- Are you Gennady Dubovoy? Documents. Follow us.
The trunk rests in the back, in front the back of the counterintelligence officer, we slap through the checkpoint through puddles in the rain to the building of the ex-SBU of Slavyansk.
- Stand, things on the ground, hands behind your head, facing the wall. - Before my eyes, an old red brick of a merchant's mansion, with side vision I catch flickering of figures in camouflage, fragments of phrases merge into one: - ... how did he get there? .. We know such journalists ... On the basement, in the morning we will understand ... Do not turn around, look at the wall! Find a gray, fast!
While they are looking for the head of the counterintelligence headquarters of the Slavyansk militia, questions are coming at me from all sides:
- For what purpose did you arrive? Which route? Through Ukrainian roadblocks? How did you find yourself in the guardroom? Who let you go? Answer me!
I explain: through the Ukrainian checkpoints I drove on a regular minibus. According to certificates of the NUJU (National Union of Journalists of Ukraine) and the correspondent of the all-Ukrainian newspaper "Vesti" to cover events in the ATO area. The nationalists believe. The certificate of the Glavred editor of the DPR newspaper “Voice of the People - Voice of the Republic” during the search was hidden under a mat in a minibus. At Headquarters he received an oral order from Igor Ivanovich Strelkov to go as a military officer to the front line of the Slavic defense, in Semenovka. I do not answer the last questions in order not to let down the fighters who hid me from the rain in the guardhouse.
“I fought well,” I think hopelessly, “they can set their own people on expense like a spy or send them back. Lord, have mercy ...”
Finally, Gray was. I calculated the situation instantly. I ordered to punish those who violated the statutes of the guard duty and - to me: "Fighter! Backpack on the shoulder, after me a march run!" We ran to the checkpoint:
- Wait. In the morning, Motorola will arrive, pick you up.
- Motorola? How do I know him?
- Find out. - laughed. - You will hear a roar louder than explosions, you will not be mistaken: this is a frog in a box, your commander is flying on a jihad-mobile. Serve, fighter. You will receive a reward, remember who you owe.
I remember ...
"Thug", or lonely human voice
Some colleagues blame me for not being able to shoot. They forget that I am not a military leader in the classical sense, but first and foremost a fighter. And therefore - not even in battle - I take off intentionally "ineptly." There are three main reasons for this.
First: who does not fight - that is an extra link in battle, but you fight - not before filming. I was convinced of this in the first combat exit on the May morning, when a helicopter was shot down with a general and twelve specialists. Shot down, alas, not we - the fighters from the next position. The calculation to which I was attached received a team to work for defeat with some delay, we did not have time to deploy the "Cliff". But the mortar "otvetka" came just in our sector in the woods near the reservoir, as if the Ukrainian general from the other world had adjusted the fire, punishing us for our sluggishness. The gaps in our "Zelenka" closer and thicker, fragments bite into the tree trunks, cut off the branches. Kevlar helmet and body armor to me then (and then almost the entire Slavic epic) was served by my favorite kepi and T-shirt with the logo of the all-Ukrainian newspaper Vesti, which at that time was considered pro-Russian. "Do not take pictures, scumbag," the calculation commander encouraged me, "you flash as if walking, they will kill, lie down!" - "And who will work for me?" However, to work, as I originally wanted, it was necessary not to press a photographer. At the command "We depart!" fighters picked up the "cliff", I - ammunition boxes. Not before filming. It is good that we were not pursued, otherwise I would have to cover the outgoing, shoot back ... with a flashlight! After this fight, Motorola allowed me to give me a weapon.
July. We penetrate the corridor to the border with Russia, we storm marinovka. Our group falls under cross fire from PC and SVD mortars. One of our BTR is on fire, the second - at full throttle - is hiding around the bend. I crawl along the groove along the cornfield in the nationalgreite shit (since then I know for sure: shit is not for money - for snipers), periodically getting a heel in front of a creeping scout (callsign) and ... trying to shoot. “Don't blink your video, brother,” he throws in fear over his shoulder, “a sniper and a machine gunner are in the water tower on the right.” On the left - a gaze-ihup-gup-gup: shaggy explosions at a bus-stop girdled with sandbags. A log stunned shakes his head, shaking the ground out of his hair, and he shakes me with laughter.
