Current page: 6 (book has 15 pages in total)

Darkness fell. On New Year's Day, when they remembered it, tankers came crawling to us and brought alcohol. Spilled. They say... Chechens contacted them through communication. On their tank wave they said: “Well, Ivan, celebrate the New Year for ten minutes. And then again...” From ten minutes to twelve on December 31, 1994, until five minutes on January 1, 1995, there was a respite. They knocked back a little alcohol. After this, a massive mortar attack began. You can hide from other types of weapons. From falling mines - no. All that remained was to trust in fate.

The shelling lasted two hours. Completely demoralized, we still held our positions. The Chechens could not get through to us, even showering us with mines. We brought all the equipment to direct fire. And she shot in directions, without targets. Two hours of such confrontation! The mortars stopped firing. There were shootouts. Apparently, there was a regrouping of Chechen forces and assets. Our and Chechen snipers began to work. So until the morning.

III.

We left Grozny again in a column. They walked like a snake. I don’t know where or what the command was. Nobody set any tasks. We just circled around Grozny. They struck - here, there. And we were fired upon. The column acted as if in separate flashes. The column could have fired at some passenger car driving three hundred meters away from us. By the way, no one could get into this car - people were so overworked.

And so the column began to fold and leave. The infantry came out lumpy, chaotically. On this day, we paratroopers did not receive any mission. But I understood that no one but us would cover the motorized riflemen. Everyone else was simply unable to. Some of my people were loading, others were firing in the directions that were covering the retreat. We were the last to leave.

When we left the city and crossed that damned bridge again, the column stopped. My machine gun jammed due to the dirt that had accumulated in the magazines with cartridges. And then a voice: “Take mine.” I lowered my eyes into the open hatch of the armored vehicle - there lay a seriously wounded warrant officer, my friend. He handed me the machine gun as best he could. I took it and lowered mine inside the hatch. Another shelling of our units began from several directions. We sat pressed against the armor, shooting back as best we could... The bleeding ensign filled empty magazines with cartridges and handed them to me. I gave orders and shot. The ensign remained in service. He turned white from great loss of blood, but he still equipped stores and whispered all the time: “We will come out, we will come out anyway”...

At that moment I really didn’t want to die. It seemed that a few hundred meters more, and we would escape from this fiery cauldron, but the column stood like a long, large target, which was shredded into pieces by bullets and shells from Chechen guns.

We left on January 1st. There was some kind of chaotic gathering of desperate people. For everyone to gather at the gathering place, this did not happen. We walked and wandered. Then they set the task anyway. They began to collect the wounded. A field hospital was quickly set up.

Before my eyes, some kind of armored personnel carrier broke out of the encirclement. He just broke free and rushed towards our column. Unmarked. Without anything. He was shot at point-blank range by our tank crews. About a hundred, one hundred and fifty meters away. Ours shot our own. Apart. Three tanks destroyed the armored personnel carrier.

There were so many corpses and wounded that the doctors at the deployed field hospital had neither the strength nor the time to take organ-preserving actions!

My soldiers - paratroopers, some had a shrapnel in their thigh, some in their ass, some in their hand, did not want to go to the hospital. You bring them, you leave them. Five minutes later they are back in the unit, back in formation. “I,” he says, “will not go back. That's the only way they cut it! They're tearing everything out! Blood, pus everywhere. Where without pain relief, where like..."

The calculations have begun. A lot of people remained there, in Grozny, many were abandoned on the battlefield. I took out all of my people, and also some of the infantrymen I had time for. Rest? A lot of people were abandoned. The eastern column suffered and this...

I did not give up my wounded. The choice was: either wait until the evening for the turntable - it was supposed to come. Or the column left with the dead and some of the wounded in trucks. Knowing full well that we still had militants in the rear, I did not give up the wounded, but began to wait for the helicopter. Although they were difficult...

And so it happened. The first column with the wounded near Argun was completely destroyed. Shot by militants. In the evening, helicopters arrived and loaded the wounded, dead, and accompanying people. And they left... My slightly wounded refused to be evacuated and remained in the unit. Our combined group of officers and soldiers was practically incapable of combat: two were killed, three were seriously wounded, the rest were shell-shocked and slightly wounded.

The group dug in as best it could, representing a small group of people. As they later said, in Grozny the Eastern Column lost about sixty percent of its personnel only in killed.

The shelling was no longer intense, but continued for a long time. We walked a few more kilometers. On January 3, 1995, via special communication, I was given an order to return the group to Tolstoy Yurt as a replacement. Other units of our unit were waiting for us there.

IV.

When we went to Mozdok, the unwounded officers were assigned to accompany ten recently killed officers and soldiers of one of the companies of our unit. We flew to Rostov-on-Don. There, in the future Center for the Dead, the first tent was erected.

