Once my board had a responsible task - a flight to reconnoitre the weather before flights. This meant that at the beginning of the flight day, the squadron commander flies around our air zones, in which the squadron pilots will then perform various tasks. Then the commander decides on the flight operations and sets the flight missions.
On that day, one of the exercises was planned to land on the site with self-selection. That is, in a given area, the pilot must choose a suitable landing site for the helicopter, determine the wind direction for a stable approach to the site, and land.
Before the flight, the chief of the weapons group came up to me and handed me some kind of round iron can of a khaki.
- When the commander gives the command, insert this thing into this hole, then you scratch this thing here and throw it out, - he rattled off quickly, gesturing.
- ?!
- What is incomprehensible, set fire to the fuse - it will smoke, just throw it, - explained the armsman and rushed off to the other side.
I must say that as a young graduate of a military school, recently admitted to independent flights as an onboard helicopter technician, for the first time I was preparing to fly out for weather reconnaissance, and even more so for the first time I had to "strike" and "throw" something out of the helicopter. In the school and during the internship, we were not shown such "figovines" and were not taught to handle them.
I realized that this can was, apparently, called a smoke bomb, the "shit" to be inserted into the hole looked like a big match, and the "crap" to be struck over the head of the match was a small rough puck the size of a penny.
The flight took place, as they say, in the normal mode. The squadron commander, a tall, lean, elderly lieutenant colonel in a permanently ironed camouflage overalls and a protective helmet, performed aerobatic exercises at extremely low altitude in one of the zones, as a result of which breakfast in my stomach began to think about liberation. Then the commander went in search of a suitable self-selection landing site.
Choosing a site in a picturesque valley between two small mountain ranges, the comessian commanded via internal communication:
- Onboard get ready!
- Ready, - I cheerfully responded from the cargo compartment, opening the window, holding a saber between my knees and getting ready to set it on fire.
Flying up to the site, the comedian gave the command to drop the checkers. I struck the fuse once - the wick did not ignite, again - nothing, a few more times - the result was zero. Excited from the realization of the enormous responsibility for the success of the flight mission, in which I was a direct participant, with shaking hands I pulled the lighter out of my pants, fortunately I was a smoker, and somehow this evil fuse was set on fire. The saber flew out like a bullet through the window.
After the helicopter turned for the landing approach, we did not see any smoke on the landing. Komeska turned his head to me and looked inquiringly. I shrugged, embarrassed, with an expression of bewilderment on my face.
The commander determined the direction of the wind correctly according to some signs he knew only, since landing and takeoff were successful. We began to gain altitude to return to the airfield and suddenly, right behind a low mountain ridge, we saw an interesting picture.
In the rays of the bright morning Caucasian sun, a picturesque vineyard scattered its green bushes across the valley. Closer to the ridge, among the grape bushes, there is a small wooden watchman's house, from the windows and doors of which acrid orange smoke bursts out in thick clouds. A short, elderly man of "Caucasian nationality" is running in the direction from the house, jumping up and down, somehow unnaturally bent over.
I think that the watchman, accustomed during his long life to constant armed conflicts in the region, thought about the beginning of a "new round of interethnic tension", which for some reason began in his vineyard.
Yes, flight. Sorry fellow countryman.
