How I served in Chechnya. Stories about the Chechen war: God preserved. “I wrung out the blood from my sneakers”

War in Chechnya Stories of participants in the Chechen War

Interview with Alexander Gradulenko, participant in the 1995 assault on Grozny

He didn't return from the battle yesterday

Alexander Gradulenko is 30 years old. Blooming male age. Retired captain, awarded the medals "For Courage" and "For Distinction in Military Service" II degree. Deputy Chairman of the public organization "Contingent". Veteran of the first and second Chechen wars. Wars of modern peaceful Russia.

In 1995, contract sergeant Alexander Gradulenko, as part of the 165th Marine Regiment of the Pacific Fleet, took part in the assault on Grozny.

Sasha, what makes a person who saw the death of his friends with his own eyes still go on the attack the next day?

Honor, duty and courage. These are not beautiful words, in combat conditions the husks fall off from them, you understand their meaning. These building blocks make up a real warrior. And they are the ones who lead into battle. One more thing. Revenge. I want to avenge the boys. And end the war as soon as possible.

Questions come to mind later, already at home, when the euphoria of “I’m alive” wears off. Especially when you meet the parents of those guys... Why did they become “cargo 200”, but I didn’t? These questions are difficult, almost impossible, to answer.

Did you personally, Sasha, understand where you were flying?

Have you ever imagined what war is? Vague, very vague. What did we know then? What is bad in Chechnya is that the first assault failed, how many guys were killed. And they understood that if they collect marines from all fleets, and the marines have not been used in combat for a long time, then things are bad.

From our native Pacific Fleet, the 165th Marine Regiment was being prepared for departure. Where can you find 2,500 trained people if the Armed Forces are understaffed? The Pacific Fleet command decides to staff the regiment with personnel serving on ships and submarines. And the guys only held the machine gun when they swore an oath. The boys have not been shot at... And so are we, in fact.

We were gathered, I remember, they gave us 10 days to prepare. What can you prepare during this time? Funny. And now we are standing at the airport, winter, night, the planes are ready to depart. A high military official comes out and talks about patriotism and “forward, guys!” Our battalion commander, Major Zhovtoripenko, comes out next and reports: “The personnel are not ready for combat!” Next are the officers, company commanders: “The personnel are not ready, we will not be able to lead people to the slaughter.” The high rank in the face changes, the officers are immediately taken under arrest, we are sent back to the barracks, and in the morning we fly to Chechnya. But already with other commanders...

By the way, those who told the truth at the airfield then slowly “left” the army. I and my friends have great respect for these people. They essentially saved our lives, defended us at the cost of their careers. Our battalion, as supposed conscientious objectors, was not thrown into battle. Otherwise, they would have died, like the guys from the Northern Fleet, the Baltic. They were already withdrawn from Chechnya in February - there were so many wounded and killed.

Bricks of victory over fear

Remember your first fight? How does a person feel about this?

It's impossible to explain. Animal instincts kick in. Anyone who says it's not scary is lying. The fear is such that you freeze. But if you defeat him, you will survive. By the way. Here's a detail: exactly 10 years have passed since the first Chechen war, and we, getting together with friends, remember the battles - and it turns out that everyone saw different things! They ran in one chain, and everyone saw their own...

Alexander Gradulenko served in the second Chechen war as an officer, a platoon commander. After a severe concussion, after a long treatment in the hospital, he graduated from the Faculty of Coastal Forces of the TOVMI named after Makarov and returned to his native regiment. And even the same platoon in which he fought as a sergeant was given command.

The second time we were sent to war classified as “secret”. There was talk about a peacekeeping operation, we were already mentally trying on blue helmets. But when the train stopped in Kaspiysk, that’s where our peacekeeping ended. We guarded the Uytash airport and took part in military clashes.

Who is more difficult to fight - a soldier or an officer?

To the officer. More responsibility, this time. An officer is constantly visible, and even more so in battle. And whatever the relationship between the officer and the soldiers in the platoon, when the battle begins, they look only at the commander, they see in him protection, and the Lord God, and anyone else. And you can’t hide from these eyes. The second difficulty is that managing people with weapons is difficult, you have to be a psychologist. The rules in battle become much simpler: if you don’t find a common language with the soldiers, you engage in scuffles - well, beware of a bullet in the back. That’s when you understand the meaning of the words “commander’s authority.”

Alexander takes out the “Book of Memory”, published by “B”, and points to one of the first photographs, with carefree boys in uniform smiling.

- This is Volodya Zaguzov... He died in battle. During the first battle, my friends died... But these are my friends, those who survived, we now work together, we are still friends.

You and your friends, one might say, passed with honor not only the test of war, but also a much more difficult test - the test of peace. Tell me, why is it so difficult for warriors from “hot spots” to fit into peaceful life?

War breaks a person both spiritually and physically. Each of us crossed the line, violated the commandment, the very same one - do not kill. Should I come back after this, stand on my square like a chess piece? This is impossible.

Just imagine what awaits, for example, a scout who went behind enemy lines when he arrives home. Community appreciation? Of course. The indifference of officials awaits him.

After demobilization, after the war, my parents helped me. Friends are the same, fighting ones. I think this friendship saved us all.

Proud memory

You come from a family of career military personnel. Why did they break tradition and resign so early?

Disappointment came gradually. I’ve seen a lot in military life, I’ll say without bragging, it would be enough for another general. And every year it became more and more difficult to serve the Motherland, seeing the attitude towards the army and veterans.

Do you know how many questions I had that I had no one to ask?.. They are still with me now. Why are they cutting down military schools and conscripting civilians who have graduated from a university to serve as officers for two years? Does a person who knows for sure that he is here for only two years care what happens next? No grass can grow on him! Our lower officer ranks have been exterminated - why? I didn't find any answers. That’s how the decision to leave the army slowly came. Get down to business. After all, you can bring benefits to your homeland in civilian life, right?

We - me and my friends in the "Contingent" organization - still live in the interests of the army, we care. When they show Iraq or the same Chechnya, our souls hurt. That's why we began to actively work in the "Contingent". We found contact with the administration of the region and the city, participated in the development of a program for the protection and rehabilitation of veterans of “hot spots”, a program to help the parents of dead children. We are not asking for money, we just want understanding.

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The second Chechen war began.

“In early May we were transferred to the mountains northwest of Gudermes, to the southern tip of the Baragun ridge. From here we keep our sights on the railway bridge over Sunzha, which is guarded by riot police. Before the riot police are cut down, they will have time to draw fire on themselves. Every night they have a “war”. Riot policemen are firing around without a break from evening to morning with all types of weapons. A few days later they are replaced by our 7th company. The night “wars” immediately stop: the infantry crawls into the “secrets” and calmly shoots the spirits.

Here “up there” there is complete silence, no war. Despite this, observers are posted around the clock and tripwires are set up. Usual prevention. The 1st battalion was located even further north along the ridge. The tankers, as usual, were scattered throughout all the checkpoints.