We're flying. The corpses are wrapped in foil and lying on stretchers. Then we had to find our own. Identify. Some of those killed had been lying in tents for several days. The soldiers assigned to process the bodies were drinking vodka. Otherwise you'll go crazy. The officers sometimes could not stand it. Healthy-looking men fainted. They asked: “Go! Identify mine."

This was not my first war. I went into the tent and identified it. I accompanied the ensign of our unit. A worthy person. All that was left of him was his head and body. Arms and legs were torn off. I had to stay close to him so that no one would confuse anything... I identified him, but the soldiers refused to dress my ensign. According to our landing custom, the deceased must be dressed in a vest... Well, everything that is required: shorts, camouflage... The beret must be on top of the coffin. The soldiers refused to dress the torn body. I had to take a stick and force people. I dressed them together... What was left... They dressed them anyway. They put him in a coffin. I didn’t leave him for a long time, so as not to be confused. After all, I was bringing my family – a son, a warrior.

And that signal soldier who was crushed by the barrel of a tank - he was nominated for the medal “For Courage” - was never awarded. Because the group’s headquarters wrote to him that the injury was not received as a result of combat operations. Such bureaucratic, nasty squiggles. This is the other side of war. As is the problem of property written off for the war. This includes millions of money that did not reach Chechnya, but was diverted or stuck in Moscow. The downside of war is on the conscience of those who sit in jackets and ties, and not those who fight.

It’s a shame that you were taught for years at a military school, then you fanatically taught the “science of winning” to the personnel of your company, believed in the invincibility of our combat tactics, in the methods of survival instilled in us in special classes, served, was proud of your family troops - and all in vain. In this war, we were simply turned into meat. As the song says: “...There is no need to make meat out of us, and then look for those to blame. It is important for us that the order sounds clearly and that the soldiers do not doubt...”

All of us - from privates to generals - carried out the orders given to us. The eastern group solved the problem by violating all the rules (written in blood) of fighting in the city. She portrayed a powerful and awkward blow from the federal forces, quickly entered Grozny, held on as best she could and, torn to pieces and defeated, also quickly left the city. And somewhere very close at the same time, another group was dying, smaller in number - the “Maikop Brigade”, which entered the city from a different direction.

Are the senior command staff graduates of academies? They knew how to fight. They knew that the city was taken from house to house, from piece to piece. Every spot is conquered. This is how they took Berlin. In Grozny, most likely, there was a strict order from above - focused only on a temporary period. They say this should be taken tomorrow, another the day after tomorrow. Don't move away, hold on. Take. The rigid setting of tasks from above placed commanding people within limits prohibited for war. What is the time factor? This settlement must be captured by five o'clock! And according to the entire logic of military operations, this order is impossible to execute. In the allotted time, it was only possible to prepare, concentrate funds, conduct reconnaissance, understand the task, assess the situation, set a task, give combat orders, establish coherence among units, radio communications, radio exchange, understand the dynamics of the development of the event, determine the escape route... This was done during the assault on the Terrible Time was not given. Today, no one yet recognizes this as a crime... But a man in high uniform committed a crime - against his conscience, against his morality, ruining the lives of soldiers and officers. Madness. What kind of command was this? What kind of operation management?

And if we talk about the infantry... Back in Mozdok, a soldier approached me and, seeing three lieutenant stars on his shoulder straps, asked how to connect a magazine to the machine gun? Serious conclusions can be drawn from this case. And don't say anything else at all. The soldier does not approach his commander, but seeing the paratrooper-officer, asks how to connect: one way or the other?

At the time of the outbreak of hostilities in Chechnya, the army was already degraded. The soldiers did not only lack theoretical and practical skills. The majority did not have the skills of mechanical operations, when a soldier assembles and disassembles a machine gun with his eyes closed, and knows how to perform basic exercises. For example, a prone shooting position... He shouldn’t even think - how? Everything must be done mechanically. And he has... chaotic, thoughtless actions, which I saw and experienced during the New Year's assault on Grozny. Terrible, some kind of half-crazy movements of motorized riflemen, and in their hands are weapons spewing lead, which are used to kill their own soldiers...

Regarding our paratroopers, today we are gathering for Airborne Forces Day, August 2. The soldiers come up and thank me. "For what?" - I ask. “Thank you for the fact that at two o’clock in the morning we crawled on the asphalt, for the fact that during the exercises we did not walk along the roads like others, but crawled through streams, fell into the mud, and ran for several tens of kilometers. Thank you for this. Then, before the war, we hated you. They hated him fiercely. They clenched their fists in formation. You were ready... You would be happy if something bad happened to you. And when they left Grozny and almost everyone remained alive, they said “thank you.”

I remembered their bloody faces, matured over several days of fighting. Yes, gray-haired, angry, shell-shocked, wounded, but alive then, in 1995, reconnaissance paratroopers told me: “Thank you.” And I was happy that they were alive.

They're calling now..."

