Foreword:
I had the pleasure of spending 9 months in kindergarten with pay, allowance and uniforms. This kindergarten is proudly called the Bundeswehr and is a holiday home combined with a playground for young and old, and even old kids. German army, gee. After three months of study, you receive the title of gefreiter (such as corporal), and regardless of merit or behavior, or level of mental development; after six months of service, you become an Obergefreiter. Each title brings with it about a hundred extra euros per month.
In general, with payment, the situation is gorgeous. In a nutshell: the so-called salary is around 400 euros per month. If the barracks is located more than a kilometer away from the house, then three euros are charged per day for the distance from the house. If you refuse underwear when outfitting (Homer Simpson style panties, T-shirts and two blue pajamas), then you get paid thirty for this, like for saving Vaterland on panties. Then again, if you don’t eat in the barracks (many people refuse breakfast because of laziness), you get 1.30 euros for each unit of food not taken. Well, plus a hundred a month for each title, plus a bonus of about 900 euros to the "demobilization".
The service is hard and difficult. Many recruits suffer a lot and miss their mother and go to the barracks priest, who plays the role of a psychologist and accepts all soldiers, regardless of religion. He has a voice and can demand one thing or another, for example, that the next sloven should be allowed to go home for a week due to a mental disorder (and this is despite the fact that every weekend the “soldiers” are allowed to go home - on Friday at twelve “end of service” and beginning at Monday at six in the morning, travel is paid by the state). Immediately I must declare that hazing is prohibited and that it is persecuted that horror, although what kind of hazing is there, if the total service life is nine months? None of the command staff are allowed to touch the soldiers (of course, in an emergency it is possible, everything is in the charter), let alone beat or so on. It is only allowed to yell loudly, and then without personal insults, otherwise the report and the career cried. For example, some ordinary Dodik, not brilliant with intelligence, cannot properly put on a hat on his tower and looks like a Turk or a cook in his beret. Unther yells at him: “You (mandatory form of address) look like a baker! Put your hat on right now! Execute! The brake crawls on the pumpkin with its claws without visible success, and after shitting a little more, the sergeant approaches him and asks: can I touch you and fix your beret? If the hoopoe answers yes, then the sergeant lovingly straightens the beret. If the hoopoe does not want to be touched by the non-commissioned officer, then he says no (there were such cases, this is just a nightmare), then the non-commissioned worker walks along the line and chooses some fool from whom the beret looks good and gives him the order to correct the beret of that hoopoe. These are the pies.
Once during an exercise, when we were playing lightning, several boobies fell behind and risked being "shot" by the enemy, our non-commissioned officer, unable to bear it, yelled - "drag your stupid assholes here." After, announcing a smoke break, he apologized to the “camerades”, referring to the fact that he was in the effect of excitement and therefore blurted it out in the heat of the moment and whether they were angry with him because of this. They said no and he was overjoyed.
Under such conditions, it’s no wonder that one e-lan from my room (the rooms were for six to eight people) sometimes cried at night and wanted to see my mother, interrupting his whining with the words that joining the army is the worst decision in his life and that he hates himself for this and wants to go home. The others consoled him.
At training, we ran, jumped, went in for sports with the NCOs, because the charter says that NCOs cannot demand from soldiers any sports activities that they themselves do not do … So if the poor NCO wanted us to do twenty push-ups or run three kilometers at a time, he had to do the same. Taking into account that the Unthurs were not exactly dragged away from sports, we did not strain too much. We also learned to disassemble and assemble machines and crawl. And, of course, they comprehended the theory of tactics and strategy. They were still flowers. And although it was fear as difficult, it turned out that after training it was even worse. The working day looked like this: breakfast from five in the morning, who wants to go, who does not want to sleep. The main thing is that everyone stands up for the formation, which is at six o'clock. After the roll call, the order followed: go to the rooms and wait for further orders, which sometimes had to wait for weeks. Everyone dispersed and engaged in all sorts of nonsense. Who slept, who watched the TV set, who played the console (everything could be brought to the barracks), who read, who just … And one valiant equivalent of the ensign (shpis) sneaked along the corridor, burst into the room like a hurricane and sowed horror, punishing everyone, who did not behave appropriately to the order - sitting at the table on a chair, waiting for the order. Forced to sweep and wash the stairs or corridor, collect candy wrappers on the parade ground, etc. But he had little imagination, so that the corridor and stairs shone, and candy wrappers were worth their weight in gold.
Then at 17:00 the order followed: end of service! And the chamberlains merrily rushed in all directions. Some go to the disco, some to the movies, some to buy some booze. The only thing that really bothered me was that it was forbidden to smoke and drink in the room. To do this, you had to go either to a special room on our floor - with a billiard and a tennis table, or to go to a bar located on the territory of the barracks.
So with adversity, 9 months passed, of which 21 days of official leave, which was ordered to be taken at Christmas.
Finally, I will tell the story of how all the sloven Germans from my room had the good fortune to become the drivers of tanks and other garbage and drove off to courses in Bavaria, and I was left all alone and once slept the long-awaited order to build up and go wash and clean the tanks (we were a tank rocket - anti-aircraft unit with obsolete Rolands of the sixties). It so happened that everyone left to scrub the tanks and I, having slept for another hour, woke up and saw that no one from my battery was in the building. This is crazy! I thought and was not mistaken. Having weighed what was worse, hovering in the room until they returned, or trying to get into the hangar to the tanks unnoticed, I chose the latter, and completed the campaign almost brilliantly, but on the very approach the sergeant fired me up. He asked me why I didn’t come with everyone, I answered with the face of Schweik that I hadn’t heard the order to leave. He gave me a short lecture on how to behave as a soldier and ordered (about grief!) After the end of the service to stay for an hour at the front desk and write an essay on the topic “how to use the afternoon break”, which I did, scribbling a shit report about the fact that a soldier should damn clean his uniform and all the bullshit, but not sleep in any way during his pause.
After reading this creation, the non-commissioned officer had mercy and set me free.
I still remember my time in the Bundeswehr with affection and grieve for the idiots of the Germans who do not know how lucky they are.
Prologue
At the medical board I was asked which troops I would like to serve. I replied that in the airborne troops, to which they told me that these troops are the best in Germany and it would be difficult to serve there, to which I replied that I was engaged in boxing and in general an athlete and they answered me: - well then, of course! Two months later, I received a referral to the Third Tank Missile Anti-Aircraft Battery.
Start
With a backpack and a summons in the book, I was approaching my duty station by train. In the summons it was written that I had to appear by 6:00 pm at the station of the town, in which I would be doing military service, and they would pick me up and take me to the barracks. It also stood that I needed a double change of linen and two locks to lock my locker.
Leaving the station at 17:00, I saw an army truck and peppers in uniform beside it. Having readily handed him my summons, I realized that fate was not as favorable to me as it seemed to me. He said that he was from the other side and that everyone had left my unit long ago …
Yes … - I said. - What should I do?
Wait still, maybe they will come again now.
After waiting until 18:00, I began to gradually worry … The army is still not a primary school, you can't be late … In general, I found a phone number and began to call the daytime. He told me that he was not in the know and that he could not connect me with someone who knew he also could not, but advised me to get to the barracks on my own. To the question "how can I get there?" he hung up. After interviewing local natives, I came across an aunt who was on the way and she said that she would tell me which bus stop to get off at. So I finally got to the barracks. The gefwriters who stood at the clock at the entrance checked my summons and passport and treated me favorably, explained how and where to go.
Arriving at the building of the third battery, I saw with horror that my future fellow soldiers, already dressed in blue - the blue sports uniform of the Bundeswehr with a fascist eagle, were already running pantingly and stomping along the corridor back and forth, and a small such sergeant was shouting at them loudly, about my shoulder about … Angrily glancing at me, he shouted to the athletes: halt! tsuryuk! nohmal! Dust rose.
The clerical bloke in uniform rudely asked me where I came from. I showed ingenuity said that from the station. He was surprised, but after thinking a little he said that he could not do anything for me, since I apparently got to the wrong place, since the battery is fully staffed and all the recruits have been on site since twelve o'clock in the afternoon. Having familiarized himself with the contents of the agenda, he was even more surprised. Strange - he told me - it says here that you must come to us. I tactfully remained silent. The hmyr hung for a while, then he told me to wait and disappeared for a couple of minutes he appeared again, bringing with him another hmyr in uniform, with whom they began to talk about what a mess, why we do not know anything about him, and his to They sent us, etc. Not deciding anything, they decided to continue their discussion in private, and they sent me to room number 168, assuring me that they would figure it out.
