Ship's commander. Personnel decides everything. Personnel decides – and that's it...
Dedicated to the sailors of the border troops.
Navigator-boatswain-captain…
Morning, a light fog outside. The usual morning chores—washing and shaving, cooking oatmeal, making coffee, sandwiches…
Everything is as usual... But no! There are people who feel bad when others feel good!
A call... Who's calling on the phone at such an early hour?
Hi! - Hi! Why are you calling, interrupting me from breakfast? - What breakfast! Look at your watch! - What? I always have breakfast at this time, you have to keep a regular routine at our age... - Drop the routine, I was just in the Far East! Shall we meet and have a chat?
— What, you drove from St. Petersburg to Vladivostok by car? You're probably lying! — I'm lying! We only got to Kazan… — So? Like in the early 90s, on four liters of oil instead of gasoline? — You're asking! You can't drink away your skills! So, are we meeting?
— Come on! I have dried smelt and vobla. What do you choose? — Of course, both! — Well, then — see you later!
The next day, the first question: "Well, go on with your stories! Everything's somehow wrong with you border guards, it's all a mess! With us, it's simple—you walk out the gate, load up, and for two months, like clockwork, tick-tock, tick-tock..."
- Well, listen... Yesterday I gave the AI the task of making a report on the Navy incidents with fleets other countries. So I received a certificate that is significantly different from what I know and was a participant in. Have you tried this? What do you think about it?
"What's there to think about? Laziness, as we know, is the engine of progress! I played those AI games too... The result is the same... What do I think? It's the same as you: to use AI, you first need your own... intelligence... And against "luck," as they say, intelligence is powerless..."
And so it is with the border service—it's all "AI"... Real participants share their memories sparingly, especially officers. The forums are full of various "interpreters" and rumormongers, and, of course, "I heard it," that is, secondary and tertiary sources. Then this nonsense finds its way onto major naval forums, then into books, then into online encyclopedias. And real events take on such a form that you're astonished, and objecting is pointless—some "kid" is peddling this nonsense to you, the participant in the events, in respectable publications and forums...
Even military officials with admiral's epaulettes take this nonsense for their publications and elevate it to the level of unquestionable authority... It's sad to read stupidity, and even sadder when this stupidity multiplies and takes the form of an official, universally recognized truth... Yes...
It's time to tell something in continuation of the previous stories...
Well, let's move on...
The 1st Red Banner Border Guards Division was a formidable force. As is customary in border troops, all ships were operational and operational, cleared for use as intended, and having completed the K-1, K-2, and K-3 training missions, meaning they were first-line ships. The crews were well-trained and capable of using weapon and technical means.
As you can imagine, even southern Kamchatka is nothing like the northern coast of Crimea... The very fact that the ships were based in Avacha Bay, in Solenoe Ozero Bay, meant that the conditions for their deployment were quite harsh. Ice conditions in the autumn and winter were often difficult, not only in Avacha Bay itself, when even Project 745P ships with a reinforced ice belt along the waterline would struggle considerably as they left the base for the 161st area. For Project 97P, of course, there were no problems; it was first class. танк on the ice in the bay and often he would shoot someone from the navy, either in the 161st region or at the exit from Krasheninnikov.
Below, I'm giving myself free rein and publishing a whole block of photographs of this hard worker—Project 97P in all its guises...
Project 97P Neva surface-to-air missile cruiser in ice
PSKR pr.97P with slight icing
PSKR pr.97P after a small winter storm
PSKR "Neva" is storming
And this is already the PSKR "Iceberg" pr.97P
PSKR "Iceberg". And it happened.
Project 97P Volga surface-to-air missile cruiser in dock
PSKR pr.97P Krasavets...
The Neva cruiser after the storm
The Neva nuclear-powered cruiser in dock
The Neva cruiser in dock, view from the bow
The photos mostly feature the patrol ship Neva. It still has the dovetail used for icebreaking in a convoy during its Northern Sea Route voyage, which was removed from other ships upon arrival in Kamchatka. And the photos are very telling, showing it sailing through stormy oceans, which accounts for almost half of its entire service life. In winter, the ship would be covered in a thick layer of ice from mast to deck. While beautiful, this is far from romantic at sea, as it created a significant heeling moment. The ship (not just Project 97P, but also Project 745 and others in Kamchatka) had a special icebreaking schedule.
The main workhorse, and not just a “horse” but a full-fledged workhorse, was the 745P project.
This was an excellent ship for the harsh northern conditions, unafraid of ice (within reasonable limits, of course) or storms. Its inherent design flaw of low speed was compensated for by its high seaworthiness, incredible cruising range, and endurance, which could easily be increased by carrying additional provisions in the cargo hold, along with fuel for the auxiliary diesels and oil.
Living conditions for the crew were excellent, with hot water even available for showers throughout the 60-day voyage. The ship's drinking water tanks held 127 tons, and its fuel tanks held nearly 600 tons in six tanks. When fully loaded, the ship sailed steadily and smoothly, riding the waves well. This was also aided by the ship's side keels—designed and installed specifically as stabilizers, but on some hulls they were subsequently cut off due to frequent damage in ice.
In ballast, the ship became unsteady; even a good wave hitting the bow would knock it significantly off course, and the autopilot would operate constantly. Sometimes, I even had to switch the rudder to manual mode, as the automatic steering increased yaw. The ship in ballast wasn't particularly fond of rolling, but it held up easily and smoothly up to force 4 or 5, but force 5 or 6 was very unpleasant.
The Project 745P Brest surface-to-air missile cruiser in Russkaya Bay is being refilled with water.
The Project 745P PSKR in the dock. The rudder and propeller assembly is clearly visible.
PSKR pr.745P. Consequences of a winter storm
Project 745P "Zapolyarye" PSKR. This is what it looks like in winter...
The Brest Project 745P surface-to-air missile cruiser is in dock...
He's a beauty, isn't he? PSKR pr.745P...
