Happy Border Guard Day! Matua Island, 1985...
An archival gift photo for Border Guard Day, 1982. Kamchatka Border District (KBD)
A notification beeps on my smartphone, and a congratulatory message from an old friend on a professional holiday appears on the screen.
- How are you? Are the border guards on patrol both on land and at sea?
- We are vigilant, we do not sleep, we guard the enemy...
- How are you, your health?
- Excellent! My joints creak, my head hurts, I'm on a diet, I have rickets, bronchitis, and thrombophlebitis...
-How did you bring yourself to this?
- Why "brought to you"? If you don't feel any pain in the morning, you're already dead. So get checked out, maybe your gentleman's kit will be expanded!
"No, the whole kit's already in the first aid kit! After Gremikha, few people are healthier... But at least we could go to St. Petersburg, but where are you, Kamchatka-Chukotka aborigines, going?"
- There's no point in being so happy and teasing! We used to go to the sanatorium regularly!
- And how did it help?
- Of course! I've been to a sanatorium twice... and I even got a third health certificate while I was still in the service... Shall we meet and get some treatment?
- Come on, let's meet for the holiday! Let's buzz...
Dedicated to all border guards - infantry, sailors and airmen.
How something was that never was. Continued...
No matter how much it may seem like a novelty, stories about the service of the naval units of the KGB border troops of the USSR constantly descend into the idea that something happened that never happened. And this isn't at all intended to surprise readers, since truly unprecedented things did happen back then, but somehow not to us and not where we were. For us, everything was simpler, more mundane, nothing heroic.
Perhaps, for the holiday – Border Guard Day – it would be appropriate to publish something more pompous, such as, The story of the heroic deeds of the crew and commander of the PSKR "Bditelny" While defending our nuclear submarine base in Avacha Bay. But in everyday life, everyone did what was needed in a specific place at a specific time, and, in fact, service didn't lend itself to intense emotional experiences of the current heroic moment... The quotation marks can be placed anywhere convenient here.
Here is this one story will not be an exception, although it is rather sad, not festive, perhaps... But life is like a vest, white stripes alternating with black ones...
True, the provincial cynics say that the vest has only one stripe - black, but that's a lie.
This story took place back in 1985. Many of the participants are no longer alive, and the memories of those who remain are failing. But there are archives, both public and private, and within them are documents. One of these documents became the invisible author of this story...
Stories typically consist of exposition, a premise, rising action, a climax, and a resolution. To create the necessary tension, the characters are immediately introduced into an extreme, unusual situation, and then the story itself builds. This is both fast and puts the reader in the right frame of mind. This is exactly how it should be done in a work of fiction.
And in reality, it was like this... In August 1984, a young senior lieutenant was appointed executive officer on the Brest patrol cruiser. He wasn't exactly young or green—he already had experience serving on ships of this class, having sailed on the heavier Project 97P. The sea had already become familiar and home to him, and he had completed a number of interesting and challenging missions. All in all, he was a thoroughly experienced sailor and officer. By that time, he feared almost nothing at sea, except drifting to a halt somewhere in the summer in a dead calm... In short, he was quite "too much"—too overconfident, too self-assured, too bold. And too reckless, of course. Although... Behind all this "too much" was not stupidity or recklessness, but confidence in himself and his crew.
By the end of the year (that is, in 3-4 months), the first mate successfully passed the "self-government" test - an exam for admission to independent control of the ship, and was "in complete chocolate" in terms of his career.
Phew, how pompous... I guess the formal part will end here.
The service rolled on as usual. As the seasons changed, so did the service roll on until the New Year of 1985. The ship returned from duty on the Old New Year's Eve, and a rest period lay ahead, followed by scheduled preventive maintenance and repairs (PPO and R), preparation for a new deployment, and so on.
Meanwhile, as drama dictates, a typical, mundane fire, recurring every five to seven years, occurred on the remote island of Matua in the center of the Kuril Islands. And, as drama dictates, it occurred at the same time each year—immediately after the New Year holidays.
Honestly, I don't want to make fun of this tragic incident, but fires at remote border outposts in the Kamchatka Border District were a regular occurrence. The same outposts and facilities would burn at roughly the same time, and no amount of precautions, training, or safety logs could change that. There were "enchanted" places that would burn under any command and under any conditions. They were simply like lepers... Matua was one of those places.
Matua Island
There's an island in the very heart of the Kuril Islands. It's not the most beautiful from the sea, like, for example, Atlasov Island, formerly known as Alaid Island, named after the volcano that forms the island. But Matua is still beautiful in its own way, rising from the ocean as a volcanic peak. Unlike Alaid, Sarychev Volcano, still active today with an average cycle of 25 years, which actually forms Matua Island, has a less regular shape and is quite aged: both the summit has collapses, and the above-water portion of the island has many contour lines. And the second, smaller cone of the volcano forms Toporkov Island (incidentally, a very common name for small islands in the Pacific Ocean; such habitats of puffins commonly provide toponyms for islands and islets throughout the Far East).
Together, they form Dvoinaya Bay, but it's not enclosed—Toporkov Bay is separated from Matua by a small but lively strait with a minimum depth of about 9 meters. Dvoinaya Bay offers the most convenient anchorage, and this spot was already used by the Japanese before World War II. The strait is narrow, just over half a mile (1,3 km to be exact). These small, open spaces create unique anchoring conditions near Matua: constant monitoring of wind direction and strength, and, of course, observation of the current. Any significant change poses the risk of ending up stern-first on the rocks of either Toporkov Bay or Matua Bay if the weather worsens.
Matua. Continuation
The Kuril Islands. Matua Island is in the center.
Let's return to our island. Matua itself is quite small, only 11 km long and almost half as wide (6,5 km), but the summit of Sarychev volcano rises a whopping 1485 meters above sea level (for example, the largest volcano in the Kuril Islands, the same Alaid volcano, has a height of 2339 meters). Powerful eruptions took place here in 1928, 1930, 1946, 1976, and 2009. Incidentally, when Sarychev volcano erupted in 1976, the island's population (the radar company) was evacuated. Defense, for example, to Kamchatka), returned a month later, thank God there were no casualties or destruction.