There's not a soul around. Beauty and nature. The weather is wonderful: sometimes it’s hot, sometimes it’s raining, sometimes it snows at night. In the morning everything melts, and in the afternoon it’s Africa again. And far in the south you can see high mountains, where the snow never melts. Someday we will get to them too... Thyme grows all around, and we constantly brew it with tea. Nearby is Sunzha. If you throw a grenade at it, you’ll get a duffel bag full of fish.”

A Chechen prays in Grozny. Photo by Mikhail Evstafiev. (wikipedia.org)

“I saw a blown up car, it was lying on its torn off turret, there was a hole about 3 square meters in the bottom. m almost from side to side. There were soldiers lying around, they were being helped. The guys were seriously injured, one had his eyes knocked out (they had already bandaged him) and a machine gun was strapped to his leg as a splint, he was shaking violently, the place around was a mixture of dirt, oil, blood, cartridges and some kind of debris... We just got into the trench , as the ammunition of the infantry fighting vehicle detonated. The explosion was so strong that one of the doors hit the barrels of the company commander’s tank (they were empty), the turret along with the top plate of the hull was twisted and thrown several meters, the sides parted slightly. And the gunner and I got it too—we were sick all day. The hatches were slightly open (dangling on torsion bars) and locked into place. Then the MT-LB of the mortarmen with mines caught fire, they pushed it with a BTS from a height, in that place there was a rather steep descent of about 200 meters, it rolled to the very bottom, burned out, smoked and went out. Around the middle of the day, the fog began to dissipate, a pair of Mi-24 helicopters arrived, passed over us, and as soon as we were above the positions of the spirits, they opened quite strong fire from small arms and grenade launchers (the helicopters were flying at a low altitude).”

Memoirs of Khusein Iskhanov (during the war he was Aslan Maskhadov’s personal adjutant), journalist Dmitry Pashinsky talked:

“We didn’t even have enough cartridges. Two or three people with bare hands were running around the machine gunner, waiting for him to shoot someone. Fortunately, weapons were soon brought in in bulk - if you want, get them in battle, or if you want, buy them. An AK-74 cost $100-300, a 120 grenade launcher cost $700. You could even buy a tank ($3-5 thousand). The soldiers will ruin it a little, shoot it - like they lost it in battle. They get money in their pockets, we get a tank battalion of three tanks. Over time, the weapon was exchanged for a bottle of vodka or a can of canned food. I could drive through all of Chechnya with this stuff. You approach a checkpoint. The soldiers there are grimy and hungry. It's winter, and they're wearing rubber boots.

The first Chechen war. (ridus.ru)

Russian troops began to storm Grozny from the outskirts. We tried to hold them back, but they kept coming at us - with infantry, tanks, helicopters, and aviation. They occupied the hills and the city lay in plain sight - I don’t want a bomb! Maskhadov ordered all troops to be drawn to the center and take up defensive positions near the presidential palace, where the fiercest battles unfolded.”

“After daily skirmishes, the militants began to make attempts to break into the railway building. station, and it was becoming more and more difficult to restrain their onslaught, there was practically no cartridges left, the number of wounded and killed became more and more each time, strength and hopes for help were running out. We held on with all our might, and hoped that reinforcements with ammunition were about to arrive, but we never received the long-awaited help. That time I received numerous shrapnel wounds: my hips, both arms, chest, right hand, and the eardrum in my right ear was ruptured. I put on my tank helmet, and immediately my head felt calmer, lighter; shots from machine guns and machine guns, as well as from grenade launchers that hit the crumbling walls of the station, did not reach my brain so clearly through the helmet. It was scary that you would be like a burden, while you were still on your feet, you could fight.”

Memories of a VeteranEvgenia Gornushkina about shelling by militants:

“It was impossible to calmly even go to the toilet. They started shooting at 23:00 until one in the morning. By this time we were already awake and sitting in the trenches, equipping stores, and when the militants appeared, we opened fire. The installations were dug in and covered with chain-link mesh in two rows so that shots from the grenade launcher would not reach the vehicle. We had to fight back with conventional machine guns or mortars and automatic self-propelled guns. Then, so that the enemies could not reach our positions, we began to mine the banks of the river along which they made their way each time, and installed flares. We were also regularly fired upon by snipers, but we successfully responded to them.”

S. Sivkov. “The Capture of Bamut. From memories of the Chechen war of 1994-1996":

“For me, the battle on Bald Mountain was the most difficult of all that I saw in that war. We didn't sleep long and got up at four o'clock in the morning, and by five o'clock all the columns were lined up - both ours and our neighbors'. In the center, the 324th Regiment was advancing on Bald Mountain, and to our right, the 133rd and 166th Brigades were storming Angelica (I don’t know what names these mountains have on the geographical map, but everyone called them that way). The special forces of the internal troops of the Ministry of Internal Affairs were supposed to attack from the left flank on Lysaya Gora, but in the morning he was not there yet, and we did not know where he was. Helicopters were the first to attack. They flew beautifully: one link quickly replaced another, destroying everything they could on their way. At the same time, tanks, self-propelled guns, and Grad MLRS joined in - in a word, all the firepower began to work. Amid all this noise, our group drove to the right from Bamut to the Ministry of Internal Affairs checkpoint. Coming out from behind it into a field (about one and a half kilometers wide), we dismounted, lined up and moved forward. BMPs went ahead: they completely shot through the small spruce grove that stood in front of us. Having reached the forest, we regrouped and then formed a single chain. Here we were informed that special forces would cover us from the left flank, and we would go to the right, along the field. The order was simple: “No sound, no squeak, no scream.” The scouts and sapper were the first to go into the forest, and we slowly moved after them and, as usual, looked in all directions (the rear of the column was backward, and the middle was to the right and left). All the stories that the “federals” stormed Bamut in several echelons, that they sent unfired conscripts ahead are complete nonsense. We had few people, and everyone walked in the same chain: officers and sergeants, warrant officers and soldiers, contract soldiers and conscripts. We smoked together, we died together: when we went out to fight, it was difficult to distinguish us from each other even by our appearance.

It was hard to walk; before going up we had to stop for a rest for about five minutes, no more. Very soon, reconnaissance reported that in the middle of the mountain everything seemed to be calm, but at the top there were some fortifications. The battalion commander ordered that they not climb into the fortifications yet, but wait for the others. We continued to climb the slope, which was literally “plowed up” by the fire of our tanks (the Chechen fortifications, however, remained intact). The slope, fifteen to twenty meters high, was almost vertical. The sweat was pouring down, it was incredibly hot, and we had very little water - no one wanted to carry an additional load up the mountain. At that moment someone asked the time, and I remembered the answer well: “Half past ten.” Having overcome the slope, we found ourselves on a kind of balcony, and here we simply fell into the grass from fatigue. Almost at the same time, our neighbors on the right started shooting.