- Hey Correspondent, why are you ... laughing? Contusion?
- Slightly. But it's not that. I imagine. What will be the quality of shooting ...
- Stop, scumbag! He shouts to my back. - For a stop in the sunflowers ambush!
- We are already in ambush, forward!
People run to the bus stop, I hide behind sandbags, light a cigarette. Noticing on the road the BMP (whose? Did ukry counterattack?) Open the camcorder. And I feel not my own - a crowd of militia crowded inside a squall fear, I hear: “Pats-tzan, this time it will arrive…” The monitor monitor of the camera slammed off the lips, vomited a cigarette from my lips, sand fountains were pulled out of the bags behind my back. And inside the stop - a bloody mess. They all smelled again: now they will fly in and - scatter to the nearest "little green", just to get away from the spotted place. Not everyone managed to escape: from the sunflowers at the stop they slashed at the running militiamen with machine-gun bursts, mines again fell from the dominant skyscrapers, and bombs and missiles of ruthless Su-25 from the sky.
The war correspondents arrived in a lull. Helmets-Broniki-supercamera with tripod. Foreigners and Life News. Well done, pros. They worked in half an hour, removed everything quickly and beautifully: a burned field, warped by an armored troop-carrier, a couple of corpses plus the opinion of a militiaman, who would later become a corpse. Sped off. And after 20 minutes, the battle began again, and the blood - not metaphorically, really - flowed along the steps of the house, in which they were hiding from the mines, and each friend torn by the direct hit of Leshy from the Ryazan unit, pointing the PKK barrel at me ... "... take away, he, - a nod at the face of the murdered man, ripped into a bloody zero, - allowed you to ... shoot? Shoot, ... he is my brother! Brother! .. Are you a movie ?! "
The second reason is that I took the video camera in my hands, by order, knowing in advance that what was going on in the war was inexpressible, and later, having become convinced of this through experience, I lost the desire to shoot.
This experience was gained in the first full-scale battle of this war - June 3 in Semenovka. I shot the dead fighters for calculating the PTR of the North and the Gypsy (they tried to hit the T-1943 from an anti-tank gun of the 64 release) and - a distinct sensation - invisible on the shoulder of a hot, demanding pushing palm: go away! I went to a safe place tank the shell rocked the ground behind the dugout, in which Gypsies and the North died, and immediately, abruptly, without any transition, in a landslide moment, as if it had always been the case, I saw the battle through the eyes of all the fighters participating in it. I saw and felt everything that they see and feel, not only at the moment, but everything that they and those they truly love have ever experienced. Everything is dreams, the most hidden thoughts.
The experienced fusion with the minds of hundreds of people caused not fear - joy; healing, as in the womb calm. And inside this inexpressible peace of mind, a butterfly in the shell of uncreated light, having struck the madness of everyday life, with a diamond stroke of illumination connected-magnetila into one bottomless and all revealing phrase of omnipresence all the contents of the worlds invisible and visible. The “I” burned down - and what was perishable by me became in the yawning fault of timelessness incorruptible everything in everything.
