Hello, Doctor!
The tanker, the rocketman and the pilot once argued: who has the best doctors?
The tanker says: “Our doctors are the best. Recently, one officer's tank moved up and down. They operated on him for two hours - now he is in command of a tank company. " Rocketman: “This is all nonsense! Our military man fell into a missile silo. Two hours got out, four - operated. Now he is the commander of the starting battery. " The pilot looked at them, took a drag on his cigarette and said: “Guys, two months ago, one pilot hit a mountain in supersonic speed. They searched for two days - they found a tongue and an ass, now in the first squadron as a political officer."
I agree with folklore and declare that the aviation doctor is the best. Therefore, I want to tell you about this wide-profile specialist, a clot of kindness and medical humor, who happened to be in military uniform. The lives of an aviation doctor and a pilot are so closely intertwined that both could talk about each other for hours: good and bad, funny and not so much. While the doctor is busy measuring my pressure before the flight, I will recall several episodes from our joint aviation life.
Episode one
Garrison Zyabrovka. Pre-flight medical examination. In the reception room, the crew of the Tu-16 aircraft: two pilots, two navigators, a radio operator (VSR) and a firing unit commander (KOU). The first to see the doctor were HRV and KOU - two hefty warrant officers. A cursory examination: hands and feet are in place, you can see from the face that they have not drunk for ten hours.
- Everything, healthy, come in.
Then the commander sat confidently in the chair. After a couple of minutes, confirming the pressure recorded in the certificate, he was allowed into the sky.
The next one is the navigator, behind him I am the co-pilot. And now it was the turn of the second navigator, Volodya. I must say that Volodya was fabulously thin. All his short life, he wasted translating products. The vitamins, proteins, fats and carbohydrates of the jet ration were not retained in his body. Therefore, already in 1982, he looked like a modern model, only he was wearing not a dress from Vyacheslav Zaitsev, but a flight jumpsuit.
And so, Volodya, wrapping his sleeve on the go, approaches the table, at which the doctor writes down the results of testing my body in a journal.
- Go, you are healthy.
These words of the doctor stopped Volodin's ass in the middle of the trajectory of movement towards the chair. Having received the installation, he begins to move in the opposite direction. He rolls out the sleeve of his overalls, tries to put on his jacket, and then he gets stuck. A dumb question appears on his face.
- Doctor, why did you decide that I am healthy?
Tearing himself away from the pre-flight examination log and raising his kindest eyes to Volodya, the doctor said in all seriousness:
- People like you don't get sick. They die immediately.
Episode two
Kiev. District military hospital. Morning meeting with the boss.
- Comrade Colonel! How long can this last ?! These pilots drink every night and throw empty bottles under our windows.
The face of the head of the intensive care and intensive care unit blazed with anger. He hated the healthy pilots with red muzzles, who were so strikingly different from his patients.
- What do you say, Alexander Ivanovich?
The colonel's gaze rested on the head of the medical and flight examination department.
- Comrade Colonel! But we have zero mortality, - after a second of confusion followed a cheerful response.
Episode three
Ryazan. Getting ready for the parade over Poklonnaya Gora. There are two people standing by the bed in the dispensary: the commander is full of anger and splashing with emotions, the doctor diplomatically refrains from assessing the situation. Peacefully snuffling (or grunting) on the bed lie one hundred kilograms of the body that belonged to the squadron commander. Yesterday, having met his classmates at the school, he inadvertently opened the door to the antiworld. And now he lies in front of the regiment commander, filled with alcohol up to the very corks.
- Doctor, in three hours, the mission statement for flights. In two hours he should be on his feet.
The commander rushed off like a whirlwind, and the doctor remained standing over the body, replaying in his mind the options for completing the task. A few minutes later, he left the dispensary, smiling mysteriously.
The regiment commander, twitched by the Moscow commanders, remembered the squadron commander and ran into the dispensary to see how his orders were being carried out. Opening the door, he was dumbfounded. On the bed opposite each other sat the squadron commander and the doctor, and talked about something sincerely. Full bottles of beer were on the bedside table, empty ones under the bed.
- Doctor, what the hell! I told you to stand!
The commander convulsively grabbed the place where at the beginning of the last century the officers had a checker. The doctor, who had beer in his stomach, also not on semolina porridge, focused his gaze with difficulty on the doorway:
- Comrade commander! Take a look! An hour has passed, and he is already sitting.
Episode four
Hospital. The pilot undergoes a medical flight commission (VLC). After knocking and receiving no answer, he carefully opened the door to the ophthalmologist's office. An indistinct muttering was heard from the office:
- What does he understand … I drink with just anyone … Chief, you understand!
And at that moment the gaze of the doctor, who had already taken a hundred and fifty grams inside, stopped on the one who entered:
- Who are you?
- I'm on the VLK.
- Come in, sit down, give me a book.
The pilot held out a medical book.
- So, Alexey Vladimirovich. Squadron commander, lieutenant colonel. Good.
The doctor thought for a while, then opened the table and put on it an open bottle of vodka, two glasses and a jar of vitamins.
- Come on, - he said to the pilot, filling his glasses by a third.
- Doctor, I can't. See the dentist for me, then for an ECG.
The doctor closed the medical book with a careless movement.
- I will not examine!
Realizing that the day was ruined, the pilot overturned the contents of the glass inside the body. When the door closed behind the examined pilot, the doctor glanced through the wall towards the chief's office and, like a man feeling right behind himself, said:
- Hmm … I drink with just anyone. I'm drinking with the lieutenant colonel!
Episode five
Again the hospital. Again the pilot arrived at the VLK. The previous visit to this health temple took place three years ago. Feeling small flaws in his body, as well as as a sign of respect, the pilot, before leaving, bought, like last time, a bottle of branded Novgorod vodka. And so, entering the surgeon's office, after mutual greetings, he put it on the table. The gray-haired doctor looked up from studying the papers in front of him and stared at the beautiful bottle label. A computer started working in his head.
“Left shin, varicose veins,” he said with confidence after thirty seconds.
