The 39 Combined Army, into which the officer service abandoned me, was part of the Trans-Baikal Military District and was stationed in Mongolia. For five years in the position of deputy commander of an artillery reconnaissance battery, I have seen enough of our army life, and have heard a lot more. Everything seen and heard formed the basis of army tales, without which our service would be dull and gray.
The battery foreman, Ensign Simagin, had a reputation of a strong and zealous owner in the regiment. Next to the barracks, the foreman equipped a cold capter and dragged in there everything that was “bad” in the regiment. Considering that in Mongolia there is a large shortage of building materials, the porter was dug up in the ground and looked more like a dugout. The similarity with it added and the overlap in two rolls of empty shell boxes. Ten steps leading down steeply led to a massive door, on which the sergeant’s pride flaunted — a large granary lock.
On one of the winter evenings, Simagin stayed behind after the release, a friend from a nearby battery came to pay for the paint he had taken the day before. Having persuaded a bottle of alcohol, having smoked, and having talked for life, the friends parted. Having guided the guest, already at the exit from the barracks, Simagin remembered
- Mother honest! I have a stash in the dugout! Here is the continuation of the banquet!
Whistling cheerfully, the foreman resolutely moved to the cold capter. Carefully descending the stairs, Simagin was in front of the granary castle, thickly covered with frost. The key inserted into the lock did not turn.
- Well, your mother is so! Frozen infection! - the foreman quietly swaggered and reached into his pocket for matches. Matches in their pockets were not left in the barracks.
- Returning bad luck! - flashed in my head - Okay, let's do the old way.
Simagin bent at the waist and, stretching his lips with a straw, began to breathe on the lock. Whether a gust of wind, or frozen frost, or hops played a cruel joke, it does not matter. Only suddenly the figure of the foreman swung, and the ensign’s lips firmly stuck to the castle!
About two hours after the sergeant’s departure, private Khurkheyev, who was day-to-day on the battery, decided to smoke outside and went out onto the porch of the barracks. In the sky above hung a bright yellow pancake moon.
- Full moon, however, the time of werewolves and evil spirits - Khurkheev recalled the shaman's stories and mentally transferred to his native camp. The first puff caught her throat, Khurkheev coughed and heard a deaf cry
- Kooo deeeessss? Omoooohiiiite!
Cold palms of fear and horror firmly wrapped around Khurkheev’s body, thoughts began to twist around in his head
- Similarly, werewolves! The shaman did not lie! The trouble has come!
The warrior froze in fright, a cigarette fell out of his open mouth and, shooting sparks, rolled down the steps. In the silence of the night resounded again
- Awww! Ydiiii suaaaaa!
- Aaaaaaaaaaa! - Khurkheev shouted and rushed to the barracks. The battery duty officer Sergeant Zlobin, who was peacefully slumbering in the dryer, jumped up from the screams Khurkheev as he was scalded and flew out into the corridor. At the front door stood the orderly and, pointing to the street, muttered in fright
- Tama! Tama! Tama!
Zlobin jumped out of the barracks, rushed to the cold capter and, seeing a dark figure leaning over the castle, instantly realized
- Here are the goats, the capter decided to plunder! Well, I'll arrange it for you now!
A spade from a shovel, caught up in the sergeant’s hand, sank to the villain with a whistle.
Hearing a familiar voice, Zlobin exclaimed in amazement
- No shit yourself! Comrade Warrant Officer, are you?
Half an hour later, the foreman freed from “captivity”, barely moving his swollen lips, rolled in Zlobin from the heart
- Blah fly! Zlobin, your mother! I hardly left my lips after your strike on the lock! Only saved what I imagined, how will I serve without lips?
Since then, as soon as the moon pancake showed up in the Mongolian sky, the battery officers invariably advised the foreman
- Ensign, today is the full moon! Not a single step! Go home now!
Private Usmanov was sitting in a warm barracks and looked wistfully through a frosty window. Two days later, the battery stood guard, and he has the hellish post - an open area for storing equipment. Not towers, not a fence, only wire fencing and a wide scope for the fierce Mongol winds. Even hide no where! With only one thought of frost and wind, it became cold to Usmanov even in the barracks, and what is the post?
After the command of the ascent, Usmanov hardly got out of bed and, clutching at the waist, walked to the duty officer of the battery.
- Comrade Junior Sergeant, I am sick! So bad, back and forth does not bend! Sopsem Bolna! Doctor need to!
The junior sergeant Volkov, on duty for the battery, glancing at Usmanov with a grin, asked maliciously
- What is a fighter, hosing? In the guard stomp not hunting? Well, wait for the commander.
- No, by Allah I swear! Sapsem bolna, even the dining room will not go!
Volkov became thoughtful, for Usmanov, a lover of food, refusing to go to the dining room was akin to a feat.
“Okay, I'll write down the book of patients, and then we'll see!”
Arriving at the battery, the battalion commander Captain Prokhorov calculated the situation at a time. Usmanov's zakidony had long been a bone in his throat, but what to do? Neither any persuasions, sentimental conversations, references to jigite pride helped, Usmanov was not corrected!
Having arranged to accompany Usmanov to the PMP (regimental medical center), Prokhorov called the chief of the medical service of the regiment, Major Romashin, and described the situation. In response, Romashin chuckled into the phone and assured
- Do not worry, captain, we will cure your “hose”!
In the PMP Romashin personally met Usmanov and gave the command to take him to his office.
- Well, my dear, sick?
- So surely Comrade Major, with a sore spot, the back is completely bad!
- How long have you been like this?
- For a long time, the sense in the past was not strong ill, now it’s bad!
Having examined the patient, Romashin sadly made
- Yeah! Bad your affairs, Usmanov! You have a serious illness, in Latin it sounds like a “spinus clinic”, your vertebrae are hooked on each other, if you don’t disconnect, that's all! Hana! So stay crooked! But we will cure you, the word officer!
With these words, Romashin looked out into the corridor and shouted loudly
- The duty assistant, to me!
Waiting for a paramedic, Romashin ordered
- Dude, and bring us a "Shlangelson apparatus," but live on! See, the fighter is really bad!
And looking into the paramedic's amazed eyes, he repeated
- "The device Shlangelsona." Handset, funnel and tripod, understand?
Waiting for the paramedic and the staff, looking at Usmanov, who was staring indifferently at the floor, Romashin slowly began his conversation.
- Usmanov, my dear, I repeat, you have vertebrae caught on each other. We must separate them. You can reach them through the throat, but how do we climb through the throat? Look how you twisted. Not convenient, and far to the vertebrae, we will not get it. Does your lower back hurt?
Usmanov nodded his head and painted sorrow and pain on his face. Romashin continued
- So we will treat on the other hand. Transfer you to the couch, on your knees can you stand?
Usmanov nodded affirmatively, but forgot to portray the pain.
- So we will put on our knees, we will lower our pants, insert the tube and through it with hooks we will separate the vertebrae! You will have a jigit jigit!
At this time the door swung open, and the paramedic began to bring some rusty pipes into the office. Usmanov's eyes from round became round and with fright he stared at the iron he had brought. Looking at the frightened figure, Romashin ordered with a grin
- Petrov, you are on duty on the battery neatly Usmanov on the couch and take off his pants, and I until the pipe lubricate, what would easier entered.
Hearing this, Usmanov frantically grabbed his trousers and whined plaintively
- Ay, do not pipe, do not hook! The back has already ceased to hurt, has ceased, I swear by Allah!
Romashin sounded the trumpets; this ring, like an alarm, threw Usmanov and he rushed to his native barracks!
From this day, no complaints about health were heard from Usmanov in the battery.