When the ordinary perception returned, I looked away at the camera with detachment (at that time flashed over my head, turning on the “drying” battle approach) and asked myself: “What am I doing? All together the geniuses of the movie do not express the glimpse of what everyone here opens to meet death. "
I later became convinced that many experienced this in battle, but for obvious reasons either hide it or forget this experience, and it only appears indirectly. Although in reality everyone knows everything about everyone, everything secret even 2000 years ago became clear. Once in a conversation with a volunteer from the Crimea, I imagined (as if I saw an instant movie) a funny incident from the life of students, I began to tell about it in detail - with names, dates, details of the situation - to tell in full confidence that I was improvising, and suddenly I notice on the face of the interlocutor stunned, bordering on panic. “Eprst! I don’t seem to have hidden cameras at home, and they haven’t yet learned how to scan the contents of the brain. What is clairvoyant? .. Where are you history heard? There are coincidences ... "
For esotericists, psychologists and skeptics, I will note: this is not the initiating spontaneous act of implanting into the subtle world and fusions by astral structures. Non-transpersonal ejection and transformation into the “sensation of the Universe — a man-tuning fork” that resonates with the psycho-information fields and picks up their vibrations. Non-reactive psychotic state with scenic visual and auditory hallucinations in a traumatic situation. Non-defensive reaction. No, no. Nor was it what the Orthodox call delusion. It was the experience of entering everyday reality, in which we have been every second since the moment of conception, but this reality does not open to the one who plays ritual E, evokativnymi techniques and psychotropic drugs, and that only one who at least for a single in this life neusledimy and indestructible moment illusory was not ready - truly a sacrifice, ascend to your cross Give blood to take the Spirit..
The third reason is that I use the cheapest (I don’t feel sorry for losing) equipment, but that’s not the point, but to shoot a war "in good picture quality" means to sell someone’s blood. Let others engage in "catching cadres" and may they not be painfully ashamed of ratings, career, fees.
A longtime friend, a former journalist, and now a businessman brought me a video camera to Ilovaisk with a fantastic shooting quality. The plot was not long in coming. On the slope of the railway embankment, we found the maimed Ukrainian. He lay upside down, his outstretched legs spread to the sky. In a bloody sunset, it seemed: demons were dragging him to his feet, and he groans, wheezes with a beast, sees true hell in his death agony, and therefore resists violently to demons. The boundaries of the worlds blurred, and in eternity, turned by an endless dying nowhere aspiring crimson stream, the last man floated, doomed to cry forever and hear only his own voice. And then came the chickens, the chickens that had survived and not eaten by the soldiers came from the broken barn with a mine, and began to gouge out the eyes of the dying Ukrainian. We could not come up - the man was dying in the zone shot through by snipers, groaning, and chickens were pecking his face ...
The words of the poet who, perhaps, died as the one who dies before my eyes flowed out of me by themselves long forgotten: “I love the human voice. A single human voice. The voice must break out of the harmony of the world and the chorus of nature for your lonely note ... "
The former colleague grinned: "You uttered this epitaph with such a feeling, I almost sobbed ..." He did not have time to finish speaking. Because of the embankment, from the depot flew from the grenade launcher. And the moan stopped. I erased this record, returned the present camera to my friend and went to look for the Artist, he got for us "jihad-mobile number XXUMX". In the back of my friend threw: "... This story is gone! Well, you're a fool!"
A terrible dream correspondent
But to write to catch in any situation and anywhere. On the cartridge case in the dugout and on the unexploded projectile in a trench, on a pile of bricks in a sweep shop and on broken glass of a ruined pharmacy in a medicinal smrad, in a skeleton of a damaged BMP and on the roof of a high-rise building under the sky, ripped up by Gradov and Smerche rockets. I remember recording the story told by Botsman on the steps of the cellar near the front line in the festering light of the ukrovsky signal rockets over Semenovka and smelt someone's tenacious gaze ... a rat! Outside the serious shelling, inside - tailed abomination. The choice of two evils was made automatically: I ran over to the trench, added a paragraph and fell asleep safely under the lulling hiss. During the fighting for Ilovaisk, I “settled” on the commander's armored personnel carrier with the call sign Barbos. Never before or after I had such a comfortable study and at the same time a bedroom. Once on armor in a pouring rain, I slept all night and woke up not because I was soaked to the skin, but only from an unbearable desire to "cast."
By the way, having lost three completely written notebooks in this war — when I left the encirclement near Nikolayevka, I ran into dill in the Dmitrovka area and Ilovaisk’s stripping — I don’t keep more combat records.
