The right to fight need to "knock out"
From our part in Kabul sent a company to perform government tasks. But all my hopes have collapsed. Moscow appointed four group commanders. It was worse than stress at the first failure of the school. A few months later, a vacancy appeared in the company. He appealed to the brigade commander with a request to send me to Kabul to replace it. He said that while he was in command of the brigade, I could not see Afgan. Poor he knew me. Having reached the chief of intelligence of the district, I “knocked out” the right to fulfill international duty.
Hello, land of Afghanistan!
We were sent under its own power to the BMP. December 13 drive into Kabul. Behind 700 kilometers of the way. I look at the faces of the Afghans, remember how they dress, walk, sit. Everywhere markets with fruit, vegetables. Dukans with clothes. At the crossroads run up little merchants - bachi. Boyko lopocha mixture of Russian expressions known to them, offer to buy cigarettes, chewing gum and drugs - thin black cigarettes, shouting: "Char, Char!"
Char we do not need. From him, fooling his head and vigilance is lost, but it is dangerous. We have our char - night tasks. One can not only get rid of them, but also generally forget about eternal sleep.
Arrived! A dozen tents on the mountainside and a small fleet, surrounded by "thorn". We went out to meet all. Local fighters with condescension glances at the new arrivals, looking for familiar faces in Chirchik. Officers approach, shake hands, hug. Our troops are small, so almost everyone is familiar. I introduce myself to the company. He recently took up this post, and Rafik Latypov was sent to the Union with a shot through the spine - during the evacuation of a group surrounded by “spirits”, the sniper “guessed” him. The new commander did not have the necessary qualities. Sent home. Volodya Moskalenko took the place of his place, and the picture changed for the better.
The task at first glance is simple. The Islamic Committee in charge of sabotage on its site, will meet at a certain time in one of the villages of the Charikar Valley to coordinate further action. We must, with the help of a local patriot (or, more simply, a informer), go to this committee and liquidate it, without forgetting to pick up the documents. The gathering committee is scheduled for two in the morning. It's good. Every night every intelligence officer loves and never exchanges for a day. Previously, all groups worked in the mountains, intercepting gangs. So in the kishlak epics, I will be the first.
Somov with Afghan "friend"
Arrived in the area of action. The 177 Motorized Rifle Regiment in Jabal-Us-Saraj. We were placed in a wooden module with regimental scouts. The soldiers set up their tent, with the unchanged sign "Entrance is prohibited."
At midnight, the BTR regiment was taken to the right place. The group dissolved into darkness. Everything seems unreal, reminds shots from the film. But these are no longer teachings. Here can kill. And not only me. I am responsible for the ten lives of the boys, although I myself am only a few years older than the youngest of them. They trust me and I can't relax. There is no fear of death, I fully control the situation.
Ahead "snitch." Behind him, Sergeant Sidorov, whose task - to shoot the "informer" in the event of treason. Not knowing this, the informant almost paid with his life when he suddenly turned off the road because of need. Here is the village. In the dark it is impossible to determine its size, but it does not matter. Without performing the task there is no going back.
They seemed to have agreed on everything, but the dogs ... Their fierce barking warned the committee guard about our appearance for half a kilometer. In the alley there was a cry: “Dresh!”, Which means “Stop”. We sat down, clinging to the walls of houses, and on time. Having received no answer, the spirits began to "strip" along the alley from the automata. Bullets ricocheted off the walls above their heads without harm. Sidorov calms inhospitable guards with his "lemon". Some fuss is heard, and everything subsides. We run up to the house. The committee ran away. But one still managed to find. He tried to hide under the burqa among the women who had been knocked down. He had some committee documents and a gun.
Leaving him to lie in the house and warning the owners that harboring dushmans would be punished with the death penalty, we left. Behind our backs is the glow of a burning house. Moving to the road along a different path. So safer - less likely to step on a mine set for us "spirits". I call on the radio BTR. By morning 5 we are in the regiment.