The ships of the 2nd BPSKR had virtually no chance of navigating the ice conditions of Avacha Bay without ice escort, except for the rare weeks of ice formation and melting. And the Project 264 minesweepers were simply a visual aid to the ship's architecture, as all the hull planking had been compressed to the frames by age and harsh operating conditions, so there was no need for X-rays. Local jokers called Project 1124 "cardboard" or "glass"; without ice escort, they couldn't venture into the open sea without risking damage to the sonar in the bow.
There was an interesting situation with Project 11351P, the pride of the border troops. As soon as the 1st corps—the PSKR Dzerzhinsky—was delivered, it was put through its paces, including in icy conditions. And then a problem arose that the design bureau and shipbuilders had never encountered before. The issue concerned the sonar fairing—it was made of titanium, which provided the necessary strength, lightness, and acoustic transparency.
But in the ice and low temperatures of the northwest Pacific Ocean during the winter, titanium structures became brittle and cracked. This was a major problem, as repairing and welding the titanium required dry-docking, which was a huge expense. A team of specialists from the design bureau arrived from Leningrad to study the problem and find solutions. Since their mission was extended, the specialists were sent to their quarters by the division's officers. One of the design bureau representatives visited me at home, and we had some very interesting conversations. The technical issue was successfully resolved.
What's the point of all this? I'm just refreshing my memory of the ships I'll be discussing later...
Frames decide everything
In the naval units of the KGB border troops of the USSR, the career ladder was quite steep and rapid. The staff positions of ship commanders corresponded to the ship's rank; there were practically no minor positions, since the combat unit commander (CUC) was already, according to the staffing, at least a captain-lieutenant. Therefore, service progressed quickly for almost all naval officers, unless they got into serious trouble.
Therefore, the division had as many captains of the first rank as fish in an aquarium: the commander of the cruiser Purga, Aladinsky; five commanders of the 97th Regiment: Semyon Rovner, Alexander Petlenko, Minkevich, Benevolensky, Lomovtsev (he was replaced by Chistyakov); three commanders of the 11351st Regiment, two brigade commanders and two brigade chiefs of staff (a division of captains and captains), a deputy commander for political affairs and the division chief of staff, a logistics chief, and, of course, the division commander himself.
In total, there are 16 corporals, that is, almost half of the captains of the first rank of all the naval units of the border troops of the entire country...
But there were no admiral positions; it was only in 1990 (but inaccurately) that the “Captain 1st Rank/Rear Admiral” rank was introduced for the positions of head of the naval department of the Kamchatka Border District (KBD) and division commander.
Service began with accepting a position and command, and preparing for the independent command of a combat unit, which took six months. Permission to pilot a ship took one year. I don't recall anyone failing the test—that would have been a complete disgrace (but such a case did occur, more on that later). They tried to avoid recruiting fools to the Committee. Typically, the combat unit training took three to four months, and the ship's training took six to eight months.
The navigator is a brute, very thirsty for wine and women.
But for knowledge of the tricky sciences, you’ll be allowed into the wardroom!”
Attributed to Peter I…
But for knowledge of the tricky sciences, you’ll be allowed into the wardroom!”
Attributed to Peter I…
The duty clock was ticking steadily, and using the navigator's movements as an example, we will describe it in accordance with the "Regulations on the passage of military service by the officer corps of the USSR Armed Forces" of 1985, No. 240:
19. The terms of service in military ranks for officers on active military service (except for flight officers and submarine officers) are established:
in the rank of lieutenant - 2 years
in the rank of senior lieutenant - 3 years
in the rank of captain - 3 years
in the rank of major - 4 years
in the rank of lieutenant colonel - 5 years.
in the rank of lieutenant - 2 years
in the rank of senior lieutenant - 3 years
in the rank of captain - 3 years
in the rank of major - 4 years
in the rank of lieutenant colonel - 5 years.
And by position, this is the BC-1 commander of a 2nd rank ship (PSKR Project 745P, 1124P, Project 264A, or the ENG commander on Project 11351P), the staff rank is captain-lieutenant; on Project 97P and 11351P, the BC-1 commander is a captain of the 3rd rank. The job "route" was as follows: BC-1 commander of a 2nd rank ship — BC-1 commander of a 1st rank ship — senior assistant of the 2nd rank ship commander — 2nd rank ship commander / or first mate of the 1st rank ship — 1st rank ship commander.
KGB officers were required to attend one or two refresher and retraining courses at the training center in Anapa (there was also a training center for conscript specialists: signalmen, radio-technical staff, navigational electricians and helmsmen, and other sailor specialties), followed by the VSOK (Higher Specialized Officer Classes of the Navy, Leningrad). Then, as luck would have it, the academy began with a command position, followed by brigade chief of staff, then brigade commander or division chief of staff, the General Staff Academy, then division commander, and the KGB Border Troops Naval Directorate of the USSR.
It all began with donning a dress uniform, a dagger in hand, and introducing yourself to the commander: "Comrade Captain 2nd Rank! Lieutenant Pupkin! I introduce myself on the occasion of my appointment as commander of the navigation combat unit of the Kamchatka patrol cruiser!" Your voice rings, your ears ring, your shoulders are back, your stomach is tucked in, your shoes are polished like something a cat might have... Only after a couple of minutes do you begin to consciously examine the commander's cabin, unsure how or where to place your cap.
The commander looks at you attentively, shakes your hand, says, "Welcome aboard," and lets you calm down. He says a few words about where you studied, where you're from, and your family (though, as he later learned, the commander already knows everything, having already read your personal file or transcript). The first mate calls you in, introduces the new navigator, leads you to the BC-1 commander's quarters, and then introduces you to your subordinates—the navigator's electrician section commander, the senior helmsman, the navigator's electricians, and the helmsmen. They make their rounds, and with that, the day is over, and the new navigator runs home to share his excitement and impressions.
And in the morning, the service begins. You study the department, the ship, and the ship's schedules, and the ship studies you.
In fact, the border troops were known for their special treatment of their officers. In Kamchatka, virtually all officers and warrant officers were assigned apartments based on their family size. Moreover, apartments were assigned in the city (Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky); no one lived in the barracks. Only in the late 80s and early 90s were new arrivals housed on the floating barracks "Vega" until housing became available. Apartments were provided furnished, and additional units could be added or replaced as needed through the KES (Apartment Maintenance Service) warehouse.