So the nine-month history of my ordeals began … By the way, I wonder why exactly nine months? Is this an allegory? Like after that you become a human or are you reborn? Do not know. It was so that they sent me to the room, but they didn’t figure out where I came from and why I’m not listed in their papers, apparently they were tired of thinking, so when we went to the equipment the next day, everyone was called by surname until I stayed one. Then the bloody people from the warehouse thought hard how could this be? That 52 people were supposed to receive uniforms, but for some reason 53 came … In the end, of course, I received everything, but it lasted an hour longer than planned …
The next day, during the morning roll call, the first army incident occurred. We stood in the corridor and shouted "here" to the non-commissioned officer, who was shouting the names, when a young man of our draft passed between the formation and the non-commissioned officer, but in civilian clothes and with his hands in his pockets. Unther, who was temporarily speechless, nevertheless managed to cope with himself and loudly began to yell at him saying what is it, building something for you, hands out of his pockets, quickly change into uniform, two minutes, go !, and the valiant warrior answered proudly: "I don't want to be a soldier anymore." The Unther's jaw dropped. "What?" he asked almost sentimentally. “I just went to the captain’s office and applied for a renunciation of military service, because I don’t like being a soldier,” replied the now former soldier. “But this is just the second day of the service, you haven’t figured it out yet,” the sergeant stammered. "No" - the refusenik said firmly - "I will no longer be a soldier" and withdrew down the corridor. Twenty minutes later, he left the barracks with his belongings forever to take up alternative service in some hospital for the mentally ill or a nursing home.
The morale of the battery was shaken … Unther was quietly sad.
It took about ten days of service. We got used to it. We met. There were six people in my room with me. One huge pumped-up good-natured simpleton, two frail whiners, one bespectacled man - an intellectual and a Pole, with whom we immediately found a common language. In the mornings before breakfast, we went in for sports - we went out into the corridor to do exercises - we did push-ups with the sergeant, squatted, our favorite exercise was to press our back against the wall as if sitting on a chair so that our knees were bent at right angles and stand like that with the whole platoon (the sergeant, of course, too) until, despite the menacing shouts of the sergeant, the first one falls to the floor. Out of habit, my legs, of course, got tired and shook, but the first one to fall was the same - a fat man with a downward face from the next room, who in the future would have the misfortune to get into my room and suffer severely from my Russian nature.
After charging - cleaning the room and the area entrusted to cleaning (our room had a corridor and a staircase), then breakfast, then either a theory where it was tedious and long they talked about something and it was necessary to fight sleep, or practice - crawling or running across the field in a gas mask and without, a G3 machine - assembly and disassembly, and so on until ten in the evening with a break for lunch and dinner, then again cleaning and lights out.
The Germans suffered. “They cannot when they are yelled at … No personal life, at any moment they can order something to be done and you have to do it,” they complained. I laughed and said that these were all toys … They sulked.
When we cleaned the machines once again - standing in the corridor with our backs to the wall, spreading out the details on the chair in front of each one, one of our whiners leaned back against the wall, not noticing the sergeant major walking down the corridor, and then it began. As in American cinema straight, I could hardly restrain my laughter. The sergeant major approached the soldier, brought his battle grin as close as possible to his sadly frightened face and began to yell, they say, the wall itself stands, it does not need to be propped up, where are you from, can you bring you a cocktail, but do not recoil without an order, myrrh! Shouted I must say professionally. Loudly and menacingly, looming over the fighter until he rested the back of his head against the wall, after which he said freely and went on. The whiner had an animal horror written on his face, his hands and knees trembled, it seemed to me that he was now crying. But he sobbed only at night. I was awakened by sobs and agitated whispers. The Ghanaians, huddled around his bed, consoled him and asked what was the matter, he said that he could not stand such a thing that no one had ever treated him like that, that he wanted to go home or die. I was bursting, but out of philanthropy I restrained myself so as not to hurt the soul of an impressionable fighter with my hysterical giggle even more.
The next day there was a theory … We were told the first law of the charter - kameradshavt. Like all comrades, they should respect each other, help, etc. An interesting fact was told that everyone is responsible for the state property given to him for rent, and that everyone should always keep his locker locked, even when he is in the room, and unlock it only if necessary. If, out of slovenliness, you forgot to lock the closet, then this is a crime in the army called "incitement to theft", and that if you snatch something, then it is not the one who stole, but the one who did not lock his locker seduced him into this business …
At this time, a sergeant-major looked into our classroom, called the leutnant, who was revealing to us the amazing depths of the German charter, to himself and whispered something in his ear. The lieutenant exclaimed loudly: how? can not be! But looking again at the shy face of the sergeant major must have decided that he could, so he told us to sit and wait and hurriedly ran away. He came running in a couple of minutes, and there was no face on him, and said that everything, full of alles, the terrorists attacked the Pentagon and the center of world trade and so that we would quickly run to dinner, everything about everything for fifteen minutes, then again back and there we say what's next.
Quickly and excitedly, we tried to eat something in ten minutes, while panic and chaos reigned throughout the barracks. Crowds of soldiers ran back and forth across the yard and parade ground, someone was shouting something incessantly, and a dense cloud of croaking crows hovered over it all. There was despondency among the Germans … That's it, war,”one said sadly. (It’s very picturesque, everyone was running and yelling, probably this is what happens when a war begins).
- I will not go to war! - said one.
- Yes, I have nothing else to do. - another.
- And me too … If there is a war, then immediately on the train and home, I will take my parents to Greenland, there will be nothing there. - said the third confidently
- Are you russian? - they asked me.
- And what am I, what will be ordered, and I will do. - I answered honestly - although even if there is a war, we will not be sent anywhere.
But the valiant defenders of their Fatherland said that all this is garbage, they will not send it right afterwards, and in general they saw all this in the coffin and that they must immediately bring down.
Without devouring, we ran into the television room, where without stopping, accompanied by a synchronized gasp of military personnel, we showed how the plane flies into a skyscraper. Clung. Confused, frightened faces all around.
The non-commissioned officer yelled, saying that after 5 minutes the general battalion formation was in the yard, uniform: he was wearing an overcoat. The lieutenant colonel, the battalion commander gave a fiery speech about world terrorism, which penetrates into civilian life and destroys thousands of civilian lives, and that this will not work, we must fight it. You see! - excitedly whispered around. The lieutenant colonel also told us that Chancellor Schroeder has already reacted and promised any possible assistance to the American allies in the fight against terrorism in his televised message. A sigh rushes through the rows.
After the speech, we were ordered to go back to the classroom and wait there. About 20 minutes later, when the poor soldiers were already languishing in ignorance of what would happen next, the lieutenant came and, as if nothing had happened, continued the lecture. They were still running outside the window, but not so fast, and they didn’t shout so loudly … Later I thought that the officers were probably competing in efficiency, who would quickly collect their own and push their fiery speech.
The lecture went on for another two hours, the movements outside the window gradually stopped and nothing interfered with the peaceful appearance of the ordinary German barracks, which stood to protect world society from world terrorism and filled with soldiers ready for any losses in the name of peace and defense of the fatherland.
Within about a week, all the excitement subsided, everyone forgot about the terrorists, only the privates suffered from this unheard-of terrorist attack, because we had to carry sandbags, erecting a parapet with a height of one and a half meters near the checkpoint, and even doubled all posts, because the enemy does not sleep … We suffered from this, since the watch was carried on by the old 20 people, but all the posts were doubled, so that during the watch it was possible to sleep half as much, three hours a night.
A Bundeswehr soldier must look neat. It is allowed to have hair, if it does not hang over the ears and on the collar, the bangs should not fall over the eyes. You can have a beard, but you can't walk with stubble, so if you come with a beard, you can keep it, or grow a beard while on vacation.
The Bundeswehr soldier must be disciplined and obey orders. They chew for a long time and tediously about the expediency of orders and about which orders the soldier must carry out, and which he has the right to refuse. Every now and then, discussions flare up between soldiers and non-commissioned officers about whether they should obey orders given or not; poor non-comrades screaming and sweating, but there’s little point in it. The soldiers know their rights. Every day they go to their ears, telling that a soldier is also an inviolable person in the first place and how to protect this person from bullying by elders or non-existent hazing. In the corridor there is a box for anonymous complaints about the command staff or other personalities, the key to which is in the possession of the captain, the "chief" of the battery. You can also visit him at any time to chat about this and that.
The Unthers are not stupid either, they came up with a trick for making the soldiers do what they shouldn't do. A non-commissioned officer enters the corridor and yells that one volunteer is required from each room. In the form of an order. Then the volunteers are sent according to their needs - someone to a cafe for buns or hamburgers, someone to clean up in their office premises … Typically, there is usually no shortage of volunteers.