That's it, the pre-flight inspection is over. Pressure - one hundred twenty-five to seventy, temperature - thirty-six and six. I'm on flights. And the doctor - to continue to take care of our health. And so on until demobilization.
As I wrote to the newspaper
Once, sorting through my old papers after another move to a new place of service, I found among them a copy of an open letter to the Chairman of the Supreme Council of the Republic of Estonia Arnold Ruutel and Prime Minister Edgar Savisaar signed by the chairmen of the councils of officers' assemblies of units located in the beautiful city of Tartu. Among the names of those who signed was mine, as the acting chairman at that time. This letter, and especially my signature on a serious document, recalled a story that happened in the last years of our stay in Estonia.
The director of the military department was a former commander of an aviation-technical base, and now a military pensioner. With his appointment, it turned out, as in the Russian proverb: they let the goat into the garden. During the period of general deficit, distribution of goods according to coupons, the military organization, like any other trade enterprise, was a "gold mine". For our own people and respected people there was everything, or almost everything. And an ordinary citizen (a modern term, because there are difficult and very difficult ones) could come with his ticket for a deficit and leave with it, since the TV set (refrigerator, carpet, etc.) allocated to him mysteriously disappeared somewhere. Ends cannot be found, but from the director, like water off a duck's back.
I rarely went to the military department, mainly for items of military assortment. Moving through positions from one squadron to another, he constantly found himself at the end of the line. He knew about the machinations by hearsay, mainly from conversations in the smoking room and women's gossip.
Bucha was raised by our neighbors and brothers in arms - transport workers. The drop that overflowed the cup of patience was the disappearance of the furniture set allocated to the widow of the deceased officer without a trace.
The officers 'meeting in the officers' garrison house was stormy. The hall was packed to capacity, emotions spilled over the edge, accusations of violations and fraud poured out like kerosene from the emergency fuel drain pipeline. The presiding officer tried with all his might to dampen the intensity of the passions that raged in the hall. The hero of the occasion was deeply indifferent to everything that happened, like that horse walking along the furrow. By his appearance, brief explanations, it became clear to everyone how high he was spitting on a respected meeting. Emotions subsided, the audience reflected, and then unanimously made a decision. The officers' meeting decided to write letters to three addresses: to the military department, to the newspaper of the Baltic Military District, and to the newspaper Krasnaya Zvezda.
Remembering this story now, I cannot understand in any way why the letter was entrusted to our regiment? We were not the instigators, during the debates we did not behave too violently. And suddenly - get it! But there is nothing to do. The next day, the project was worked out and presented to the regiment commander, who is also the chairman of the unit's officers' meeting.
- Well very well. That's right! Just take this away.
And he pointed with his finger to the line at the bottom of the letter, where his position, rank, surname were printed, and where his signature was supposed to appear.
- Enough and one, - summed up the commander.
They brought me a letter. I scanned the text with my eyes: I violated it, engaged in fraudulent activities, we demand to sort it out. And at the end - the secretary of the officers' meeting, Major …
- So what?
- The commander said to sign.
- There is no one besides me? Am I the most preoccupied with the affairs of the military organization?
- Hard for you? Sign, otherwise you have to send it.
“Well, to hell with you,” I said, signing the document.
After a couple of days, I forgot both the meeting and the letter. Service, flights, family - everything went into the usual rut.
More than a month has passed. I sat in the classroom and prepared with the crew for flights.
- Comrade Major, some civilians are asking you, - said the attendant on duty in the educational building, who entered.
In the lobby, three well-dressed, respectable gentlemen stared boredly at a notice board. At the sight of me on their faces appeared on duty smiles. After mutual introductions, it turned out that the gentlemen are representatives of the management of the district military trade organization, and they came to me, and not to someone else. The goal is to inform me, and in my person and the entire officer corps of the garrison, about the measures taken to the director of our military organization. The measures struck with their severity - he was reprimanded. I said that it’s impossible, that people should be pitied, and one could simply scold or, in extreme cases, limit ourselves to posing. They looked at me as if I was insane and said that there was no need to flirt, because the director was already very worried without it. Probably as badly as deceived customers, I thought, but said nothing. A reprimand, so a reprimand. An extra flea will not hurt the dog. I didn't say that either.
The meeting was over, there was nothing more to talk about. We bowed politely and parted, not very happy with each other.
I reported the conversation to the command and went back to my official business.
About two weeks later, when the images of representative gentlemen had already disappeared from my memory, I was summoned by the political officer of the regiment. In his office on the table lay the district newspaper, on the first page of which was printed a devastating article about the affairs of our military organization.
- Take it, read it. You write well, - the political officer smiled.
I scanned the text in which not a word was said about the officers' meeting, his decision to send letters to various authorities. And this was not a letter, but an article in which an author with my last name boldly criticized, branded with shame, talked about fraud, and demanded that the perpetrators be held accountable.
- Is that what I wrote?
- Your surname means you, - looking into my amazed face, the political officer smiled again.
“Did the commander read?” I asked.
- He praised and ordered to give you this newspaper, as a novice journalist. Learn, hone your pen.
- Thank you, I'll go hone, - I said goodbye and left the office.
For a couple of days, friends jokingly tried to spin me out for a drink, at the expense of the fee received for the article, they advised me not to give up the journalist career that I had begun, and then everything calmed down by itself. But as we were taught in lectures on philosophy - development goes in a spiral. So this situation developed in full accordance with the philosophical law, that is, it was repeated at a higher level.
When everyone had completely forgotten both about the meeting and about the tricks of the director of the military organization, a small note appeared in the Krasnaya Zvezda newspaper, in which the restless truth-teller, or the truth-writer (so to speak) with my name again boldly criticized, branded with shame, etc. etc., etc.
- Well done, he worked on himself and reached a new level, - the political officer broke into a smile, handing me a newspaper across the table. We met again in his office.
- You should be joking, but I have no time for fun. Will it ever end?
- If you haven't written anywhere else, then consider that that's all, - the political officer joked again.
