The right to fight must be "knocked out"
A company is sent from our unit to Kabul to carry out government assignments. But all my hopes were dashed. Moscow appointed four group commanders. It was worse than the stress of my first college failure. A few months later, a vacancy appeared in the company. I turned to the brigade commander with a request to send me to Kabul to replace her. He said that while he was in command of the brigade, I would not see Afgan. He didn't know me well. When I reached the head of the district intelligence, I "knocked out" the right to fulfill my international duty.
Hello, land of Afghanistan!
We were sent under their own power to the BMP. On December 13 we enter Kabul. Behind 700 kilometers of track. I peer into the faces of the Afghans, remember how they dress, walk, and sit. Everywhere there are markets with fruits and vegetables. Dukans with clothes. At the crossroads, small traders - bachi - come running up. Briskly muttering a mixture of Russian expressions known to them, they offer to buy cigarettes, chewing gum and drugs - thin black cigarettes, shouting: "Char, char!"
We don't need char. From him the head becomes foolish and vigilance is lost, and this is dangerous. We have our own chars - night missions. From them you can not only get lost, but generally forget yourself with eternal sleep.
Arrived! A dozen tents on the side of the mountain and a small car park surrounded by a “thorn”. Everyone came out to meet us. Local fighters with condescension glance at the new arrivals, looking for faces familiar from Chirchik. Officers come up, shake hands, hug. Our troops are small, so almost everyone is familiar. I introduce myself to the company commander. He recently took up this post, and Rafik Latypov was sent to the Union with a bullet in the spine - during the evacuation of the group surrounded by "spirits" he was "guessed" by a sniper. The new commander did not have the required qualities. They sent me home. Volodya Moskalenko took his place, and the picture changed for the better.
First exit
At first glance, the task is not difficult. The Islamic Committee in charge of sabotage in its area will meet at a certain time in one of the villages of the Charikar Valley to coordinate further actions. We must, with the help of a local patriot (or, more simply, an informer), go to this committee and liquidate it, not forgetting to pick up the documents. The meeting of the committee is scheduled for two in the morning. It's good. Every scout loves the night and will never exchange for a day. Previously, all groups worked in the mountains, intercepting gangs. So in the kishlach epics I will be the first.
Somov with an Afghan "friend"
Arrived in the area of action. 177th Motorized Rifle Regiment in Jabal-Us-Saraj. We were placed in a wooden module together with regimental scouts. The soldiers pitched their tent, with the invariable sign "No entry".
At midnight on the armored personnel carrier the regiment was delivered to the right place. The group faded into darkness. Everything seems unreal, reminiscent of film footage. But these are no longer teachings. They can get killed here. And not just me. I am responsible for ten lives of the boys, although I myself am only a few years older than the youngest of them. They trust me and I cannot relax. There is no fear of death, I am in complete control of the situation.
Ahead "snitch". Behind him is Sergeant Sidorov, whose task is to shoot the "informer" in case of treason. Not knowing this, the informant almost paid with his life when he suddenly turned off the road in need. Here is the village. It is impossible to determine its size in the dark, but it does not matter. Without completing the task, there is no turn back.
They seemed to have agreed everything, but the dogs … Their furious barking warned the committee's guards about our arrival half a kilometer away. In the alley there was a shout: "Dresh!" Which means "Stop." We sat down, hugging the walls of the houses, and in time. Having received no answer, the spirits began to "lane" along the alley with automatic machines. Bullets ricocheted off the walls overhead without causing harm. Sidorov calms the inhospitable guards with his lemon. Some kind of fuss is heard, and everything subsides. We run up to the house. The committee scattered. But one was still found. He tried to hide under a veil among the huddled women. He had some committee papers and a pistol.
Leaving him lying 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. We are moving to the road along a different path. It is safer this way - there is less chance of stepping on the mine set for us by the "spirits". I call an armored personnel carrier on the radio. By 5 am we are in the regiment.