The first two months are training. Service until ten or eleven in the evening, wake up at five, exercise, cleaning, breakfast, then “formal service”. This is when you are being prepared for the oath. Drilled. You put on an overcoat and a beret, you clean your boots, on orders you run from the third floor to the building in front of the building. While you run up the stairs, some kind of freak steps on your cleaned boot. With the toe of this boot you viciously kick him in the shin, hissing curses, he apologizes, but there is nothing to do, you try to wipe the trail with your sleeve, you can see it all the same. At the formation of the non-commissioned officer, I carefully examine each recruit from head to toe, ask for permission to correct the beret or hood, and send them to clean the boots. It looks like this: you run to the third floor, unlock the cabinet, take out the brush and cream, lock the cabinet, run downstairs, clean your boots, run upstairs, lock the brush and cream, run down to appear before the bright eyes of the sergeant. He meticulously examines the boots and, if necessary, sends again. Some ran three or four times. I once "ran" twice - ran into the building, around the corner, looked there for a minute at the stands with tanks on the walls, took out a brush from my pocket, ran out and cleaned my boots. Then he ran around the corner again, rested, hid the brush, ran out, presented the boots. But this was punishable. Once an equally clever person was caught and yelled at him for a long time … After the inspection, we march. Many have problems with turning left or right. Wild screams, stupid jokes when everyone turns to the left, and some kind of ram turns to the right and turns out to be face to face with another. Unther happily runs up and asks the ram if he wants to kiss another. He laughs. We march for two or three hours, but there is a pause every half hour, since the discipline does not allow non-combatants to smoke when we march. And they want to smoke often. After a month of training, approximately for the first time, the end of the service hours so at six in the evening. You can go out into town and buy beer. Drinking in the room is strictly prohibited. Can be in the TV room or "free time room". Well, or in a bar on the territory of the barracks.
The Pole buys a bubble of "Zubrovka" and we go to the room for a drink. Without a snack and under the cigarettes, it fits tightly, we are half a liter drunk, and there are still two fingers left at the bottom. At ten the lights are out, the Pole and I are arguing about the leftovers - he says to pour out and throw the bottle out of the window, I propose to hide it in my locker and finish it later. Everyone is frightened and persuaded me not to be a fool, they say storage is prohibited, you get caught and set us all up. I proudly send everyone away, saying that my religion does not allow me to pour out vodka. One wise guy respectfully asks "what is yours?"
I put the bottle in the pocket of my spare overcoat, lock the locker and in the following days I drink a sip for the coming sleep. The Germans are shocked that I am doing this.
On Tuesdays we run a circle around the barracks - about six kilometers. A dull fanjunker - a future lieutenant, a circle running with us yells - "men, Russians behind us, give in!" (Interestingly, do all Russians associate the word skedaddle with the word?) I let go, catch up with him and yell: "The Russians are already here!" He stumbles. After jogging, a warm-up, during which our Turk is a platoon jester and pukes smoothly vomiting under his feet at the expense of a fanjunker. He bent down once, vomited a little bit, straightened up by two, made two half-turns with his body, bent down once, vomited more. Fanjunker yells at him: “Get out of line! Vomit elsewhere! Get out into the bushes! " After the warm-up, he invites me to step aside and, looking into my face, says that he did not want to offend me with his cry about the Russians, and that he deeply regrets this, and asks for forgiveness. I forgive him generously.
On Friday, after breakfast, run three kilometers in athletic form. The oldest from our call is Momzen, he is 25 years old, and apparently he is a little out of his mind. On a run, he amazes and frightens the people, while I and the Pole are delighted. The order was given to run, the time was recorded - a circle of 400 meters. Momzen runs the first lap, equals the non-players at the stopwatch and shouts as he runs: “I …! Not….! Can…! Run …! More!!!" In three words, Unther advises him to be silent and run on, and Momzen runs, and suddenly begins to just sob. Right on the run, and it looks rather strange, like running, a drawn-out sob, then a drawn-out s-s-s-s-s-s, then again a sob and s-s-s-s-s-s. So the whole circle runs, sobbing loudly, and is equal again with the non-commissioned officer. While the non-commissioned officer stares at him in disbelief in his eyes and ears, he runs on. Unther awakens from lethargy and yells: "Momzen, don't run if you can't!" But Momsen stubbornly runs on. And sobs. The Unther rushes in pursuit, catches up with him, runs beside him and shouts: "Momzen, stop!" it away from the treadmill and gently takes it indoors. For the rest of the day Momzen lies on a bunk in his room and does not speak to anyone. Compassionate Germans offer him a drink or talk, but he only shakes his head.
By the way, when Momzen first came to the barracks, he immediately told everyone that his son would not be born today tomorrow and kept busy about whether he would be given a couple of days off when this happened. Every week, when Momzen returned to the barracks, he was asked if he had finally become a father, and every week he invariably answered that he had not yet, but this week for sure … what the doctor said this week for sure and smiled like an idiot … Then he got tired, but after 9 months of service, no one was born to him, and opinions were divided. Someone said that he was just down, people thought more mildly that some kind of tragedy was evidently playing out for him, but we never found out the truth.
After jogging until midday, cleaning the room and the area entrusted to cleaning. Our territory - a corridor and a staircase - I took part in cleaning only once in two months of training. Every day the Hans swept and washed the floor twice every day, and complained that I was not helping … Well, to clear my conscience, and more for show, I once pretended to wipe the dust off the railing. What kind of dust is there?
Every Friday the same bike, but the Germans from my room every time piously believe it and almost go to hysterics, go out of their way. The story is that there should be no debris or dust left in the room until twelve o'clock, and then we will be sent home on time. If there is dust somewhere, then woe to everyone, for they will force us to get out further and detain us for an hour longer. The problem is that no matter how hard you try, there will be dust. Anyway. And each time the same performance is played out - at about eleven o'clock, a check comes in, usually in the face of two non-comrades, and they look for dust, which they find quite quickly. Professionals - on a plafond under the ceiling, or fibers on a chair leg, between frames in a window, or on a window sill outside, on door hinges, under a bin, on the soles of boots, and so on. They know a lot of such hiding places, and even if the long-suffering Germans memorize them all and wipe everything thoroughly, the non-combatants can easily find more. Then comes the well-played resentment of the NCOs. They are just shocked, what a pigsty we have and they yell for two minutes and are outraged that now the whole battery is delayed for another hour because of us.
Among the Germans there is panic bordering on despair. They blame each other, but mostly me, because I do not show much enthusiasm for cleaning, that now we, and because of us, the whole battery, will miss the train. I say that they say the same thing in every room, and they will let us go as usual, regardless of whether the dust is found or not, but they don’t believe me … The play is repeated once more. The Germans almost cry. And finally, at exactly twelve o'clock, the check is again, the non-comrades say with approval, "I wish it would be so long ago!" and after a couple of minutes they yell that the service is over.
Everyone happily changes into civilian clothes and rushes to the bus stop. To my "well, what did I say?" nobody pays attention.
The next Friday, everything is repeated again. Unless the episode with Momzen is unique, because he is exempt from jogging.
The food here is bad. By German standards.
Breakfast and dinner consists of breads, rolls and several types of cheese and cold cuts. Well, vegetables such as tomatoes - sliced cucumbers and a lot of fruits: apples, pears, bananas, sometimes watermelons and melons. Every Thursday, a hot dinner - either fried potatoes and onions, or a slice of pizza, or baked Hawaiian toast with ham, pineapple washer and cheese. For lunch, a standard set - a piece of meat with diluted sauce, boiled potatoes and some kind of boiled or stewed vegetables. Well, sometimes there is, of course, pasta or rice … Every Wednesday, soup day - they give a thick aintopf with sausage, usually oversalted.
But this is in the barracks. In the field, they feed differently. Bivouac is such a beautiful, Yesenin word. In the fourth week we go to the woods to "fight". On Monday night, a huge, pumped-up simpleton wakes us up from our room and excitedly whispers that something is wrong, that there will probably be an alarm, because the lights in the corridor are not lit, as usual, and it is dark and there are small candles in the corners. The people start to worry and panic. I am outraged, I say so as not to interfere with sleep, that if there is an alarm, then we will not let it through, so that we shut up. Kachok says that he will not sleep anymore, but will wait … I tell him to wait in silence and not rustle and fall asleep again.