When many front-line soldiers say that for some time they feel uncomfortable only at home on the couch - this is not bragging, not exaggeration, not "psychoneurotic disorder due to extreme psychogenic and life-threatening." Frequent and abrupt change of environment, constant tension, activation of all vital resources become the norm, joyful need and the only effective therapy for all psychosomatosis. I have met those who have recovered from many spiritual, mental and physical ailments, but psychotic victims of the notorious post-traumatic military syndrome do not.
Once at the airport, in a hotel that shuddered from close tears of howitzer shells (one direct hit and the construction from 4-th to 1-th floor will collapse), I experienced a genuine HORNAM. I had a dream ... the editorial office, hopelessly boring as a prolonged orgasm interview with a faceless city hall official, calculating the fee of a yearning horny middle-aged manager, in Kafkian way, infernal and desperate discussions of people-monitors with people-keyboards about correct bulletin count no choice ...
Feeling that I was slipping into hell, with an incredible effort of will, I forced myself to wake up: the airport, the shelling, the hotel jumping from close breaks, the Brother Sailor next to me charged a machine gun belt by the light of a flashlight. Several times I experienced what is called touching paradise already in this life — when my daughter was born, after the confession in the Optina Hermitage, during the 3 battle of June in Semenovka (the beginning of a full-scale war in the Southeast) and then, at the airport, emerging Kafka's dream of "peaceful life." Not many will understand this recognition, only the Sailor, the Artist and the like. Psychologists will disagree with me, they, feeding on fantasy, "understand" everything.
Secret Russian BTR and other adventures with and without the Artist
The hardest thing on the front - to transmit information in a timely manner. Since I am a fighter and do not have the right to leave the position without the permission of the commander, it is twice as difficult for me as compared to ordinary military officers. And if you take into account the constant problems with communication in combat conditions and the lack of personal transport - triple.
Our first - the Correspondent and the Artist - the Korean junkie became our own jihad-mobile. I'm not kidding. The trophy diesel Ssang Yong Rexton stopped at any time and required a dose - a gasoline injection into the airway "vein". The fighters to whom we were delivering ammunition and products called him "the secret Russian Beteer." For chadil this "beteer" terrifyingly, pulling out of the exhaust pipe comet black shaggy tail. When we rolled into the “green”, the Ukrainian observers apparently seriously believed that at least a platoon of secret (because no one had ever seen) armored personnel carriers could smoke like that. And they began to mortar so plentifully that the fighters begged us: "... to hell as soon as possible, it’s not the rest of the stuffing on the branches."
June night. Protracted mortar and howitzer shelling from Mount Karachun. Electricity and the Internet in Semyonovka - zero, telephone - in spurts. And the agency demanded information urgently. We must go to Nikolaevka. We turn around on the landing in front of the sausage shop - the most open sweep of places and - from midnight we drive in a day: the “chandelier” (lighting flare) hangs over us, and the drug-addicted SUV is in the next attack of “breaking”. Stalls. We're leaving out of the cabin, waiting for the dark and pause in the shelling. Injecting the "Korean" dose, rushing - hurray!
Alas. Immediately after the nearest checkpoint, the car stalls, and above us - yes, the "chandelier" flashes again. Hiding from the fragments, we dive into the concrete blocks. The artist (since that moment, respected by me unlimitedly) suddenly jumps onto the block and in the almost sunshine of several illumination rockets with a semaphore of Karachun with a gesture a mighty Russian factor. And calmly, waving his syringe, stomping under the shards to the abstinence-tortured Korean trotter. Cheered up, he “jumps” for some time and - exactly halfway to the coveted Internet - stalls! Once again, the “chandelier”, the screech of splinters, an injection into the rubber “vein” ...
A call is an order: at dawn, take products to the fighters of the defense line near Yampol. We return, we fill the trunk with frozen turkey until we fail, we rush to the position.