Error
In two weeks, there were five more similar problems with different results. Maybe it would have been more, but we urgently had to retire to Kabul. Who is to blame for this is still not clear. Either the intelligence center framed us a gunner-provocateur, or he himself made a mistake, but the following happened. The task was similar to the first, with the only difference that the order required the destruction of all residents of the house. Surrounding him, the group began to act. On the explosions of fragmentation mines, used instead of grenades, people began to scatter from all the blowing holes around the house. Here and there soft "noiseless" claps were heard. Bursting into the house, we found five more men in it. They tried to explain something to me through an interpreter. “Comrade senior lieutenant, they say they are communists, from the local party cell,” the soldier translated. This excuse was widely used by spooks to deceive our soldiers. Sometimes the number passed. But not here. One of the fighters tied a detonating cord around their necks. After a few seconds, an explosion sounded. Decapitated corpses lay on the floor in the settling dust. The order was carried out.
The next day, the whole neighborhood looked like an alarmed anthill. Afghan units were alerted. The rumor about the death of the local party cell reached us. There was no direct evidence of our involvement, but I immediately reported this to Kabul. From there the answer came at once: we must immediately leave for the company. The destruction of the party cell was blamed on the dushmans, thereby restoring against them the entire huge Charikar valley. With a bad feeling, we returned to Kabul. It was impossible to spread about this case even among our own people. The Afghan gunner who took us home disappeared without a trace.
Against an ambush
On the twenty-kilometer section of the Kabul-Termez road, "spirits" are firing at our columns. Fuel trucks especially suffer from their ambushes. Such columns are usually not allowed through. Technology burns together with people. They sent us to fight the attackers. Having traveled around several units, we realized that the "spirits" set up ambushes strictly every other day. We spend the night at the Soviet road guard post closest to the ambush site.
A half-drunk starley sits in a dugout with damp clay walls and floors. He stares at me blankly, trying to figure out what I want from him. And I want a little - a shelter for my soldiers until two o'clock in the morning. Starley was promised to be replaced three months ago. He has been in this hole for about six months. He has six soldiers with him. There should also be a warrant officer, but he was taken away with appendicitis two months ago, without sending anyone in return. His blue dream is to wash in a bathhouse and change lousy linen. How can a person quickly degrade under certain circumstances? Worst of all, these circumstances arise due to the "care" of the bosses who have forgotten about him.
Pieces of clay fall from the ceiling into a mug with a cloudy liquid. Soldiers exchange moonshine from local residents for boxes of shells and, to be honest, small ammunition. For this they are paid with their lives, without attacking the sleepers at night. Having got drunk, the starley leaves the dugout to fire a couple of bursts from 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 leaving, despite the trade relations with the local residents. There were many invitations to visit from good-natured Afghans, and then the invitees were found without heads and other protruding body parts. The fighters know this. But at night they still sleep, relying on chance. We leave, carrying the population of lice.
In a dilapidated house away from the road, we take up positions for observation. The night passed quietly. Have we been spotted and the bait wasted? Day is breaking. From four o'clock, traffic on the roads is allowed. One column passes by, another.
The "nalivniki" appeared. They go at high speed. This is a kind of kamikaze. On the 700-kilometer journey, it is almost impossible for these guys not to come under fire. A hundred meters to the left of our house, there was a powerful explosion. They were shooting from a grenade launcher. The first car is on fire. Spiritual submachine gunners turned on. The column, without slowing down, bypasses the burning brothers and hides behind the bend.
The shooting died down. This is worse. We are already somewhere close to the "spirits". We move along the walls to a small area. Turn right. I'm giving a signal. Let's go carefully. Around the bend "spirits". Twenty people in black clothes and "Pakistani" women, sitting on the ground, lively discuss the event. We were not expected. Therefore, when some of them started to get up, grabbing their submachine guns, two guards and I hit the crowd of three barrels. The rest of the fighters cannot help - they risk getting into our backs. At my signal, they lay down so as not to create targets for the enemies. The surviving "darlings" rushed to the ruins.