An unbearable howl hits my ears. Siren. I jump up sleepily on the bed, I don’t understand anything. The jock turns on the light and rushes about the room. No one knows what to do, since we had never heard of anxiety before, especially how to behave. Someone yells: "ABC-Alarm !!!" (atomic-biological-chemical alarm) and we all as one grab the gas masks - fortunately, they are on the cabinet from the edge - and put them on. At this time, the door swings open with a bang and with a cry "Alarm, everyone is building!" a non-commissioned officer flies in. At first, he still yells that we have turned on the light in vain, but falls silent in mid-sentence, because he sees five idiots in shorts and gas masks and one in uniform, but also in a gas mask (this cowardly jock put on his uniform, made the bed and sat waiting while everyone else slept) … Unther tries to make a formidable face, but it is clear that he is bursting with laughter. Building! He yells and takes off. Another flies in and yells: “Construction! Turn off the lights! Anxiety!”, But he also notices the comic nature of the situation and begins to laugh openly, though shyly covering his non-officer's face with his palm. Runs out. We are still in a stupor, standing in gas masks and cannot move. Here the staff officer Schroeder, the deputy platoon commander, runs in, completely devoid of humor and imagination and begins to scream loudly and viciously that this is a mess, why did we put on gas masks when it’s not an abts alarm, but a military alarm, quickly take off gas masks, put on a uniform, soon construction. And without light the main thing! Slams the door.
Only then I understand what the matter is and begin to laugh, rip off the gas mask, feverishly pull on my pants and boots. The order is given to form, I put on a gymnast on the run. There is a motley crowd in the corridor. Someone is in only trousers and slippers, someone in uniform but barefoot, there is even one specialist in a tunic and boots but without trousers. Schroeder walks gloomily in front of the line. "I have never seen such a shame!" he goes broke. “Not soldiers, but a crowd of peasants! Quickly go through the rooms, put on the uniform, as expected, take paper and a pencil! Who turns on the light will regret it! One minute, let's go! " he yells with genuine malice.
In a minute, everyone is dressed in uniform, standing. Schroeder yells that now he will read out the disposition, only once, write down silently to everyone, then he will personally check each one. The disposition is such that country X, bordering our country Y, is pulling troops to the common border on the Z river, possibly a border violation, our battery is ordered to take a position on the right bank of the Z river and is preparing for defense. Try to write something while standing in formation on a piece of paper with a pencil. I don't even try, I rely on memory. I'll write it down later.
Schroeder orders to disperse to the rooms, the order is immediately distributed "get ready to build in front of the armory", a pause, "line up in front of the armory!" Stomp on the stairs. Our armory is one floor up. We build in front of her, go in turn, say the number of the machine, get it, give the card with the same number, it is hung on the place where the machine was. For accounting purposes. When you return the machine, you get the card back. My 64-year-old assault rifle, well-worn. At the shooting range, where we were taken before, there was such a problem: in order to determine the aiming point (not a single machine gun shoots as it should, but a little to the side, at least with us), from a hundred meters, you shoot three bullets at a large, one and a half to one and a half meter target, aiming at the top ten. If all the bullets have lain more or less heap, for example, on the seven to the left of the ten, then the aiming point (where you are aiming to get into the ten) is, respectively, on the seven to the right. I fired all three bullets, aiming at the bull's-eye, but no holes were found on the target. I was asked where I was aiming, I replied that ten, as it should be. Unther grinned, ordered to shoot three more times. I fired with the same result. Unther, on whose face it was clearly written that he was thinking about me, with an air of superiority took the machine gun, and casually firing three shots, said, "Now let's go and show this point." When we got to the target, it was time for me to grin. There was not a single hole on the target. Unther scratched his pear-shaped head. In the end, this point was found - you had to aim at the ground below the lower right corner of the target in order to hit it at all.
After we received the machine guns, we were ordered to disperse to the rooms and wait for the order. We had to wait a long time. The alarm was at four in the morning, at about half past five we went to the rooms with machine guns, put on combat equipment (two pouches with clips, a shovel, a bag with a gas mask, a rubber cape and rubberized mittens, a bag with a bowler hat, a flask - on the belt and a backpack with spare things and a sleeping bag strapped to it) and sat down to wait. We made a sortie into the corridor - to smoke. Everything is quiet. Dawn gradually dawned. At six in the morning there was an order to line up, we were ordered to go to the canteen to have breakfast, loaded up like that, and went, pushed, crowded, clung to each other, to tables, chairs and other household items with rifle barrels and backpacks. After breakfast, we sat for another half an hour and then there was an order to be built in front of the building, finally they served such a colorful green ikarus. We were lucky.
Each soldier has half a tent. You choose a partner for yourself from your department, build this structure with him and rejoice. You are happy, because one is left extra and he has only half of the tent. When asked what to do, he is reasonably noticed - put half of it! He set half of the poor guy, but as luck would have it, the nasty northern rain began to drizzle in the evening, and so it went on for the next four days, which we stuck out there and, accordingly, he could not sleep, it was too wet, therefore he was not assigned to play soldiers (to lie in a puddle at night ambush for two hours, bypass positions with weapons at the ready, etc.), and put him to the fire, which he had to watch. All day long. So he sat there, near the fire, and he was a very, very harmful and bad person, so everyone spat on the cameraman and no one offered him his tent. On the third night, he fell asleep and fell into the fire and probably would have burned himself terribly if the next shift on the clock had not passed by, which promptly pulled him out, he only singed his eyebrows, eyelashes and the peak of his cap.
Fighting weekdays went - four days. During the day, we learned to disguise ourselves with grass and branches broken by the wind - you can't rip off the tree, smeared our muzzles with black paint, crawled, ran, jumped, shot blanks, took off gas masks and a rubber poncho - dressed, trained to take prisoner and disarm suspicious individuals (who were mostly played me or a Pole - you are walking with a pistol in your bosom, a patrol is going to meet you, yelling “stop, hands up”, and you yelling “yes you all go there and there,” in Russian, of course. at this time, you curse them, their commander, the entire German army and in general everything that you see. Then one of them aims at you with a machine gun (as if, in general, you cannot aim at people, so he only pretends to aim at you, ground) and the other comes up, searches, takes the pistol and they take you away. then it occurred to him, he gave a special sign, everyone hid in the bushes or behind a tree and drove the muzzle of a machine gun here and there - they say the enemy is not asleep. They simulated a fight once. At first we sat in the forest, and another squad ran across the clearing at us, we fired blanks and drove them away, then vice versa. And at night there were two tasks, or a patrol for two hours - you go around the bivouac in a circle - together, and the NCOs sometimes simulated an attack and it was necessary to react correctly - raise the alarm with shots and everyone woke up, grabbed a weapon and ran whoever, firing blanks, and shoot without plugs it was forbidden in the ears - damage to state property, which is a soldier, therefore we went to the patrol with our ears plugged (they gave out special plugs), and there were three stations where you had to stop, pull the plugs out of your ears, and listen for the enemy sneaking. Then plug your ears again and further. Another task - just an ambush - you lie and look in the direction of the alleged enemy, if you see him, then you raise the alarm with shots.
Not far from the clearing with tents there were two red plastic transportable toilets, to which one had to go with cover. In general, two soldiers sneak up to the trials, then one takes off his machine gun and a belt with equipment, and the other sits on his haunches and vigilantly looks around, guarding the peace of the first.
The food was also very romantic. There was an order to find a long strong stick, make cuts on it according to the number of soldiers in the squad, and hang bowlers wrapped in kerchiefs on the stick so that they do not rattle. A truck arrived with food and movement began: two soldiers from the squad, with bowlers on a stick, crept to the car, which was parked in the middle of the field. Nearby were at least two sneaking with machine guns at the ready, covering those with a stick. They went to the car, got food, sneaked back and ate, then sat by a big fire and smoked.
Every day we lost about two or three people from the platoon sick. They were taken to the barracks.
On the third day of the bivouac, on Wednesday we were loaded onto a bus and taken to the barracks to wash, but what about three days without a shower? At the same time, we grabbed a second pair of boots there, because the first did not dry out due to the rain. By the way, romance also reigned in the barracks - those of the patients who were not very sick (there is a concept of internal service, this is when you serve inside, in the room, and you do not have to go outside), set up tents in the corridor, stretching them out like on electrical tape and they slept in them, they brought them heaps of grass from the street so that they could disguise themselves, they smeared their faces in black and also patrolled the corridor at night, where the insidious sergeant was sometimes waiting for them, or lay on the clock near the room with weapons. Only now they were not allowed to shoot in the corridor, so they only pretended to shoot. Also, two of them with pots on a mop handle went to the cafeteria and brought the others to devour. In general, equality. Everyone has to go through a bivouac during training, and everyone went through it, just some in the building.
When we went to the shower and changed into clean clothes (each had three sets of uniforms), we were taken back to the forest and we continued our arduous field service. If it weren't for the lingering September rain, always wet clothes, sleeping bags and legs, this would be great.