And it really ended. The big point in this story was the division commander's reaction to my literary activity. If the regimental commander, having read the note in Krasnaya Zvezda, diplomatically kept silent (probably presented his signature under it), then the divisional commander, looking sternly at the regimental commanders standing in front of him, asked:
- Will he calm down someday?
The general, who already had enough worries, did not begin to remember how and why I became the author of these articles. But no action was taken against me. Maybe, of course, he said something else to me. For example, where should I put my polished journalistic pen. For some reason this place was itching that day. Or that I should eat the newspaper without drinking it instead of lunch in the flight canteen. His suggestions and comments remained a mystery to me. But I gave up journalism. Dangerous profession. Better to be a pilot!
King
The king was dying. He was not dying from a wound received in battle, not from the poison poured into a glass of Burgundy, and not even from old age. He was dying of common jaundice. The disease gnawed at him not on the royal bed, but on the cramped soldier's bed in a module equipped for an infirmary. Because it was not a king, but only a pan. And not the clandestine Polish nobleman, but the Soviet PAN - an advanced air gunner, a thunderstorm and a headache of "spirits", sending deadly fire from our attack aircraft and helicopters at them. The king was a well-deserved PAN, as evidenced by the Order of the RED STAR, lying in the nightstand and clinging to the faded Afghan woman on solemn occasions. His name was Sanya, and the nickname "king" clung to him from childhood because of the surname Korolev. It clung so tightly that he sometimes called himself this title. Somehow, in his free time from running in the mountains (and the events took place during the war in Afghanistan), Alexander sat with his brothers in arms over a glass of tea. The friendly conversation dragged on for a long time and PAN, being not at all a heroic physique, did not calculate his strength a little. Gathering all his will in a fist, so as not to hit his face in the mud in front of the helicopter pilots, he made his way to his module, in which he lived alone with a friend, on limp legs. And … hit the floor with his face! Sanya was awakened by a wild dry forest in his mouth and the grumbling of a neighbor, once again stepping over a stretched body. After another complaint against him, Sanya with difficulty tore off his cast-iron head from the floor and, unstucking his tongue stuck to his palate, slowly but quite articulate with the appropriate posture said: “The king lies there wherever he wants!” This is what a noble birth means!
So the king was dying. His dull gaze stared blankly at the glass separating the makeshift ward from the workstation of the nurse on duty. The body was burning, for some reason there was a taste of mushroom soup in my mouth, so beloved in childhood. Consciousness left and then came back. In the brief moments of enlightenment, the King realized that there was a mess behind the glass. The constantly smiling chubby ensign persistently pestered the nurse. The first stages of courtship had already been passed, both were lightly drunk, some of their clothes were unbuttoned. The kisses dragged on, the dexterous hands of the ensign sank lower and lower, the degree of love rose.
And now, once again, falling out of the darkness, the King witnessed the final act of the play. They did not pay attention to him, did not hesitate, counting for furniture, or maybe already for a corpse. I felt sorry for myself. So sorry it knocked a tear out of my eyes.
- I'm dying here, and they, bastards, what are they doing!
With an effort, throwing his hands behind his head, biting his lip from tension, Sanya tore out from under his head a heavy wadded soldier's pillow and, with a drawn-out groan, threw it out the window. The ringing of broken glass, the mate of the ensign - these were the last sounds that the King heard. The light faded and there was silence.
- Korolev! For procedures! - the loud voice of the nurse (not the one who was in the previous life, but the other - young and snub-nosed) lifted the King out of bed. It had been more than a week since he had returned from the kingdom of darkness, and now he least of all resembled the Majesty and even faintly resembled a "noble man." He had lost a lot of weight and had fallen off, slowly but surely returning to life.
- Sasha, I'll open the office for you, - said the snub-nosed, giving the reviving hero of a solid size an enema.
- Thank you, my dear.
The service toilet was an extension to the sanitary module, locked and used only by the medical staff. For the rest of the mortals, sixty meters from the module, a wooden toilet of the "outhouse" type was built.
Pulling on his pants, Sanya went into the ward, took a tattered book and a minute later stood at a post at the door of the service toilet. It rolled up almost immediately. Surely pulling the handle, Alexander was horrified to find that the door was locked from the inside.
“Hey, open it up,” he said uncertainly. Silence.
- Open up, you bastard! - Sanya growled and kicked the door. Silence again.
Realizing that the irreparable could happen, he rushed to the exit, dropping the book. Ahead of him was shame, jokes from comrades in arms or a world record in the sixty-meter race.
Neither happened. Not reaching the desired house about fifty-five meters, the King frantically stopped, thought for a moment, stepped off the path trodden to the "toilet", took off his pants and sat down. After another moment, a blissful smile appeared on his face. So he sat, squinting at the sun and somehow childishly smiling at the military passing by him. In response, they also smiled affably at Sana.
Life was getting better!
Towards the sun
In one of my stories, to the best of my modest literary ability, I described a summer Ukrainian night. Now I want to say a few words about its complete opposite - a summer night in the "wild" northwest. In July, it is so short there that you simply do not notice it. And if you are on flights, then there is simply no night. Firstly, there is no way to sleep - what kind of sleep if you have to work. And secondly, on the ground, it seemed, it was already dark, but ascended into the sky and on you, got back into the day. Here it is, and the sun is still clinging to the horizon. I flew along the route to the west - plunged into darkness, returned to the airfield area - it brightened again. Has landed - on the ground. And it's kind of dark. This is such a whirlwind of light and darkness almost until the end of flights, until finally dawn. But the story is not about that.
The regiment commander came home at five o'clock in the morning. It was already quite light, but all normal people were still asleep. These are only the inhabitants of the "country of fools", that is, the personnel returning from flights, were still on their feet and smoothly began to go to bed. The colonel quietly closed the door behind him, but that did not help. The wife came out of the bedroom.
- How did you fly off?
- Everything is fine.
- Eat?
- No, it's better to sleep right away.