In two weeks there were five more similar tasks with different results. Maybe it would be more, but we urgently had to get out to Kabul. Who is to blame, it is not clear so far. Whether the reconnaissance center gave us a gunner provocateur, or he himself was mistaken, but the following happened. The task looked like the first one with the only difference that the order required the destruction of all the inhabitants of the house. Surrounding him, the group began to act. In the explosions of fragmentation mines used instead of grenades, people began to scatter around the house from all the breaches. Here and there, there were quiet claps of "no noise". Bursting into the house, we found five more men in it. They tried to explain something to me through a translator. “Comrade Senior Lieutenant, they are said to be Communists, from the local party cell,” the soldier translated. This excuse was widely used by deceivers to deceive our soldiers. Sometimes the number passed. But not here. One of the fighters tied a detonating cord around their necks. A few seconds later an explosion sounded. On the floor in the settling dust lay decapitated corpses. The order has been executed.
The next day, the whole district looked like a disturbed anthill. Afghan units were alerted. The rumor about the death of the local party cell has reached us. There was no direct evidence of our involvement, but I immediately reported this to Kabul. From there immediately came the answer: we immediately leave the company. The destruction of the partchayet was piled on the dushmans, thereby restoring against them the entire vast Charikar valley. With a bad feeling, we returned to Kabul. This case could not be spread even among his own. The Afghan gunner, who led us to the house, disappeared without a trace.
In the twenty-kilometer stretch of the Kabul – Termez “perfume” road, our columns are fired at. Fuel trucks are particularly affected by their ambushes. Such columns usually do not pass. Technique burns with people. To fight the attackers and sent us. Having traveled around several parts, we understood that the “spirits” arrange ambushes strictly every other day. We spend the night at the Soviet road guard post near the ambush site.
A half-drunk starley sits in a dugout with damp clay walls and a floor. He stupidly looks at me, trying to understand what I want from him. And I want a little bit - a shelter for my fighters until two in the morning. Starley promised to replace three months ago. He is in this hole for about six months. With him, six soldiers. There must also be an ensign, but he was taken away with appendicitis two months ago, without sending anyone in return. His blue dream is to bathe in a bathhouse and change flaky linen. How can a person quickly degrade under certain circumstances. Worst of all, these circumstances arise due to the “care” of the superiors who have forgotten about him.
From the ceiling pieces of clay fall into a mug of muddy liquid. Soldiers traded moonshine from local residents for boxes from under the shells and, what must be confessed, small ammunition. For this they are paid with their lives, not attacking sleeping at night. Drunk up, Starley out of the dugout, to give a couple of bursts of the BMP turret machine gun. We must show who is the boss here. His soldiers live upstairs in the BMP. Further twenty steps from the post, they do not risk retreating, despite the trade relations with the locals. There were many invitations to visit from good-natured Afghans, and then the invitees were found without heads, and other protruding body parts. Fighters know it. But at night they still sleep, relying on chance. We are leaving, taking on a population of lice.
In a dilapidated house away from the road we are in a position to observe. The night passed quietly. Are we spotted, and the bait is abandoned in vain? It's getting light. From four o'clock traffic is allowed on the roads. One column passes, another.
Appeared "nalivniki." Go at high speed. This is a kind of kamikaze. On the 700-kilometer route, these guys are almost impossible not to fall under fire. A hundred meters to the left of our house there was a powerful explosion. Shot from a grenade launcher. The first car is on fire. Spiritual gunners turned on. The column, not slowing down, bypasses the burning fellows and hides around the bend.
The shooting subsided. This is worse. We are already somewhere near the "spirits". Moving along the walls to a small area. Turn right. I give a signal. Come be careful. Behind the turn "perfume". Twenty people in black clothes and “Pakistani women”, sitting on the ground, lively discuss the event held. We were not expected. Therefore, when some of them began to wake up, grabbing automatic rifles, we and the two sentinels went through the crowd of three barrels. The rest of the fighters cannot help - they risk falling into our backs. At my signal, they lay down so as not to create a target for enemies. Survivors "darling" rushed to the ruins.