Our fighters are running along the highway to meet us: "Dill is already there! We must take the weapons from the crossroads and take the wounded!" We fly through the intersection, we see: our checkpoint is torn up, and behind it through the pines to the left of the road in the dawn glow, like Ukrainian armored personnel carriers crawl out onto the highway. I pop up, open the trunk; The artist abruptly, with a squeal of puffed tires, turns around, spilling frozen turkey corpses out of the jihad. They avalanche down the slope and counter machine gun fire turns them into shaggy meat chrysanthemums.
"If the" Korean "will require a dose," I think, "to us ..." We didn’t find the weapons at the roadblock (everything is in the blood), they jerked. A little further picked up four "300-tyh". And stalled ..! Do not bend us then a miracle. Only when we were already hiding around the corner, ukry opened heavy fire, killing one of those sitting in the trunk. We did not have time to send the information to the agency in time.
How not to have time another time, two months later. Rexton disappeared at the exit of the militia from Slavyansk, "jihad-mobile number XXUMX" served us as a reliable Russian "Volga-2", presented by the famous fighter Macey. Many adventures are connected with it, I will tell only about two.
We are going from a position near Miusinsky to Donetsk, we need to merge a long-promised video (it was easier to go than to send a “fast” on the Internet as a thought of a drunken Estonian). At the entrance to the town of Snezhnoye, we meet the reconnaissance commander Odessa and his deputy Maly, order: "We are going to the place of yesterday's battle, reconnoiter the situation, and take the" Rock ", if possible, take it." We are going. We turn on the primer. The place is open, further to the right is a forest and a ravine, to the left is a scorched skyscraper. The "commander fathers" go there for exploration, the Artist and I, behind the bush behind the bush, are covering the rear. I just put a camera next to it, waiting. We still do not know what we were in ambush ...
... the first bullet to shatter the camera: sniper! Hiding behind jihad. And immediately out of nowhere machine-gun bursts and that-that-that-that-takane AGS. Shells breaks away, it pleases. We shoot with the Artist at the sound, hooray - a clear hit! - the machine gun falls silent. From somewhere, a dick comes out of the snuffbox ... oh, thank God, its - Minor! - I almost punctured him with a burst. At last, breathless and red, Odessa emerges from an unexpected side. In the car!
- I got a gunshot! - the Artist shouts and immediately gets a fist on the head from the Small sitting behind:
- Wheels ... wounded, do not cure in the morgue!
"Jihad-Volga" rushes under the crossfire of snipers (now it is clear: here we were let in to be captured, and the horse-radish is released back). Through the interior - the glass is long gone - bullets crawl, then from the front, then back along the course, dry voiced claps of torn VOGs. We are bending down, hitting the head with the Artist’s head, the thought cuts through me: “How can he manage to steer, almost not looking at the road? Tilt down - they will shoot them in the trash. Or they will take the wounded into captivity, which is even worse ...”
Survived! Rolled out on the road to Snow, rushed to report to Headquarters. There they met the reporter "Life News", having learned about our adventure, Simon asked: "Did you shoot something interesting?" Even Odessa, always imperturbable as a cobblestone, broke, barked: "There was no time for filming!" On the body of the Volga, we counted seven bullet and fragmentation holes. In the evening, the Artist, razuvayas, burst out laughing, stretching a crumpled bullet in my hand: "Firearms ..." The bullet, apparently, pierced the door on the way out, poked into the shin and slipped into a torn shoe.
And soon our trouble-free Russian “jihad-chariot” helped us to overtake and capture the Ukrainian drone.
I noticed his roaring monster and the Actor opened fire on him first, the others followed him. The monster (adopted by the fighters for a ballistic missile) changed the linear course to a circular course and circled over our position. He made a “slide”, twice blewed white - he dropped the dragging parachute, and then the landing one.
- Artist, quickly behind the wheel! This is a drone, our trophy!
We rush to “jihad” across the field of sunflowers, then through weeds, we get stuck, get torn out, along the way I explain:
- Tu-143 "Flight". Unmanned aerial vehicle. Soviet. Produced in two versions. Scout and target aircraft. The maximum height is 1000, the minimum is 10 meters. Scouting is nothing. The bottom line: ukry counted on - we will bring down UAVs from MANPADS, and they will declare that from the “Buka” and this, they say, is proof: the militia destroyed the Malaysian “Boeing” with the same weapon ...