On Thursday we had a small party - they brought pickled stacks and sausages and from eight o'clock in the evening there was a grill - each a stack and two sausages and two small cans of Faxe beer. Those who did not want beer could get, respectively, two cans of cola or forfeits. Then he went to bed, at five in the morning on Friday, the last combat alert - the non-comrades ran, yelled, fired and threw foam firecrackers in the form of grenades, we shot back and fought off the reptiles.
And then they dismantled the tents, packed their things and march to the barracks - eleven kilometers in full combat uniforms and with a machine gun on their shoulder - and the bivouac behind.
After the march - bloody calluses. Boots - new, made of good leather, hard and unfamiliar, they wash their feet into the blood. A huge bubble appears, immediately bursts, then a new one, on the next layer of skin, bursts too, then the skin ends and then the heel itself is erased. But nothing, eleven kilometers is nonsense, and almost everyone gets there. Those who say they can no longer receive orders to stop and wait for a truck that runs along the road. They are not yelled at, but hinted that they are weaklings. I tolerate. Can't be a Russian weakling.
When I finally take off my boots in the barracks with relief, both socks are covered in brown blood above the heel and to about the middle of the foot. Gently peeling them off the body - it looks bad, but better than I thought. The Germans stare at me, asking why I didn't go by the truck. I chuckle proudly, they chuckle shaking their heads. After cleaning and cleaning the uniform, the end of the service. Limping cautiously, I walk in sneakers to the bus stop.
On Monday many people go to the medical unit - they show them corns, they are washed, they are given special “corn plasters” and they are exempt from boots. Specialists with such an exemption go either in slippers or sneakers. They laugh at them - after all, the vidocq is still the same - in uniform and in slippers. On drills on the parade ground, where we are being prepared for the upcoming oath, screams filled with pain are heard every now and then. They do not know how to march, they stomp like a herd of sheep, step on their heels, and those who are in slippers have a hard time. The boots do alleviate the pain a little, but they are not pleasant enough. The Turk walking behind me is one of those. After he kicked me in the heel a second time, I turn to him and say: "keep your distance!" After the third time, I turn and push him in the chest, hissing viciously: "If you step again, you will get in the face right here!" He is obscured, from the expression on his face you can see that he does not doubt my words. A sergeant shouts at me. The Turk is one step behind, breaks the line, yells at him, but I am more terrible for him than a non-commissioned officer. So, under the screams and lectures, he goes half a step further from me than it should be and with longing looks into the eyes of the non-commissioned officer who is yelling at him.
Before the oath - the so-called recruitment exam. We are again alerted at four in the morning, but this time our fussy and suspicious jock sets the alarm at a quarter to four, goes out into the corridor, sees that the light is off and there are candles in the corners and wakes us up. After that, he takes out the same candles stored in advance from his locker, lights them, places them on the table so that there is enough light and we dress neatly, make the beds and sit down at the table. When the siren begins to roar, the door swings open, a non-commissioned officer runs in and opens his mouth to shout "siren, to the formation", slams it again, shakes his head and goes out again. Another runs in, yells that there is a mess, takes all the candles and leaves. We sit in the dark until the order is given to form. Again the same disposition, only immediately upon receiving machine guns and putting on combat gear we are taken away …
The essence of the exam is that a squad of ten people, under the command of one of our own elected "deputy commander of the squad", makes a march with orientation in the terrain, having a compass. The card is given exactly for a minute to this very deputy by the name of Tyurman (he is still a chamberlain, arrogant, self-confident) and by blind chance to me. In this minute we have to memorize the map, then they take it away, give a piece of paper each to sketch what we saw. The order is that direction. Squad - in full gear, with blank cartridges in machine guns, march. Each department is put off the truck at a different location and the exam begins. We check the cards drawn before. They are completely different. I do not argue for a long time with the factory committee about which of them is more correct and where we should go, after which he sends me to be the last.
Martial law. This means painting faces with black paint, sticking out the helmet with grass and branches and sneaking in a given direction (responding to the orders of a stupid Tyurman, who, having felt the power every now and then sees a suspicious movement or hears something), and now and then, jumping into the bushes, bristle with the muzzles of machine guns. I get tired of it quickly. Firstly, I believe that we are not going quite where we need to, secondly, it is dawn and we should already be in place, after two hours of wandering through the forest. Therefore, when he once again orders to hide in the bushes, I cheerfully release three shots towards the edge of the forest. A lively firefight ensues. Each one shoots five or six rounds, then silence … The enemy is not visible. I say what it seemed to me, not hiding a grin.
Move on. Finally we come to a fenced field where cows graze peacefully. The tyurman says that we need to go to the other side of the field, they say we are climbing over the fence, I resist, I say that it is forbidden and teachings by exercises, and the owner of the field will not be happy if armed soldiers stress the cows. In the end, we climb, step over the wide cow cakes, I from behind in a full voice in a capricious tone notify everyone that this very Tyurman is an idiot in my opinion, that he invented this, I, one of the two people who saw the map of the area, sends back, instead of to consult with me, and in the end we walk through the manure, instead of being in place for a long time. The turban gets angry, shouts to me "Shut up!" I answer - “what, really! Isn't it true, comrades? " The comrades are silent, but I feel that the truth is on my side. After the next three minutes of deliberately drawn-out whining, Tyurman shouts in a broken voice "shut up, this is an order!"
I answer - "You can yourself with your orders …. you are nobody to me, and do not be rude."
He breaks down on a screech - "I will report everything to non-commissioned officer Witstruck - that you fired unnecessarily, that you are not following orders."
And here I, savoring, tell him that Witstruck will of course be interested to know that his deputy, chosen by him, is a complete idiot, ordered us to climb through private property, led us through a private field, and, proving our cretinism, ordered us to be silent and not tell him the mistakes he made. He is silent.
On the other side of the fence, the situation finally manifests itself - we made a small detour - only three or four kilometers, and went to the first checkpoint from the rear, surprising the sergeant a lot, who lay in ambush with a machine gun and was preparing to arrange combat conditions for us when we showed ourselves. At this point, we had to assemble - disassemble the machine guns for a while, but then at the wrong time another squad appeared on the horizon (it was planned to leave about an hour and a half, but while we strayed, they caught up with us) and the noncommissioned officer involved us in creating combat conditions. We hide in the bushes, and letting them come closer, we open rapid fire on an unsuspecting enemy. Driving them into the dusty ground at the edge of the forest with our idle bursts, we have fun with might and main. All the same, it is much more tempting to set up ambushes than to fall into them. It looks very impressive. The machine gun chirps and roars, automatic rounds plunge the squad into panic, the soldiers rush about, forgetting to fall and shoot back. When they finally lay down and start firing volleys, the fire from our side dies down at the command of the non-commissioned officer and he shouts: "Which squad and who is your deputy commander?" - "I, the second branch" - a modest voice is heard from the tall yellowed grass. "Stand up!" shouts the sergeant. The poor man gets up, and again falls under the joyful cackle of the sergeant, who fires a long burst of machine-gun at him. Then he gives a short lecture about how the enemy is not asleep, the squad is defeated, deprived of command and virtually destroyed.
After that, he tells us that we have successfully demonstrated our skill in assembling and disassembling the machine gun and gives us a new direction. At the next checkpoint, we find ourselves in the zone of an atomic-biological-chemical attack. Required: hold your breath, stand on one knee, put the machine gun and rest it on your shoulder, take off your helmet, put it on your knee, get and put on a gas mask, (twenty seconds are given for this - whoever did not have time to be declared killed) pull out a rubber poncho and put it on yourself, tightly tighten the hood, put on a helmet over the gas mask and hood, and finally pull on rubberized mittens with a separate index finger - so that you can shoot. Half of the squad did not manage on time and the sergeant tediously tells that in the war they would be dead, that this is a mess, that it is a shame and so on. Then he shows us the direction - about three hundred meters further the next checkpoint and accidentally the infected zone ends there. Run!
Running in a gas mask and a rubber poncho is very unpleasant - you choke and sweat terribly, your uniform is completely wet in two minutes. Having finally reached the saving edge of the forest, we receive the command to remove protective equipment. Having carefully laid out everything in long strips, we stand with our backs to the wind. The non-commissioned officer hands each a bag of white powder, assuring that it is a decontamination agent and suggests that they pour over all their things, especially a gas mask, abundantly. I crush the powder in my fingers, smell it and suddenly realize that it is flour. Another joke for educational purposes - pour a little flour into a wet gas mask and then, in the barracks, picking out the dried dough from it will give you a lot of pleasure. I dip my fingers in flour, run them over the top of the gas mask and sprinkle on the poncho. We are saved. You can put everything back in the bag and follow on.