He was in a hurry for good reason. Often at eight or nine in the morning, a phone call rang out, a large or smaller chief was very surprised that the commander was still at home, then he remembered about night flights, apologized, but still puzzled him so that he had to get ready and go to the service. Sleep "mandeza", as one well-known general and president used to say. Hastily rinsed with cold water (there was no hot water in the garrison), the colonel stretched out with pleasure on a white sheet. Nearby, his wife breathed softly.
Sleep did not go. The episodes of the past flights were spinning in my head, the mistakes of the pilots, shortcomings in the support came to mind. A cursed fog rose before my eyes, threatening to crawl out of the lowlands and close the airfield for the entire last hour of the flight shift.
- I should have waved half a glass, I refused in vain, - thought the commander longingly.
After half an hour of tossing and turning, he forgot himself with a restless sleep, before that he had finally written down in his memory everything that he would say during the full debriefing.
After the commander went to bed, life in the military town did not stop. And in some places, not far from the commander's apartment, it surged from the night into an early Saturday morning and, despite the fatigue that had accumulated over the week, acquired the character of a bacchanalia. Therefore, the colonel did not wake up from a phone call. Together with his wife, they jumped on the bed from the terrible rumble that came from the entrance. It seems that boards were floated down the stairs, accompanied by a drumbeat.
- Volodya, what is it? the wife asked nervously.
- How do I know! We'll see now, - said the commander, getting out of bed.
As he climbed, the crash passed their third-floor landing and rolled down. Opening the door from the apartment, the colonel saw nothing. The neighboring doors also began to open. You can't go out in shorts, but you didn't want to get dressed. So he went to the balcony. Behind him, in a nightgown, was scared by his wife.
Going out onto the balcony, they heard the front door slam down below. At the same time they looked at the ground. The wife gasped. The tips of the skis appeared from under the porch of the entrance. Then the skier himself appeared, in which the commander recognized the navigator from the second squadron. In his hands, as expected, were ski poles. Carefully descending the steps of the porch, he stepped out to the middle of the sidewalk. Swinging, turned ninety degrees. Then, proudly straightening his shoulders and measuredly working with sticks, the navigator went towards the rising sun.
Electronics and hammer
Tu-22M3 number 43 did not want to fly. Outwardly, this did not manifest itself in any way. He stood firmly on his chassis legs. The impetuous profile: a sharp nose, a swept wing pressed against the fuselage, a steady hum of the APU (auxiliary power plant) - there are all signs of readiness to soar into the sky. But, something in his internals stuffed with electronics was happening such that engineers and technicians could not understand. Driven by a senior technician, they scurried about the plane, opened hatches, changed blocks, performed system checks - all to no avail.
I, a young squadron commander, stood by the plane with the crew.
Sad thoughts swarmed in my head. You had to be so different with a minus sign. The fact is that the upcoming flights had a number of peculiarities.
First, the newly appointed division commander was involved. He himself led the order of battle of the regiment. Secondly, the crews had to fly along the route, conditionally strike with guided missiles at enemy targets, bomb targets at the range and land at the operational airfield. Refuel there and - in reverse order: hit, hit another hit, land at home. Continuous "tactical background", as in an exercise, but here is such a bummer. Everything is in the air, and the squadron commander is on the ground. The mood is below concrete.
Only the senior technician of the aircraft, Fyodor Mikhailovich, did not lose faith in success.
- Let's fly right now, commander! - he shouted cheerfully, once again, running past.
- Yeah, now, - optimism has not increased.
Ten, twenty, thirty minutes have passed - nothing has changed. People fussed, the plane stood motionless, enjoying this useless bustle
Once again, it sounded cheerful: "Right now, let's fly!" We flew, but not us. The crews taxied and took off in a given sequence. The roar of jet turbines stood at the airfield. My squadron's parking lot is empty. A little more and the whole regiment will fly away.
- Commander, it's done! - the cry of the start threw us to the plane. Jobs were quickly taken up and work began. When we taxied to the runway, the regiment's battle formation was already leaving the airfield area.
I installed the aircraft along the runway axis, received a take-off clearance from the flight director, turned on the maximum afterburner and released the brakes. The body pressed into the chair. Rapid takeoff and we are in the air. Forward! In pursuit. Then there was nothing interesting. Regular flight, if the definition of "normal" can be applied to flight. They launched a rocket (conditionally), bombed at the range (really and well) and almost caught up with the "tail" of the regiment.
When we sat down at the airfield in Belarus, there was already in full swing the preparation of the aircraft for the re-flight to the route. We were again lagging behind. Two tankers drove to the parking lot, the technical staff, who arrived earlier than us on a transport plane, began to prepare our liner for flight. The senior technician, Fyodor Mikhailovich, supervised the process and refueled the plane with kerosene, sitting in the cockpit in the place of the right pilot.
The Tu-22M3 shone with its headlights and aeronautical lights on. In general, a complete idyll. I looked at all this and thought that a man with his will and mind will defeat any iron, even the smartest. I shouldn't have thought!
Since our "duet", the crew and the aircraft, became a weak link in the battle formation of the regiment, the division commander sent an engineer and a navigator of the division to control us.
- Well, how? - getting out of the car, asked the navigator.
“There are five tons left to refuel, and we are ready,” I announced cheerfully.
- This is good … - the senior chief said philosophically.
For some time we silently looked at the sparkling parking lot, in the center of which stood a plane surrounded by special vehicles "His Majesty". For many years, a picture visible, but still exciting the soul of the pilot.
The division commander was right in his suspicions. The idyll ended in an instant. At first, we heard the APU speed drop, then the aircraft lights went out, and everything plunged into darkness. Silence followed the darkness. Everyone froze, not understanding what was happening. Only the senior technician jumped out of the cab and rolled head over heels down the stepladder. From the last to the first step it rolled in bewilderment - reproachful:
- Oh, you, b …… b!
This is an airplane. And already heard from the ground in my direction many times during this day:
- Right now, commander!