So there was no point in complaining... The command correctly believed that before demanding a return from an officer, they should give him what he was entitled to, so that the officer on duty would not think about how his family and children were doing, where they lived, what they slept on, what they ate.
In general, the life of a border guard naval officer was quite comfortable, and the Motherland demanded dedication. And dedication they had: they served conscientiously.
Discipline... hmm... was within reasonable and acceptable limits. Of course, there were some excesses—absenteeism and drunkenness, but these were rare and not systemic. Of course, any "chaos" was actively suppressed with the full force of command and political work.
And there wasn't much time to break the rules, since the ships (especially those of the 1st Brigade) were constantly "on duty—on mission—drilling—on duty," with the exception of routine or intermediate repairs, and it was these that committed the greatest number of discipline violations, including serious ones. Overall, compared to naval crews, ours was exemplary.
From the outside, the navy was a mixed bag... Even during our internship at the naval academy, on the cruiser Murmansk, our first glimpse of officer service was... well, let's say, amusing... On Saturdays, the broadcast announced the officers' assembly as follows: "Officers and lieutenants are invited to the wardroom!" It was inspiring...
A small digression
One day, I found myself visiting a classmate from the academy on the Project 1135 anti-ship cruiser in Ilychev Bay, across the street. After boarding the ship and introducing myself to the duty officer, I was sent to my classmate's cabin. As I walked down the ship's corridor, I encountered a group of rather tipsy sailors. One of them bumped into me in the corridor, swaying slightly. Cursing, he trudged on, and I stood there, stunned, for a couple of minutes.
I reached the navigator's cabin, we met, chatted about this and that, and asked about the drinking on board. He waved his hand in annoyance and said, "Don't mind, it'll be easier for you..." You could only imagine such a thing with border guards in your dreams, and even then, it's not entirely certain... Anyway, I thanked the Lord for my service in the MChPV and quickly, joyfully, slipped away to my quarters...
"Don't tell me any tall tales," my old friend interrupted. "Get to the point: how did you, such good people, live? What did you live on? What did you feed your family? You didn't have any rations, did you? Chocolate and red wine weren't allowed?"
— “Yes, I’ll tell you now, I want you to know everything about food and drink... Give me the taranka instead... Well, listen about the food...”
About food...
The pay was decent. My first lieutenant's pay (based on my party membership card, a true museum rarity) in my division was 498 rubles. Then the length of service ticked (Far North, pay bonus) and the northern bonus (the notorious double pay) trickled in, and then the "naval" bonus trickled in.
A year later, the figure of 585 rubles appeared on the party card, and then this figure methodically grew, almost a hundred a year, reaching a quite respectable 917 rubles by 1990 (again, the source is the party card)...
The family had enough to live on. It covered food, fruit at the market, and taxi fares. And in Petropavlovsk, the market had everything, but at two prices: 10 rubles and 15 rubles per kilogram, of course... It didn't matter what the guys from the Caucasus were selling—everything was 10 or 15 rubles: cucumbers, tomatoes, honey, watermelon, melon, excellent apples, and other delicious things.
Yes, of course, red caviar and crabs weren't expensive: huge, handsome Kamchatka crabs were 3 rubles 50 kopecks per kilo (legs only) and caviar was 10-15 rubles per jar—a liter, of course...
Of all the red fish, Chinook salmon was, of course, the most prized… Well, it wasn't really a fish, it was a mammoth! The enormous carcass was salted at home in a bathtub or a very large enamel pot, using a mixture of salt and sugar, bay leaves and pepper, and a little dill… A week later, it was time to shave…
It's hard to even write about Chinook salmon—you smell its subtle, enticing aroma, its stunning, even pink-red color, the smooth, slightly moist texture of the meat, the slightly salty, delicate taste that melts in your mouth, and that's not a figure of speech... Hmm...
But I'll get back to ship duty, sorry...
Ode to my ship
Solemnly, to the accompaniment of bravura music...
I would never have thought that such a thing could happen – every ship has its own… smell!
Well, what's the big deal? Iron, paint, diesel fuel, groceries and food, the sea. It should all smell the same. But no... Some ships seem to choose you, not you them. And if you don't like the ship's smell on the first day and haven't gotten used to it within a week, then service on it won't work for you. No choice!
I won't insist on this conclusion, but when boarding some ships, you immediately feel the urge to leave. The incredible, unique mixture of metal-paint-oil-fuel-food-sea smells seems to push you away, and you try to escape as quickly as possible.
A home-built "battleship" smells of good metal, doesn't overwhelm you with paint (even when painting—something you can tolerate on your own ship, but would find intolerable on another ship). On a good ship, there's almost no smell of cooking, no rancid fats, and no food residue. This is achieved by the constant care of both the cooks and the boatswain—everything is washed and scrubbed, not just for show, but to ensure it's practically sterile.
In general, I liked the smells of my ships, and so did the passengers, oddly enough... Every Saturday, we honestly scrubbed every bulkhead throughout the ship with soap or detergent, wiping it clean and completely dry. By Saturday lunchtime, the ship would sparkle like an egg on Easter Sunday.
You'll laugh, but the sounds of your ship are also pleasant. The monotonous hum of the main diesels is very conducive to a sound sleep; the brain registers RPM changes, plus or minus 50 RPMs from the nominal value, and switching to auxiliary diesels when drifting or anchoring becomes a reason to make a mental note and roll over. I've been out to sea on identical ships—and hello, Nastya... the sound is different! It's hard to tell where something is resonating, what's making the clanking sound, but the sound is "foreign"... That's how it is...
But let's move on, otherwise there will be odes to every rack and galley tank...
Okay…
Well, do you know the main ship's wisdom?
"If you want to sleep in comfort, always sleep in someone else's cabin"!!!
It's simple: the ship's duty officer won't drop in on you, the orderly won't bother you, the political officer won't nag about the missed political briefing, which was replaced by shipboard work... Basically, you "cast off" peacefully and then, refreshed, head to duty! And if there's an emergency, they'll announce it over the broadcast. Heh-heh...
