details.
Sloth has not slipped.
- Where are ours?
- One at the executive, the other at the preliminary start.
- Was there a problem with refueling?
- They gave two times less, so they will fly directly without work at the landfill.
- Who decided?
I thought in bad words, but said nothing. But it was impossible to ask a question about refueling to ask a couple of hours ago to the sea bosses, who were at arm's length from you. You look, and the necessary twenty tons of kerosene somewhere extracted.
“I decided,” my voice interrupted the prolonged pause, “there will still be no more fuel.”
- Wait, now the deputy commander will speak with you.
- Good morning, comrade general.
- Tell me, and who decided that the crews will fly this route? - asked a voice with Stalin's intonations on the other end.
By the way, these same crews have already twice requested permission to take off.
“Let them wait,” I said to the flight director.
- I decided - this is already a general.
- Why do you think so?
Damn it! Again the same intonation! It began to seem to me that I was not on the KDP, but in the Supreme Command Headquarters, at a distant fourth fourth, defending the plan of the summer offensive.
- Fuel was given only for the flight!
- Tell me, are you in command of the Long-Range Aviation and the Northern Fleet?
Well, it's the hour of the hour. Although not in the Headquarters and not the commander of the front, but also not bad. The bent back was straightened, shoulders straightened, the rod that had grown to the desired size did not fit in the pocket.
- You know better, comrade general.
The answer was wrong. This was shown by a few minutes following him on the phone. Moreover, without the use of profanity. I, not having time to become a commander, in the process of a session of “sex therapy” turned into a cartoon Piglet, sad about the bursting green ball and taking the body just below the waist, so out of place a piece of iron popped out of his pocket.
- Comrade General, allow the crew to taxi into the parking lot, otherwise they have been standing on the lane for fifteen minutes.
For thirty seconds there was no sound in the handset, and then:
- Let them fly.
I showed the flight leader a hand to the sky. Planes, one after another, broke away from the concrete and rushed away from earthly concerns. I was tied up by these worries with a telephone wire hand and foot.
Having received a report on the take-off of crews, the deputy commander gave the following instructions:
- Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, the rise of your group is exactly three zero.
- Sorry, comrade general, but I suffered an An-12 departure by nine in the morning. Perplexity and surprise directly and poured from the membranes of the handset. Air on KDP thickened.
- To you, what is not enough of the Northern fleet and long-range aviation? You and the transport for themselves trampled!
Although the troops in my submission, according to the general, arrived, I decided not to touch the rod that had already taken root in the body. And he did the right thing. Since I did not immediately find the answer, I had to listen for a few minutes, nod my head and occasionally insert standard military phrases: “Yes!” (Ready to eat, to earn your trust again), “Yes!” ( Yes, I am a fool, an idiot, etc.), "No, no, no" (but I'm not completely lost, I will correct). Finally, the general dried up, and I, having received an order to get in touch with him along with the commander of the An-12 aircraft, was able to leave the control tower.
On the way I got to town. At the headquarters building I ran into a group of joyful aviators carrying tinkling packages in their hands. One of them carefully held a tray with a roasted pig. Seeing my anxious face, good sea pilots offered me to spit on everything and celebrate the victory with the contents of the packages, eating wonderful hot. Looking at the penny buried in the green, he remembered himself half an hour ago.
“I don't eat friends,” I said, and resolutely entered the headquarters.
Twenty minutes later Commander An-12 called me by phone. In the evening, he looked much better. The general was wrong, I didn’t press transport aircraft under me. She herself, in the person of this captain who had unsuccessfully hung from the morning, lay down under me and, looking up and down with calf eyes, begged me to reschedule the flight to the morning. Although his eyes should be horse. Since yesterday, less than a day before the start of the exercise, the brave pilot was seen in a rather strange company. With a very unsteady gait, he moved toward the dispensary, leading to a horse. They didn’t manage to keep up, and the horse constantly poked the captain in the back. Sailor was walking a little behind, closely watching the sweet couple. This picture we observed from the window of our home. Approaching the entrance to the building, the captain and the horse stopped. The man turned to the animal and spoke to him. The horse listened, sadly bowing its head. She did not succumb either to persuasion, or to pull the bridle, flatly refused to go to the dispensary. Realizing this, the pilot whispered something in her ear, probably asked to wait, and disappeared into the building. Taking advantage of this, the sailor immediately appeared nearby. After a moment, with a lazy “demobilization” trot, they jumped to where they came from. So insidiously abandoned by his four-legged comrade, the captain quickly calmed down and went to bed. And in the morning I confessed that I just wanted to feed the poor animal in the room.
