Pain threshold read online. Pain threshold read online “I remember how to do good...”

Oleg Palezhin

Pain threshold. Second Chechen War

This story is dedicated to ordinary guys in the cities and villages of Russia. It is written about the army of the late 90s, about war, about hatred and anger, about unjustified cruelty. At the center of events is a unit of motorized rifle troops that performs combat missions on the territory of the rebel republic.

Pain threshold

Second Chechen War

Oleg Palezhin

© Oleg Palezhin, 2018

ISBN 978-5-4490-8002-8

Created in the intellectual publishing system Ridero

Second Chechen War

Ekaterinburg

Palezhin O. A.

P14 Pain threshold: a documentary-fiction story / O. A. Palezhin. – Ekaterinburg: “Storm”, 2017. – 288 p.

This story is dedicated to ordinary guys in the cities and villages of Russia. It is written about the army of the late 90s, about war, about hatred and anger, about unjustified cruelty. At the center of events is a unit of motorized rifle troops that performs combat missions on the territory of the rebel republic.

© Palezhin O. A., 2017

Even when I started writing this text, I didn’t believe that I would be able to finish it. Why are manuscripts of this kind created? From my point of view, first of all for civilians. Both wars in the Caucasus during the dashing nineties affected every third family in Russia in one way or another. Who is to blame for this? Undoubtedly, the state, its disastrous policies and the inflated ambitions of officials of all stripes and offices. Money, oil, basic geopolitics and much more, which the ordinary Russian soldier has absolutely no understanding of. The analysis has already been carried out, the results have been summed up, but has a conclusion been drawn? For the military, this lesson is written in blood, and if we have learned it, then we simply must fight differently. For politicians, this is a head-on question: are you qualified for the position you hold? If so, then your weapon is dialogue, thanks to which both sides must avoid bloodshed. In such a huge country, the task of the president is to guarantee peace and order to every citizen, and not to a separate group of privileged people. For the Minister of Defense, this is a clear plan of action and a high level of training of soldiers, and not stars and buttons made of pure gold on a dress uniform. If neither one nor the other works correctly in the country, then there is simply nowhere to understand what idea a person is shedding blood for. It turns out that they fought for each other - that's all that comes to mind.

Another reason for writing the text is that the average person is dumb as a crowbar and his words like “those who fought will not tell the truth.” Of course, no one will ever be frank with you, that is, a person who has nothing to do with fulfilling his military duty. It is for people like you that this manuscript was written. To briefly descend from the ceiling of a mortgaged apartment and at least mentally try to try on a tarpaulin boot, a bulletproof vest and a helmet. Everything we write about the war is dear to us in its own way. Here, on paper pages, our friends come to life again, laugh, dream and talk with you. You even have time to get used to them again, but then it all goes away, like a bad hangover, and it becomes easier. You throw the war out of yourself because you don’t want to live with it anymore. You become equally indifferent to certain political processes, advertising slogans of various parties and calls for civic duty in elections. All this crap after the war has no meaning for you. You have already fulfilled your duty, still there, in the trench, under fire from friends and foes. A war for which the state is ashamed will certainly be forgotten. A book with its real characters will live as long as it is read.

CHAPTER FIRST

August – September 1999

The weather turned out to be cloudy and light rain was drizzling. The air temperature dropped only a couple of degrees and froze at around plus twenty-seven. The sky was overcast with leaden clouds, slowly floating over the barracks of a motorized rifle regiment. On sunny days in this city, the asphalt will someday melt, and the soldiers’ feet will get stuck in it up to their knees. The windows in the barracks were opened slightly, ventilating the rooms from the smell of sweat and bleach. When it started to rain, the soldiers breathed a sigh of relief. It's high time to cool down the hot heads of demobilizers and father-commanders. Skachkov, being in the company position, silently looked out the window. Through the transparent drops on the glass, figures of soldiers were visible. They swept the regimental parade ground, sweeping up more puddles than falling poplar leaves. But no matter what the soldier suffers, as long as the service does not seem like honey - this is the main and deepest thought of the army. Behind the concrete fence of the checkpoint, buses and trolleybuses passed, pretty girls and young men free from military duty passed by. The unit was located in the city center, which is why the servicemen had difficulty getting used to the service, dreaming of a home. In the evening, when the lights came on in the windows of the apartments, my soul felt especially lousy. Sanya recalled the beginning of the service and sighed with relief. There were still six months left.