The grenade thrower also stayed in the meadow, not reaching the shelter. Sergeant Shura Dolgov’s bullet hit him in the face. He hit sighting single. Serega Timoshenko did the same. Leaving a grenade launcher to the enemy would be a crime. The headquarters would simply not understand me. To help the sentinel send two more. This is their first fight. The guys jump out into the clearing and, standing at their full height, mow down in duels bursts. My mate, mixed with orders to lie down, does not reach them. Silenus sunk the first battle. It is much more difficult to get into a recumbent than into a standing large figure. And their figures are large. Both wrestlers, under 85 kilo weight. He selected them in the Union.
First falls Goryaynov. Then he swung and Solodovnikov. He staggers my way. Before his death, his name is mom, and mom is now far away, so he runs to me. I am now for his mother. The automatic machine is clamped in a hand, from a mouth the bloody foam beats. "Sand" on the chest turned red. The hole in it speaks of injury to the lung. Here is the first blood. Get it, commander.
There is no strength to scold him, although anger overwhelms me. If he had listened to my order, he would have lived, perhaps, until now. An injection of promedola made by one of the fighters does not save the situation.
Now our task has become more complicated. In addition to the grenade launcher, it is necessary to take away the killed Genk with his machine gun. I send him two soldiers. They drop their backpacks and leave their automata. They do not need them now. They will cover with fire the whole group. This is not a shooting range, so the faces of the guys are pale. The brain works feverishly. I have no right to make mistakes. "Forward!"
Genkino body and weapon we have. "Spirits" strenuously snapped. But we are no longer up to them. Having thrown a dozen grenades into the duvaly, we are moving away. The life of Solodovnikov still alive is more important to me than these people in black. Instead, tomorrow there will be another hundred, and you can still save him. Two cover our departure, two are running ahead, protecting us from possible trouble. The rest are dragging two bodies, replacing each other. "Sands" are soaked with sweat. The sun is frying mercilessly. No wonder he used to force them to carry backpacks with stones for hours. Where would they be without training.
In time we left the place of skirmish. Appearing in the sky, "turntables" process it with all their weapons. They do not know about us. Our actions are kept secret. If the “spinners” take us for the “spirits,” it can cost us our lives. At the site of the ambush, the blasts of the NURS roar, dust columns are visible. "Dushkam" there is not sweet, but we too.
One of the helicopters, changing course, turns in our direction. A thought flashed: if it does not recognize - the end. His flat body on the sides is inexorably approaching. I quickly get a rocket launcher out of my backpack. I go out into the middle of the street - it's no use hiding. I shoot a rocket in the direction of the helicopter, waving my hand. He passes over us at low level, pouring a whirlwind of air mixed with fumes. The pilot sends a course machine gun at us, peering intently at our faces. “Spirits” cannot run to the road, this is clear to the pilot, and he falls off to his own.
Call the technique. Fifty meters burning five fuel trucks. People are not visible. The wounded have already been evacuated to the local medical unit. For us came the BMP. We load Solodovnikova and Genk. A mother should get her son anyway, we could not have anything else.
In the medical unit of the regiment in the presence of the ensign-medical orderly and the captain - a dental technician. And it is in the regiment leading the fighting! Again, "upstairs" do not want to move the gyrus. Where are the doctors who want to get the richest practice? They are, I know, but for some reason they cannot get here.
There are already five drivers of fuel trucks in the medical unit. Some of them resemble horror movie characters. Fully burned, the head without a single hair, the lips are swollen, bleeding, the skin dangles in layers from the body. They ask the doctor to kill them. The torment obviously reached the limit. Doctors rushing, putting them droppers. Here we are with our warrior. It is placed on a cot, plugging a hole in the chest with a cotton swab. He wheezes, looking hopefully at the doctor's white coat. "There will be life," says the ensign.