Matua boasts a rich flora and fauna: bears, foxes, raccoons, roe deer, red foxes, and other wildlife can be found here. Of course, the island is home to rare bird species—reed warblers, round-billed murres, and others—and Toporkov Island is densely populated by a bird colony.
The first mention of Matua Island was found in the writings of Ivan Kozyrevsky, who visited the northernmost islands of Shumshu and Paramushir in 1711 and 1713 and collected extensive information about the entire ridge. He called Matua Motogo Island. Cossack captain Ivan Cherny, who reached Iturup in 1766–1769, called Matua Mutova Island.
In his report he wrote about him:
"Mutova—there's a hill on it, which, according to the Kurilians, burned terribly in recent years, scattering stones across the island so wildly that they even killed many flying birds. All the roots were burned and covered with stones."
In his report he wrote about him:
"Mutova—there's a hill on it, which, according to the Kurilians, burned terribly in recent years, scattering stones across the island so wildly that they even killed many flying birds. All the roots were burned and covered with stones."
Matua Island
"Matua" means "Little Burning Bays" in the Ainu language. The Ainu people lived there permanently until the early 20th century. Matua is known as "Matsua-to" in Japanese, and after the Japanese garrison was stationed there, the decision was made to turn the island into an unsinkable aircraft carrier capable of controlling the entire northwest Pacific Ocean. The Japanese built a large airfield on the island with three (!) runways, ensuring takeoffs and landings in all prevailing wind directions. Furthermore, these runways were heated (!) by water from thermal springs, allowing the airfield to operate year-round, including in winter.
Matua Island airfield diagram, 1943 (Samarin I. A., "History of Matua Island," issue 2, volume 1, Belgorod, Konstanta Publishing House, 2019)
And, of course, given the geography, topography, soil, and natural conditions, the Japanese command made a truly fantastic effort to transform the island into an impregnable fortress, creating a stunning system of underground rock fortifications, united into virtually impregnable fortified areas with multiple redundancies, sophisticated supply systems, and underground/rock galleries. The island was defended by the 41st Separate Japanese Infantry Regiment (commanded by Colonel Ueda).
Map of Matua Island (Matsuwa-to) from Toporkov Island (Iwaki-shima) with firing positions and fire sectors at Cape Klyuv (Tagan-kaku). (Map of the General Staff of the Red Army, M 1:100000, 1944)
Assaulting such an island fortress would have been an extremely difficult task, entailing enormous losses for the attackers. Fortunately, Soviet troops did not have to storm Matua, but the example of the assault on the much flatter and more accessible Shumshu Island (Northern Kuril Islands, north of Paramushir Island) demonstrates the colossal losses our troops would have suffered had they been forced to storm Matua... On August 25, 1945, the Matua garrison surrendered. weapon In front of the Soviet command, 3795 enemy soldiers and officers surrendered, along with 2127 rifles, 81 light machine guns, 464 heavy machine guns, and 98 grenade launchers, but there were no heavy weapons, including aircraft, tanks and guns, as well as artillerymen, pilots and tank crews, were not found on the island.
Incredibly, it was the naval border guards who played a role in the surrender of the Matua Island garrison. On August 24, 1945, at 21:30 PM, the patrol ship Dzerzhinsky of the 60th Naval Border Detachment, carrying a platoon of the 1st Rifle Company of the 302nd Rifle Regiment and Major Mizutsu, chief of operations for the Japanese 91st Infantry Division, departed Kataoka and arrived at the Matua Island roadstead at 14:00 PM on August 25, 1945.
Major Mizutsu landed on a ship's launch under the command of Lieutenant Commander F.A. Bogachenko and delivered the surrender order to Colonel Ueda, commander of the 41st Special Purpose Regiment. At 9:00 PM, the red flag was raised on Matua Island. Major G.D. Kranichfeld, assistant chief of the intelligence department of the KOR headquarters, was appointed commandant of the island (quoted from the text of I.A. Samarin, "History of Matua Island," Issue 2, Volume 1, Belgorod, Konstanta Publishing House, 2019, pp. 135-136).
A view of the SKR Dzerzhinsky of the 60th Naval Border Detachment and Major Mizutsu, who delivered the order of surrender to the Japanese garrison on August 25, 1945. (Samarin, I.A., "History of Matua Island," Issue 2, Volume 1, Belgorod, Konstanta Publishing House, 2019)
There were many rumors in the 70s and 80s about underground warehouses, passages, and galleries, but by that time the entrances to the underground structures had already been successfully blown up, first by the Japanese and then by our sappers. The Japanese did this to hide everything that should not fall into the hands of the enemy (and this has been successfully maintained to this day), and the Soviets did this to prevent the regularly recurring stories of the disappearance of particularly curious personnel and family members of military personnel and civilian personnel living on the island.
The purpose of our story is not to explore the history of the Japanese military conquest of this island and its subsequent reconquest by "new Russian explorers" under the banner of the Russian Military Historical Society and the Geographical Society, under the supervision of high-ranking government officials and other government officials. Those interested can read these stories, as they have been published extensively. This informal story is posted. here, from where I provide this interesting information and photographs with drawings.
The main difference between Matua and Atlasov/Alaid is that the island was inhabited at that time. It was inhabited not only by the Japanese during their occupation of the Kuril Islands, but also by our army, hydrographic service, border guards, and air defense forces after the island's liberation in 1945.
By the beginning of the 70s, a weather station (“hydro-moutchiki”, as the locals called it), the 1st border outpost “Sarycheva” (POGZ-1) of the 60th (Kamchatka) border guard unit, a marine radio-technical RTR company on Cape Klyuv in the north-eastern part of the island (similar to the RTR company in the village of Urelyk (Ureliki) in Chukotka, which I talked about in my previous articles about Chukotka) had settled down on the island. navy), ORLO (separate radar company, also known as RTV PVO), naval post (7 people), guidance post (Air Force), in total there were sometimes up to 250 such “islanders”.
The airfield was used periodically, mainly by PV helicopters, but even the Il-14 landed there under the control of the commander aviation Border troops of the district, Colonel Korshunov.