The “scoops” overcame the concrete fence day and night, going AWOL. A soldier who has served for a year is considered the most evil in the army. I served for a year and still have a whole year left. The soldiers disappeared on the territory of the market located next to the flight school. The flight school is just a stone's throw away, and the infantry laid out a safe route through courtyards and playgrounds, of which there are plenty in the city. To make the raid a success, you need to have civilian clothes with you. In this weather it's just shorts and sneakers. Getting caught by a patrol means letting down the company duty officer. There, among the shopping arcades, the fighter changed into new clothes and hid his uniform in an ordinary bag. The scheme was worked out in more than one call and practically did not fail until today. Even the Minister of Defense, and even less so a conscript soldier, would not be able to predict and foresee anything in the army. Therefore, when rumors spread throughout the regiment about the outbreak of hostilities in the Caucasus, the guys simply laughed it off, referring to the quick resolution of the conflict. We are Russia after all. Someone from the airborne forces and special forces will sort it out without us, they’re tough, at least tougher than motorized riflemen. During the general formation it later became clear that a dozen soldiers did not spend the night in the barracks. Titov, without taking his hands out of his pockets, walked importantly around the “take-off”, shouting at the young people. An oversized green T-shirt with pulled-out armpits looked ridiculous on the soldier’s thin body. Parking and maintenance day in the unit is held on Saturday, without pampering the personnel with two days off. Seryoga sniffled his snotty nose, kicking a piece of laundry soap. He kicked it out of the hands of the soldiers washing the floors. They cursed their grandfather, but continued to polish the “take-off”, crawling on their knees from corner to corner.

- The boys returned from AWOL, no? – a soldier from the outfit asked Titov.

“You should ask the duty officer this question,” answered the sergeant, deliberately hitting the bucket of water.

“It’s just that the company commander will be back soon,” the soldier continued to mumble, “what should I tell him if he doesn’t count enough?”

“And all of you, stand up and be silent,” Seryoga laughed throughout the barracks.

Skachkov watched as officers walked from the checkpoint to the headquarters. Before the lunch break, the regiment commander had already left twice and returned again.

“Either it’s a training exercise, or an important person will come to visit,” Sanya thought. It's too early for replenishment. In the park, infantry fighting vehicles were taken out of their garages, undergoing inspections and checking the performance of the engines. Partial assignments have been reduced, dismissals and vacations have been cancelled. The personnel employed at the training ground were returned to their location. Warrant officers began accounting for the property of their units. Thus ended another summer. The old-timers did not like this, and they tortured the headquarters squad with questions, to which the squad brazenly replied:

"This is a military secret."

- Company duty officer, get out! - the orderly shouted.

The duty officer jumped out of the storeroom, clanking with his heavy tarpaulin boots, straightening the badge on his chest. The commander returned to the company from headquarters. The captain’s face showed either thoughtfulness or confusion. After listening to the report, he opened the office doors and ordered not to be disturbed.

– What if the battalion commander comes? – the duty officer clarified in surprise.

- Then call me! - said the company commander and slammed the door behind him.

- Some bullshit, maybe something happened? – Titov asked.

“How should I know,” the duty officer answered sluggishly and retired to the storeroom.

Titov was not satisfied with this answer. He took a glass from the boiled water tank and leaned it against the office door. The orderly, standing on the “bedside table,” looked at Sergei dumbfounded and even frightened. But the grandfather did not pay any attention to the fighter, listening to what was happening behind the door. Judging by the commander's tone, he was talking to his wife, answering softly, carefully, choosing every word.