Second Chechen war. (fototelegraf.ru)

A mortar was soon connected to the Chechen AGS. According to our battle formations, he managed to fire four mines. True, one of them buried itself in the ground and did not explode, but the other hit accurately. Before my eyes, two soldiers were literally blown to pieces, the blast wave threw me several meters and hit my head on a tree. It took me about twenty minutes to recover from the shell shock (at this time the company commander himself directed the artillery fire). I remember what happened worse. When the batteries ran out, I had to work at another, larger radio station, and I was one of the wounded people sent to the coma. Running out onto the slope, we almost fell under sniper bullets. He didn't see us very well and missed. We hid behind some piece of wood, took a break and ran again. The wounded were just being sent downstairs. Having reached the pit where the battalion commander was sitting, I reported the situation. He also said that they could not reach those Chechens who were crossing the river. He ordered me to take the “Bumblebee” grenade launcher (a hefty tube weighing 12 kg), and I had four machine guns alone (my own, a wounded one and two dead ones). I didn’t really want to carry a grenade launcher after everything that had happened, and I risked asking: “Comrade Major, when I went to war, my mother asked me not to run into trouble! It will be hard for me to run down an empty slope.” The battalion commander answered simply: “Listen, son, if you don’t take him now, then consider that you have already found the first trouble!” I had to take it. The return journey was not easy. Just in the sniper's line of sight, I tripped over a root and fell, pretending to be dead. However, the sniper started shooting at my legs, the bullet tore off my heel, and then I decided not to tempt fate any more: I rushed as fast as I could - that’s what saved me.

There was still no help, only artillery supported us with constant fire. By the evening (about five or six - I don’t remember exactly) we were completely exhausted. At this time, shouting: “Hurray, special forces, forward!” The long-awaited “specials” appeared. But they themselves could not do anything, and it was impossible to help them. After a short firefight, the special forces rolled back down, and we were left alone again. The Chechen-Ingush border passed nearby, a few kilometers from Bamut. During the day she was invisible, and no one even thought about it. And when it got dark and electric lights came on in the houses in the west, the border suddenly became noticeable. Peaceful life, close and impossible for us, took place nearby - where people were not afraid to turn on the light in the dark. Dying is still scary: more than once I remembered my own mother and all the gods there. It was impossible to retreat, it was impossible to advance - we could only hang on the slope and wait. The cigarettes were fine, but by that time we had no water left. The dead lay not far from me, and I could smell the smell of decaying bodies mixed with gunpowder fumes. Some were no longer able to think because of thirst, and everyone could hardly resist the desire to run to the river. In the morning, the battalion commander asked us to hold out for another two hours and promised that water should be brought up during this time, but if they weren’t, he would personally lead us to the river.”

In 1995 - the first Chechen war. I am Lieutenant Colonel Antony Manshin, I was the commander of the assault group, and the neighboring, second assault group was named after the hero of Russia Arthur, my friend, who died in the Grozny battles, covering a wounded soldier with himself: the soldier survived, but he died from 25 bullet wounds. In March 1995, Arthur’s assault group of 30 fighters in three BRDMs carried out a headquarters raid to block militant groups in the Vvedensky Gorge. There is a place there called Khanchelak, which translates from Chechen as a dead gorge, where an ambush awaited our group.

An ambush is certain death: the lead and trailing vehicles are knocked out, and you are methodically shot from high-rise buildings. A group that is ambushed lives for a maximum of 20-25 minutes - then a mass grave remains. The radio station requested air support from fire support helicopters, raised my assault group, and we arrived at the scene in 15 minutes. Air-to-ground guided missiles destroyed firing positions on high-rise buildings; to our surprise, the group survived, only Sasha Vorontsov was missing. He was a sniper and was sitting on the lead vehicle, on the BRDM, and the blast wave threw him into a gorge 40-50 meters deep. They started looking for him, but didn’t find him. It's already dark. They found blood on the stones, but he was not there. The worst happened, he was shell-shocked and captured by the Chechens. Hot on our heels, we created a search and rescue group, climbed the mountains for three days, even entered militant-controlled settlements at night, but we never found Sasha. They wrote him off as a missing person, then presented him with the Order of Courage. And can you imagine, 5 years pass. Beginning of 2000, the assault on Shatoi, in the Arthur Gorge in the Shatoi region there is a settlement called Itum-Kale, when it was blocked, civilians told us that our special forces soldier had been sitting in their zindan (in a hole) for 5 years.

I must say that 1 day in captivity among Chechen bandits is hell. And here - 5 years. We ran there, it was already getting dark. Headlights from the BMP illuminated the area. We see a hole 3 by 3 and 7 meters deep. We lowered the ladder, raised it, and there were living relics. The man staggers, falls to his knees, and I recognize Sasha Vorontsov by his eyes; I haven’t seen him for 5 years and I recognize him. He was covered in a beard, his camouflage had disintegrated, he was wearing burlap, had chewed a hole for his hands, and was warming himself in it. He defecated in this pit and lived there, slept, he was pulled out every two or three days to work, he equipped firing positions for the Chechens. On it, the Chechens trained live, tested hand-to-hand combat techniques, that is, they hit you in the heart with a knife, and you have to parry the blow. Our special forces guys have good training, but he was exhausted, he had no strength, he, of course, missed - all his arms were cut up. He falls to his knees in front of us and cannot speak, he cries and laughs. Then he says: “Guys, I’ve been waiting for you for 5 years, my dears.” We grabbed him, heated a bath for him, and dressed him. And so he told us what happened to him during these 5 years.

So we sat with him for a week, we’ll get together for a meal, the provision was good, but he munch on a piece of bread for hours and eat it quietly. All his taste qualities have atrophied over 5 years. He said that he had not been fed at all for 2 years.

I ask: “How did you live?” And he: “Imagine, commander, he kissed the Cross, crossed himself, prayed, took clay, rolled it into pellets, baptized it, and ate it. In winter, the snow ate.” “So how?” I ask. And he says: “You know, these clay pellets were tastier to me than homemade pie. The blessed pellets of snow were sweeter than honey.”

He was shot 5 times on Easter. To prevent him from running away, the tendons on his legs were cut; he could not stand. They put him against the rocks, he is on his knees, and 15-20 meters from him, several people with machine guns are supposed to shoot him.

They say: “Pray to your God, if there is a God, then may He save you.” And he prayed like that, I always have his prayer in my ears, like a simple Russian soul: “Lord Jesus, my Sweetest, my Most Wonderful Christ, if it pleases You today, I will live a little longer.” He closes his eyes and crosses himself. They remove the trigger - it misfires. And so twice - the shot DOES NOT HAPPEN. They move the bolt frame - NO shot. They change the magazines, the shot doesn’t happen again, the machine guns CHANGE, the shot still doesn’t happen.