We have the following points: assembly and disassembly of machine guns and pistols, a group on the defensive, arrest and search of suspicious persons, orientation on the map with the help of a compass and crossing a narrow channel along a cable stretched between two trees - naturally with insurance. We pass all this without difficulty, only Momzen began to sob again during the crossing, hovering about in the middle of the cable and declaring that he was afraid of heights. He was offered to move on, because he had already passed half of it, but he, sobbing even harder, simply unclenched his hands and hung on the belay - two meters above the surface of the water. He answered all the persuasion and shouts with hysterical sobs. A grandiose action to save Momsen followed. The simplest and most logical way was to throw him a rope and pull him to the ground, but with both hands he convulsively clung to the safety cable on which he was hanging and therefore could not catch the rope. The brave rescuer had to climb on the rope in order to reach Momzen to the saving land, but Momzen introduced a lot of complications into this plan, since he released the rope in time and grabbed his savior, making sure that in the end they hung side by side on the safety ropes and the savior was tightly hugged by a dead soldier's grip. But at least his hands were free, so that he was able to catch the end of the rope and they were finally pulled out onto dry land. Although even after that Momzen had to be persuaded to let the other go, he only sobbed and shook his head. They unhooked him and took him away.
Along the way, we had lunch in battle formation - fried cold chicken thighs wrapped in foil, mashed potatoes and compote, rested for half an hour and moved on.
The campaigns between the points were complicated by raids by hostile non-commissioned officers who occasionally set up ambushes. I had to shoot back. When there were no ambushes for a long time, so that the squad would not lose vigilance, I imitated them. He began to shoot and thus shake up his comrades, but they somehow did not appreciate it at all and were offended.
Having bypassed all the points, the platoon gathered in a large clearing, held a roll call. The platoon leader, the lieutenant, ordered the deputy squad leaders to hand over the remaining cartridges. Our Tyurman went to him and reported that there were no cartridges left in his department, after which he returned to us and said that we would bury them. Since I was in some confrontation with him, I said that I would not bury the cartridges and invited him to go and tell the lieutenant that the cartridges still remained. The rest, meanwhile, were burying their own. The Turk came up to me and struck up the following casual conversation with me:
- "You will bury them!"
- "No"
- "Bury it !!!"
- "No"
- "That's an order!"
- "You go with your orders"
- "I will complain that you do not follow my orders !!!"
- “Go on, go ahead. Have you heard about damage to state property?"
- "Bury your cartridges!"
- "No"
- "Please, bury, otherwise I already said that we have no more" - in the voice of longing.
- "No. Who pulled you by the tongue?"
- "But why?"
- "It's a pity. And it's bad for nature too"
- "You will bury them !!!"
- "No"
- "Bury" - with a threat. He takes a step towards me, grabs my machine gun with both hands. I examine him critically, wondering where to punch him - in the jaw or just puff. The Germans shout warning "hey-hey", stand around, say "leave him."
"What to do?" Tyurman asks sadly, releasing my machine gun.
"Go report that the department is handing over ammunition in that number."
He goes with cartridges to the lieutenant, who tells him for a long time about discipline, kindergarten and responsibility. Returns pale with anger - "I flew in because of you!". “It's my own fault,” I answer succinctly.
An enthusiastic grandfather arrives - a lieutenant colonel, battalion commander. Runs among the soldiers, shakes hands, asks how it went, were we tired, if there were corns and so on. Many say that yes, they are tired, and there are corns. Grandpa pushes the speech that according to the plan we were supposed to march eleven kilometers to the barracks, but since we showed ourselves well and coped with all the difficulties, he decided that we deserved a little comfort and now the trucks will arrive.
Joyful, we mount our cars and drive to the barracks. Oath of allegiance next week.
After a successful "recruiting exam" we are preparing for the oath. We are marching, learning to synchronously execute the commands "to the left!", "To the right!" and “around!”, facing great difficulties. But the commanding staff, without losing hope and without ceasing to yell, still teaches the soldiers where is left, where is right, and what is the left shoulder, so that through it they can make “all around!”.
The day before being sworn in is a dress rehearsal. Six representatives from the battery are selected, who will have the honor to walk up to the banner, touch the staff and read the oath formula, which by the way is very short, and, as it should be in a democratic country, is not an oath, but a “solemn promise”. It sounds something like this: I solemnly promise to faithfully serve the FRG and bravely defend the Rights and Freedom of the German people. Our battery commander is a progressive man and stands for the protection of the friendship of peoples, therefore, out of six representatives of real Germans, only three are. The rest are me, a Russian German, a Pole Shodrok and an Italian Impagnatello. The entire battery solemnly march to the parade ground, lined up at the designated place, and stood for about half an hour for training. Then, at the command of six honorary soldiers (we are) we are knocked out, we follow to the center of the parade ground, where our sergeant is standing with the flag of our battery, we touch him, say the text of the oath, then we sing the hymn. After that we return to the ranks, we stand for another half an hour and the battery solemnly marches back to the barracks …
Friday morning is the day of the oath - the church service. Naturally in the Catholic Church. The Turk begins to swing the rights that he is a Muslim and cannot and does not want to go to church. At first, they try to persuade him reasonably, they say, you can not pray, but just sit there, nothing will happen, but he stubbornly resisted. Then the cunning lieutenant tells him that he respects someone else's religion, but then he, a Muslim, will have to stay in the barracks and scrub the stairs and corridor under the vigilant supervision of non-commissioned officer Steinke, who hates a Turk. And all the rest at this time will sit in the church, then drink coffee and buns and arrive two hours later, when he, the Turk, has just finished cleaning. The Turk immediately backtracks, says that it's okay if he goes to church, especially since he has always been interested in how the Catholic service is going.
A minister is standing near the church, distributing books with psalms, prayers and songs. We enter and sit down in a dignified manner. The priest talks long and tediously that “we are peaceful people, but our armored train is on the side track,” then we get up, read our Father, then he rants about the important role the German army plays for peace in Europe and around the world, then we get up and sing the song "Thank you for this wonderful morning, Thank you for this day" and so on. At the end of the service, we drink coffee and rolls and drive back to the barracks, where relatives and friends are already gathering - they walk, examine tanks and hand weapons, stare at us. We march to our building and we are dismissed for half an hour in order to talk with visitors, show them the barracks, introduce them to comrades, and so on.
Then the formation, we march to the parade ground, stand as it should be and stand. First, the mayor of the city pushes the speech, the military band plays a march, then the battalion commander, again the march, then the commandant of the barracks, the march, then the general, and so on. It lasts about an hour. Stuffy and windless. The first ones begin to fall - you stand without movement for an hour, blood circulation is disturbed and a short fainting follows. At the back of the rows are orderlies with stretchers, water, and first aid cases. Lucky for those who fall back, they are picked up and carried away. Those who fall forward hurt their noses and arms, one of them broke the jaw. The greatest losses are borne by the guard of honor - those who do not participate in the oath, but simply look beautiful, twist their guns and shine in the sun with helmets. Until the end of all the ceremonies, about half of them had been carried away, only three fell from our battery.
But we, honorary representatives, were lucky - after an hour without moving, we readily march to the banner, they tilt it, everyone puts a gloved hand on the pole, the battalion commander says the oath formula into the microphone, everyone repeats after him. We sing the hymn, then the six of us are congratulated, the mayor, the general, the commandant of the barracks shake hands and invite us to take part in the honorary banquet after the end of the oath. We march back into line, carefully striking a step, stretching our legs and swinging our arms.
Then another hour of speeches, marches and finally they congratulate us, in honor of taking the oath, the battery yells three times "foyer fry!" - the battle cry of the artillery to which we belong. We leave the parade ground and that's it. The oath has been taken, we are given red stripes of military supplies, and from that moment on we are not recruits - we are soldiers of the Bundeswehr.
We go to the officers' club for a banquet - non-commissioned officers in checkered aprons bring champagne on trays, various snacks, they congratulate us, they push again speeches, it quickly becomes boring, we leave after drinking several glasses of champagne. Not every day they treat it like that.
* * *
Shooting range. The shooting range is always good. Shooting at targets. When you are not shooting, you sit and smoke, chatting with the cameras. They were shooting from almost everything. A lot and with pleasure. They fired from a pistol, from an Uzi, from an old brand machine gun - G3 and from a new one, G36. Queues and singles. Lying down, from a knee, standing freely or against a wall, putting your elbow on it. They even fired from the faustpatron. Combat, fragmentation grenades were thrown. Only with a machine gun it was not possible. In general, the shooting range is a pleasant variety in a viscous and lazy service.
Here we are driving after breakfast to the shooting range, with our chief lieutenant. We arrived, set up targets, laid out coconut mats to shoot while lying down, stood in line. The first ones come to the booth, get cartridges. Hitch. Where are the cartridges? There are no cartridges. Forgot to capture. The chief lieutenant is in a panic. Calling the battery commander - what to do? He yells something into the phone. Something unpleasant, judging by the wrinkled face of our gallant platoon commander. He goes somewhere. We are sitting.