By the way, on the ship there is a mandatory "admiral's hour" after lunch until 15:00, well, 10 minutes earlier, of course, because you need to have time to go out to the formation for ship work or training in your specialty and other ship activities.
"Admiral's Hour" couldn't be cancelled; the commanders never stooped to such sedition. The crew slept honorably in their quarters and cabins; even headquarters didn't risk interrupting their rest.
Commander
Without this definition from Vladimir Dahl, there is no way forward...
It reads:
COMMAND
TO COMMAND something, to command, to keep under one's authority, under one's hand; to lead, to manage, to be in charge, more. talk about military command; | to pronounce the words of acceptance in formation, to perform movements and actions with weapons. -sya, sufferat. and impersonal. A company is commanded by a captain. During a cavalry charge, the riflemen are commanded: form a small group! Command noun continuous active according to the meaning of the verb. command f. same active, military command and the pronunciation of words of command; | these words themselves, as agreed upon; | authority, command, or leadership; | an assembly of military ranks and privates, in a known composition; in the navy, a ship's crew. Commanding, to the command, in various meanings relating to. Commander n. military leader; commander's wife, his wife; joking female commander. A soldier's father is the commander; his mother and stepmother are the service. Our commander has neither hat nor uniform. Commanders, commanders' mistresses, belong to him and her. Commander's, pertaining to the commander. Lord, tame the commander's heart! A soldier's...
Everything is clear to everyone, I hope...
And so we come to the most important driver on the ship—the commander. There is no one more important or significant on the ship than the commander. He is the one who determines what the ship will be like—good, bad, or nothing at all. No other officer has such influence over the entire ship.
I'll tell you about some of those who are remembered, there simply isn't enough space for everyone...
Captain Alexander Nikolaevich Shcherbina. Sailor by the grace of God
So, the commander of the Project 745P patrol cruiser Kamchatka was Captain 3rd (later 2nd) Rank Alexander Nikolaevich Shcherbina. He came to command the Kamchatka from the position of first mate of the Project 97P patrol cruiser Dunay. He was a highly experienced sailor, with an intimate knowledge of the sea and the ship, and an intimate understanding of the North in all its manifestations. It seemed as if he had always been here…
Commander of the PSKR Kamchatka, Captain 2nd Rank Alexander Nikolaevich Shcherbina, when he was the first mate on the PSKR Danube, Project 97P
A fine sailor, proactive, and thoughtful, Shcherbina held great respect among his superiors, and the crew understood him and obeyed him unquestioningly. Shcherbina was also… a terrible swearer. You listen to him, you understand everything, and then you catch yourself wondering: how can I convey what he said to my subordinates? And to the commanding officers, when was this required by the service?
But, while extracting flourishes from his vast vocabulary, Alexander Nikolaevich never swore. Such is the paradox... His orders, commands, and instructions flowed naturally, without any deliberate effort or, God forbid, any desire to offend anyone. And yet, they contained such twists and turns that, as a classic said, two janitors could faint. How did he manage it? I don't know...
His talent for clearly and convincingly conveying his point of view and orders was fully demonstrated at sea during the detention of Japanese fishing trawlers that sometimes operated in our waters.
It's worth noting that after the ship passed the cape line (as we called it, when it "went through the gate"), Shcherbina dressed casually: blue wool sweatpants (sometimes the uniform's black trousers) and a sailor's shirt, with a uniform jacket over them. He often walked around the ship and on the bridge without a jacket, wearing only a sailor's shirt and sweatpants. And what's more, the commander didn't shave the entire voyage...
And during the stoppage and detention of the Japanese, he would come out onto the bridge wing and, instead of using the loudspeaker, wave his hand and, in his signature "dialect," explain what the intruder should do and where to go. More than once, the Japanese shindo (captain) would pretend not to hear or see anything until Shcherbina appeared on the bridge wing and, in just three words, broke the enemy's will to resist... And then the shindo would bow and nod: "Captain Shcherbina Sasha, yes sir, just don't swear..." And all the while, Dahl's dictionary remained unopened. Just try to do that!
Shcherbina also had a knack for carefully and tactfully "pushing" the officer of the watch or even the first mate forward and directly, discreetly intervening in the ship's operations. No one likes interference, especially first mates—how could they possibly push him, such a tough and agile man, away from the engine room telegraph and controls? Shcherbina did this almost imperceptibly, leaving the feeling that the first mate or the officer of the watch was still in command of the ship, meaning the line of command on the bridge was apparently intact. This was appreciated by everyone—officers and sailors alike.
Alexander Shcherbina at the whale carcass... such a sailor
It was Shcherbina who taught me my first invaluable lesson: how to launch a workboat with an inspection team underway in stormy weather. And most importantly, how to lift it aboard in such conditions? And do it without danger to the ship's crew and the boat's crew. It was like being in an open-heart operation (I've never been there, but...). Later, as first mate, I very carefully practiced this process myself; the first few times, my hands even sweated while holding the Kashtan public address system.
After launching and retrieving the boat several times in very rough, stormy weather, I gained confidence in both my understanding of the ship and the sea, and in the training of the crew and the boat's crew. Subsequently, my understanding of the ship grew noticeably and became more ingrained, so much so that even in other positions, I always had a clear picture of the entire process—as they would say today, a 3D view from above, depicting the actions of the crew, the engines, the rudders, and the sea.
In short, Shcherbina can be described in one word: a seafarer from God.
He mentored officers with the same sensitivity and achieved his goals, even though at first it seemed he was a mediocre mentor, but this was an optical illusion. Distinctive, competent, unafraid of responsibility, and resolute in achieving his goals, Shcherbina could accomplish any task, and he was valued both at the top and bottom of the military ladder.
Captain (later Corporal) Petlenko Alexander Ivanovich. Stern and decisive.