The grenade launcher also remained in the clearing, not reaching the shelter. Sergeant Shurka Dolgov's bullet hit him in the face. He hit sighting singles. Seryoga Timoshenko did the same. Leaving the grenade launcher to the enemy would be a crime. The headquarters simply would not understand me. I am sending two more to help the sentinels. This is their first fight. The guys jump out into the clearing and, standing in full growth, mow in turns on the duals. My mate, mixed with orders to lie down, does not reach them. Strong fuse of the first fight. The prone is much more difficult to hit than the standing large figure. And their figures are large. Both are fighters, under 85 kilos in weight. I selected them myself in the Union.
First losses
First, Goryainov falls. Then Solodovnikov also swayed. He staggers towards me. Before dying, my mother is called, and my mother is now far away, so he runs to me. I'm now for his mother. The machine gun is clutched in his hand, bloody foam beats from his mouth. The "sand" on the chest turned red. The hole in it speaks of a wound in the lung. Here is the first blood. Take it, commander.
I have no strength to scold him, although anger overwhelms me. Had he listened to my order, he might have lived until now. An injection of promedol, made by one of the fighters, does not save the day.
Now our task has become more complicated. In addition to the grenade launcher, you need to pick up the killed Genka with his machine gun. I am sending two soldiers after him. They drop their backpacks and leave their machine guns behind. They don't need them now. The whole group will cover them with fire. This is not a shooting range, so the guys' faces are pale. The brain works feverishly. I have no right to be wrong. "Forward!"
Genkino's body and weapons are with us. The "spirits" snarl hard. But now we have no time for them. Having thrown a dozen grenades into the duvali, we retreat. The life of Solodovnikov, who is still alive, is more important to me than these people in black. Instead of them tomorrow there will be another hundred, and he can still be saved. Two are covering our retreat, two are running ahead, protecting us from possible troubles. The rest are dragging two bodies, replacing each other. The "sands" were drenched in sweat. The sun fries mercilessly. It was not in vain that he forced them to carry backpacks with stones for hours. Where would they be without training.
We left the place of the skirmish in time. The "turntables" appearing in the sky treat him with all their weapons. They don't know about us. Our actions are kept secret, If the "turntables" mistake us for "spirits", it could cost us our lives. At the place of the ambush, explosions of NURSs rumble, columns of dust are visible. The "darlings" are not sweet there, but neither are we.
One of the helicopters, changing course, turns in our direction. A thought flashed: if he does not recognize, the end. His body, flat from the sides, approaches inexorably. I quickly take a rocket launcher out of my backpack. I went out into the middle of the street - it was already useless to hide. I shoot a rocket towards the helicopter, wave my hand. It passes over us at low level, blowing a whirlwind of air mixed with smoke. The pilot is aiming a course machine gun at us, staring intently into our faces. The "spirits" cannot run to the road, this is clear to the pilot, and he rolls off to his own.
We call the technique. Fifty meters away, five fuel tankers are on fire. There are no people in sight. The wounded have already been evacuated to the local medical unit. An infantry fighting vehicle came for us. Loading Solodovnikov and Genka. A mother should get her son in any case, we could not have otherwise.
In the regiment's medical unit, there is a warrant officer-sanitary instructor and a captain - a dental technician. And this is in the regiment fighting! Again "above" 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 fuel truck drivers in the medical unit. Some of them resemble characters in horror films. Completely burned, the head without a single hair, the lips are swollen, bleeding, the skin hangs down from the body in layers. They ask the doctor to kill them. The torment has obviously reached its limit. Doctors rush about, giving them droppers. Here we are with our warrior. They put him on a cot, plugging a hole in his chest with a cotton swab. He wheezes, looking hopefully at the doctor's white coat. “He will live,” says the ensign.