According to legend, he had permission from the head of the country's defense forces, Army General Matrosov, to fly and land anywhere without restrictions. But by 2000, everyone had already "moved away," as the "Serdyukov-era destruction" had already been in full swing since 1995. Serdyukov himself wasn't yet a minister and hadn't even anticipated such a fortune (he destroyed the country's defense from 2007 to 2012). His predecessors were no worse, they just didn't make such a splash, and they still haven't received the attention they deserve, not only from the state but also from society.
And since December 2021, our Armed Forces – the Bastion missile ship – have once again returned to combat duty on Matua. And thank God…
1 POGZ “Sarycheva”, 60 POGZ, 1990s
The Fire on Matua: The Beginning of the Story
Be that as it may, on the very unpleasant and cold day of January 13, 1985, something happened at the outpost that regularly happens in all northern settlements, outposts, posts, and settlements: a fire. The causes are almost always the same—an electrical short circuit or careless handling of fire (stoves, bathhouses, etc.). Sometimes such a fire can be fatal, consuming everything in the vicinity, leading to the relocation of the base. More often, one or two objects or buildings burn completely, since firefighting capabilities are very limited. Cases of an entire complex of buildings being completely destroyed by fire are extremely rare.
Actually, 1 POGZ "Sarycheva", 60 POGO, early 1990s. Photo from the Pogranichnik.ru forum.
The fire at the outpost, which occurred on Sunday, January 13, 1985, destroyed the main building, forcing personnel to regroup in the remaining residential building. To make matters worse, the outpost commander's wife was already pregnant and was about to give birth. Almost all of the outpost's radio communications equipment, including HF, VHF, and ZAS, burned or malfunctioned. Even a report of the fire was sent to the district through the communication channels of cooperating agencies.
However, this wasn't the first time the outpost had burned, nor would it be the last—the last fire was in January 1999... In fact, January is a magical month for Matua. The outpost was removed in 1999 by an Mi-26 helicopter, hoping to last only until summer, but even then, the outpost wasn't rebuilt.
In 1985, a commission led by the head of the naval department, Captain 1st Rank Vladlen Sargsyan, and a group of district officers, including Captain 2nd Rank Shchegolev from the naval department, the district engineering department, and several other officers, were sent to the outpost to conduct an investigation and provide assistance in restoring the outpost's functioning.
On the morning of January 14, the commander of the PSKR Brest (Project 745P) Captain 2nd Rank Fyodor Yakovlevich Dudkin The task was to take on board construction materials, equipment, and supplies from the KEC for delivery to Matua. The orders were to act quickly and execute the task as quickly as possible. The crew accepted the situation calmly, despite having only recently returned from duty and having had virtually no rest, but helping the "fire victims" clearly took precedence over all other considerations and was understood.
So, around 9 a.m., trucks from the border detachment began arriving at the pier with construction materials and supplies. They began loading all this wealth on board, simultaneously running around and replenishing the ship's stores for the seaward journey. Within a couple of hours, the cargo hold was crammed full with construction materials, supplies, new communication equipment, bunks, and other necessary equipment. By lunchtime, they had loaded up, received orders from headquarters, and announced preparations for battle and the march. Several border guards and construction workers returning from leave were brought from the detachment for delivery to Matua. They departed the base quietly, without noise or alarm, giving the crew a little extra time to rest and prepare the landing craft.
Pacific Ocean, Avacha Bay. Beauty... early morning, November 1985
Already leaving Avacha Bay, the weather began to deteriorate, with snow flurries. The weather map adopted for 4:00 PM didn't bode well; a typical winter cyclone was already visible to the south, emerging from China and heading across Japan and the Kuril Islands. Basically, everything was as usual: a mission, an order, points A and B designated, and we act accordingly. On the way to Matua, we were notified that the patrol cruiser Volga was en route, carrying a helicopter and Captain 1st Rank Sarkisyan, the district's head of the marine department. Perhaps this was no longer necessary for us: working according to the situation in full view of our superiors is no fun; many things will have to be done "as required," not "as needed," something ship crews, like those "on the ground," dislike everywhere and always. The itch to "leader" was also entirely to be expected.
The Volga cruiser with a helicopter on board
The distance from the base to Matua is only about 420 miles, meaning that at a cruising speed of 10,8 knots (cruising… for the Project 745P, that term is a compliment), the ship will be anchoring in Dvoynaya Bay between Toporkov Island and Matua in 38–40 hours, at night, around midnight. That would be true, but…
From the Fourth Kuril Strait to Matua, the weather deteriorated significantly, with a cyclone approaching from the south. Seas reached force 7–8, as sailors said at the time, "the sea was uneven, and the wind was raging." Passing through the straits was extremely unpleasant, the ship's rolling unnerved the cook, construction workers and outpost guards lay heaped together, mercilessly spoiling the still life, and crawling "passengers," clinging to the corridor bulkheads, greatly disturbed the crew and prevented them from enjoying the full beauty of the seascape. The only consolation was that all this would be short-lived, and the extra cutlets remained, just the thing to console them.
They entered the strait between Toporkov and Matua towards the anchorage site already in the early morning, began to look for a comfortable place for anchoring and after several attempts dropped anchor, getting close enough to Toporkov, if not right next to it, to reduce the impact of wind and waves and at the same time to firmly cling the anchor to the ground.
A peculiarity of anchoring at Matua was that the current was almost always from the north into the strait. A sunken Japanese vessel lay/stood just above the middle, and the Matua coastline itself was littered with rocks and cliffs. The only notable feature was a 40-60-meter stretch of the Matua shoreline, specially prepared and equipped for landings by the Japanese with a concrete slipway, the so-called "Slipway No. 1." The rocks themselves were likely removed from this section by the Japanese. However, this landing site also had a downside: due to its uniqueness and frequent landings using the ferry, the coastal waters were littered with mooring lines and ropes left over from the crossings, including those of various origins—hemp, nylon, and polyamide.
All this fluttered about in the water, breaking apart in stormy weather, unwinding, and becoming unraveled, making reeling this delight onto a propeller, or even worse, onto a shaft line, a mere trifle. This "fortune" was compounded by a natural factor: the entire strait on both sides was densely covered with kelp, or seaweed, as it's commonly known. To complete the picture, it should be noted that the seaweed leaves were extremely long—meters and tens of meters—which, in the nearby coastal strip, created a veritable seaweed cushion. Scurrying back and forth with boats was dangerous even in calm weather, and immediately after a storm, practically impossible. Furthermore, in stormy weather, any landing on Matua was both impossible and prohibited by regulations.