That "right now" only Fyodor Mikhailovich understood. Drivers woke up from his exclamations and illuminated the parking lot with headlights. In their light, we saw how the startech confidently ran to the container in which the tools were stored. He darted back to the plane, holding a huge hammer in his hand. Those standing in his way, involuntarily moved away in different directions. Together with representatives of the division headquarters, I watched with fascination what was happening. All were silent. Having run up to the fuselage, Fyodor Mikhailovich found a point on board that was known to him alone, measured the required distance with his fingers and, with his strength, hammered the skin with a hammer. Such a blow would have knocked the bull off his feet. It seemed to me that something jumped inside the huge forty-two-meter bomber. A shockwave swept through his electronic insides from nose to keel, and the plane came to life. The APU started up and began to gain momentum, the headlights and aeronautical lights came on.
“Wow,” said the navigator.
“Indeed, nothing,” the engineer finally spoke up.
The silence in the parking lot gave way to a hum. Everyone was as if bewitched. The people moved and made a noise. The preparation of the aircraft for departure has again entered the desired track.
Passing the hammer into the hands of the technician, Fyodor Mikhailovich climbed into the cockpit to refuel the plane. I was waiting for the usual "right now, commander, let's fly", but did not wait. And so everything was crystal clear. We really flew.
After debriefing at the base airfield, the division commander, who was colorfully told about us by the navigator, joked that a Russian man could fix any mechanism with a hammer: be it a sewing machine or a spaceship. The joke sounded pretty serious.
How I commanded the exercises of the Northern Fleet
There is not a word of truth in this sentence. I have never been in command of a fleet exercise. Didn't come out tall. Service. And he served in the aviation, so he flew in the sky, and did not plow the sea. But these words, like a question or an assumption, were heard several times in the monologue of a senior boss when talking to me on the phone. So they became the name of a little story. And although the name is a deception, there will be only the truth.
As a pilot of the Long-Range Aviation, I, together with my comrades in arms, almost every year took part in joint exercises or, as the sailors say, in the collection - cruise of the ships of the Northern Fleet. The fleet was going to sea, aviation was taking off into the sky, and everyone was amused by the fact that they were at war with a conventional enemy, or even with each other. They fought on earth, in the sky and at sea, leaving only space for the time being.
So it was this time. Stepping on the concrete of one of the naval aviation airfields, I gladly exposed myself to the rays of the bright northern sun, which was no longer setting beyond the horizon. I want to say that how many times I have not been to the North, I have always been lucky with the weather. It was warm, the sun was shining. Depending on the month, flowers, berries and mushrooms delighted the eye. Moreover, the latter grew literally under the tails of aircraft. It even became enviable. We there, in the north-west, are covered with mold from dampness for one salary, and here they are warming up for two. Although I understood that the North is not the Extreme here, but the weather is really lucky.
I was not able to fly on these exercises. They appointed the senior of the operational group, and at the same time the head of flights from Long-Range Aviation, since our crews were to land here after completing the task. Despite the then post-Soviet deficit of everything (I will not list what), the exercises turned out to be very representative. Only long-range missiles fired several missiles, as well as a naval missile carrier, ships, submarines. The fighters, deck and land, who tried to shoot down ours with their missiles, did not remain idle either. In general, there are a lot of people and equipment, there is little kerosene.
It is only a few years later, after the President and the Supreme Commander-in-Chief lands on this airfield on the strategic missile carrier Tu-160, the army learns that oil is still being produced in our country. And in large quantities. Fuel will flow like a river, and everything will come in, flies in, floats. In the meantime, every liter was counted. So for me, one of the tasks was to keep under control, the issue of allocating fifty tons of aviation kerosene for refueling our aircraft, resolved at all levels. And immediately report to your command if the sailors try to pinch at least "trochs".
The joyous day of our entry into the teachings was approaching. The fleet had already gone out to sea, while the aviation remained on the ground. But the commanders had already taken their eyes off the cards with blue and red arrows and turned them towards the personnel. A purposeful movement of small groups began in various directions. Here is our so-called dispensary, but in reality the wooden barrack, which celebrated at least half a century anniversary, hummed joyfully. We were joined by the arrived technical staff, as well as the crew of the An-12 aircraft, on which our technicians flew in. At the headquarters of the aviation of the fleet, our most important operational group, headed by the deputy commander, began work. To the very edge, to the guidance point, the squadron commander was dropped by a helicopter to lead the crews on the missile launch route. Flight personnel and aviation equipment at airfields in readiness for immediate departure. In general, there were only a few hours left until the time "H".
And so it began! The day turned out to be sunny, there were almost no clouds, fly - I don't want to. After the pre-flight instructions, I approached the commander of the local division for the last time. Having received from him and from the head of the rear another confirmation of the release of the required amount of kerosene, I left with peace of mind to the KDP (control tower) located behind the runway. Then everything went according to the worked out plan. Reports began to arrive on take-offs, gathering of battle formations, exits to the target area, launches, performance of other tasks, etc. I followed the section cut to me, not at all preparing to lead all the exercises. At the appointed time, the crews of naval aviation returned to the airfield, and then ours landed.
That's it, almost a victory! As they say:
“And let the infantry finish off the hated enemy.
If the weather is not flying - cover the plane!"
Aviation has fulfilled its task. Not us. It remains to get out of here, and on the way home to bang a couple of targets at the range.
In the atmosphere of general euphoria, I had difficulty finding transport to get to the airplane parking lot. There, too, is sheer jubilation. After all, the first joint exercises this year, and so everything went well! The crews who performed the launches as "excellent" were handed fried pigs, like submariners for a sunk enemy ship. In this joyful bustle, I finally got to my own people. Congratulations on your success.
- You will eat piglets at home. Have lunch and get ready to fly.
There were no tankers near our planes, only the technicians were fussing about preparing the materiel for the second flight. Find a local guide to speed up refueling. And I, having sent the carriages to the dining room, moved along the parking lot. Lucky - about five minutes later I ran into the division commander, accompanied by the chief of the rear.
- Well, distant, congratulations on your success!