We are leaving the medical unit. The fighters stand aside, looking at us with Seryoga inquiringly. Tymoshenko is Solodovnikov's friend in school, together they performed in wrestling competitions. He does not stand still. He goes inside again. A second flies out from there: "Comrade Senior Lieutenant!". I run after him into the room. Solodovnikov quietly lies on a cot with half-closed eyes. Grab his hand. No pulse! Serega pulls out a pistol and with curses goes down the corridor. I catch him at the entrance to the doctors. Those scared rushed scatter. He breaks out, shouts something. The soldiers who came running helped me twist it. Serge weakens and cries. The crisis of anger for doctors passed. Moreover, there is nothing to blame them for.
In Afghanistan, in the "Black Tulip"
The corpses are carried out on the street, wrapped in shiny foil. It resembles a chocolate wrapper. Same crunchy.
"Cargo-200" loaded into a helicopter and sent to Kabul. There he is waiting for a “cannery”, as the fighters joke gloomily. Field morgue is located in several large tents, set directly on the dried grass. Lying on the ground anyway. Comfort does not interest them. Unfortunately, you have to visit this place. We must recognize our own people here, give the data to the local administration. But before they still need to find. And among these dangling legs, mutilated bodies, and some incomprehensible charred pieces of meat, finding them is not easy. This is not seen in a nightmare.
Finally found. A soldier in an airborne uniform with the smell of moonshine with a ballpoint pen writes on their hard, tanned skin with a surname, and I am relieved to go out into the air. Now they will be packed in boxes and sent to their home country by plane. Wait, relatives, their sons!
Devastated by what I saw, I sit down in the "UAZ". The eyes are open, but I see nothing. The brain refuses to perceive the environment. This reminded the first exit on task. The shock soon passes. Here, in general, nothing lasts long. And the life of his comrades as well. Just wait for a long time replacement. It seems that you will never be replaced, and you will always hang around on this war, which will never end either.
Where in the world are there anyone willing to risk their lives for 23 dollars per month? Payment does not depend on whether you lie on the bed for weeks, or if you try to survive, jumping at night in doula with a gun in your hands. The same money is received by the staffs of staffs, cooks, typists and other contingent that hears shooting and explosions from afar. Sometimes this topic was raised in our environment, especially after another one of us was sent home with a “grump-200”. She, as a rule, calmed down after two or three minutes of strong swear words to the authorities in the Union. "Zombies" should not reason. Their destiny is simple: “In any place, at any time, any task, by any means,” the rest should not concern them. In the end, we are not mercenaries. We are fighting in the name of the motherland.
Performing the small instructions of the intelligence department, my group roars at night, studying the area of operations. Many boxes with "grenades", "cartridges" - our surprises left on the spiritual paths. You should not open such boxes if you are not tired of living.
Examining the terrain map
From headquarters came the order to organize an ambush. We leave in the afternoon to the place where it is planned to “plant”. The terrain is smooth as a floor. In some places you can see stones the size of a chicken egg. Absolutely nowhere to hide. I suggest that the authorities, through their observer, notify the paratroopers about the appearance of the spiritual machines. The desantura on their BMDshkah will spread any convoy to pieces. It is much safer and much more efficient. No one will leave. But the intelligence department needs points, so they don't want to attract paratroopers. Dukhovskaya secret trail crosses the asphalt road. In this place under it is a small pipe for the flow of water. There I think to shove the group at night, otherwise they will be noticed per kilometer in the light of the headlights.
Before entering the pipe carefully proceed with the sergeant on the protruding stones. So less likely to step on a mine. The lieutenant, recently sent from the Union, also decided to examine the place. Descending from the road, he neglected safety rules. A pillar of the explosion of "anti-personnel" appeared behind our backs, tearing off the caps from the heads. Igor lay between the stones in settling dust. The soil layer was torn off by an explosion, exposing six PMNok black rubber bands. The sergeant and I looked at each other. He was pale, I, probably, too.