Such seaweed fields undoubtedly make it impossible for propeller-driven vessels to operate in the waters. One can only imagine what happens in stormy weather...photo from I.A. Samarin's book
Fyodor Dudkin was a very experienced sailor and knew the theatre thoroughly, so the choice of command was perfectly suited to the task at hand.
Captain 2nd Rank Fedor Yakovlevich Dudkin, commander of the PSKR "Brest". 1986
The weather was harsh, but familiar—the typhoon's core had passed the center of the Kuril Islands, the wind had died down to 15 meters per second, and the waves were coming from the north through the strait and were now light—no more than 2 meters high near the shore. There was a constant, strong current in the strait, amplified by the wind, but the waves were effectively dampened by both islands, and the waves at the ship's side never rose above 3-4 points.
A brief digression: What is an anchorage?
What is a ship's anchorage? It's not a single point where the ship is immovably anchored. To anchor a ship, the anchor itself is dropped into a spot in the ground with sufficient, preferably maximum, holding power. These are soft to medium-weight soils, primarily sandy, clayey, or sandy with shells. In these soils, the Hall anchor (typical for our fleet's surface ships) sinks deep with its flukes; when the chain is pulled in, it is sucked in and bites deep, and the holding power is very high. However, anchors do not hold rocky and stony soils, as well as sludge.
Hall's anchor from the Red October plant. A beauty!
The seabed in Dvoynaya Bay is predominantly sandy, offering good holding power. According to good seamanship, the length of the anchor chain to be released for a 1500-ton ship (Project 745P) is between 150 and 220 meters, or 6-8 links (a link is a standard section of anchor chain joined into a chain by connecting links, and is generally accepted as 25 meters). The length of the anchor chain to be released for a secure anchorage is determined by the seabed, anchoring depth, displacement, and weather. In fair weather and light current, a ship of this displacement releases 3-4 links (75-100 meters); in moderate winds and currents, 5-6 links; and in stormy conditions, 7-10 links, or 180-250 meters, are required.
But the matter doesn't end there. The ship "spins" around the anchor along the entire length of the anchor chain, depending on the wind and current direction, and the picture becomes more complex: from the point where the anchor is dropped, we measure the length of the anchor chain, plus the length of the ship, plus the current speed and the "sailing" speed due to the wind, multiplied by the time it takes to start the engines and set the speed in motion. The current in Dvoynaya Bay is 2-4 knots, but in stormy weather the speed increases significantly and can reach (I've personally experienced this, I'd say) 6-8 knots—which is no joke. Thus, the danger zone is approximately 250 + 60 + 4 knots X for 5 minutes (620 m), which ultimately gives almost a kilometer... Well, the instruction NPSKR-78 (maybe the date was different, I don’t remember) and the order of the Chairman of the KGB limited the minimum distance of anchoring to the shore by an isobath of 20 meters, and only in case of extreme necessity - 10 meters, while observing due diligence under the responsibility of the ship’s commander.
It's unusual to use "meters and kilometers" when describing distances in maritime practice; cable lengths and miles are more familiar... So, anchoring in Dvoynoy Bay is no easy walk to a barbecue, especially in stormy weather. Despite the bay's 1300-meter width (though, frankly, this is the narrowest part; in reality, anchoring is chosen further south, with the distance between the shores there being about 2,5-4 km, or 1,5-2,2 miles), several spots are suitable for anchoring, and the main engines have to be kept ready to start and reach full throttle within about two minutes... Otherwise, hello to the most beautiful rocks of the Kuril Islands, within reach... not of an anchor chain, unfortunately, but of an arm's length. With all the accompanying "add-ons"—a report of a navigational incident (at best, if you can get off the rocks yourself) or a navigational accident, or, God forbid, a disaster... Then—commissions, suspension from duty for the duration of the investigation, an order "to reward those who don't participate and punish the innocent," a vigorous (though far worse) kick out of the service, or being relegated to such a low position within the service that even leaving without a pension and your belongings seems like a relief... In short, there are many possibilities. And all for one reason, as a rule: failure to observe the rules of good seamanship. But let's not dwell on the sadder things; the story described ended, one can confidently say, happily: everyone is alive, the damage is unpleasant, but within the limits of the situation.
Matua. The crossing begins
Before the Brest's arrival, the patrol cruiser Volga entered the roadstead and dropped anchor. Chief of Naval Officer Sarkisyan and district and detachment officers had already landed, investigating the cause of the fire and determining further measures to contain the aftermath and restore the situation. He also organized the reception of personnel and cargo from the boat and pontoon, bringing several outpost personnel ashore with him, both those heading "to the mainland" and those remaining on Matua.
It should be noted that Chief of Naval Affairs Vladlen Sargsyan was a very active man, a literate and intelligent sailor, but he loved to give orders and direct everyone; simply standing still and silently was beyond his capabilities. He was generally respected, even loved, but, as a highly emotional person, he often caused confusion, albeit with good intentions. Like any native of the Caucasus, Sargsyan was susceptible to flattery, and the very system of the time (and is it not so today?) contributed to this. And when times changed... After the collapse of the Soviet Union, I had the opportunity to meet him informally, and our former Chief of Naval Affairs was deeply offended by the dismissive attitude of his former subordinates and other superiors, old and new, who by then had dropped their masks and did not consider it necessary to even observe basic courtesy toward those who had retired from service and position and were not overtly or visibly influential. Vladlen Sargsyan defended his actual or not-so-tough-but-correct decisions in the 80s, constantly asking, "How can this be? Just recently, these new/old 'colleagues' carried him in their arms, greeted him with cognac, but then he retired—and they forgot about him the next day, not even bothering to nod at casual encounters..." It was bittersweet to watch...