They come up and say: “Take off the cross.” They CANNOT shoot him, because the Cross hangs on him. And he says: “It was not I who put on this Cross, but the priest in the sacrament of Baptism. I won’t take pictures.” Their hands reach out - to tear off the Cross, and half a meter from it - their bodies are CRUSHED by the Grace of the Holy Spirit and they, crouched, FALL to the ground. They beat him with machine gun butts and throw him into a pit. Like this, twice the bullets did not fly out of the barrel, but the rest flew out and that’s it - they flew PAST him. Almost point blank - they COULD NOT shoot him, he was only hit by pebbles from the ricochet and that’s all.

And this is how it happens in life. My last commander, the hero of Russia Shadrin, said: “Life is a strange, beautiful and amazing thing.”

A Chechen girl fell in love with Sasha, she was much younger than him, she was 16 years old, then the secret of the soul. For the third year, she brought him goat's milk into the pit at night, lowered it onto strings for him, and that's how she came out. At night, her parents caught her in the act, flogged her to death, and locked her in a closet. Her name was Assel. I was in that closet, it was terribly cold there, even in summer, there was a tiny window and a door with a barn lock. They tied her up. She managed to chew the ropes overnight, dismantle the window, climb out, milk the goat and bring him milk.

He took Assel with him. She was baptized with the name Anna, they got married, and had two children, Kirill and Mashenka. The family is wonderful. So we met him in the Pskov-Pechersky Monastery. We hugged, we both cried. He tells me everything. I took him to Elder Adrian, but the people there wouldn’t let him in. I tell them: “Brothers and sisters, my soldier, he spent 5 years in a pit in Chechnya. Let me go for Christ’s sake.” They all knelt down and said: “Go, son.” About 40 minutes passed. Sasha comes out with a smile from Elder Adrian and says: “I don’t remember anything, as if I was talking to Sunny!” And in his palm are the keys to the house. Father gave them a house, which was given to the monastery by an old nun.

And most importantly, Sasha told me when we parted, when I asked him how he survived all this: “For two years while I was sitting in the hole, I cried so much that all the clay under me was wet from tears. I looked at the starry Chechen sky through the funnel of the zindan and SEARCHED for my Savior. I cried like a baby, SEEKING – my God.” “What next?” I asked. “And then - I bathe in His embrace,” answered Sasha.

The truth about the exploits and everyday life of the Chechen war in the stories of its eyewitnesses and participants formed the content of this book, which is also published as a tribute to the memory of our soldiers, officers and generals who gave their lives for their friends and continue their military feat for the sake of our well-being

They say that paratroopers are the most uncompromising warriors. Maybe so. But the rules that they introduced in the mountains of Chechnya during the complete absence of hostilities are clearly worthy of special mention. The paratrooper unit, in which a group of reconnaissance officers was commanded by Captain Mikhail Zvantsev, was located in a large clearing in the mountains, a kilometer from the Chechen village of Alchi-Aul, Vedeno region.

These were rotten months of rotten negotiations with the “Czechs”. It’s just that in Moscow they didn’t understand very well that you couldn’t negotiate with bandits. This simply will not work, since each side is obliged to fulfill its obligations, and the Chechens did not bother themselves with such nonsense. They needed to pause the war to take a breath, bring up ammunition, recruit reinforcements...

One way or another, an obvious rampant of “peacekeeping” began by certain high-profile personalities who, without hesitation, took money from Chechen field commanders for their work. As a result, the army men were forbidden not only to open fire first, but even to return fire with fire. They were even forbidden to enter mountain villages so as not to “provoke the local population.” Then the militants openly began to live with their relatives, and they told the “federals” to their faces that they would soon leave Chechnya.

Zvantsev’s unit had just been airlifted into the mountains. The camp, set up before them by the paratroopers of Colonel Anatoly Ivanov, was made hastily, the positions were not yet fortified, there were many places inside the fortress where it was undesirable to move openly - they were well under fire. Here it was necessary to dig 400 meters of good trenches and lay parapets.

Captain Zvantsev clearly did not like the equipment of the positions. But the regiment commander said that the paratroopers had only been here for a few days, so the engineers continued to equip the camp.

But there have been no losses so far these days! - said the regiment commander.

“They’re taking a closer look, don’t rush, Comrade Colonel. The time is not yet ripe,” Misha thought to himself.

The first “two hundredths” appeared a week later. And almost as always, the cause of this was sniper shots from the forest. Two soldiers who were returning to the tents from the mess hall were killed on the spot in the head and neck. In broad daylight.

The raid into the forest and the raid did not produce any results. The paratroopers reached the village, but did not enter it. This was contrary to orders from Moscow. We're back.

Then Colonel Ivanov invited the village elder to his place “for tea.” They drank tea for a long time in the headquarters tent.

So you say, father, there are no militants in your village?

No, there wasn't.

How is it, father, two of Basayev’s assistants come from your village. And he himself was a frequent guest. They say he wooed one of your girls...

People are telling lies... - The 90-year-old man in an astrakhan hat was unperturbed. Not a single muscle on his face moved.

Pour some more tea, son,” he turned to the orderly. Eyes black as coals glared at the card on the table, prudently turned upside down with the little secret card.

“We don’t have militants in our village,” the old man said again. - Come visit us, Colonel. - The old man smiled a little. Unnoticeably so.

But the colonel understood this mockery. If you don’t go on a visit alone, they’ll cut off your head and throw you on the road. But with soldiers “on armor” you can’t, it’s contrary to orders.

“They’re besieging us from all sides. They’re beating us, but we can’t even conduct a raid in the village, huh? In a word, it’s the spring of ’96.” - The colonel thought bitterly.

We will definitely come, venerable Aslanbek...

Zvantsev came to see the colonel immediately after the Chechen left.

Comrade Colonel, let me train the “Czechs” like a paratrooper?

How is this, Zvantsev?

You'll see, everything is within the law. We have a very persuasive upbringing. Not a single peacemaker will find fault.

Well, come on, just so that my head doesn’t fall off later at army headquarters.

Eight people from Zvantsev’s unit quietly went out at night towards the ill-fated village. Not a single shot was fired until the morning, when the dusty and tired guys returned to the tent. The tankers were even surprised. Scouts walk around the camp with cheerful eyes and mysterious grins in their beards.

Already in the middle of the next day, the elder came to the gates of the Russian military camp. The guards made him wait for about an hour - for education - and then took him to the headquarters tent to the colonel.

Colonel Ivanov offered the old man tea. He refused with a gesture.

“Your people are to blame,” the elder began, forgetting his Russian speech out of excitement. - They mined the roads from the village. I will complain to Moscow!

The colonel called the intelligence chief.

The elder claims that it was we who set up the tripwires around the village... - and handed Zvantsev the wire guard from the tripwire.

Zvantsev twirled the wire in his hands in surprise.

Comrade Colonel, this is not our wire. We give out steel wire, but this is a simple copper wire. The militants staged it, no less...

What an action movie! “Do they really need this,” the old man shouted loudly in indignation and immediately stopped short, realizing that he had been stupid.

No, dear elder, we do not set up targets against civilians. We have come to free you from the militants. This is all the work of bandits.