- What kind of war, Valya? I'm telling you - along the border. That's it, bye, we'll talk at home. “I have to go,” the captain tried to end the conversation.

Titov jumped away from the door when the telephone receiver hit the base, stood next to the orderly and scooped water into a glass.

“Form the soldiers,” the commander ordered the orderly, “call all the officers into the company.” After lunch, formation on the parade ground.

- Company, form up! Uniform number four! - the orderly shouted, watching the soldiers take off their sandals and pull on their tarpaulin boots.

The sergeants lined up their squads, counted their personnel and reported to the company commander. He looked at his watch and sent the soldiers to the dining room. After the lunch break, the regiment's units were taken to the parade ground. The fine and nasty rain did not stop drizzling, falling behind the collar and flowing down in a stream along the spine. Titov looked at his fighters with displeasure. The uniforms of the newly arrived soldiers had noticeably faded and turned white after washing. The sergeant warned that they should wash with their hands and not with brushes, but the young people did not listen to him. And now the camouflage on the fighters looked as if it had been worn for a year or two. Even when wet, it was much lighter than on the soldiers of other squads. This infuriated the sergeant. It’s not the fact that the soldiers overdid it while washing, but the fact that the old-timer’s good advice fell on deaf ears.

“Due to the difficult situation in Stavropol and Dagestan, our valiant guards regiment will go to guard the border with Chechnya,” the regiment’s political commander said in a loud and clear voice.

The words sounded loudly, like a guardsman, which made many in the ranks imagine the instability of the reliability of political information. Crossing his arms behind his back and looking around the battalions, he continued:

– Officers and soldiers who do not want to serve outside the unit, take a step out of the ranks.

After a short pause, several soldiers and a young lieutenant stepped forward. They came out as if they were guilty: with their heads down and squinting from the raindrops on their eyelashes. The political officer shook his head with displeasure and copied their names into his tablet. Titov was happy about the circumstances. He was tired of barracks, regulations and guards. The heart demanded romance and freedom of action. The ranks at this moment were animatedly whispering to each other, ignoring the comments of the officers.

“Stopudovo war,” they buzzed in every formation, “the Chechens seem to have attacked Dagestan.”

– Don’t be afraid, boys, we will guard the border.

- Where are we going to the border in such a crowd? Have our border troops been disbanded?

“Talkers,” the sergeants hissed angrily, turning to the soldiers. - Do you want to wear an outfit? Stand and listen silently. Maybe we won’t go anywhere; according to rumors, only the first battalion is being sent.

“Our division includes,” the same booming voice rang out, “a separate reconnaissance battalion, a tank regiment, an airborne brigade and an artillery division.” Can you imagine what power this is, fighters? The Motherland hopes that in your mighty ranks there will no longer be the sick, lame and oblique. Especially on the day of dispatch. The medical battalion and repairmen are leaving with us. Everyone who remains in the city will continue to serve, but not as responsible and risky as you and I! Think about it, warriors, what awaits you here? Endless outfits? Aren't you tired of peeling potatoes and scrubbing floors? And the Caucasus is ahead! Make your choices wisely.

Alexander Dakhnenko. Pain threshold. (Poems.)

... A mirror light will flash into your eyes,

And in horror, closing my eyes,

I'll retreat into that area of ​​the night

From where there is no return...

Alexander Blok

“From the quicksand of the everyday roar of continuous ...”

From the quicksand of the everyday continuous hum,
From the swamp of daytime bustle, where you can’t remember a face.
The melancholy of the doom of the miracle of the night appears,
The inevitability of tragic destinies even after the end.

What was like joy crumbled into dust and decay,
What previously fed is now like spiritual rust...
You no longer keep track of losses, “victories”, exchanges -
Loneliness consumes everything, even the soul.