- Thank you, Comrade General. We still need to refuel and fly away.
- You see, we have an overrun, so I can only give ten tons.
The chief of the rear with a solid nod confirmed the words of the division commander. In the pocket of my overalls, the exercise commander's rod appeared and began to grow.
- Comrade General, how can I get to St. Petersburg from you?
- Why do you want it? - the division commander asked in bewilderment.
- We cannot fly with ten tons, but only go along the highway and refuel at the gas station.
- Joker ?! - the division commander looked at the chief of the rear.
- Okay, take fifteen and that's it. And now we will begin to fill ours.
Fifteen - this is directly without a polygon, just barely enough. But there is no place to go. Soon this fuel will not be available - it will pour into other tanks. Mobile phones in our localities were not yet in use, and there was no simple telephone nearby either. To consult not how and not with anyone. The tip of the wand began to protrude from his pocket.
- Let it be fifteen!
- That's good. Let's give a refueling command, - the general turned to the chief of the rear.
The deed is done, there should be no more introductory notes. I caught the car. On the way to the KDP I drove through the parking lot of our planes. TK has already arrived, and refueling has begun.
It wasn't long after my arrival at the checkpoint when the crews requested permission and steered to the runway. A phone call rang in the flight control room. The flight director handed the phone to me. A colonel called from our task force located at the headquarters of the aviation of the fleet. Wow, I completely forgot about them. Probably the damn rod is to blame.
- Hello. How are you?
- I wish you good health. Fine, I decided not to go into details.
The lack of words did not slip through.
- Where are ours?
- One at the executive, the other at the preliminary start.
- Did you have problems with refueling?
- Dali is two times less, so they will fly directly without work at the range.
- Who decided that?
I thought in bad words, but said nothing. And it was impossible to ask a question about refueling a couple or three hours ago to the naval authorities, who were at arm's length from you. You look, and the necessary twenty tons of kerosene have been obtained somewhere.
- I decided, - my voice interrupted the prolonged pause, - there will be no more fuel anyway.
- Wait, now the deputy commander will speak to you.
- I wish you good health, Comrade General.
- Tell me, who decided that the crews will fly this route? - asked a voice with Stalinist intonations on the other end of the line.
By the way, these same crews have already twice requested permission to take off.
“Let them wait,” I said to the flight director.
- I decided - this is for the general.
- Why do you think so?
Damn it! Again the same intonation! It began to seem to me that I was not at the KDP, but at the Supreme Command Headquarters in the distant forty-fourth, defending the plan for a summer offensive.
- Fuel was given only for the flight!
- Tell me, are you in command of the long-range aviation and Northern Fleet exercises?
Well, the finest hour has come. Although not at Headquarters and not a front commander, but also not bad. The bent back straightened, the shoulders straightened, the staff, which had grown to the required size, no longer fit in the pocket.
- You know better, Comrade General.
The answer turned out to be wrong. This was shown by a few minutes of telephone conversation that followed. Moreover, without the use of profanity. Before I could become a commander, during the "sex therapy" session I turned into a cartoon Piglet, sad about the bursting green ball and taking into the body just below the waist, a piece of iron that had leaned out of my pocket so inappropriately.
- Comrade General, allow me to taxi the carriages to the parking lot, otherwise they have been standing on the runway for fifteen minutes.
For about thirty seconds there was not a sound in the receiver, and then:
- Let them take off.
I showed the head of the flights with my hand to the sky. The planes, one after another, tore off the concrete and rushed away from earthly worries. These worries tied me hand and foot with a telephone wire.
Having received a report on the takeoff of the crews, the deputy commander gave further instructions:
- Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, take off your group at exactly three-zero.
- Sorry, comrade general, but I postponed the An-12 flight to nine in the morning. Perplexity and surprise just poured out of the membranes of the telephone receiver. The air at the control room thickened.
- Are the Northern Fleet and Long-Range Aviation not enough for you? You trampled the transport under yourself!
Although the troops under my command, according to the general, arrived, I decided not to touch the rod that had already taken root in the body for the time being. And he did the right thing. Since I did not immediately find what to answer, I was forced to listen for several minutes, nod my head and occasionally insert standard military phrases: "Yes!" (I am ready to eat the earth to earn your trust again), "Yes, sure!" (yes, I'm a fool, an idiot, etc.), "No way" (but I'm not completely lost, I will correct). Finally, the general dried up, and I, having received the order to get in touch with him along with the commander of the An-12 aircraft, was able to leave the KDP.
Hitchhiking got to the town. At the headquarters building, I ran into a group of joyful aviators carrying tinkling packages in their hands. One of them was carefully holding a tray of roast suckling pig. Seeing my worried face, the kind sea pilots suggested that I spit on everything and celebrate the victory with the contents of the packages, eating wonderful roasts. Looking at the patch buried in the greenery, I remembered myself half an hour ago.
“I don’t eat my friends,” I said, and resolutely entered the headquarters.
About twenty minutes later, the commander of the An-12, who had been summoned by me by telephone, appeared. He looked much better in the evening. The general was wrong, I did not crush the transport aircraft. She herself, in the face of this captain, who had been unsuccessfully hungover in the morning, lay down under me and, looking upwards with calf eyes, begged me to postpone the flight until the morning. Although he must have horse eyes. Since yesterday, less than a day before the start of the exercise, the brave pilot was seen in a rather strange company. With a very unsteady gait, he moved towards the dispensary, leading the horse on the leash. They never managed to keep up, and the horse constantly poked the captain in the back. A sailor walked a little behind, closely watching the sweet couple. We saw this picture from the window of our home. Approaching the entrance to the building, the captain and the horse stopped. The man turned to the animal and spoke to him. The horse listened, head down sadly. She did not succumb to any persuasion or twitching of the bridle, flatly refusing to enter the dispensary. Realizing this, the pilot whispered something in her ear, probably asked to wait, and disappeared into the building. Taking advantage of this, the sailor was immediately there. In a moment they rode at a lazy "demobilization" trot to where they came from. So cunningly abandoned by his four-legged companion, the captain quickly calmed down and went to bed. And in the morning he confessed that he just wanted to feed the poor animal in the room.