Colonel Ivanov spoke with a slight smile and complicity on his face. The old man left, somewhat defeated and quiet, but furious and annoyed inside.

Are you letting me down under the article? - The Colonel made an indignant face.

No way, Comrade Colonel. This system is already debugged and has not caused any failures yet. The wire is really Chechen...

Chechen snipers did not shoot at the camp for a whole week. But on the eighth day, a soldier from the kitchen squad was shot in the head.

That same night, Zvantsev’s people again left the camp at night. As expected, the elder came to the authorities:

Well, why put tripwires against peaceful people? You must understand that our tape is one of the smallest, there is no one to help us.

The old man tried to find understanding in the colonel's eyes. Zvantsev sat with a stony face, stirring sugar in a glass of tea.

We will proceed as follows. In connection with such actions of bandits, a unit of Captain Zvantsev will go to the village. We will clear the mines for you. And to help him I give ten armored personnel carriers and infantry fighting vehicles. Just in case. So, father, you will go home on armor, and not on foot. We'll give you a ride!

Zvantsev entered the village, his people quickly cleared the “non-deployed” trip wires. True, they did this only after intelligence had worked in the village. It became clear that a path led from above, from the mountains, to the houses of the villagers. The residents clearly kept more livestock than they themselves needed. We also found a barn where beef was dried for future use.

A week later, an ambush left on the trail in a short battle destroyed seventeen bandits at once. They descended into the village without even sending reconnaissance forward. The village residents buried five in their teip cemetery.

A week later, another fighter in the camp was killed by a sniper bullet. The colonel, calling Zvantsev, told him briefly: “Go!”

And again the old man came to the colonel.

We still have a person who died, a tripwire.

Dear friend, our man also died. Your sniper took it.

Why ours. Where is ours from? - the old man became worried.

Yours, yours, we know. There is not a single source for twenty kilometers around here. So it's up to you. Only, old man, you understand that I cannot demolish your village to the ground with artillery, although I know that almost all of you there are Wahhabis. Your snipers kill my people, and when mine surround them, they throw down their machine guns and take out a Russian passport. From this moment on, they can no longer be killed.

The old man did not look the colonel in the eyes; he lowered his head and clutched his hat in his hands. There was a painful pause. Then, with difficulty pronouncing the words, the elder said:

You're right, Colonel. The militants will leave the village today. Only the newcomers remained. We're tired of feeding them...

They will leave like that. There will be no stretch marks, Aslanbek. And when they return, they will appear,” Zvantsev said.

The old man stood up silently, nodded to the colonel and left the tent. The colonel and captain sat down to drink tea.

“It turns out that something can be done in this seemingly hopeless situation. I can’t anymore, I’m sending two hundred after two hundred,” the colonel thought to himself. “Well done captain! What can you do? In war it’s like in war!”

Alexey Borzenko

News

“Don’t shoot, fool, they’re waiting for me at home.”

In 1995, after serving my conscript service in the Airborne Forces, I wanted to continue serving in the “winged guard” under a contract. But the order was only for the infantry. And there I insisted on reconnaissance. Our reconnaissance platoon in the battalion was non-standard. At least that's what the battalion commander said. But the weapons and supplies were at their best. Only in our platoon out of the entire battalion there were two BMP-2 and a BRM.

On the BMP of my squad, on the left bulwark, I wrote in white paint: “Don’t shoot, fool, they’re waiting for me at home.” We were armed to the maximum: pistols, machine guns, machine guns, night sights. There was even a large passive “night light” on a tripod. This list was supplemented by camouflage suits and “gorniks”. Apart from unloading, we had nothing to wish for. The platoon commander, Senior Lieutenant K., was a controversial personality. In the past, he was a riot policeman, fired either for drunkenness or for fighting. Sniper Sanek, my fellow countryman, is also a contract soldier. I am a reconnaissance grenade launcher. The rest are conscripts.

Upon arrival in Chechnya, our battalion was given the task of protecting and defending the Severny airport. Part of the battalion was deployed along the perimeter of the airport. The other part, including the headquarters and us, the scouts, were located not far from the take-off. Our “coolness” and self-confidence were felt in everything. All the tents in the camp were buried to the very tops, and only three of ours stuck out like “three poplars on Plyushchikha.”

First, we lined them with boxes from under NURS, which we were going to fill with earth. But on cool nights our boxes burned in the fireboxes of the stoves. Moreover, we set up bunks in the tents. Thank God that there was no one willing to fire at us with mortars. After some time, the first losses appeared in the battalion. One of the infantry fighting vehicles ran over an anti-tank mine. The driver was torn to pieces, the gunner was shell-shocked. The troops from the armor were scattered in different directions. After this, the participants in the explosion could be easily identified by their uniforms, stained with machine oil.

The battalion was subjected to rare shelling, although the activity of “spirits” around Severny was observed. Apparently, this factor and our desire to work according to our profile prompted the command to organize surveillance in places of greatest militant activity. BMPV during the daytime, we began to drive around the checkpoints of our battalion in one or all three vehicles at once. They found out details of the shelling, the place of work of the “night guards,” etc.

During these trips we tried to cover as much territory as possible. Firstly, curiosity took over, and secondly, we wanted to hide our increased interest in the airport area. One of these trips almost ended in tragedy. We set out as a whole team, in three vehicles. On the first "deuce" the commander was located on the tower, plus several more scouts were seated on the armor. We didn’t even have time to drive a few hundred meters from the “take-off” when suddenly something crashed from behind. There is ringing in my ears, confusion in my head. What the hell happened?

It turns out that we were hit from a cannon... by the “two” that was following us. The commander screams heart-rendingly: “Stop the machine!” Without removing the headset or disconnecting the headset, he does an original somersault in the air and falls to the ground. A bullet flies onto the second infantry fighting vehicle and begins to fire at the gunner operator. We were very lucky. The car following us was only 8-10 meters away, walking exactly along the track, and only the fact that its gun was raised slightly higher than our turret saved us from death. A thirty-millimeter shell passed above us, and maybe even between the commander and gunner. They rode in a marching manner, sitting on the tower. The most interesting thing is that the same operator accidentally fired again in the parking lot. This time from the PCT.

That day, the commander gave us the command to prepare for a night departure. They had to move out in a small group in one car. We chose BRM. Not only because of the special equipment, but also out of the desire to hide the substitution at the security post of our battalion: in the afternoon, the BMP-1 left this post for the battalion’s location.

It was an ordinary trip: we went to the battalion for food, water and mail. As soon as it started to get dark, we got into the car. All the soldiers, except me and the commander, hid in the airborne squad, and we moved through the gap in the airport fence towards the post. We approach the runway and move along it to go around. We were told that after the airport was captured, not only armored personnel carriers, but also tracked vehicles were driven along the “take-off” route. We were strictly forbidden to enter the strip. If they turned a blind eye to shooting and missile launches, then this ban was strictly observed.