- It's good that only feed. And even outrage in such a state could be over a horse, - I said in response.
In general, at the time of our second meeting the captain was almost that fresh. And since the deputy commander did not know about his adventures and possible tendency to bestiality, our joint telephone conversation ended quite peacefully. The commander An-12, instructed by me, just nodded into the phone and used the same standard phrases as I did. Having received the last instructions, we rushed to carry them out.
My shot was enough for the next room. There, they poured me a glass for the victory and gave me a snack with an appetizing pig. And then in the morning poppy dew in the mouth was not. Feeling how warmth from drinking and eating was spreading through the body, I thought that even a battered lieutenant colonel was not a companion.
Returning home went everyday, without incident. On the analysis of the exercises, the commander only briefly mentioned that, due to the lack of fuel, he was not able to work out at such a range. It was the rehabilitation and, at the same time, the “removal” of me from the post of “head” of the aviation and navy exercises. The wand somehow imperceptibly dissolved and without any consequences left the body. But apparently, a small piece, hooked on the kidney, helped me to rise to the colonel.
Here am I!
A similar story, one might say, its civilian version, is performed by a famous humorist. This is when the trolleybus driver, who tried to close the door outside, is pushed onto the rear platform himself.
So here. This incident happened in those distant times when the trees were still small, the land was warm, and there was always something missing in the armed forces. That is, in the nineties of the last century.
Once on one of the days of this eventful period, the army ran out of batteries. Not that they are completely over. They simply became so old that they did not succumb to charging and fell instantly. And on the new, the Ministry of Defense had no money. I saw a helicopter, whose crew landed on the platform near the target field, did not turn off the engines for more than an hour while they were searching for the remains of the rocket, as there was no certainty that there would be enough batteries for at least one autonomous launch.
In our case, these scarce items fell into disuse on a towing vehicle. The pride of the Soviet automobile industry: two cabins: one in front, the other in the back, automatic transmission, horses under the hood can not be counted. Roaring with the engine and, firing a jet of black smoke, he confidently left the park and in a few minutes arrived at the regiment aircraft parking. Standing in front of a strategic missile carrier, the driver stopped the engine and went to the engineer of the squadron. Having received instructions on aircraft rolling, the fighter returned to the car, climbed into the cockpit and pressed the launch button. Fig car. Released. But I knowingly called this car the pride of the automotive industry. Soviet designers foresaw this situation and made a duplicate launch system from compressed air. The soldier jumped out of one cabin and climbed into another. A few moments, and the engine purred smoothly. Once on the ground, the driver was surprised to see that the monster who was not put on the parking brake was crawling on the screws of the plane in front of him.
They saw it in the parking lot. All who were there, rushed to the tractor and rested in the front bumper.
- Hold it! - shouted the senior technician and darted behind the airplane pads to put them under the wheels of the tractor.
Finally, a giant stopped at three to four meters from the propellers. But people continued to run into the bumper, fearing that the tractor will skip the pads.
- Where is this fucking driver ?! The senior technician shouted.
And then from the heap of bodies stuck to the bumper there was a thin voice:
- Here am I!
In the twenty-fifth year of the landing of Matthias Rust in Moscow on Red Square, this story came to mind and made me relive, albeit insignificant on a national scale, but exciting events that ended quite safely and even, one might say, ridiculous.