Seryoga went down to Igor, carefully moving over the stones, pulled him to the road. I lay down on the edge of the road and stretched my arms down. Grabbing Igor for his jacket, pull him out. Soldiers agreed. Igor's heel is torn off. A bloody bone fragment sticks out of a piece of the boot, blood pulsing out. He is still in shock, so he is able to joke. To his question about dancing with women, I answer: “Hardly”. Call the helicopter. He arrives in half an hour. We load Igor into the cabin with the shin-up pistol cord. Soon he will be in Kabul.
Do not pull the fate of the tail
I wonder about his fate. From the first days of his stay, I gradually felt that Igorku could not survive here. The reason was two incidents with Igor. Returning from the inspection area, he rode in front of me on his BMP. Probably, the mechanic exceeded the speed, because his car abruptly thrown to the right of the road. The BMP at full speed cut off with its sharp nose one of the poplars. The tree collapsed on the BMP. Miraculously, the trunk did not hit Igor, who was sitting in a marching way, falling between him and the tower. I went but the skin goosebumps. I thought: isn't it smartly he began to be substituted?
On a halt
Two days later. We returned from the destroyed kishlak, where they took some boards for a bath. Lice so tortured that it was impossible to sleep. I wanted to somehow wash. Returned at dusk, despite the orders of the army. At this time, the "perfume" and waylaid us. A shot from a grenade launcher passed between my BMP and Igor. The fighters sitting on top were instantly downstairs behind the saving armor. In time, since right there on the armor rattled the hail of automatic bursts. In triplex I look at the front BMP. There is no one in the car, only Igor sticks up to the waist in the hatch, showered the duvalis from his machine gun. Tracers fly around him, miraculously without harming him. Having skipped a dangerous area, I cut according to all the rules of my car's gunner. After all, if he used the weaponry of the tower, the “darlings” would not dare to behave so brazenly. The gunner sits, hanging his head. I forgot that this is only a Soviet Uzbek soldier who graduated from his training unit. After six months of training, he didn’t even know how to charge a cannon, let alone work with a gun and calculate corrections when firing. Immediately I “crutch” Igor, firmly believing in my heart that he would not last long here.
Subsequently, it turned out. Less than two weeks later, he stepped on an anti-personnel mine. His leg was cut off and sent to the Union. His report on the desire to continue the service was signed by the Minister of Defense. Igorek served in one of the Moscow military registration and enlistment offices.
The officers from the DSB were surprised to learn from me that no one gave me maps of the minefields of our area of operations. It turned out that for ten days we would ply the neighborhoods full of Soviet mines at night. One of them was “lucky” to attack Igor. In the intelligence department, a reassuring apologizing conversation was held with me, but Igor would no longer run from this anyway. Thank God, this was my last, forty-sixth operation. Soon I solemnly donned a bulletproof vest to go to the airfield. Body armor was kept in stock, and was not used in groups for operations. This was considered shameful, a manifestation of cowardice.
Although some people might have managed to sweeten their lives if we didn’t have this rule. Later, the company "shredded", and began to walk on armor in vests. We wore it to avoid the insidious case when traveling to the airfield for replacement, sending on vacation, etc. The law of meanness, we respected in full. You can not shave before the task! A bilingual translator broke this rule. I returned from the mission without a leg. It is impossible after receiving an order to replace the go to the next task! Genk, deputy commander of the second group, did not fulfill this rule, and two days later he was brought with a hole in his head. You can not pull the fate of the tail!
Afghans Y. Gaisin, V. Anokhin, V. Pimenov, V. Somov, F. Pugachev
Farewell to Afghanistan, such an alien and such native country living according to the ancient laws of Islam. You are forever bumped into bloody traces in my memory. The cool air of the rocky gorges, the special smell of smoke from the villages and hundreds of meaningless deaths ...