So, we are driving along the runway, and an IL-76 begins to accelerate towards us. He is clearly visible, he is all in lights. Suddenly the commander gives the command to turn right and cross the “take-off”. The mechanic, without hesitation, turns the car and, it seems to me, does not cross the concrete fast enough. The plane roars past. I can imagine what words the pilots said to us at those moments. But, apparently, this was the fate of this Il. When the plane took off from the ground and climbed a few hundred meters, a long tracer burst went in its direction. As it seemed to us all, from KPVT or NSVT. At least the distant sound of a heavy machine gun could be heard.

We never found out who shot, but there seemed to be a unit of the Internal Troops in that area. There was only one version of the shooting - someone got drunk.

Judas

We approach the security post - a brick booth with a rectangular roof. From the front, a position of sandbags was hidden behind a camouflage net. The infantry was delighted at our arrival. Today is their day off. We drive the BRM into the prepared caponier in the hope that the replacement of the BMP will not be noticed from the outside. We install a post with a large “night light” on the roof of the booth.

After exchanging information, we begin to go to our places. The commander with two scouts remained at the post. He assigned me and my partner to the OP, which was located in a crater at a distance of 150-200 meters from the post. A little further, three of our boys set up another NP. We lie there for an hour or two. Silence. My partner doesn’t look up from his optics, he’s interested. This is his first night out. He is a nurse and is almost constantly at the battalion's location. We exchange words in a whisper. I find out that he has three years of medical school.

Soon, naturally, we start talking about the “citizen woman,” women, and delicious food. Several more hours pass like this. Around two in the morning the starry sky is covered with clouds. A strong wind blew from the front, lifting crumbs of dry arable soil into the air. They hit you in the face and get into your eyes. I'm starting to regret that I didn't ask to be a part of the BRM crew. With these thoughts, I put on my “gornik” hood and turn away. Airport in darkness. Only a lonely light bulb sways in the wind somewhere in the airport building. There’s nothing even for the eyes to grab onto. I look at the light bulb. And then it was like an electric shock struck me. The dream vanished as if by chance. Morse!!!

What I first thought was a light bulb swinging and disappearing in a certain sequence was the transmission of messages. Which ones? From whom? To whom? After all, besides us, there are no more people here. I wake up the nurse and, without letting him come to his senses, I ask: “Do you know Morse code?” “No,” he answers, “what?” I show him the work of an informer. What to do? There is no connection with the commander, it is forbidden to go out and reveal your presence. Fire? The airport is about five hundred meters away. But this is not Moscow at night in 1941, where without warning they opened fire on the illuminated windows. And there are their own people, although not all of them. Large drops of rain beat down the dust, and the enemy keeps “knocking.” What to do? Start at 500 meters and at least scare him off? Or start shooting at the nearest ditch and at your armored vehicle in order to provoke cannon fire and thereby again scare off or destroy the “receiver”. If he is nearby, of course. What if he is far away and with optics?

In general, during the 15-20 minutes that the enemy was working, I did nothing. I just didn't have the opportunity. I didn't even have a pencil and a piece of paper to write down the signals, although they were probably encrypted. But the main reason for my inaction was still different, namely, the nipping in the bud of any initiative in our army. As soon as it began to dawn, we, wet and dirty, moved to the post. From there, I determined that the signal was coming from approximately the fourth floor of the control tower. Reported to the platoon commander about the night event. My information was supplemented by the operator sitting in the BRM. He observed the work of the “night lights” and heard the movement of people.

The commander decided to immediately report the incident to brigade headquarters. The brigade commander himself received us. After listening to the report, to my surprise, he said that this was not the first time information was transmitted from the airport. And that counterintelligence is aware. I feel better. At the end of the meeting, the brigade commander secretly shared information that President Zavgaev was staying at the airport hotel with numerous guards. Subsequently, we were on duty at this post more than once, but did not observe any more signals. After this incident, I made a conclusion for myself: satellite phones, modern radio stations are, of course, progress, but it is too early to write off the good old techniques. Maybe even carrier pigeons will come in handy someday. After all, everything ingenious is simple.

"Recycling" in Russian

After some time, we were informed that our brigade (or rather, what was left of it) was returning to its place of permanent deployment. And here, in Chechnya, a separate motorized rifle brigade is being formed on a permanent basis. We started to prepare. And they witnessed the so-called “recycling”. Apparently, there was an order not to take extra ammunition with you. But where to put them? We found the perfect place. All “excess” (and these were cartridges from machine guns and heavy machine guns) began to be drowned in our field toilet. Then they razed it to the ground. If desired, this place can now be found and presented as another cache of bandits. He'll win a medal.

Tragic and comic side by side

The transition to the brigade reconnaissance battalion was simple. We loaded the junk and weapons into the cars, drove 300 meters and arrived at the scene. Except for the commander and demobilization, everyone transferred to the reconnaissance battalion. The battalion, like the entire brigade, was formed from separate units. Most of the battalion were contract soldiers. I remember the initial period of formation for tragic, comic and simply bad incidents. So, in order. One day, a tragic incident occurred at the location of our battalion.

Shots were heard around the airport day and night. And here we are sitting in a tent, doing what we love: looking for and crushing lice. Suddenly a double shot sounded somewhere nearby. At first they didn’t attach any importance to this. But the running began, and we jumped out of the tent. They hurried to the crowd that had formed. Then I saw a seriously wounded officer. They tried to help him, someone ran after the car. She immediately rushed to the hospital, which was three hundred meters away from us. They began to figure out who shot. The culprit was found immediately. It was a young soldier. In the tent near which the tragedy occurred, he decided to clean the machine gun. Without unfastening the loaded magazine, he pulled the bolt and pulled the trigger. The machine gun was at an angle of 50 degrees (as taught) and no one would have been hurt if the tent had not been dug in. But at that moment an officer was passing near the tent and two bullets hit him in the chest.

15 minutes later the car returned with sad news: the officer had died. What struck me most was that the deceased lieutenant colonel of the Ministry of Internal Affairs flew to Chechnya just two hours before the tragedy...

A comical incident occurred on May 9. And it immediately became clear that there is only one step from the funny to the tragic. On this day, a parade in honor of Victory Day was supposed to take place at the “take-off” of the Northern. Our company did not take part either in the parade or in strengthening the security. Most of the platoon, including me, was in a tent. I was even dozing off when suddenly there was an explosion. Something exploded nearby, so much so that our well-stretched tent shook very violently. And a hole appeared in the tarpaulin. We were warned that the “spirits” would try to cause a provocation. We grab the weapon and jump out wearing what.

Opposite the camp there was a park for our equipment. And next to the tent stood a BMP-2, from the turret of which our gunner (contract soldier) nicknamed Feeska leaned out. Eyes - five kopecks each. He was not a professional gunner, and he wanted to study the materiel better. Since shooting from the Konkurs ATGM is an expensive pleasure, his knowledge was purely theoretical. So he decided to practice. The BMP stood with its stern to the tent about twenty meters away, and the back cover of the ATGM flew towards us. And where the rocket itself flew off to, they immediately left to find out.