A different ship—a different commander. The Project 97P PSKR Neva. This is a completely different vessel—with a displacement of 4500 tons, a capable 76mm AK-726 gun, a fully functional combat information post (BIP), and a helicopter on board. The ships themselves were popularly nicknamed "baboons." And even this ship showed signs of a cruiser organization—a more developed organizational structure and chain of command, a crew twice as large as that of Project 745P, and a clear separation of "top and bottom."
Commander of the PSKR "Neva" Captain 2nd Rank Alexander Ivanovich Petlenko and helmsman Shavriev(?)
The commander of this ship—what a surprise!—was a graduate of a land-based school! artillery Captain 2nd Rank Alexander Ivanovich Petlenko, a member of the naval academy. A tough, uncompromising officer, he knew the ship well and handled it skillfully. His leadership style could easily be described as authoritarian, almost regal. Petlenko was respected among the crew for his fairness and high seamanship.
Like Shcherbina, Petlenko was a notorious swearer, but unlike Shcherbina, who respected the chain of command and never personally insulted his subordinates, Petlenko would often lash out at officers in the presence of the sailors. This was an unpleasant sight, and not everyone tolerated it. The ship's doctor (a major in the medical service, by the way) always politely stopped the commander's obscenities directed at him, and sometimes even defended others. Deputy Political Officer Rasskazchikov, an experienced and skilled political officer, also served as a restraining factor. But Petlenko had such a sin...
My relationship with Petlenko quickly improved. After the first swearing directed at me, I asked him to apologize (the senior lieutenant was a cheeky one!), and after a brief discussion, the matter was resolved as publicly as the insult had been, and the commander no longer allowed his subordinate to swear. This minor conflict had no effect on the service. The commander had a keen sense of boundaries and soon recognized the navigator's right to speak up as a professional. This doesn't mean he didn't give his subordinate a hard time—there was no mercy there—but he didn't dare insult him again.
Petlenko didn't say this, but Leonid Sobolev did in his immortal novel, "Major Repairs":
"Put a sailor on all fours, and he'll feel respect for you; but if you can't get him on all fours, he'll put you on all fours, and then the fleet's finished."
This is roughly how Alexander Ivanovich controlled the ship...
I don't recall any particularly interesting stories from my time on this ship, but I did gain valuable experience navigating in a variety of conditions, including working with the Ka-27 deck helicopter, which was often on board during service. Of course, the helicopter performed patrol and situational awareness missions, which was a great help.
Several times, I've had the opportunity to carry "tourists"—cosmonauts, scientists, journalists, film crews, and other passengers—showing them Kamchatka, the Commander Islands, whales, orcas, and other marine delights. We always greeted these passengers with hospitality, the cooks tried to put on a good front, the tablecloths creaked with starch.
However, the birthmarks of Project 97P could not be avoided—the ship's egg-shaped hull caused it to roll even when moored at the pier, and the constant use of the stabilizers did little to help passengers distinguish between deck, bulkhead, and deck again. Therefore, such VIP departures were attempted in calm waters, but, as you can imagine, calm waters in the northern Pacific were rare.
Cosmonaut Beregovoy (I hope I'm not mistaken) even advocated a medal for a year of service on the ship. "How can you hang around practically upside down for weeks?" It was funny and flattering to hear this from a respected Hero of the Soviet Union...
For his strict but fair attitude towards people, his ability to quickly admit a mistake and correct it without a long and humiliating process, and his high qualities as a navigator (let me remind you that he graduated from a land artillery school and rightfully rose to the rank of ship commander of the 1st rank) – for all this, the crew respected their commander.
But... When Commander Alexander Petlenko went to inspect the ship on the starboard side, the entire crew was stuck to the bulkheads on the port side... And yet - a beauty!
Kapperrang Rovner Semyon Leontievich. A commander from God...
Semyon Rovner was undoubtedly a legendary commander in the division. In the 80s, he commanded the Volga Project 97P patrol cruiser, from which he retired. He even lived up to his name—he was even-tempered, caring toward his personnel, and attentive to every sailor, petty officer, warrant officer, and officer. People even called him "Daddy" behind his back. He possessed a rare teaching talent and knew how (and why did he know how? It just happened) to achieve everything without any sudden movements, as if his subordinates were doing it themselves.
Commander of the Volga patrol boat, Semyon Leontyevich Rovner, bottom right, already retired
As a sailor and commander, Semyon Rovner was beyond praise; he had a command of the ship at his fingertips. The Project 97P was a massive vessel, and Solenoe Ozero Bay was cramped for it. Typically, the "baboons" moored in the bay in several passes, dropping the anchor and then maneuvering back and forth. The Volga, on the other hand, entered the bay bow-first and to port, dropped the anchor, and, using inertia, with minimal use of engines, reversed and ruddered right in a single motion—and was at the pier a minute later. And so it went, no matter the weather. Rovner's ease of control was astounding; even sailors on other ships often commented, "Look, the Volga is coming in, she's going to show everyone her stuff!"
Semyon Leontyevich was good and strong in every way, except for one thing – the “fifth point”...
The "nationality" column in his personnel file stated "Jewish"... They'd tried unsuccessfully to push Rovner "up," numerous times, but... I once asked the district personnel officer why they were dragging their feet on appointing Rovner to the brigade commander position—there was no better candidate! The answer was short and merciless: point five, chances are zero. I suspect this isn't an isolated incident. And we're talking about the 70s and 90s...
Captain Fyodor Yakovlevich Dudkin. A role model.
An ode to Fyodor Dudkin needs to be sung separately...
No, he's not a foul-mouthed person, not harsh, or anything like that. Fyodor Dudkin is a model of intelligence, education, and professionalism, always perfectly shaven and smelling of good cologne. He didn't solve official problems—he acted them out, like a director on a movie set.
He is credited with the aphorism: "A good first mate doesn't need a commander." And he thoughtfully and daily applied this talent to his crew, both sailors and officers. He never interfered with the actions of his subordinates, especially over the heads of their immediate superiors, only occasionally making discreet adjustments. He had a special regard for his first mate and did everything he could to nurture him into a leader.