But let's not deviate from the party line... Let me remind you that this was January 1985, not the July heatwave... Snow flurries occurred intermittently, visibility sometimes dropped to near zero, and the wind could suddenly increase from 12-15 to 25-27 m/s, lashing down from the island's heights. The shoreline itself, 5-15 meters wide, was gentle, then a sandy and rocky slope rose upward at an angle of approximately 70 degrees and an altitude of approximately 55 meters above sea level to the plateau where the border outpost and the Sarychev micro-settlement itself were located, along with the "hydro-mud workers," lighthouse keepers, and other civilian and other residents of the island.
At a leisurely pace, the landing craft were prepared on board, and arrangements were made for the delivery of cargo and people ashore. The boatswain and the motormen worked on the cutter and the inflatable pontoon, while the skipper and his crew assembled lines, nylon and vegetal lines, fenders, and other "gadgets." The daily bustle of life was underway on board; the next shift had taken up its watch, and the cutter crew and his crew were preparing to establish the crossing and unload passengers and cargo.
From now on, I'll try to follow a document from that time—a report from the first mate to the ship's commander, accidentally preserved in the archive, with traces of the commander's edits:
To the commander of the PSKR "Brest".
Report.
I hereby report that on January 16th I received the task of reaching the unloading area, assessing the situation and establishing a crossing at Dvoynoy Bay to concrete slipway No. 1, delivering the cargo to the Sarycheva PZ, which had suffered a natural disaster, and transporting a group of officers from the 60th PO and KPO to work at the outpost.
During the mission, the wind was 310 degrees, 12 m/s, sea state 3, visibility 4-6 miles. After receiving a briefing from the ship's commander on safety precautions for loading and unloading personnel and cargo, and ensuring the safety of the boat and pontoon, I departed the ship by boat and approached the ferry site, inspecting the landing area. The pontoon's speed allowed it to safely approach the concrete slipway and back. At a distance of approximately 80 meters, I used the AL-1 linethrower to launch a line ashore near the slipway, holding it in place with a cleat launched from the boat. The outpost personnel retrieved the line and a nylon guide, securing the latter to the shore. After assessing the situation from the boat, I reported to the ship that a landing via the ferry was possible.
Report.
I hereby report that on January 16th I received the task of reaching the unloading area, assessing the situation and establishing a crossing at Dvoynoy Bay to concrete slipway No. 1, delivering the cargo to the Sarycheva PZ, which had suffered a natural disaster, and transporting a group of officers from the 60th PO and KPO to work at the outpost.
During the mission, the wind was 310 degrees, 12 m/s, sea state 3, visibility 4-6 miles. After receiving a briefing from the ship's commander on safety precautions for loading and unloading personnel and cargo, and ensuring the safety of the boat and pontoon, I departed the ship by boat and approached the ferry site, inspecting the landing area. The pontoon's speed allowed it to safely approach the concrete slipway and back. At a distance of approximately 80 meters, I used the AL-1 linethrower to launch a line ashore near the slipway, holding it in place with a cleat launched from the boat. The outpost personnel retrieved the line and a nylon guide, securing the latter to the shore. After assessing the situation from the boat, I reported to the ship that a landing via the ferry was possible.
Dry and to the point. A common maritime practice is constructing a ferry for landing on an unimproved coast. The key here is to securely anchor or cleat the ferry so it doesn't get torn away during landing or departure. Sometimes this takes a long time – if the ground isn't holding well, another suitable location with good holding power is selected through trial and error. Otherwise, the mission could be lost, and both the landing craft and, God forbid, the crew could be lost.
Let's continue:
After this, I approached the ship to retrieve the cargo and passengers. After taking on the passengers and some officers returning from PZ-1, I took them on board from the pontoon and began transferring the remaining radio communications equipment. I gave the pontoon a short tow, took the pontooners aboard, and proceeded to the ferry. At the ferry, I transferred the cargo to the pontoon and disembarked the passengers. The pontoon approached the slipway, unloaded, and remained there awaiting the boat's next passage.
The boat approached the ship and took on board the remaining radio communications equipment. The ship's captain instructed me on how to ensure the safety of the crossing, after which I departed the ship's side and headed for the crossing.
The boat approached the ship and took on board the remaining radio communications equipment. The ship's captain instructed me on how to ensure the safety of the crossing, after which I departed the ship's side and headed for the crossing.
The launch of a Project 338M RK workboat onto the Brest patrol cruiser. In the hatchway is the boatswain, Warrant Officer Ternovykh, a heroic participant in that landing. 1985.
The first part of the task is complete; people and cargo have been delivered to shore, and everything is proceeding as usual. Moving on... Now we need to pick up the people from the shore by pontoon and deliver them to the ship. It seems like a simple matter, assuming everything remains as is, the crossing is held by an anchor, and the shore support personnel can calmly do their job – secure the pontoon until the boat meets it. To ensure everything works as expected, a shore-boat-pontoon communication channel is coordinated, and the specifics of any anticipated actions are agreed upon. Basically, the usual routine of good maritime practice.
During this period, the wind increased to 17–19 m/s, and the height of the surge was 1,5–1,7 m. The pontooners, having taken passengers onto the pontoon, went out along the ferry to the boat.
Well, it seemed like that was it, the hardest part was over – the pontoon carrying the crew had pulled away from the shore and, keeping to the ferry, was heading toward the anchorage to await the boat and be towed to the ship. But... His Majesty, chance...
During their movement, Captain 2nd Rank Shchegolev, who was on the shore, gave the order to the PZ personnel to select a crossing guide, as a result of which the pontoon was torn from the ground and the crossing, together with the pontoon and the passengers on it, began to drift onto the rocks.
To say this was bound to lead to disaster is probably an overstatement. After all, if the ferry line and pontoon were pulled out very quickly, it would be possible to avoid the pontoon being washed ashore by pulling it onto a concrete slipway. But for that to happen, Shchegolev, the officer in command on shore, would have to understand this, and he showed no such understanding. He didn't notify the boat of the crossing failure, and what he was thinking anyway is a mystery...
In this situation, I decided to approach the pontoon and take on passengers, which I did. To ensure the safety of the boat and the passengers, I towed the pontoon 100-120 meters from the disrupted crossing. In clear water, I took on board the passengers from the pontoon, including the outpost captain's pregnant wife. Since the boat was overloaded, I gave the order to transfer the cargo (communications equipment) from the boat to the pontoon, which was done. Some of the cargo was packed in crates with metal fasteners, which, if the cargo shifted in rough seas, could have caused the pontoon to rupture and the loss of the expensive equipment.