Getting out of dead spaces through pain, through torment,
You find peace on the edge of unearthly silence,
Where infernal and banal sounds do not dare sound...
Where are you alive - a nameless exile of a lost country.

“Well, what if you come after all…”

Well, what if you come after all?
In the most impossible light dream...
It's like you're delusional with me
Together, in lonely silence.
Lightening the burden of this life
Not for long, only until dawn,
You will step as if from a portrait,
At night you will come to the heights of the roofs.
Here now I need so little...
(Memory clearly hears the word “no”...)
I'm glad that I dream of you, touchy one,
Through the fog and haze of distant years.

“I remember how to do good…”

I remember how to do good
Within the framework of the demonic system.
I'm about to forget how to speak too
On unpleasant topics.
And nothing that is good across
This will hurt your throat...
It's just an object lesson
Just like the soul will not exist.
You will walk, smile, play,
Years and years without counting.
You have to die for the sake of things,
Having done the damn job.

“This is obedience. This time..."

"I'm an extra jack from a random deck..."

I'm an extra jack from a random deck
Your game is so strange to me.
And again a breath of doomed freedom -
Night moments without sleep.
And in this simple ugly scenario
I'm an extra, but sad player.
Tell me, did you lose out?
Why your annoying reproach?
From the bottom of my heart (banality, but still),
I always talked to you...
Loved hopelessly, to the point of breakdowns, to the point of trembling,
For some reason I opened all this...
You didn't seem to need it.
Sorry, I couldn’t do it any other way...
And I’m indifferent to masks and poses
He reacted and was too strict.
Well, we went to our rooms,
Marked by different fates.
Now I have learned: my feeling is a toy,
And so you understood.

“We sometimes lack sensitivity...”

Sometimes we lack sensitivity
And honesty, and spiritual subtlety...
But you made sincerity a game.
A fake: useless, angry and nervous.
Although it drags into oblivion without a trace,
Even though you forgot me a long time ago
I will hear your voice, as always...
And I will remember what was not and was...

Page 1 of 25

WORLD OF THE GALACTIC CONSUL

Evgeniy FILENKO

I GIVE YOU THIS WORLD

Fantastic stories

Pain threshold

In the mirror

Every evening I return to my room without undressing, stand in front of the mirror and quietly hate myself

By the way, it's not always quiet. It happens that a bag flies in one direction, shoes in another. I had to replace the regular lamp with a ball made of unbreakable plastic. This had almost no effect on the interior design of the room, if such was intended. The mirror also took a beating, but it was unbreakable from the very beginning. After I was injured by the fireplace tongs that bounced off it (why the hell are there fireplace tongs in the house if there is no real fireplace?!), and someone else, it seems - Anselm, explained to me that breaking a mirror is a bad omen, I left him at peace. It's not the mirror's fault that I'm a freak. It simply tells me this immutable fact with inhuman indifference.

I hate the mirror too, but it seems this rubbish is stronger than me.

Dr. Yorstin, my psychoanalyst, never tires of repeating: “You need to accept yourself as you are, love yourself... love yourself, and the whole world will love you... give him at least a small chance...”

But how can you love what is reflected in the mirror?!

Anselm, with his characteristic insight, remarks:

If you really don’t like your appearance, you can simply get rid of the mirror. “To hell with him,” he continues, lounging on the sofa in all his breadth and length, watching with cool curiosity my silent duel with his own reflection. - In the end, you are smart, I know a hundred people who sorely lack this quality of yours. Of these hundred, a good half would willingly exchange their advantages with you.

So you also understand that external attractiveness is their advantage,” I state grumpily.

Don't be mean, Tonta, and no one will notice the difference between them and you.

Them and me... me and them. There will always be a gap between us.

Stop it,” Anselm grumbles. - You can always change your appearance. Dye your hair, shorten your nose, build up what you think is missing for complete harmony. “Do you even have an idea,” he asks, inspired, “what it is like, complete harmony?”