Before Kamchatka, Dudkin served as a first mate in Kuvshinskaya Salma, Murmansk (military unit 2289) on the PSKR Ametist, project 1124P, captain-lieutenant, hydrofoil of the first crew (built in 1975, decommissioned in 1997), and even earlier - he served on Project 254, a minesweeper, also PSKR Ametist, and its commander was Chuikov Mikhail Semenovich, who in the 80s came to military unit 9870 as chief of staff/brigade commander. In Kamchatka, Dudkin, already in the 1st divisional captain, was the first commander on the PSKR Bezuprechny, project P1124, taking it over from the factory, and came to the PSKR Brest, project 745P, already in 1984.
Commander of PSKR "Brest" pr.745P captain 2nd rank Dudkin Fedor Yakovlevich
Dudkin had his own unique sense of the sea. The ship's officers often wondered how he'd managed to predict the weather forecast before receiving a weather chart, or why he'd chosen this particular anchorage. And then, surprisingly, there was no rough sea there, and the ship could rest peacefully after patrols or anchor in stormy weather, while other ships, twenty cables away, were tossing and turning like tumbleweed.
But Dudkin didn't like "fishing"... He often said that fishing while on duty was lax and corrupting for the crew, although he wasn't at all averse to it... But, as they say, without fanaticism...
Several photographs of this "demagnetization" survive; it all looks quite amusing—the division of the caught red fish into caviar and the carcasses for salting. The crew consumed the caviar throughout the entire voyage, and then looked at it like pearl barley...
All the barrels that the boatswain had stashed away in reserve in the cargo hold (which was designed for 200 tons) were filled with red fish, and all the small containers were filled with caviar...
This is what fishing in the Kuril Islands looks like...
The BC-5 commander is cutting up the fish. Lots and lots of fish and caviar. Northern Kuril Islands
There is another thing connected with this. story.
They were serving in the Sea of Okhotsk, near the Shantar Islands. It was early summer, the fish and crab season was plentiful, and the radar screen was filled with dozens of targets, scattered like sunflower seeds, so that control was limited to the five-mile scale. They were chasing and displacing foreign fishing vessels detected by our fishermen from restricted areas.
And then the captain of one of the collective farm crab fisheries near Komsomolsk-on-Amur got on the radio. He pleaded, "Brothers, help me with fuel! We've still got two weeks of fishing left, and we're already out of fuel. Driving back and forth means we'll miss the catch, and we won't make a damn thing... If you can, give me a couple tons of diesel, don't let me die!"
A crab fisherman is a relatively small vessel that sets kilometers of crab pots, retrieves them, sorts the crab into a welded 2x2x2 meter cube of chain-link mesh, and lowers this cube into a steel cube on the ship's forecastle filled with seawater. Steam from the ship's boiler is fed into this cube, and the crab is boiled for 2-3 minutes. Then, the wire cube is lifted from the "pot" by a lifting boom and lowered evenly into the sea for 5 minutes to cool. Afterwards, the cube is hoisted onto the deck, where the fishermen cut the crab into pieces—legs separately, shells separately—and pack them into paper bags along a conveyor belt, which are immediately sewn shut and lowered into the freezer hold. The entire process runs like clockwork, with the entire crew on deck.
After consulting with the BC-5 commander, the commander gave the go-ahead to "drip" a little fuel onto the fisherman. The bilge operator connected the fuel hose to the crab boat and turned on the fuel pump for just a few seconds. Our fuel level didn't even change, and the crab boat was completely full of fuel...
The fishermen were overjoyed; they tossed us a dozen bags of frozen crab and unloaded one freshly boiled cube of whole crab, a whopping eight cubes of the delicacy. When we said, "Oh, come on, that's too much," the captain replied that their forced return from the catch to the collective farm and back to the fishing grounds would cost them about ten times more, and they'd lose a tremendous amount of catch...
And for the next three weeks, we devoured crabs, first with enthusiasm, then with quiet despondency... For breakfast, lunch, dinner, evening tea, night watches... After a week, the crew was already asking the cook to cook pearl barley, or even dry powdered potatoes - and it would go down a treat!
By the way, the main shortage on the first day was... scissors, especially medical steel ones... But how and with what do you cut up crab legs? How do you get to the meat? The ship's doctor was favored, fortunately you could borrow scissors from him... All in all, it was fun, funny, and delicious.
The commander of the PSKR "Brest", Captain 2nd Rank F.Ya. Dudkin in his cabin
Dudkin also disliked formalism and demanded that the ship's daily plan not be a banal list of activities, but rather precise content—who is responsible for what, and what they do. He often repeated, "Don't write everything down. You must know at any given moment what your crew is doing, and not just in general, but by name." And these weren't just words... Question: "First Mate, where is Petty Officer 2nd Class Zabolotsky now? And who conducts the safety training for the gunners? As the squad leader? After all, he's the duty officer for the lower decks?" And if an officer didn't answer correctly, he didn't get a dressing down, but saw the commander's bewilderment... This was enough to make the superior officer start digging into the ground...
A special aspect of his command training was teaching officers to know, and most importantly, understand, shipboard schedules. The commander himself knew the schedules by heart, which is no surprise—he was the one who compiled them for the project! For him, shipboard schedules were a carefully orchestrated performance, in which roles were assigned not for show, but for life. The crew practiced their actions according to all schedule types in all probable and unlikely conditions—day, night, winter and summer, in daylight and in complete darkness, with partial or complete power outages. Even wearing chemical protection, they practiced damage control, that is, patching holes and fighting fires.
I wouldn't say the crew was particularly fond of following schedules, especially in chemical protection, but everyone understood that anything could happen, and at sea there would be no one to help but themselves. And experience has proven this time and again.
And, of course, Fyodor Dudkin taught me to make decisions without fear and accept responsibility for their implementation or non-implementation. Yes, a decision may be suboptimal, sometimes even erroneous, but a commander or officer shouldn't fear the burden of responsibility. A good officer should be able to promptly admit the error of their decision and not be afraid to reverse it. Only then can the mission be accomplished. If you hesitate for too long, if you avoid making a decision, the decision will ultimately be too late and the mission will be thwarted, while stubbornness in carrying out a mistaken decision can lead to irreversible consequences.