Fortunately, no one was injured from the explosion. Faesko was put in prison for a week. A few days later we learned a comic continuation of this incident. Apparently this was the case. The commander of the group is going to take part in the parade. Sitting in the car with him is his wife, who came to Chechnya to visit her husband. He reassures her, saying that the situation is getting better, there is almost no shooting here. And then suddenly there is an explosion and a rocket rushes somewhere above. Maybe this is a story, but on the same day all the gun barrels were raised to maximum, and the ATGMs were removed.

In the army you constantly have to deal with stupid, bad orders. Doing them is unwise. And it’s impossible not to do it. You don't have to look far for examples. Morning exercises, as you know, are an integral part of the daily routine. But there are always exceptions. Our battalion commander didn’t think so. In the morning at the same time, bare-chested and unarmed battalion personnel ran races outside the guarded territory of the brigade. Our arguments about the danger of such a charge (two machine gunners or several MONok and OZMok would be enough for the battalion to cease to exist) did not find understanding among the command for a long time. There are hundreds of facts like this. But how much effort sometimes needs to be made to overcome stupidity!

In the land of unafraid "spirits"

The team for the collection came unexpectedly, as always. Composition: two incomplete companies and French journalist Eric Beauvais. This is how the chief of staff introduced him. Outwardly, he is a typical Frenchman, speaks zero Russian, speaks English well. The column moved into the mountains. Along the way, five people were added to us, Terek Cossacks. Moreover, they were officially seconded to us.

Three were armed with AKMs, one with RPKs, and the fifth was without weapons at all. We, of course, generously supplied all of them with cartridges and grenades, and gave the unarmed one two RPG-26s. Having gotten to know them better, we learned that they were from the same village, and the unarmed Cossack had done something wrong and had to atone for his guilt in battle. By the way, he had to get weapons in battle. Having reached the foothills, the column stopped at a former pioneer camp. And the next morning we moved up the “goat” paths in vehicles. Without armor in this land of unafraid “spirits,” it was extremely dangerous to fight them.

In the mountains of Chechnya

Our fathers-commanders chose the “sea of ​​fire” tactics. The lead “two” from the cannon punched the road. That's where the chips were flying! The rest of the vehicles kept their barrels in a herringbone pattern, periodically shooting at the flanks from the PKT. As soon as the lead vehicle ran out of shells, the next one took its place. Soon we reached the desired area and immediately took up a perimeter defense. There is nothing to the positions of the “spirits”, and, after consulting, the chief of staff gives the command to advance: before the enemy comes to his senses and it begins to get dark, we need to hurry.

On foot we approach the hill. We decide to conduct reconnaissance in force. Hiding behind the trees, we run to the top. Silence. The embrasures are already visible, but there is still no heavy machine-gun fire. Maybe they're letting us get closer? From the right flank, several boys rush to the top. And they immediately start shouting that everything is clean here. The militants' defensive position was empty. Two fires were still burning...

Having examined the position, I was amazed at how well it was equipped. You could immediately feel the work or leadership of professionals. With difficulty we drive the cars to the top and take comfortable positions. They gave the command to each reconnaissance officer to hand over one F-1 to mine the approaches to our now strong point.

There was a small pile of grenades, but there was a problem with the guy wires. There were only a few of them, the way out was found in an army-like manner. We decided to fire an ATGM. Having already learned from experience, I move away. But then the law of meanness came into play - there was a misfire. The gunner quickly removed the unfired ATGM and pushed it down the slope. It’s good that they weren’t shooting at Abrams or Bradleys in real combat.

Second try. The rocket flew into the forest. There was enough “golden” wire for everyone. It's starting to get dark. The fact that the “spirits” left their positions without a fight is a great success for us. On the approaches to them we could have lost a third of our detachment. This was confirmed the next day when we surrendered this position to the infantry. Several of their people were blown up by anti-personnel mines placed behind the trees.

The most interesting thing is that the day before we climbed all the slopes, but did not receive a single explosion. The night passed peacefully. Eric and the Cossacks celebrated the “taking of the Bastille” until dawn. And in the morning he was already skillfully swearing. At first, Eric was somewhat squeamish and did not want to eat with a licked spoon from a common pot. But hunger is no problem, and he “fell in love” with simple soldier’s food. If the Frenchman was not lying, then he knew Claudia Schiffer. How can you not envy the guy?! And in general, our attitude towards this foreign photojournalist was much better than towards many representatives of the domestic media. Maybe because we didn't read French newspapers? A few days later, Eric left for Grozny in a “grocery” infantry fighting vehicle. And we received a new task.

Judah-2

Our column arrived in the designated area. They decided to leave the equipment and crew behind. The order was this: at night, secretly go to the militants’ base, collect intelligence information and, if possible, destroy the bandits’ bases. We were given three soldiers from another regiment as guides. Having quickly had dinner and loaded ourselves with weapons and ammunition, we moved into the forest. We walked into the mountains all night. They stopped often and listened. There was a real danger of running into an ambush. By dawn we reached the desired height.

It was a hill with a peak of 40x30 meters. On one side there was a small cliff and trees, on the other there was a gentle slope and sparse bushes. A barely noticeable road passed through the top. We didn't know where she was going. Our detachment, together with the Cossacks, consisted of about forty people. The officers included a deputy battalion commander, a chief of staff, and two or three platoon commanders. Half of the intelligence officers are contract soldiers. Weapons include one AGS, three PKMs, almost every RPG-26, and the officers also have a Stechkin with a silencer. And, of course, machine guns. After traveling all night, everyone was tired and wanted to sleep.

A third sat down in combat guards, the rest began to rest. No more than an hour passed when the work of a vehicle was heard, judging by the noise, a truck. The chief of staff assembled a small reconnaissance group, which followed the noise. The group included only those who had machine guns with PBS and a machine gunner. Then, for the first time in my service, I regretted that my standard weapon was the AKS-74. A little time passes, when suddenly a long line of PCs pierces the morning silence. And again there is silence. Everyone who was sleeping woke up. We contact the group via radio. They report: “Everything is fine, we’re going with the trophy.” They arrive, leading two Chechens, one of whom is limping. Everyone in the group is excited and their spirits are high.

Their story was brief: they set out, everything was ready, their weapons were loaded. The further we walked, the louder the noise of the car was heard. Soon they saw her. It was a GAZ-66 with a booth. Oddly enough, the all-terrain vehicle skidded in place. We came closer, fortunately the forest hid the group. There were two people sitting in the cabin. But who are they? Judging by their clothes, they are civilians. Suddenly the passenger’s hands flashed the barrel of a machine gun. We decided to take over. At this moment, the car began to gradually climb out and could take off at any moment. They hit from several guns. The driver received a dozen bullets at once. They wanted to take the passenger alive, taking advantage of the fact of surprise.