I I hang out for a couple of minutes in thought. And while stereotyped beauties with ideal female forms flash one after another before my inner gaze (every second one with indescribable gloating shows me a protruding middle finger), Anselm announces with great sarcasm:

But then it will no longer be you, but some kind of positively unfamiliar girl, neither to me nor to you, to anyone at all, who has never existed in nature before. As if she had just been born into the world, and immediately became an adult. Which in itself is quite funny and gives rise to various thoughts, but won’t this lead to you losing the personality to which we all, not excluding yourself, are accustomed? What if your new shell, with the most exciting articles and the most advantageous appearance, does not begin to dictate its rules to the consciousness imprisoned inside this beautiful and well-appointed prison, reshapes it to suit itself and gets rid of the unnecessary? And what exactly she will consider unnecessary, we all, including you, can only guess.

Let’s experiment,” I mutter grumpily, but no one listens to me.

No, I personally,” Anselm rants, dangling his powerful hairy leg in a worn-out slipper in the air and looking at me cheerfully and shamelessly, “I’m quite happy with your company in your current appearance, I’m not ready to lose the habit and I don’t advise you.” Just don't be mean and it will make life easier for everyone.

To everyone? Even me?

You will not believe!

I I look at him - six and a half feet of first-class tanned meat, in accessible areas covered with light mulberry hair and neon tattoos, molded muscles, a chiseled profile, a powerful jaw in the evening stubble... what other vulgar pseudo-literary characteristic of a universal male can be applied here?., and here’s the meanness: everything listed will be on the line, everything is available, you can come up and touch it to make sure it’s real. I stare at him, and I want to kill him, even with irony. I hate his perfection in devastating contrast with my wretchedness. Next to him I look even nastier and more insignificant than alone in front of the damned mirror. As if it wasn’t enough for the heavens that they gave birth to me as a skinny, faded fear-human, and in order to punish me more painfully, they sent this six-and-a-half-foot attack on my head - smug, impeccable in everything, not excluding intelligence, which from their parties are particularly offensive. Arguments like “nondescript, but smart” don’t work next to him. Well, yes, he is no more stupid than me, and he is even more knowledgeable in modern branches of advanced mathematics.

But, unlike me, he is also good-looking.

We're not even a comic couple from an operetta. We are beauty and the beast.

My secret thoughts must be reflected on my face, adding to its ugliness, because Anselm rises on his elbow and annoyedly drops:

Do me a favor, Tonta, stop. - Then he makes an eloquent pause and asks a question that completely starts to shake me: - So, are we going to make love or?..

Or, - I say, without opening my lips, filling my answer with all the poison that I could find in my poisonous glands.

Without the slightest hesitation, he clarifies:

What about sex?

I don't deign to answer him.

Then maybe we just... - and he calls a spade a spade.

Go away! - I spew with hellfire.

Anselm unquestioningly picks up his limbs and disentangles himself from the embrace of the sofa.

Just kidding,” I say coolly. - You know, my cynicism is in no way inferior to yours.

“Yes, whatever,” he snorts, not in the least offended, and prostrates himself again. It makes my fits bounce off like a tennis ball off a wall. If he weren't so good, we could be called an ideal couple. - As soon as the intimate sphere disappears, we can frolic in the co-spatial problem number seven thousand one hundred five, your beloved. It seems like you've moved on quite a bit, haven't you? Or just chat... although, as I see, you’re not in the mood to chat today either.

Insightful, I told you so... Why am I mad at him? As soon as this first sensible thought of the evening occurs to me, he quickly sits down on the sofa and addresses me the same question:

Antonia Stokke-Lindfors, why on earth are you so mad at me?

Even all my anger went away. I I stand in front of him, batting my eyes like the stupidest doll (large gray glassy eyes and short, as if singed, whitish eyelashes, in a word - it couldn’t be more uglier).