- It's good that just feed. And even in such a state they could have outraged a horse, - I said in response.
In general, at the time of our second meeting of the day, the captain was almost fresh. And since the deputy commander did not know about his adventures and possible inclination to bestiality, our joint telephone conversation ended quite peacefully. The commander of the An-12, instructed by me, only nodded into the receiver and used the same standard phrases as I did. Having received the last instructions, we rushed to carry them out.
My throw was enough to reach the next office. There they poured me a glass for the victory and gave me a snack with an appetizing pig. And then in the morning there was no poppy dewdrops in my mouth. Feeling how warmth from drinking and eating spreads through my body, I thought that even a fucked lieutenant colonel is not a pig's comrade.
The return home went off casually, without incident. During the analysis of the exercises, the commander only briefly mentioned that due to lack of fuel, it was not possible to work out at such and such a training ground. It was rehabilitation and, at the same time, “removal” of me from the post of “leader” of the aviation and navy exercises. The rod somehow imperceptibly dissolved and left the body without consequences. But apparently, a small piece caught on the kidney helped me to rise to the rank of colonel.
Here am I!
A similar story, one might say its civilian version, is played by a famous humorist. This is when the trolleybus driver, who was trying to close the doors from the outside, is pushed into the back platform himself.
So that's it. This incident happened in those distant times, when the trees were still small, the earth was warm, and the armed forces constantly lacked something. That is, in the nineties of the last century.
One day in this eventful period, the army ran out of batteries. Not that they are completely over. They just got so old that they couldn't be charged and crumbled instantly. And the Ministry of Defense had no money for new ones. I saw a helicopter, the crew of which, having landed on the site near the target field, did not turn off the engines for more than an hour while they were looking for the remnants of the rocket, since there was no certainty that the batteries would be enough for at least one autonomous launch.
In our case, these scarce pieces fell into disrepair on a tractor, rolling planes into the parking lot. The pride of the Soviet car industry: two cabins: one in front, the other in the back, automatic transmission, horses under the hood cannot be counted. Roaring the engine and releasing a jet of black smoke, he confidently drove out of the park and a few minutes later arrived at the regiment's aircraft parking lot. Standing in front of the strategic missile carrier, the driver turned off the engine and went to the squadron engineer. Having received instructions for rolling the plane, the fighter returned to the car, climbed into the cockpit and pressed the start button. Figov wheelbarrow. Let go. But it's not for nothing that I called this car the pride of the auto industry. Soviet designers foresaw this situation and made the tractor a duplicate compressed air launch system. A soldier jumped out of one cabin and climbed into another. A few moments, and the engine rumbled evenly. Once on the ground, the driver was surprised to notice that the monster, not on the parking brake, was crawling onto the propellers of the aircraft in front of him.
This was seen in the parking lot. Everyone who was there rushed to the tractor and rested against the front bumper.
- Keep it! - shouted the senior technician and darted for the aircraft blocks to put them under the wheels of the tractor.
Finally, three to four meters from the propellers, the giant was stopped. But people continued to rest against the bumper, fearing that the tractor would jump over the blocks.
- Where is this fucking driver ?! The senior technician yelled.
And then from the heap of bodies stuck to the bumper, a thin voice rang out:
- Here am I!
Rust -2
In the year of the twenty-fifth anniversary of the landing of Matthias Rust in Moscow on Red Square, this story came to mind and made us relive, albeit insignificant on a national scale, but exciting events that ended quite happily and even, one might say, funny.
Each aviation unit has a poster that shows a pilot in a pressure helmet, an airplane, a radar, and something else, and an inscription that says that we always stand guard over the air borders of our Motherland. And this is actually the case. Only for pilots of Long-Range Aviation, the standing turns out to be somehow indirect. Although after the flight of Rust there was a period when in our regiment the arrows were on duty in the planes, ready to shoot down any low-altitude target from the cannons. But this did not last long. Therefore, we could only protect our air lines in one way - to bomb all airfields within reach, so that not a single infection took off. But this is already a war. And so we ourselves lived under the protection of the air defense forces, slept peacefully and believed that another air hooligan would not land on our airfield. The service of the "Air Defense Forces" is intense and responsible, they are on combat duty even in peacetime. In aviation, rich in jokes, jokes and jokes, the following rhyme went:
An air defense officer lies under the birch.
He was not killed by a bullet, they bored him.
A brief and succinct description of the hard, exhausting male work.
I never thought that for half a day I would have to "serve" (in quotes, of course) in the air defense system, to really defend the airspace of our vast Motherland.
It was a lovely Saturday afternoon. And it was not beautiful because of the weather. The weather is like the weather. Its beauty was that it was already past noon, I came from the service, had a delicious lunch and was now dozing, spreading on the sofa. In the evening I had a bath, cold beer and a hundred grams for dinner in a cozy family atmosphere. What else does the commander need to calmly meet the demobilization. You think correctly. Judging by the perversion of your thoughts, I'm just sure that you also served in the army. He needs to be screwed over his head so that he does not fall out, but leaps out of this “dremonega”, dangerous for the country's defense capability. Otherwise, we will not only retreat to Moscow, we will not catch on to the Ural Mountains either. Not only enemies, but also the personnel, immediately sensing such a state of the commander, begins to commit minor official and domestic dirty tricks (drinking alcohol on duty, going on unauthorized absences, running into the family). Therefore, the security of the country is paramount. If you need to get hit on the head for this, then I'm ready.
The phone call was not unexpected, it was simply out of place. Half a step out of nirvana, I picked up the phone and introduced myself.
- Comrade Colonel, - the voice of the operational duty officer of the higher command post sounded almost solemn, - an intruder plane is approaching your area of responsibility. The order is to intercept and land at your airfield.
“I’m probably still asleep,” flashed through my head, and from the draft of this thought, my brains turned on.
- Which plane, where from? - I tried to quickly clarify the situation.