- And why the drone crashed? Did we shoot him down?
- Not. Electronic brains from old age sour. Or we turned them off. Emergency landing. But, most likely, we got it from the PC. If now we have time to make a report under the nose of ukrov on their territory, and then take the dragon out (the Corsair group will take care of it) - we won.
It turned out on the spot - everything is fair, we gave it up: the bottom of the fuselage is riddled.
- Remove, "turn on the fool." Carry about the ballistic monsters ...
- What for?
- For the effect, brother Artist. The effect of a PR multiplier. Let colleagues smash their heads - what is it: fake militia? Insidious special operation of Putin's special services? The agony of the Armed Forces of Ukraine, who left a rotten dragon in battle? How did we manage to knock him down? The more publications - the stronger the image of the Motorola unit.
The artist understood and "turned on the fool":
- Hey, there, in Kiev. You do not think that this is too much - to use such weapons? ..
Then he laughed for a long time, reading numerous inquiries about the Ukrainian UAVs being captured by the motorists, outlining the most bizarre versions: “They brought it and threw it into the field, and now they will load it back into the car and return it to the museum ...”
- Gena, why didn't these hacks call us and they didn’t find out how everything was in reality?
- Because "wise in their eyes and rational in front of themselves."
In conclusion, I will tell you about the failed "jihad-mobile" (about him, as well as about everything that failed, especially the longing).
During the fighting for Marinovka-Sepanovka-Dmitrovka, I was briefly seconded to the group of the official Icorpus militia website personnel. The three of us went to the battle area - a journalist from the mentioned site, a press photographer of RIA "News»Andrei Stenin and me. Asked to land at Dmitrovka, went on an independent journey. I made a material about a young sniper, who during the raid had unraveled a thigh from the “Cliff”, his leg was hanging incomprehensibly on what, and he pulled it with a belt and crawled all night to our positions. He shot several battle scenes and - zatrofeil exactly the same as we had in Semyonovka, but with a gasoline drug not spoiled by Ssang Yong Rexton. No driver out of me, and I drove in… yes, to dill!
I came out of the car to clarify the route (well, that was in a new form without stripes), I hear: “Is Separate behind this landing dumb?”, And two more appear behind the soldier who asked, and I already understood everything ...
... The agility of my sprint zigzags across rough terrain in a race with bullets hovering over my ear with the risk of running into a Zelenka would have been the envy of the fastest man on the planet — the three-time Olympic champion Usain Bolt. In order not to embarrass Usain and reduce the risks, I ducked under a bush, turned around, returned fire. One laid. Alas, the forces were unequal. From the forest belt behind the road, a candidate in “jihad-mobil”, transformed into a yellow-black blob, pierced with a line of 30-graph paper, was marked by two vertical white stripes of BMP. In the fiery-smoky mass grave of the seventh, my phone that fell in this war, the fourth video camera (hundreds of stories shot in battle disappeared!) And the third notebook, which was written so that the letters in it were screaming from cramping and seemed to collapse from pages like splinters ...
The burning Ssang Yong Rexton became a guideline, our mortars earned, and two Ukrovsky BMPs, ironing sunflowers, hiding behind a drape forest belt.
Seven days later, somewhere in the same area, they ran into ukrovs and were shot at Renault, then burned out of the "Bumblebee" by those with whom we did not once fall into different scrapes - remarkable military officers and real Russian patriots Sergey Korechenkov and Andrei Stenin.
Have we already won?
“Gena, if you want to stay in the division, do not bother with politics,” Motorola honestly warned us during our penultimate meeting. For some time now, any, the most innocent of my comments and a thousand-fold verified message have become perceived by someone as a threat to form opposition sentiments in the militia, because someone considered me an "incorrigible shooter."