We leave the medical unit. The soldiers stand aside, looking inquiringly at me and Serega. Tymoshenko is Solodovnikov's school friend; together they fought in wrestling competitions. He does not stand still. He goes inside again. A second later he flies out: "Comrade Senior Lieutenant!" I run into the room after him. Solodovnikov lies calmly on the cot with his eyes half-closed. I grab his hand. No pulse! Seryoga grabs his pistol and heads down the corridor with curses. I catch up with him at the entrance to the doctors. They scattered in fright. He breaks free, shouts something. The soldiers who ran up helped me to twist it. Seryoga weakens and cries. The crisis of anger towards doctors has passed. Moreover, there is nothing to blame them for.
In Afghanistan, in the "Black Tulip"
The corpses are taken out into the street, wrapped in shiny foil. It resembles a chocolate wrapper. The same crisp.
Cargo-200 is loaded onto a helicopter and sent to Kabul. There a "cannery" awaits him there, as the soldiers gloomily joke. The field morgue is housed in several large tents set up directly on the dried grass. Those who lie on the ground don't care anymore. They are not interested in comfort. Unfortunately, you have to visit this place. We need to identify our own people here, give the data to the local administration. But first they still need to be found. And among these torn legs, mutilated bodies and some incomprehensible charred pieces of meat it is not easy to find them. You will not see this in a nightmare.
Finally found. A soldier in a paratrooper uniform with the smell of moonshine in a ballpoint pen writes their names on their hard, hardened skin, and I go out into the air with relief. Now they will be put in boxes and sent by plane to their home country. Wait, relatives, for your sons!
Devastated by what I saw, I sit in the "UAZ". Eyes are open, but I can't see anything. The brain refuses to perceive its surroundings. It reminded me of the first exit on a mission. The shock soon wears off. Nothing lasts long here. And the life of comrades as well. Just waiting for a replacement for a long time. It seems that you will never be replaced, and you will forever hang around in this war, which will never end either.
Where else in the world are there people willing to risk their lives for $ 23 a month? The payment does not depend on whether you lie in bed for whole weeks, or trying to survive, jumping on duvals at night with a machine gun in your hands. The same money is received by staff workers, cooks, typists and other contingents who hear gunfire and explosions from afar. Sometimes this topic was raised in our midst, especially after the next sending home one of us "gryz-200". She, as a rule, calmed down after two or three minutes of strong obscene expressions addressed to the authorities in the Union. Zombies don't have to reason. Their lot is simple: "Anywhere, at any time, any task, by any means", the rest should not concern them. We are not mercenaries, after all. We are fighting in the name of the Motherland.
Watch out for mines!
Carrying out minor instructions from the intelligence department, my group roams around at night, studying the area of operations. Many boxes with "grenades", "cartridges" - our surprises were left on the spiritual paths. You should not open such boxes if you are not tired of living.
Exploring the map of the area
An order came from the headquarters to organize an ambush. We leave in the afternoon to the place where it is planned to "plant". The terrain is as smooth as the floor. In some places, stones the size of a hen's egg are visible. There is absolutely nowhere to hide. I suggest that the authorities, through their observer, notify the paratroopers about the appearance of the spiritual machines. Troopers on their BMDs will blow any convoy to smithereens. It is much safer and much more efficient. Nobody will leave. But the reconnaissance department needs points, so they don't want to involve paratroopers. Dukhovskaya secret path crosses an asphalt highway. In this place, underneath it, there is a small pipe for water drainage. I am thinking of pushing the group there at night, otherwise they will notice us in the headlights from a kilometer away.
Before entering the pipe, we carefully move with the sergeant along the protruding stones. This is less likely to step on a mine. A lieutenant recently sent from the Union decided to inspect the place too. Going down from the road, he disregarded safety rules. A column of "antipersonnel" explosion appeared behind our backs, tearing off the caps from our heads. Igor lay between the stones in the settling dust. A layer of soil was torn off by the explosion, exposing six black PMNok rubber bands. The sergeant and I looked at each other. He was pale, I guess so was I.