In each aviation unit there is a poster showing a pilot in a herdish, a plane, a radar, something else, and an inscription which says that we always stand guard over the air lines of our Motherland. And this is actually the case. Only for long-range pilots, standing is obtained indirectly. Although after the flight of Rust, there was a period when we in the regiment had arrows on duty in planes in readiness to knock down any low-altitude target from guns. But this did not last long. Therefore, we could only protect our air lines in one way - to bomb all the airfields within reach, so that no infection could take off. But this is war. And so we ourselves lived under the protection of air defense forces, we slept peacefully and believed that the next air hooligan would not land on our airfield. The service of the "Pvoshnikov" is tense and responsible, and they are on alert in peacetime. In aviation, rich in jokes, jokes and subring, went this poem:
Under birch lies an air defense officer.
He is not killed by a bullet, zadolbali him.
Brief and capacious characteristics of hard, exhausting male work.
I never thought that I would have to “serve” for half a day (in quotes of course) in air defense, really stand up for the airspace of our vast Motherland.
It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon. And he was not beautiful because of the weather. The weather is like the weather. The beauty of it was that it had already passed for noon, I came from the service, had a delicious dinner and now dozed, spread over the sofa. In the evening I was waiting for a bath, a cold beer and a hundred grams at dinner in a cozy family atmosphere. What else should a commander to calmly meet demob. You're right. Judging by the perversity of your thoughts, I'm just sure that you also served in the army. He needs to screw the head so that it does not fall out, but jump out of this “dremonegi” that is dangerous for the country's defense capability. And then we will not only retreat to Moscow, we will not catch hold of the Ural Mountains either. Not only the enemies, but also the personnel, immediately feeling that the commander is in such a state, begins to make minor office and household mischief (drink alcohol on duty, go to unauthorized absences, start up in the family). Therefore, the country's security is paramount. If for this you need to get on the head, then I'm ready.
The phone call was not unexpected, it just was out of place. Half a step out of Nirvana, I picked up the phone and introduced myself.
“Comrade Colonel,” the voice of the operational duty officer of the higher command post sounded almost solemn, “the intruder plane is approaching your area of responsibility.” The order is to intercept and land on your own airfield.
"Probably, I still sleep," - flashed through my head, and the drafts of this thought turned on the brain.
- What kind of plane, from where? - I tried to quickly clarify the situation.
- The plane is light-engine, flies from Moscow, it is necessary to intercept.
Thank God, that is not from the border and not military. Most likely, just an inconsistency and a mess, although anything can be. But the soul has become a little easier.
“Allow me to pick up a pair to intercept?” I asked the question on the phone. The tube was silent for a few seconds, then the operative voice rang out:
- Which pair?
- What I have, a pair of Tu-22.
- Are you joking?
Of course, I'm kidding. And what else would you do when you get such instructions?
- And you? I am his intercept than he, he flies, and not on the highway going.
- Well, try to call for communication.
Realizing that I didn’t learn anything new, I asked to be informed immediately if the latest information appeared, and I began to act. Having given the necessary orders, rushed to the command and control center. All communications and radar were turned on, no marks from air targets were visible, the duty shift caused the intruder at various frequencies. A few minutes later a miracle happened - we were answered. Upon finding out who they were being taken for, the crew of the Yak-18t was stunned and agreed with all our requirements, although it needed to fly about three hundred kilometers further.
It became quite fun. Indeed, it is simply an inconsistency between the civilian and military sectors of the EC RC ATC (center of the air traffic control system).
But the flywheel of struggle against violators and terrorists was already spun, and it was boring to fight them with a limited circle of persons in the management team. I wanted as many people as possible to take part in the celebration dedicated to the aviation mess this Saturday evening.
Therefore, a few minutes before the intruder’s landing, all the anti-terror units were brought to the highest degree of readiness. Submachine gunners lay along the runway, cars were on the taxiways to block the aircraft after landing, in the UAZ, with determined faces, were fighters of the capture group. The rest will not list.
Yes, it really turned out to be a little dark green Yak-18. Rumbled over the end of the strip, he gently touched the wheels of concrete and stopped after a short run. At the same instant, trucks blocked it from two sides, and people armed to the teeth began to break into the cabin. The machine gunners stood up to the full height at the runway, bringing the militarization of the meeting of uninvited guests to the upper limit. But it only seemed.