- Commander, from the first rallies against Nazism, we are all here engaged exclusively in politics. Today, every child who dies because his parents didn’t chicken out and support us - is unwittingly engaged in politics ...
He did not hear out, angrily slammed the car door. I watched as he climbed the steps of the Headquarters and felt: no matter what happens, no matter who I have to serve, he will always remain for me a commander, with whom I am ready to go into battle, even if I know for sure: Death is ahead. We will win it, then we are called to this fallen world.
“In Donetsk, the military commander Gennady Dubovoy was detained. They detained him at home, where he lay in a cast after an injury at the Donetsk airport during the battle. Without presenting any documents, they broke down the door. At the same time, they couldn’t arrest him. which is obviously a contrived matter.
Dubovoy fought side by side with the militia, and also was the initiator and chief editor of the first official newspaper of the DNR "Voice of the People - Voice of the Republic", the release of the first issue of which 11 in May played a positive role in the success of the independence referendum. Gennady was awarded the medal "For the Defense of Slavyansk" and the order "For Military Valor."
Apparently, a still young republic, which has a mass of external and internal enemies, is beginning to tear apart internal contradictions. We will follow the fate of Gennady and ask the leadership of the DPR to thoroughly investigate this matter, "the media said then.
My report on the transfer to another unit was rewritten by someone, and I was dismissed from the ranks of the DPR army "of my own will."
Always despising the rear rats and aiming at war to victory, I believe: the command will eliminate this misunderstanding and allow the fighter and the military leader to fight. Especially after the announcement in the republic of mobilization.
Now the only possible policy is everything to the front, everything for victory. Dismiss can only death in battle. Or have we already won? The enemy has been driven out of the Donetsk and Lugansk republics, they have united, and we live in a truly people's state? Has the beautiful Novorossia already been created - a laboratory of socio-economic creativity, a model of the future for all of Russia, a state of higher meanings based on divine justice? ..
... A wonderful Moscow photographer and journalist, Igor Starkov, after meeting with me, Sailor and Artist, wrote that we were "romantics of the first stage of the war," and now people have come to be angrier and tougher, army managers. Like everyone who has not fought, he is mistaken. Romantics do not rush to war, they prefer to dream about. We have never been romantics, for the ruthless clarity of vision gained in battle excludes all kinds of illusions that nourish the romantic perception of reality. And when the "real politicians" obsessed with the falsely understood pragmatism of the pursuit of the illusory goal of Novorossia, we answer: without creating such, not a single problem of Russia will be solved, but they will all be exacerbated extremely; the hopes of the "realists" for a peaceful resolution of the conflict between the branch of TNK Ukraine and the border of the state corporation of the Russian Federation - the LC / DNR are insane. Attempts to reach an agreement with the globalizing shadow elite and cowardly evade the Great War for a worthy place for the Russians in the world system will turn into a bloodiest illusion. “The West needs one thing from Russia,” the Soviet intelligence officer remarked, “so that it does not exist.” Every illusion is convinced that it is hourly already: deindustrialization guaranteed by salvo systems, howitzer-mortar infrastructure zeroing, punitive operations complete elimination of the "excess" population of the southeast of the former Ukraine - a model for dismantling the Russian Federation.
PS "Correspondent, what kind of Novorossia? You are a dead man for a long time. You, the terrorists motorolovskom, separable corrupt, we and hell will arrange a spetsad. All Russian from Ukraine - won, it is better to go to the grave. Garbage genetic only fertilizer is suitable. Southeast will remain Ukrainian or will be destroyed. Then we will return the Crimea. "
"Russians - to hang! You, Kamikaze Correspondent, Putin's creature, next to the red-headed cockroach you are singing, hang it upside down. Let us burn and mix your ashes with shit. So it will be with all Russians. Glory to the nation, death to the enemies!"
Kilobytes and kilometers of such messages I receive from the first days of the Russian Spring. I answer politely, with a phrase by Hemingway, long perceived as an indication from above: "Ahead of fifty years of undeclared wars, and I signed an agreement for the whole term."