But the machine gunner decided to make his contribution, and this was his first mistake. He hit with PCM. The silence was broken. The scouts jumped up and pulled out the stunned bandit who had been wounded in the leg, and the AKM fell out with him. The driver hung on the steering wheel. His machine gun lay on top of the engine. Having opened the door of the booth, they found another bandit, whose weapon was next to him. None of the militants had time to use their machine guns, although all three had cartridges in their chambers.

In the camp they began to study the captured trophies. The catch was good. Three brand new AKMs, a duffel bag full of cartridges in packs, a Kenwood radio. But this was not the main find.

We were amazed by the 10×15 cardboard, or rather what was written on it. There was information concerning our detachment. Frequencies and times of broadcasting of our radio. Call signs of our column, detachment and detachment leadership with surnames, first names, patronymics, ranks and positions, number of personnel and equipment.

Two weeks ago our column left Severny, and the enemy already knew everything about us. This was a betrayal at the command level. Having bandaged the wounded bandit and separated the captured, they began interrogating them. And the immediate answer: “Mine is yours, don’t understand.” I had to act physically. Both immediately spoke Russian. But they turned on the fool. They started telling lies to us, saying that they were peaceful shepherds, and at six in the morning they went to the police to hand over their weapons. That's all! For their "forgetfulness" one could give them a high five.

A few hours later we sent them down, which we later regretted. We should pack up and leave immediately. After all, the enemy knew everything about us, and we knew nothing about him. But we didn't leave. And this was our second mistake. I decided to get some sleep after all. But as soon as I fell asleep, machine gun fire rang out, and very close. It turns out that two “spirits”, chatting among themselves, were walking along the road in our direction. Security noticed them at the very last moment, when they approached 30 meters. The young conscript, instead of firing two aimed shots from a prone position, stood up to his full height and began to “water” the militants with a fan from his hip.

That day, not only we made mistakes, but also the “spirits”. Judging by the traces of blood, one of the bandits was wounded, but, rushing into the forest, both of them disappeared. This episode was our next mistake.

After sleeping a little and drinking the remaining water, we wanted to eat. But there were problems with this. True, towards evening God himself sent us food, which we successfully missed. And again because of our sloppiness and self-confidence. We didn’t have any distant “secrets”, and the guards didn’t notice how “Chapai” drove up the hill from the other side with a machine gun on his back. He was apparently very surprised to see Russian soldiers around him. However, this “visit” of the Chechen was unexpected for us too. The first to react was a Cossack from the PKK. The bullets followed the rider, after about 100 meters he fell off his horse, but still took off. We tried to catch up with him, but only found a bag and traces of blood at the crash site. I don’t know whose blood it was. But we regretted more that we had not killed the horse.

In the bag they found four gray camel blankets, 6 bread cakes, cheese and greens. Everyone received blockade rations. FighterThe moment of truth struck at 20.00. It just struck. The attack was unexpected. From all sides - a barrage of fire. At the time of the attack I was under the trees. This was the reason for my injury. An RPG grenade hit the trees above us. My friend received a shrapnel wound in the arm, I received a shrapnel wound in the lower back. The fire was so strong that it was impossible to raise your head. Screams and groans of the wounded were heard everywhere.

It got dark imperceptibly, but the density of the fire did not decrease. The AGS fired one burst and fell silent (as it turned out later because of nonsense), grenades flew from our side. There were about five RPG-26s lying next to me, but there was no way to stand up to fire. And the “patch” was so small that the jet stream could catch its own from the rear. So all the grenade launchers remained there throughout the battle. From all sides one could hear: “Allah Akbar, Russians, surrender.” With ours - choice swearing. A few meters away from me, judging by the voice, lay the battalion commander. He tried to control the battle, but his commands were drowned out by the roar of gunfire and explosions. And then Pavlov’s reflexes woke up in me. Still, six months of airborne training did not pass without leaving a trace. I began to duplicate the captain’s commands; I had more dicebels from fear. And although there was nothing special in the orders, the feeling of control and manageability in this battle was more important than the AGS.

From the beginning of the attack, we contacted our column and asked for help. In response, the battalion commander replied that this was a provocation and that the enemy was trying to lure the main forces into an ambush. The "spirits" came very close. Hand grenades began to explode in the center of our defense. Well, I think, just a little more pressure on us and that’s it, Khan. If only there was no panic. And before my eyes, like frames in a movie, my whole life passed. And not as bad as I thought before. The good news arrived when it was no longer expected. Help was coming to us. With this news, I switched my AKS-74 to automatic mode.

The noise of an engine was heard, and in absolute darkness an infantry fighting vehicle rose towards us. Ahead of her was the deputy head. Several grenades immediately fly over the car. But the BMP is silent, the gun does not fire. Maybe it's because the trunk doesn't go any lower? The commanders shout: “Hit the distant approaches.” Not so. It turned out that out of several cars, only one reached us, and that one was faulty. Finally the PCT started working. Under his cover they began to load the seriously wounded. There were a lot of them, several people put them on top of the car. Having fired two thousand rounds and unloaded the ammunition, the car went back. She had little chance of returning. But the wounded were lucky. With dawn the battle began to subside. It was drizzling. I decided not to get wet and crawled under the trees. I covered myself with the blanket I found and instantly fell asleep.

This is human nature: a few hours ago I was going to die, but when it receded, I went straight to sleep. The battalion commander arrived in the morning. He looked guilty. A tough conversation took place between the officers. The boys from our column told us why they came to the rescue so late. It turns out that the battalion commander forbade sending help under various pretexts. When the commander sent him away and began to assemble a detachment, the battalion commander stopped objecting. I don’t remember the names of the victims, but I can’t forget the name of the coward - battalion commander Major Omelchenko.

In that battle we lost four people killed and twenty-five wounded. But the enemy also suffered, there was a lot of blood and bandages on the slopes. They took all their dead, except one. He lay eight meters from our position, and they could not take him with them. In the afternoon, we, slightly wounded, took the dead and moved to the base. At the Severny hospital, I had an operation under local anesthesia. And the next day we again went to the place of previous events. By that time, our column had become a camp in a mountain village. Arriving there, we learned the history of the capture of this village.

Our people approached the village and sent the Cossacks on reconnaissance. They looked like partisans. And this played into their hands. Right outside the village, two young guys unexpectedly came out to meet them and, mistaking them for their own, asked: “Which unit are you from?” Without allowing them to come to their senses, the Cossacks disarmed and captured their imaginary “colleagues.” After the losses we suffered, we were embittered. Therefore, the interrogation was tough.

One of the bandits was local. Despite his 19 years, he behaved with dignity. The second, to our surprise, turned out to be a Russian mercenary. Bitch, in a word. He was from Omsk. We found his fellow countryman - a contract soldier. He took the bitch’s address and promised to come to his family someday and tell him everything. For him there was only one sentence - death. Having learned this, the mercenary began to crawl on his knees and beg for mercy. This traitor could not even face death with dignity.

The sentence was carried out by his fellow countryman...