After about an hour and a half, the cartridges arrive. At last! Standing in line again. Hitch! There are no vending machines. They didn’t give it out… Ober lieutenant turns pale, then blushes. Uncertainly, he twists the phone in his hands, cautiously dials the number …
After another two hours, shops are brought in. We are not standing in line this time. Lunch - after lunch an hour pause. You can't shoot. Afternoon "quiet hour". We sit. The hour drags on - it's boring, I want to sleep. Finally we get in line, the first ones get magazines with cartridges, go to the mats, go to bed. They are ready to shoot, they are waiting for the command, but the superintendent of the shooting range comes and says - what did you do here? You only have reserved until lunchtime … The shift has arrived, get ready. We are leaving …
We had such a tip - Kruger. With a lack of communication, and indeed not quite in myself. A militarist like that. I bought myself all the trash. I bought a special poncho - in camouflage spots, for 70 euros. And he was not allowed to wear it - it stands out from the masses, but it is necessary that everyone be the same. The gray ones. Or he bought himself two pistols - a dummy. Air. And every morning he hung them under a shirt in holsters, like the FBI. On his leg, under his trousers, he wore an airborne knife in a scabbard. For some reason I even bought myself a Kevlar helmet for 200 euros. Fool. But in a way. His dream was to serve in the army - he applied for a non-commissioned officer to stay - was refused. Without giving reasons. Although why are there reasons, if he is completely focused on the army and weapons? Such people are not even needed in the Bundeswehr. Few people talked to him at all, they laughed more, opaquely hinting at his dementia. The girl dumped him, he became limp.
One afternoon, during an afternoon break - most of them were asleep - an unexpected order to line up in the corridor. The frowning sergeant commands the squads: the first to the attic, the second to the basement, the third to walk around the building, and so on. Well, I'm with my office in the basement. They came. We stand. What to do then? We stood for half an hour and back. And there the intensity of passions. They say that Kruger did not go to dinner, the Germans returned to the room from his room - and there was his farewell letter. They say I'm leaving this life, I ask you not to blame anyone, and so on. Well, they are in a panic to the authorities - they say Kruger voluntarily leaves life … What to do. So we were sent to look for him in the basement - only nothing was reported about the subject of the search, so as not to create panic. They say we will find it if we will figure it out on the spot. But he was found - in the TV room he was sitting with a knife in his hand. How did the sergeant go there ¬– he threw the knife aside, ran to open the window. Fourth floor. But he didn't have time. He was grabbed by the scruff of his neck and sent to the Bundeswehr psychiatric hospital. A month later he returned as cured. What is typical - no consequences - I also went with everyone to the shooting range - shot … I told him when he got thirty soldiers - "you say crazy, if you shoot us here, I'll break your neck."He smiles and looks at me slyly, and the Germans hiss at me - what are you, you fool? He really can! “Well, that's why I warn you, because he is crazy,” I say. About five people got scared, ran to the commander, they say we don't want to be here when the Kruger is armed. He persuaded them for a long time … But nothing happened.
And then there is "wahe". This is when you stick around at the checkpoint for a day. It's easier in the daytime - you stand for two hours in a bulletproof vest and with a pistol at the gate or at the gate where the pedestrian personnel pass; or, for fear of terrorists, you insure the one who checks the documents - you are sitting in the bushes or behind a huge boulder (a monument in honor of the killed air defense officers during the first two world wars) with a machine gun and a walkie-talkie. They say if the one who checks the documents is soaked, open fire to kill from the shelter. I defended it for two hours, then an hour's respite. You can devour or lie down, without losing, however, combat readiness. And at night it is worse. There you still need to go to the night watch. You wander around the barracks in the dark, looking for criminals. Or you sit on duty: if the car is driving, two jump out - one checks the documents and opens the gate if anything happens, the other yawns behind the parapet of sandbags. It was possible to sleep for about three hours a night, and then in fits and starts, for half an hour.
According to the regulations, between such watches for a soldier, there should be a break for at least a day, but it so happened that the whole barracks left somewhere, and we stayed. There were not enough people … I sat there for three days in a row. Served. From lack of sleep and a clear stupidity of what is happening, the roof almost went down. On the second day I was still having fun - I scared to death the old, obeyed staff sergeant major. He rides a bike - I'm standing at the gate. The first time I give him a sign to stop, and he drives by without looking. Well, okay, I think. On the second day I stand, he goes. I raise my hand, he goes by. And then I with a wild voice "haaaaalt!" and unfasten the holster. How he ejected from the bike, just lovely. He threw it, ran up, and took out the document. I chided him so severely - I say, if a soldier on watch orders to stop, you must do it in order to avoid such misunderstandings. He agrees. Ran away. And the mood improved.
And on the third day it has completely worsened, and the success is dubious. It began with the fact that after having defended the allotted two hours from ten in the morning to twelve, I pulled off my bulletproof vest, anticipating lunch and an hour of rest … But then the person on duty came up to me and said, “What are you doing? You now have an outfit on the gate - insure behind a stone"
- "No, I have lunch."
- "No, you have an outfit!"
- "Yes, I just came, I'm supposed to have lunch right now"
- "I order to get up and go!"
Then I got angry. What the fuck? Everyone is nervous, everyone is tired of it, but why is that something like this? I say: “I don’t care. Lunch and that's it. He has balls on his forehead - "this is disobedience to the order" yells! And I kept my organ - "I don't care, I have lunch." He ran, rustled, yelling, they say, you will regret it, you don't know what it is, disobedience, but during the watch, but it will go along the disciplinary line! And I sit, getting ready for dinner. I think to hell with you, nothing will happen to me. It’s unbearable to keep me here for three days, and even without lunch to send two shifts in a row to stand. Shish! How am I going to grub?
Well, then the sergeant ran away. To be mischievous. To the most important thing - the chief sergeant-major of the watch of the barracks on duty. He came and called me into the corridor. I think - it's all the same already … And I'll get nasty, even if they put it on my lip, but I'll rest. But he is obviously a cunning man. Immediately to me: - I know, I'm tired, it's not supposed to be without lunch, a pause is supposed, etc., I know they say, the sergeant shouldn't yell at you, it was necessary to talk normally and that's the end, I understand everything, don't be angry, they say, now we give you fifteen minutes for lunch, eat quickly and then take your shift, and then we give you two hours of rest. Going? Please … So it touched me please - I say okay. I’ll go. OK. They are not to blame for the lack of people. Understand. It is necessary that some idiot was there behind the stone. Understand. The army is a delicate matter. I understand. But that doesn't make it any easier for me. I came for the stone, took off the machine gun and the walkie-talkie, put it on the grass. He sat down himself, leaned back against the stone, I think it all burned with fire. It became so good - but I feel that I will fall asleep. And this is superfluous. Well, to unwind, I got up, walked back and forth … The lyrical mood attacked. He took out a pencil and on a stone, diligently, in large block letters, he wrote "when leaving do not be sad, when coming do not rejoice." I drew for about forty minutes. I think here's to you, greetings from the Russians (by the way, I'm lucky as it turned out - after a week about one guy from our battery standing near the unfortunate stone spat on him, and some officer noticed it and it started there! Blasphemy, disrespect, desecration - his three days on my lip and a fine of three hundred euros … I don’t want to know what would have happened if I had been caught drawing out Russian letters, sticking my tongue out)
Then they gave me two hours of rest. And then I continued: at the gate I stopped the car with the general to check the documents. And I should have let it pass unquestioningly; if he stops, report to him … Well, what? Yes, I'm tired. I brake this Mercedes, a brazen chauffeur - the captain - jumps out and let’s yell at me: why are you stopping the car, you don’t see the flags ahead? I see - I say (in general, I saw these flags only three days later and understood why they were needed). He yells - if you see, why are you stopping? I say: “so! There is no need to yell at me. Come over to the window if you have a problem and talk to the non-commissioned officer on duty. " I point to the window with my hand and see that the same person on duty is giving me desperate signs. Now he drives his hand near his throat, then waves towards the gate. Then I became thoughtful, looked into the Merc, and there was a general's mug. Frowning like that. They showed her to us every day in the photograph, so that we knew who to bow to if we suddenly see. Then it dawned on me. Well, that's our father-general! Well, I said to the captain without hesitation: "Thank you, you can follow on." He turned away and walked with a clear step to his post, to the booth. The captain, grumbling something, slammed the door of the Merce. The poor sergeant on duty suffered so much … Shame. On his shift, the general is stopped. The sad one walked all day, until the evening. And in the evening I stopped the same general again. Only he was driving in another car … How do I know? Stupidly standing … Machine. Raise your hand, it stops. Trump. The chauffeur shows the documents, without looking at the trump card, the next one. But the general had mercy, you see, he realized that I was a little out of my mind. He opened the window, even showed me his general identity card. And here again the situation is non-standard. Well, I glanced at the certificate, and there the photo is the same as on the wall in the duty room. It struck me like an electric shock, looked closely - for sure, the general again. And he sits, smiling, looking at me. And I feverishly figure out whether I need to report to him now or not? Since I checked his documents, is it too late to report? But he must, according to the charter. But it's stupid … While I was thinking, he asked if it was possible to go. Go, I say.