Having assessed this situation, I decided to tow the pontoon to the crossing to prevent loss of cargo from a possible break or capsizing while rolling.
Having assessed this situation, I decided to tow the pontoon to the crossing to prevent loss of cargo from a possible break or capsizing while rolling.
An example of the Matua crossing. This is roughly what it looks like, except the ferry rope and the buoy for the ferry anchor are not visible.
Well, there's no turning back... The boat's commander had placed too much hope in the maneuver's impending success. He probably should have towed the pontoon with passengers and cargo to the side of the ship, unloaded the crew, and only then proceeded to the shore to unload the cargo from the pontoon and the boat. This would have taken a long time, and the second landing would have had to be postponed until the following day, before dusk. But there were also circumstances that pushed the boat's commander to tow the pontoon to the shore: the boat was overloaded, sitting in water not even up to the gunwale, but practically to the very top; any small wave would penetrate the boat and inevitably lead to partial loss of buoyancy, which was dangerous for everyone on board; and, of course, there was the deteriorating visibility, increasing wind, rough seas, and the risk of the pontoon capsizing; darkness was approaching; and the chief of the navy was urging him from the shore not to drag things out and quickly unload the communications equipment at the outpost. Ultimately, a decision was made that turned out to be unfortunate. The situation is worse than the governor's...
So, in addition to the usual challenges of crossing in rather difficult conditions, where, according to the documents, landing on the shore is generally prohibited, the human factor on the shore has been added... But let's move on...
As they approached the crossing, a drogue was released from the stern of the boat. However, due to the large windage of the pontoon and the boat, and the drogue's failure, the boat and pontoon were carried by the coasting force toward the rocks, which were approximately 8-10 meters away, within 10-15 seconds. Believing that the pontoon could be safely pulled out by those on shore, I decided to back away from the rocks, but the propeller became entangled in seaweed, which wrapped tightly around it as it spun. Attempts to turn the propeller at high speeds were unsuccessful. Sailor Grachev, from the pontoon, attempted to free the propeller, but a Japanese nylon rope immediately became entangled in the shaft line.
Let's think about this for a minute: "...sailor Grachev attempted to free the propeller from the pontoon..." This means that sailor Grachev, leaning over the side of the pontoon and held by the pontoon crew by his legs, submerged himself completely, reached for the boat's propeller with a knife, the draft of which at the propeller group was approximately 60 cm and the depth of the hull from the transom was approximately half a meter. He practically freed the propeller of seaweed, and attempted to free the propeller and the boat's shaft line from the nylon rope with his hands, all in sea state 3-4. He made two such attempts. This is simply a heroic act by an ordinary sailor...
After Grachev's unsuccessful attempt, Ternovykh, the boatswain, attempted to reach under the boat's transom and crank the propeller line, at least temporarily freeing the propeller and allowing the boat to break the ropes and seaweed at high speeds and bounce the boat away from the approaching ridge of rocks, where the entire boat-pontoon combination was being carried by the heavy windage. But this attempt, too, was unsuccessful. The combination was drifting toward the rocks, which were already visible from the boat and pontoon—the water was crystal clear, and the depth above the rocks was already about two meters. Everyone understood everything, and if the drift had continued without strong surf, the passengers would have gotten off with a mild fright and a short swim for the crews. But they were drifting toward the boulders, the wind and current raised the surf to a high altitude, and the situation was hopeless.
This is a long story to write and a long story to read. In reality, time was measured in seconds, and those seconds ticked ominously in the boat commander's head, while the other crew members were equally aware of the danger. Adding to the drama was the fact that the boulders weren't just on the shoreline. The immediate bottom south of the concrete slipway was littered with boulders, and it was over these that the boat-pontoon combination was carried. This meant the water depth above the boulder was a meter or so, and between them, it could have been as deep as two or two and a half meters... Read on for the report...
The boat was washed ashore on the rocks within 5-7 seconds. Since the water depth where the boat landed was 150-170 cm, I took all measures to free the propeller and move away from the rocks on the wave. Another 10-15 seconds later, the boat was washed ashore to a depth of about a meter, with the passing wave creating a list of up to 40 degrees.
Such a list from the breaking wave meant only one thing: evacuate the boat and pontoon immediately, otherwise the next "ninth" wave would completely overturn both the boat and the pontoon, along with the people and cargo, and if you were lucky, you'd survive with multiple fractures, but if... Anyway, time no longer rumbled by seconds; tenths and hundredths of a second were beating at your brain like a club... A decision had to be made. And...
Ice bath. Will you please?
I made the decision to remove the passengers from the boat.
At this point, a wave approximately 1,7 meters high tilted the boat on the rocks to 78–80 degrees. Ordering the crew to abandon the boat and rescue the passengers, I jumped out of the boat and, together with the boat crew, began rescuing the passengers before the next wave arrived, which could capsize the boat. Everyone on board was hoisted off the boat and carried over the rocks to shore. All boat personnel acted quickly, courageously, without panic, maintaining order, demonstrating initiative, and bravery.
At this point, a wave approximately 1,7 meters high tilted the boat on the rocks to 78–80 degrees. Ordering the crew to abandon the boat and rescue the passengers, I jumped out of the boat and, together with the boat crew, began rescuing the passengers before the next wave arrived, which could capsize the boat. Everyone on board was hoisted off the boat and carried over the rocks to shore. All boat personnel acted quickly, courageously, without panic, maintaining order, demonstrating initiative, and bravery.
This meant that the crew, on command, jumped out of the boat, plunging waist-deep, chest-deep, into the icy water (remember, January 16th, the Central Kuril Islands, the Pacific Ocean), sinking between rocks up to their chins. They began to take passengers from the boat, including the outpost captain's wife, who was nine months pregnant, and carry them ashore over boulders and smaller rocks. The icy water, literally icy, immediately penetrated their clothing, seared their skin like fire, froze their joints, and quickly crept up to their hearts. It took their breath away, all sorts of silly thoughts briefly entered their heads, and their legs quickly filled with ice and refused to obey. All their joints, like those of an iron man, suddenly felt completely "rusted." But they had to walk to shore, carry the passenger, and God forbid they dropped them or bathed them in this suddenly vicious water...