Seryoga went down to Igor, carefully moving over the stones, dragged him to the road. I lay down on the edge of the road and held out my hands. Grabbing Igor by the jacket, I pull him out. Soldiers came together. Igor's heel is torn off. A bloody fragment of bone protrudes from a piece of boot, pulsing, blood escaping. He is still in shock, so he can joke. To his question about dancing with women, I answer: "Hardly." We call the helicopter. He arrives in half an hour. We load Igor with his shin tied with a pistol cord into the cockpit. He will be in Kabul soon.
No need to pull the tail of fate
I reflect on his fate. From the first days of his stay, I gradually felt that Igor would not survive here. The reason was two incidents that happened to Igor. Returning from a survey of the area, he rode in front of me in his BMP. The mechanic must have exceeded the speed limit, because his car was suddenly thrown to the right of the road. The BMP at full speed cut off one of the poplars with its sharp nose. The tree collapsed on the BMP. Miraculously, the trunk did not knock down Igor, who was sitting in a marching way, falling between him and the tower. I got goosebumps. I thought: did he not famously start to substitute himself?
At rest
Two days later. We were returning from a destroyed village, where we took some boards for a bath. The lice were so tortured that it was impossible to sleep. I wanted to somehow wash myself. They returned at dusk, despite orders from the army. At this time, the "spirits" and watched us. A shot from a grenade launcher went between mine and Igor's BMP. The fighters sitting on top instantly found themselves below, behind the saving armor. In time, as a hail of automatic rounds rattled on the armor right there. In triplex I look at the front BMP. There is no one in the car, only Igor is sticking up to his waist in the hatch, showering duval from his machine gun. Tracers fly around him, miraculously not harming him. Having passed the dangerous area, I cut it according to all the rules of the gunner of my car. After all, if he had used the armament of the tower, the "darlings" would not have dared to behave so impudently. The gunner sits with his head down. I forgot that this was just an Uzbek Soviet soldier who had graduated from his training unit. After six months of training, he didn’t even know how to load a cannon, let alone work with a sight and calculate corrections when firing. Immediately I "crutch" Igor, firmly believing in my soul that he would not last long here.
Subsequently, it turned out that way. Less than two weeks later, he stepped on an anti-personnel mine. They cut off his leg and sent him 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 military enlistment offices in Moscow.
The officers from the DShB were surprised to learn from me that no one had given me maps of the minefields of our area of operations. It turned out that for ten days we were surfing the neighborhoods filled with Soviet mines at night. Igor was "lucky" to step on one of them. In the intelligence department, a reassuring and apologetic conversation was held with me, but Igor will no longer run from this anyway. Thank God, this was my last, forty-sixth operation. Soon, I solemnly put on a bulletproof vest to follow to the airfield. Bulletproof vests were stored in a warehouse and were not used in group operations. This was considered shameful, a manifestation of cowardice.
Although some might have managed to sweeten their lives if we hadn't had this rule. Later, the company was "crushed", and they began to go on missions in bulletproof vests. We used to wear it to avoid an insidious incident when going to the airfield for replacement, sending on vacation, etc. We respected the law of meanness in full. Can't shave before assignment! And a biennial translator broke this rule. He returned from the mission without a leg. You cannot go on the next task after receiving the order to replace! Genk, the deputy commander of the second group, did not follow this rule, and two days later he was brought with a hole in his head. You can't pull the tail of fate!
Afghans Y. Gaisin, V. Anokhin, V. Pimenov, V. Somov, F. Pugachev
Farewell Afghanistan, such a foreign and such a native country, living according to the ancient laws of Islam. You forever cut your bloody footprints into my memory. Cool air of rocky gorges, a special smell of smoke from villages and hundreds of senseless deaths …