It was after school that Dudkin gained confidence in his own abilities and an understanding that there are no impossible tasks.
Fyodor Yakovlevich also loved… literature. And most of all, Saltykov-Shchedrin. His magnificent "Tales" were sometimes read aloud by the commander in the wardroom, and in the commander's quarters one could often easily hear, "Listen to this..."—and Dudkin would enthusiastically read a few pages aloud.
Once, after listening to yet another chapter, I asked him: "Fyodor Yakovlevich, you're reading today's denunciation! Oh, that's not a good sign; they'll ask again what you're hinting at." His answer was simple and direct: "Well, then let them ban Saltykov-Shchedrin! So much for that?"
Dudkin's personal library in his cabin contained the complete collection of the genius of Russian literature, and, of course, this was reflected in the crew - everyone honored the commander, appreciated and respected him, from the hold sailor to the unit commander.
Dudkin was not a simple man, he was not shy about raising issues in defense of the crew and the ship and could seriously object to his superiors, and they (the superiors) were forced to take him into account - such was the high authority that Fyodor Yakovlevich Dudkin had.
He once remarked to me when I asked him if he was afraid to go against the orders of his superiors: "What's there to be afraid of? Better a clear conscience than a clean face."
There were many simply good commanders; after all, they tried not to keep dead weight in the troops... But commanders of the class and talent of Dudkin, Shcherbina, Rovner, Petlenko were a rare commodity...
And generally, I was lucky with my commanders and command... I remember how one day the brigade commander, while "riding" me to the command chair, cut me off with a beautiful aphorism about a seagull, which we always joked about: "If a seagull lands in the water, expect good weather." After hearing this banality from me while assessing the weather forecast based on visual cues, the brigade commander remarked: "If a seagull is hungry, it can land anyway." I never tried to utter such foolishness in public again...
It was on such a school bench that officers grew upwards and upwards...
My story would be incomplete if I didn't touch on another, rather rare, but unfortunately not unique type - the "no-commander"...
No commander...
He will have no first name, no last name, not even the name of the ship - the ship is not to blame, and the descendants are not to blame either...
I apologize to the reader, but without this type there is no way...
There was such a case...
One day, in the late 1980s, a Project 745P patrol ship was returning from Magadan in late autumn, almost winter. At that time, cyclones were sweeping across the Sea of Okhotsk from the south (from Japan) upstream toward Magadan and Shelikhov Bay, driving a swell from the center of the Sea of Okhotsk—a truly astonishing phenomenon. The swell, along its crest, ran almost parallel to the western coast of Kamchatka, reaching a considerable length and considerable height. The seabed in the coastal zone of Western Kamchatka is very flat, the depths are shallow, and the waves were quite large. These waves were extremely unpleasant and dangerous, as the ship was forced to sail broadside to the swell as far as Cape Lopatka and the First Kuril Strait to reach the eastern coast and return to base.
The pitching was considerable.
That time, the ship was practically empty; there was just enough fuel to reach the base, so-called free surface was present in almost all the fuel tanks, and there was water, which mercilessly added to the rolling experience. Drinking water was also running low. The ship was tossing and turning like a sardine in a barrel. The wind, while not a hurricane, was also blowing to starboard, adding to the turbulence. The effect of the sail area and the waves was, as they say now, synergistic, meaning the rolling from the waves was amplified by the effect of the sail area when the ballast was empty.
After a couple of hours, things were getting troubling: the rocking motion was causing the benches (a chair with a rotating wooden seat) and tables, secured with storm anchors, to fall from their places, and the free surface of the tanks was shaking, further increasing the rocking motion. We had to change course several times, trying to hug the shore and hoping that the shallows (which are now less than 25 meters deep) would absorb some of the waves. It was simply not worth crawling ashore...
But the command did not allow us to settle down; they demanded that we arrive at the base as quickly as possible, taking into account the weather and good seamanship.
By that time, the ship was abandoned—the commander had left for a new Project 1124P patrol cruiser, her first mate had been sidelined by an injury for a long time, and finding a replacement for the command position was difficult. So, the first mate from Project 97P was transferred to Kamchatka from the Baltic, where he had been captaining a Project 205P cutter with a displacement of a whopping 210–250 tons. The commander on board was this poor fellow, who had been unable to pass the independent ship control test for months, and who had no understanding or knowledge of the ship.
He was a fairly straightforward, sometimes even cheerful officer, but he was a lousy commander. He couldn't dock under any conditions, had no understanding of seamanship, and was seasick (or was he simply afraid?), but his superiors kept him around, hoping to drag him back to a sane state. After all, demoting a ship's commander was impossible under any circumstances without incurring serious consequences. To do so would require admitting personnel errors by both the division and the district to the KGB's Personnel Directorate in Moscow. None of the division's command was willing to attempt such a "heroic feat"... And the suffering crew was told: just be patient...
And this time, all the "miracles" repeated themselves. The captain retired to his cabin (or simply ran away?), sent the ZAS radio operator to the first mate to report, and gave the first mate the command to operate the ship, but without recording it in the logbook. Daily border security orders, reports, and encrypted messages were compiled or sent through the first mate, while the main control room watch reacted to this scene in silence, only sighing. The storm intensified, as did the turbulence. The list increased, and the crew secured everything they could. This was a highly complex task; it was extremely difficult to maintain equipment and mechanisms in severe rolling.
In ship theory, there's a parameter called the roll angle. This is the angle at which the ship can't return to an upright position and can capsize. This angle is listed in the ship's logbook (its main book, so to speak, its birth certificate), a thick, gray book with lead covers stamped "Top Secret," filled with special ink on very thick sheets of paper. The logbook lists all the ship's dimensions, volumes, equipment, and so on—down to the millimeter and cubic centimeter.
So, this angle was specified as 58,3 degrees. The commander, first mate, and BC-5 commander are required to know this value; the others are not supposed to know.