Thanks to Chief of Naval Operations Sarkisyan – this is the first time I’ve seen such a thing: a full captain of the first rank poured pure alcohol from a flask for every sailor, petty officer, warrant officer, or officer leaving the water, without exception, and made them drink it. Then he made them run around the fire on the shore, which they had lit before the crossing “to warm up,” and then sent them up to the outpost, after at least partially changing the people, who were soaked in the icy water, into clothes taken from the shore crew.
But, having evacuated the crew from the boat and pontoons, the boat's commander, the boatswain, and a couple of sailors had to take measures to save the boat from being completely destroyed by the sea's slamming into the coastal boulders. This meant they continued to work in the water, in wet gear, frozen like puppies, with their teeth pounding and their breathing and heartbeats half-stopped. The report dryly describes it this way:
After the passengers had disembarked, the boat's crew took steps to pull the boat ashore to prevent it from being destroyed by the waves.
However, the boat's heavy weight prevented it from being pulled to safety, and the low water temperature made it impossible for the crew to remain in it, working waist-deep and chest-deep in icy water for about ten minutes. Therefore, I ordered everyone to exit the water and run to a fire lit on the shore for warmth and a change of clothing. The crew changed clothes at the fire and departed for the outpost, where they were given additional clothing and fed. There were no colds, and all personnel were healthy.
However, the boat's heavy weight prevented it from being pulled to safety, and the low water temperature made it impossible for the crew to remain in it, working waist-deep and chest-deep in icy water for about ten minutes. Therefore, I ordered everyone to exit the water and run to a fire lit on the shore for warmth and a change of clothing. The crew changed clothes at the fire and departed for the outpost, where they were given additional clothing and fed. There were no colds, and all personnel were healthy.
Digression Two. Seawater in Winter. Matua Island
Now, a quick note. Everything described took place in mid-January 1985. According to the Sea of Okhotsk navigation manual (book 1406, issue 1), during this period, the average water temperature in this part of the Kuril Islands ranges from minus 1,5 to plus 2 degrees Celsius. The freezing point of seawater in this part of the Sea of Okhotsk and the Pacific Ocean is minus 4,2 degrees Celsius, due to the relatively high salinity. As local hydro-mudders reported the day after the first landing, in response to an official inquiry, the water temperature at the time of the landing was minus 2,4 degrees Celsius. Now, all the circumstances under which the events described took place are laid out in full. So...
And one more quick fact: a person in water at this temperature can survive no more than 5–8 minutes, after which cardiac arrest and death occur. You can read about this, for example. here.
Table No. 1 provided in this study leaves no room for the polemical game of “it’s fun to swim in cold water” – a person is given less than 2 minutes for conscious actions, exhaustion and loss of consciousness occurs with a cooling time of no more than 15 minutes, and this is at a water temperature of plus 0,3 degrees Celsius and in equipment.
It also concluded that "Even conscious people removed from cold water or extreme cold cannot be expected to help themselves. Their muscle rigidity, uncoordinated grasping, and decreased cardiac function may make it dangerous for them to move, walk, assist in a rescue, or survive without horizontal transport to safety."
The dire consequences of rapid hypothermia were demonstrated five years later in Chukotka, when a sailor attempted to swim a short distance, about 100 meters, in Komsomolskaya Bay in July 1991 and died almost halfway through his final swim. This was also demonstrated by the death from hypothermia of most of the Tu-16 crew in Avacha Bay on February 26, 1986.
Let me remind you that the sadists calling themselves "doctors" of the German Air Force, conducting inhumane "research" on Soviet prisoners of war in the Dachau concentration camp during the Great Patriotic War from August 1942 to May 1943, as part of their "research" on the possibility of rescuing German pilots in the northern seas (for example, the article by Dr. Robert L. Berger in the New England Journal of Medicine "Nazi Science - The Dachau Hypothermia Experiments", May 17, 1990), killed, according to various estimates, more than 300 people by cooling them in ice baths...
The report talks about ten minutes, and this is not just a catchphrase – everything happened in front of a dozen people on the shore and dozens on ships, from which observation was carried out by signalmen through a BMT-110 (a binocular marine telescope from the Kazan Optical and Mechanical Plant with a magnification of 20x).
So, a picnic in nature, the miraculous sea air, a beautiful landscape, a gentle swim, a bracing breeze—what's the point of whining? That's roughly how today's "blohers," who've never held anything but a keyboard, cynically put it.
That's right, no one complained, the second entry into the water was much easier, it seemed like my muscles and joints were starting to thaw, even my breathing improved for a couple of dozen seconds... But the boulders were such that any movement of the three-ton boat was impossible, and the risk of a wave capsizing it was enormous... After reporting over the radio that the boat couldn't be moved and deciding to take the crew ashore, the rescue operation was called off. They headed to Sargsyan, reported the situation, received their rations of SHKV (stolen ship's awl), and began the ascent to the outpost.
The climb up was difficult – a very steep angle, a strong storm wind (at least it was mostly in our favor, because the path was a zigzag with almost 180-degree turns), the wet gear immediately became covered in ice (the dry gear on the shore ran out, and there was no longer the strength to wait for clothes and change), and it was no longer a person walking, but a simple miracle in a spacesuit that also rattled in the wind, and his frozen legs did not move, his chest simply turned to stone, and he could no longer feel his heart...
The end of the report is also dry and angry... Perhaps this paragraph prevented the usual course of events during the debriefing...
I believe that the reasons for the boat being washed ashore were: 1) difficult hydrometeorological conditions during the landing; 2) lack of communication between the boat and the shore; 3) unauthorized actions that led to the failure of the crossing; 4) an error in assessing the situation and the possibility of towing the pontoon to the ship.
I would like to acknowledge the decisive and selfless actions of Ms. Makukha, Senior Surgeon Lazukin, Ms. Grachev, Ms. Ternovykh, and Ms. Oreshkov.
January 21, 1985
Senior Lieutenant...