In the Bundeswehr, there is a massive disbandment and unification of units. Not enough staff. Despite the fact that unemployment and the mass of young people do not know where to start their adult life, fewer and fewer people are signing contracts. This is understandable. If you sign a contract, you must go to the so-called hot spots for six months, where our pro-American government gladly sends peacekeeping troops to clean up after the valiant Americans. Deaths happen, and this is completely unattractive, despite the mass of money.
We are in our part for the last call. After that, the battalion ceases to exist, and the command staff and material are distributed to other air defense units. Therefore, it turns out that we have nothing to do. And why try, if all the same, everything is down the drain? There is a so-called apocalyptic mood throughout the battalion. We sit all day in the basement or in the tank hangar and check the completeness of tools, weapons and other material, which should go to its destination in a month. As always, half is missing. Untra sluggishly steal what is missing from each other, therefore it is not considered possible to state exactly where what is missing. So another month passes. All are honorably produced in Ober gefreiter (senior corporal), they are given shoulder straps with two oblique stripes. This means that there are still three months left to serve.
Despondency … But suddenly good news comes! Several American warships, led by some kind of secret super new headquarters liner, have come to Germany on a friendly visit. They arrive in the port city of Kiel, where the German naval base is located. Well, since the Americans are passionate about all sorts of terrorists and other troublemakers of peaceful peace, the host country should hospitably organize the safety of dear and respected visitors. And since we have nothing to do anyway, they decide to send us. They inform the guests that we are a specially trained security unit, hastily conduct exercises with us - they teach us to push back the unarmed crowd - in case pacifists break into the territory of the base in protest; and sent to Kiel.
Is everything ready. We arrived in the morning, the Americans arrive in the evening. Our assignment: we are the so-called cannon fodder. There are two checkpoints at the base. Right in front of the gate there are such houses made of sandbags with embrasures, in which two of ours are sitting with machine guns. Twenty live rounds, the weapon is loaded and cocked, but the safety is on. In the event of a so-called breakthrough (if someone tries to force their way into the base), there is an order to open fire to kill without warning. Four more are sitting in the checkpoint booth at the ready. This is the front page.
The second band is already experienced non-commissioned officers who have visited Kosovo and the surrounding area for six months. They stand directly in front of the entrance to the pier, chosen by the Americans. They have no sand houses, but there are three rows of barbed steel barriers in a twisted spiral and a folded pyramid. And two machine guns.
Well, and then the Americans themselves settled down. They blocked the entire pier, and declared it their territory and not a single German can go there. There are huge negroes in bulletproof vests with machine guns and huge mirrored glasses, some kind of barrage shields are pointed in front of them and there are two armored personnel carriers with heavy machine guns. Such is the security.
Well, our business is small. We put on a helmet and a shrapnel protection vest for color, take the machine guns and follow to the place. The service proceeds as follows: four hours in the checkpoint house, two hours in the sand house. Then a six-hour break and again six hours of watch. It's boring and hard at night. You need to fix yourself so as not to fall asleep. An interesting entertainment is the foreign sailors, who, it turns out, after four months on board for the first time got out and are extremely interested in German pubs.
They take a little interest, and then they cannot walk straight. One copy caused a lot of positive emotions when he could not get into the gate for about twenty minutes. The gates were already closed on the occasion of the late hour. At first he tried to steer on two legs and take the gate on the move, but he was led sideways, he clung to the bars of the gate and collected his thoughts for a while. Then he made a second run, but did not hit again, he was skidded in the other direction and he buried his body in the flower bed. After lying down for romance a little in flowers, he tried to get up, but failed. Then a happy thought apparently dawned on him. Giggling happily, he walked towards the entrance on all fours. But different limbs did not want to work synchronously. Either one hand was bent and he rested his head and shoulder against the asphalt, then his legs did not want to follow and remained behind and he stretched out to his full height. Oddly enough, he did not have the idea to move on his bellies. But he still worn out the gate. He crawled to the window, even took out his ID and held it up, but he could not raise his head, which presented a difficulty for the supervisors, because they could not compare his identity with a photograph. But nothing happened and he went on, still on all fours, and we looked after him for a long time, watching his zigzag thorny path to his native ship.
Not without excesses on the part of the valiant guard, that is, us. One funny man, tired of standing in a stupid house made of sandbags, decided to diversify his leisure time by moving the safety lever to the “turn” position, put his finger on the trigger and began carefully aiming at people outside the gate, carefully escorting them with the barrel of a machine gun, until they were out of sight. His partner, noticing this, abandoned his combat post along with a machine gun and a walkie-talkie and ran to complain to our senior lieutenant, arguing that he did not want to stand next to a dangerous idiot and generally said that he was in shock and refused to continue to take part in the watch. As usual, they were removed from watch, and I and the Pole, instead of lunch and the remaining three-hour rest, were sent to replace. We were a little upset and began to forge insidious plans on how to take revenge on this most cheerful person, who in such a clever way evaded the service. By the way, due to a state of mental instability, he was forbidden to touch weapons, and without a weapon you cannot go on watch, so he lay and rested in the barracks the rest of the time, and kicks in the ass and plywood received furtively from us when they met in the corridor he demolished cheerfully and proudly, like and befits a soldier.
The logical result of this incident was the decision not to cock the machine gun when entering service, because it is too dangerous and an accident could occur, as our non-commissioned officers told us.
An interesting embarrassment also occurred with our militarist Kruger. Having stepped into the house on watch, he discovered that it would not hurt to retire due to small need, but since he was a disciplined soldier, he decided to endure this little vicissitudes of service. Which I did successfully for an hour and a half. Then it became unbearable to endure, as he reported on the radio at the checkpoint, with a request to replace him for a couple of minutes, but received a laconic refusal. They say, be patient for half an hour, then we will change, and if you really can't at all, then pull it all up and spit it out, gee gee gee! Kruger steadfastly endured for another fifteen minutes, and then valiantly put himself in his pants, for discipline is above all and leaving a combat post without permission for such trifles is just delirium and unworthy of a Bundeswehr soldier. This tragedy ended with the fact that our commander, having learned about this, through complex inferences came to the conclusion about the mental imbalance of Kruger with the prohibition on carrying weapons ensuing from this fact.
Despite all the difficulties that arose, we continued to reliably guard our allies until they finally deigned to leave our hospitable pier, after which we, with new reserves of energy and service zeal, returned to our native barracks in order to continue to bear the heavy Bundeswehr share.
But we didn't get bored for long. At the end of our service, we were finally granted a two-week exercise. And we moved in a long column to the exercises. We arrived at the former barracks of the GDR People's Army, where everything was in accordance with the status. And the premises are dilapidated, and the decoration is antediluvian and fed as under socialism. But they shot plenty. Night shooting by tracer, the squad is in defense, when a mass of automatic moving targets rises in the field closer and closer, and the squad fires at them from the trenches.
And the forest combing with a chain, when the target rises, everyone falls to the ground and puts in it from their machine guns - by the way, I shot two orderlies in the heat of the battle - a target with a big red cross rises, and I single bam, bam, bam at it, and there is no orderly … me. It was fun … A lot of cartridges were worn out, local residents were frightened - a crowd of soldiers, armed to the teeth, smeared with black paint, walked through the village, because of the heat, everyone had rolled up their sleeves and a machine gun around their necks, according to the order, nor did they take the invasion of the fascists - "they are marching across Ukraine soldiers of the center group. "And after the shooting, beer every day … The service is such, what did you want?
In general, conditions are close to military ones. And officers and non-commissioned officers, due to the close parting with us, fall into melancholy and human interest in us. Either the captain puts a box of beer, then the senior lieutenant organizes a sortie to the brothel with delivery there and back, then the lieutenant talks about who will do what in civilian life … But I offended him to the core when he asked me what to do I will … I say I will go to the university, then they will kick me out and return to the army, I will go to the lieutenant. He did not conduct more conversations with me, which is good, but he also did not play beer, which is bad. We rested in this way there for a week and back, to our native barracks.