After several hours of sailing broadside to the waves, the inclinometer began showing alarming readings. First it was 40, then 45, and that was already obscene… The ship was moving, burning fuel, "floating up," and its stability was declining. The waterline was 1,2–1,5 meters above the waterline. Soon the inclinometer showed 48, then 50 degrees. The captain received a report from the bridge to his cabin (he hadn't gone up to the bridge, but was locked in his cabin) and was asked for a decision. The answer was baffling and outrageous: "Sort it out yourselves." The first mate discussed the situation with the BC-5 commander: there were no options left for continuing the journey—either anchor or a controlled drift against the waves until they subsided. But when the waves subsided—that was a matter of uncertainty… Command refused the suggestion to wait out the storm, citing an acceptable chart of the passing cyclone.
There was a third option—ballasting—but it was postponed due to the significant consequences. The main one was the temporary inoperability of the fuel tanks due to the intake of seawater. For further use, the tanks would have to be washed and evaporated of seawater, which is both labor-intensive and downright dangerous, as fires and explosions most often occur due to safety violations when working in fuel tanks. So, they knew about this option, but tried not to talk about it...
The inclinometer needle had already reached 55 degrees. A watch was posted at the inclinometer, and the watchman announced the list angle. The first mate commanded the helmsman and adjusted the rudder slightly to level the ship. Reports came in: 55, then 56, then 57 degrees.
What does a 55-degree roll mean for Project 745P? Well, it's a bit like walking on a bulkhead instead of a deck... While such roll angles weren't uncommon for Project 97P, although they weren't exactly favored by the crew. The Project 97P's roll angle was also 87 degrees (meaning the ship was perfectly afloat in a nearly horizontal position, as its underwater hull was like a chicken egg, and its weight distribution was excellent), such tricks were structurally impossible for Project 745P.
His Majesty the "kidryk" was crawling across the bridge, everything that could fly was flying around the wheelhouse and chartroom, the clatter of overturned dishes, cisterns, and utensils was heard from the galley, and the delicious naval folklore was in full swing. The signalman on duty had been removed from the upper bridge and was keeping watch at the main control center, the radiometer on duty periodically vomited as little as he could (a tin basin), but he remained at his post. The rest—the helmsman of the watch, the electrician of the watch, the officer of the watch, and the first mate—stood silently, holding onto handrails and equipment, whatever they could.
Meanwhile, the ship's launch had already begun to break free from its moorings, the spars and rigging were creaking, and the mast fittings were creaking alarmingly. As the ship was being laid down broadside, water was being pumped onto the deck. Overall, the situation was extremely tense, and tension was mounting. Of course, the well-sealed hatches, doors, and portholes were ensuring the hull was watertight, but if the ship were to roll onto its side at the angle of the sun, righting it would be very difficult...
The moment had finally arrived—the inclinometer needle was "touching" 58 degrees, and the same value was confirmed from the CPU (the BC-5 central control post)—the inclinometer was more reliable there, as it was located only 2 meters from the keel... We had to quickly turn, but the depths were already, so to speak, outside our comfort zone; the sandy bottom was visible, and we couldn't turn into the wave—the waves there were chaotic, the crests were changing direction, and the risk of capsizing was increasing... A sense of real danger weighed on our brains—what to do?
A dialogue took place with the mechanic:
— CPU (central control post, CP BC-5) — GKP. Your suggestions for improving stability?
- No offers.
— Who's on watch?
— Midshipman so-and-so...
— The commander of the BC-5 in the CPU.
- GKP - CPU. Commander of BC-5.
— Mechanic, any suggestions for improving stability?
— GKP — CPU. Just filling the ballast. But then it'll take a week of steaming.
— Which tanks do you propose to fill?
— Whatever you order. I recommend starboard and port sides, symmetrically.
— What tanks?
- 5th and 6th.
— CPU — GKP! Transfer fuel from 7 and 8 to tanks 3 and 4. Accept ballast in tanks 5, 6, 7, and 8. This is an order, I assume responsibility. Record the order to accept ballast in the log. Report execution.
- Accepted, I will execute.
They transferred fuel to the forward tanks, quickly took on 200 tons of seawater, the ship settled to the waterline, and the critical rolling ceased. The battleship ran like a young ship, as if thanking its clueless riders for ending its torment.
We reported the supply status to the command post. This report is usually sent in the evening, when the 6:00 PM report is made and the decision is made to guard the border for the following day, which begins at 6:00 PM in the border patrol. At the division's draft adjustment command post, the flagship mechanic realized we had taken on water and inquired about the reason. After the first mate and the BC-5 commander reported, he deemed the decision correct.
An hour later, when the pitching had become “normal”—that is, 15–20 degrees—the commander came up to the bridge, asked about the situation, and, having received the first mate’s report, remained silent in confusion, then for some reason became cheerful and did not return to this matter again.
A day later, they arrived at base. They were greeted warmly and immediately gathered in the wardroom for a meeting. Brigade Commander Chuikov was beside himself and cursed the commander in front of all the staff and ship's officers. He shouted, "Who gave the order to take on ballast? Where was the commander? Why didn't you make the decision yourself? Why weren't you on the bridge?" The first mate got into it too... "Why did you order the ballast taken on? Why didn't you ask the commander's permission?" And when the first mate replied, "The decision was the only possible one, the list angles reached 58°, there was no time to coordinate the decision, with the ballast taken on, the dangerous rolling stopped, the ship accomplished its combat mission," the brigade commander asked the flagship engineer, who was present at the meeting. He received the answer, "The decision is correct, but the tanks will have to be steamed," and, lowering his tone, said to the first mate, "Why are you getting so worked up? I'm not scolding you, the decision was correct." "We know the rest ourselves."... The first mate's eyes widened to the size of a porthole... As a result, the first mate wasn't punished, and that's better than any reward... True, since then, every commander has regularly scribbled denunciations of his first mate, and eventually, he managed to get rid of the "competitor"...
This is, in general, the mechanism of the service in the 1980s and 1990s of the last century; such large and small cogs set this enormous machine in motion in the North-East of the country...
Of course, there is the work of headquarters, supplies, personnel and much more outside the scope of this, but without these amazing guys, whose name is the ship's commander, nothing would have happened.
For our commanders! Drive the ram! Don't be greedy...
To be continued.
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