I would like to acknowledge the decisive and selfless actions of Ms. Makukha, Senior Surgeon Lazukin, Ms. Grachev, Ms. Ternovykh, and Ms. Oreshkov.
January 21, 1985
Senior Lieutenant...
There were indeed no colds; that's phenomenal, but it's a fact. But the consequences of this caught up with one of the ship's officers later, about six months later... The ship's BC-5 commander (a mechanic) died of pneumonia and a complex of systemic diseases, the outbreak of which was triggered by this incident.
That's the whole story, if you look at it from the classic perspective, but... We have border service, an unusual service! The story is just beginning there...
The end? No, the story continues.
Having climbed up to the island's plateau and somehow reached the outpost—let me remind you that only the main outpost building burned down—everyone moved into the residential building housing the outpost's officers and warrant officers. Everyone arriving from the shore was changed into dry clothes, fed and given hot tea, and the people, after fidgeting a bit, fell asleep.
And in the morning, the second part of the Marlezon Ballet began—the second attempt to deliver the remaining cargo from the ship to shore and to remove the ship's personnel and outpost soldiers heading on leave and business trips from the outpost, as well as other people from the island for delivery to Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky.
The situation was as follows. Our Project 745P patrol cruiser Brest and the Project 97P patrol cruiser Volga, each with a helicopter on board, were moored at anchor. The weather was initially unfavorable for flights, so the Brest was tasked with using its second boat to deliver and unload personnel and cargo, and to carry out an operation to recover the workboat that had been stranded the previous day. Here, of course, it's important to note the following: the Project 745P has two boats—a rescue boat (a Project 338M or P workboat on the port side) and a starboard rescue boat with a capacity of 37 (a 3SShPM37 with a 3D6 engine, common in the MChPV). The rescue boat was tasked with this operation.
The commander of BC-5 was entrusted with command of the boat; the operation did not raise any particular concerns; there were enough sailors from the ship on shore to assist and direct the crossing, which, given their experience, did not pose any difficulties.
But the real story took a different course: as the boat approached the shore, it, like the workboat, became entangled in seaweed and nylon ropes around its propeller, and no attempts to free the propeller or shaft line were successful. Unfortunately, the boat was washed up on rocks even further from the crossing and was so tightly tangled among the boulders that even a deliberate attempt would have been impossible. Fortunately, there were no passengers on board, and only the boat's crew got wet, having to climb out over the rocks to the shore.
At dawn, the workboat lying on the rocks was inspected. It was a sad sight: battered sides, holes all over the hull, the keel pierced in several places, and filler and structural components spilling out like entrails. It was clear that repairs were only possible in a fairy tale. The first mate dejectedly calculated how many years of useless service it would have to serve to pay for this hopeless undertaking. The boatswain was equally saddened. However, there was no time to cry – the order was given to attempt to lift it from the rocks and bring it to the ship. It shouldn't sink – all cavities were filled with polystyrene, ensuring buoyancy. But then the first mate asked not just for orders to tow the boat to the ship, but for an entry in the logbook – the risk of ruining this marvel of shipbuilding was approximately 90 percent.
Ultimately, higher powers intervened in the matter – a decision was made to remove the personnel and passengers from the shore using the Volga patrol boats and a helicopter (weather permitting), since all of the Brest’s watercraft were on the rocks.
With great difficulty, the next day this was accomplished, everyone returned to their native lands, and the ship's crew breathed a sigh of relief...
Why? After all, the ship's watches had to be kept for both ourselves and those slacking off ashore! That meant four hours on, four hours off, or nonstop, for almost three days. The workload, let's say, wasn't for the faint of heart, and it's worth remembering that throughout this period, command, to put it mildly, kept everyone on edge and kept everyone on their toes. Radio traffic was off the charts, the weather wasn't ideal, and we had to change anchorages several times—either the wind would shift, forcing the ship's stern toward the shore, and the anchor would drift, or the current would capsize, with the same consequences. And yet, only about 30% of the crew were on board, not counting those "vacationing" ashore. Of those remaining, a significant number were from the new autumn recruitment, meaning they hadn't even yet passed their accreditation for independent management.
The commander didn't wipe his feet on the first mate – he was hard enough to look at anyway... After listening to a detailed report from his senior assistant, Dudkin encouraged him with a simple phrase – "It could have been worse, don't worry about it – there were no casualties, no injuries to personnel or passengers, the situation was difficult, and in the future, keep a large reserve of "fool's money" and don't let outsiders get involved in maritime affairs."This advice made the first mate breathe easier, but the nail in the right place kept him from relaxing for a long time.
In Arkady Gaidar's children's stories, such tales ended with the phrase, "Tired but happy, we returned home." Let's not break with tradition—very tired, but happy—that we were alive and hadn't suffered any passenger losses, and the first mate was happy that he wouldn't be court-martialed or fired. So there were plenty of reasons to rejoice, although everyone has their own!
The boats were not removed from the rocks at that time – the weather was not favorable, and the chief of the navy did not allow risking another boat, this time from the Volga patrol boat.
Afterword
Two days later, the ship returned to base, and after a debriefing, which was unexpectedly gentle and almost painless, the first mate was given something like a severe or mild reprimand (the story is silent on this). However, he was spared any financial liability—everything happened under the watchful eye of senior command and with his own involvement. How could one possibly explain the role of the district's naval officer, who ordered the shore crews to pull the ferry, which was the cause of the emergency? Anyway, it was hushed up, and thank goodness for that.
A few months later, the boats were removed from the Matua rocks and delivered to base. Shipmen from across the division gazed with mild awe at the "guts" and marveled at how everything had gone so smoothly and without losses.
The most advanced ones asked the first mate about “advanced experience,” but after receiving a punch in the nose, they quietly retreated.
And so ended the naval portion of the epic story known as the "fire at the Sarychev border outpost on Matua Island" back in 1985. The outpost was restored, but I don't know the details...
Border service continued, and the words of the famous song “From Moscow to the very outskirts / from the southern mountains to the northern seas” were not at all abstract.
It's a service, my friend... However, doing what is forbidden and impossible in principle, that is, doing what has never been done, that's the whole point of military service. Border service included.
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