- The plane is light-engine, flying from the direction of Moscow, it is necessary to intercept.
Thank God that it is not from the border and not a military man. Most likely, just inconsistency and a mess, although anything can be. But my heart became a little easier.
- Allow me to raise a couple to intercept? - I asked a question into the receiver. The receiver was silent for a few seconds, then the operative's voice rang out:
- Which pair?
- What I have, a pair of Tu-22m.
- Are you joking?
I'm kidding, of course. What else do you want to do when you receive such instructions?
- And you? I can intercept him, he is flying, and not driving on the highway.
- Well, try to call on the connection.
Realizing that I was not learning anything new anymore, I asked to be informed immediately if fresh information appeared, and began to act. Having given the necessary orders, he rushed to the control tower. All means of communication and radar were turned on, the marks from the air targets were not visible, the shift on duty called the intruder at various frequencies. A few minutes later, a miracle happened - they answered us. Having learned who they were mistaken for, the Yak-18t crew was stunned and agreed with all our demands, although they had to fly three hundred kilometers further.
It became quite fun. Indeed - just an inconsistency between the civil and military sectors of the EC ATC RC (air traffic control center).
But the flywheel of the fight against violators and terrorists has already been promoted, and it is boring to fight them with a limited circle of executives. I wanted as many people as possible on this Saturday evening to take part in the holiday dedicated to the aviation mess.
Therefore, a few minutes before the landing of the "intruder", all anti-terror units were brought to the highest degree of readiness. Machine gunners lay down along the runway, cars were parked on the taxiways to block the plane after landing, and the fighters of the capture group were sitting in the UAZ with decisive faces. I will not list the rest.
Yes, it really turned out to be a small dark green Yak-18t. Rumbled over the end of the strip, he gently touched the concrete with the wheels and after a short run stopped. At the same moment, it was blocked by trucks from both sides, and people armed to the teeth began to break into the cab. The submachine gunners at the runway also stood up to their full height, bringing the militarization of the meeting of uninvited guests, it seemed, to the upper limit. But it only seemed to be.
When I approached the plane, the active phase of the operation was completed. The crew stood at their aircraft, surrounded by a capture group. Our officer was sitting in the cockpit with a pistol at the ready. The "violators" were mildly shocked to see how many people came out to meet them.
Then everything turned out to be very simple. As I said - an ordinary mess! The crew of the Yak-18t, both former military pilots, members of the country's national rally team. We were preparing at the training camp for the world championship in this sport, which I heard for the first time. We flew home, having in hand all the necessary documents, with the permission of the dispatcher and the flight director. And it started right away. If Rust, instead of being knocked down, was allowed to go everywhere, then they were wanted on the contrary.
After taxiing the plane to the parking lot, just in case, accompanied by armed guards, we drove to the regiment headquarters. When the door was a few meters away, the guests had to strain again. This is the top point. Although everything was already clear, the flywheel of militarism had to turn to the end. And he turned. From the doors of the headquarters, like devils from a snuffbox, soldiers of the reserve units began to jump out. In helmets, body armor, with machine guns. Their time has come.
- And what did you think? - I said, looking at the frightened - questioning faces of the guests, - the motto of real men: if you love a woman, then in a hammock and standing, which translated into military language means: hard in training - easy in battle.
A few minutes later we all sat in the office of the counterintelligence officers and outlined a plan of action to get out of this situation. The peaceful conversation was interrupted by reports on bringing all forces and means to their original position.
The next phone call was not a report from the unit duty officer. The voice of the senior chief was heard in the receiver.
A small lyrical digression. In any business, from organizing a booze to launching a spacecraft, a similar decision-making algorithm operates, which includes an assessment of the situation, hearing the proposals (wishes) of deputies (colleagues, drinking companions) and, in fact, the decision itself (individually or collectively). But it also happens the other way around. The boss announces his, sometimes very unexpected decision, then you prove for a long time that you are not a camel. He corrects it, but you still remain a camel. So it was this time.
- I wish you good health, comrade general!
- Hello. Where are these gouges?
- We are all at the special officers.
- So it is. You take them and, with quiet sadness, put them in the guardhouse until morning, and then we'll figure it out.
- Comrade General, we have no guardhouse.
- You will find where to plant.
- Allow me not to torment them and not create difficulties for myself, I will shoot these violators.
There is silence in the receiver, in the eyes of the people sitting opposite there is surprise and a dumb question. It seems that they have already pacified, but here again.
“Are you kidding?” Came the phone.
Yes, this is the third time I've been joking in half a day. I do not know if it was successful, and what will be the consequences? But enough, jokes aside. And then you will definitely have to shoot retired pilots.
- Comrade General, - I say into the telephone receiver and summarize the essence of the matter.
Realizing that he was getting excited, the general thought about it. After a few seconds, he said resolutely:
- Feed, accommodate for the night, apply for tomorrow and send to the edren hair dryer.
Brief, clear and understandable.
- Eat, feed, place and send where you said!
This is how my "service" in the air defense ended successfully. Having sacrificed an afternoon rest and a bathhouse, I did not let the "violators" enter either Red or Palace Square. And he did not find himself lying under a birch - he came home on his own feet. The Yak-18 crew safely reached their airfield the next day. What place they took in the World Air Rally Championship after such a shake-up, I do not know.
Recognition of a pilot - leader
In the morning it is so offensive - to moan, to tears, to hiccups, There are different dreams
But I never dreamed of flying.
I used the steering wheel on myself
And feel the unity with the night sky.
Well, in a dream, I hold meetings and builds.
Asleep I do not meet the dawn
On concrete and in a waterproof helmet.
I check the outfit, I go to the objects
And I chase the soldiers on the rise.
Then the bosses will dream
And with him and seven hundred and forty-six documents.
About emergency, desertion, Non-payment of alimony.
I am from these misfortunes in a dream
I am saving myself on the plane of my beloved.
I close the flashlight, but I can't take off.
And I wake up in a cold sweat.
I don't dream about flying …