When I arrived at the plane, the active phase of the operation was completed. The crew stood by his aircraft, surrounded by a capture group. In the cockpit sat our officer with a pistol at the ready. The "violators" were shocked when they saw how many people left them to meet.
Then everything turned out to be very simple. As I said earlier - an ordinary mess! The crew of the Yak-18t, both former military pilots, members of the country's national team on aviaralli. We were preparing for a training camp for the World Championship in this first heard by me sport. We flew home, having on hand all the necessary documents, with the permission of the dispatcher and the flight director. And immediately began. If Rust, instead of being shot down, was missed everywhere, they wanted the opposite.
We took the plane off to the parking lot, just in case, accompanied by armed guards, we went to the regimental headquarters. When the door had to go a few meters away the guests had to strain again. Here it is the top point. Although everything was already clear, but the flywheel of militarism had to turn to the end. And he turned. Fighters of reserve units began to jump out of the doors of the headquarters, like devils out of the box. In helmets, body armor, with machine guns. It is their time.
“What did you think?” I said, looking at frightened — the interrogative faces of the guests — the motto of real men: if you love a woman, then in a hammock and standing, which translated into military language means: hard in teaching, easy in battle.
A few minutes later we were all sitting in the counterintelligence’s office and outlined an action plan to get out of the situation. The peaceful conversation was interrupted by reports on bringing all forces and means to their original positions.
The next phone call was not a report on duty. The voice of a senior officer rang in the receiver.
A small lyrical digression. In any case, starting from the organization of drinking, ending with the launch of a spacecraft, there is a similar decision-making algorithm, which includes assessing the situation, hearing suggestions (wishes) of deputies (colleagues, drinking companions) and, in fact, making the decision itself (alone or collectively). But it happens the other way around. The chief announces his own, sometimes very unexpected decision, then you have long argued that you are not a camel. He corrects it, but you still remain a camel. So it was this time.
- Good morning, comrade general!
- Hello. Where are these dolt?
- All are at the singularities.
- So it is. You take them and with a quiet sadness you plant on the guardhouse until the morning, and then we shall understand.
- Comrade General, we have no guardhouse.
- Find where to plant.
- Allow me not to torture them and not to create difficulties for myself, I will shoot these violators.
In the tube silence, in the looks of people sitting opposite - surprise and dumb question. It seems they have already been pacified, but here again.
“Are you kidding me?” The phone rang.
Yes, I'm joking for the third time in half a day. I do not know if it is successful, and what will be the consequences? But enough, joking aside. And then they will definitely have to shoot retired pilots.
“Comrade General,” I say into the telephone receiver and briefly state the essence of the matter.
Realizing that he had lost his temper, the general thought. After a few seconds, he resolutely pronounced:
- Feed, place for the night, file an application for tomorrow and send to edren hair dryer.
Short, clear and understandable.
- Eat, feed, place and send where you said!
This is how my “service” in air defense ended successfully. Having sacrificed an afternoon rest, a bath, I did not miss the “violators” either to the Red or to the Palace Square. And he did not turn out to be lying under a birch tree — he came home on his own feet. The crew of the Yak-18 the next day safely got to his airport. What place they occupied at the Aviaralli World Championship after such a shake-up, I do not know.
Recognition of the pilot - the head
In the mornings it is so insulting - to moan, to tears, to hiccups,
Dreams of different dreams
But never dreamed of flying.
I used the wheel on myself
And feel the night together with the sky.
I in a dream hold meetings and constructions.
I do not see dawn asleep
On betonka and in the pressure chamber.
I check outfit, I go to objects
And chasing a soldier on the rise.
That dream bosses,
And with him, seven hundred and forty-six documents.
About state of emergency, desertion,
Non-payment of alimony.
I am from these evils in a dream
In an airplane favorite, I'm saving myself.
I close the lamp, but I can not fly.
And in a cold sweat wake up.
I do not dream of flying ...