The severity of the memories did not lower the paratrooper officer to the bottom of life. Having gone through the first Chechen campaign and drawing personal conclusions from it, he again fights with spirits and destroys mercenaries in the mountains. He does what he is good at. Ichkerian militants promise huge money for his head, but his mother’s prayers protect this Russian warrior, who still believes in justice and... in combat training, without which the army is not an army, but a collection of people doomed to death.

One of many thousands of officers, thanks to whom Russia did not perish, he is inconspicuous in the crowd, in the Moscow subway. And this is its advantage. Without demanding anything from the Fatherland, professing the thought: “Who signed up for what,” this officer stands for responsibility, for the ability of the state to ask those who are authorized to make strategic decisions. He will not ask for love from the state, nor from friends, nor from his betrothed. But he will demand it for those who died for Russia.

2000

“Are these stars or wolf eyes?...”

A few more stone, chipped steps, an iron door - and I was... at war. And to be precise, on the Grozny roof of a building turned into a fortress, where the GUOSH is located - the Main Directorate of the Joint Headquarters of the Ministry of Internal Affairs of Russia. There, on the floors left below, their own intense military life is in full swing: bright lights are on in the offices, officers stand at maps, work with documents, report on their day's work. But I need to go to the roof, to post No. 37, to be with the Tyumen riot police. They, of course, would be much more interested if their own Tyumen writer shared the night duty with them. I have never been to their area. But, as a historian in the past, I know what the Cossack fortress of Tyumen was like when the Cossacks got along peacefully with Mametkul, the nephew of Ermak’s implacable enemy, Kuchum. So much so that in the battles of Ivan the Terrible in Livonia, Mametkul led the left wing of the Russian cavalry into battle. Subsequently, Shamil, an intelligent leader, appreciated Russian military diplomacy.

Stepping onto the guarded roof of the GUOSH, I, as if in a time machine, moved far back, to the 16th–19th centuries, when the ill-wishers of Russia paganly, like God, worshiped freedom, while in fact remaining vassals of large states hostile to us, using small nations for personal strategic goals. Doesn't this happen in Chechnya at the end of the 20th century?

These were the thoughts that swarmed in my head when I and my escort, a Tyumen riot policeman, walked along the roof to post No. 37, where I was greeted with Siberian calm and in such an open place, as if we were not at a facility that was shelled every night. Exchanging the traditional words at the first meeting, I was mentally perplexed about the small number of people in the post, which was nicknamed “the eyes and ears of GUOSH.” But when the first Chechen flare soared into the sky with a serpentine hiss, and we ducked down, it was discovered in the light-filled space that we were far from alone. I was introduced to the senior group, and the rest of the fighters at that time “kept” duty, controlling the firing sectors - by observation and eavesdropping. Despite the apparent vigilance of the fire weapons on duty, the senior posts, Alexander and Sergei, also picked up night vision devices at regular intervals.

At night in Grozny, as throughout Chechnya, all the points of compact presence of the Russian military, from checkpoints to GUOSH, are one to one - those famous in history, the fortresses of the Siberian explorers and warriors of Ermolov, Prince Baryatinsky. When only the sun went behind the Irtysh, and in the North Caucasus - beyond the Terek, the Cossacks, archers, dragoons, huntsmen - bolted the fortress gates and to the loopholes - fired back from the vengeful horsemen of Kuchum, Shamil, Baysangur Benoevsky.

In Dudayev's Chechnya, propaganda work among the common people, as during the Caucasian wars of the 19th century, is built on hatred of Russia and Russians. “There are no more insidious and vile people,” Chechen bards sing, recalling the campaigns of Yermolov’s battalions in the mountains, projecting that past hatred onto today. In the modern ideological war, Dudayev’s propaganda exploits only revenge for the human losses of Chechnya from the Caucasian wars and Stalin’s eviction.

Chechen propagandists, exalting “revenge” for the past, do not spare their people. Dudayev, needing reserves, pointed his finger from the TV screen, saying: “How long will you, Chechen, hide behind a woman’s skirt? Take a machine gun and take revenge for the hardships that Chechnya has endured over the past centuries.”

The whole family usually watches TV in the evenings. And its head, a peasant, ashamed of his president, abandoned his house, field and went to die for the financial interests of the leaders of Ichkeria.

For a Chechen, the 19th century was yesterday. The historical memory of a Chechen is a dangerous path to an inaccessible mountain peak. And Dudaev walks along it like a pagan leader, sacrificing his people. The Chechen proverb is true: “The gun killed one, but the tongue killed a thousand.”

Well-tailored - he served in the Airborne Forces - in every gesture, the thorough Siberian “sagittarius” Alexander, watching the nearby residential buildings, said to me: “What kind of occupiers are we? Do the occupiers allow themselves to be killed with impunity? We are only allowed to open fire on visible targets."

Yes, not a single army in the world will place its belligerent headquarters in an area closely surrounded by residential buildings. People will either be evicted or not allowed to return to their apartments during the fighting.

Chechen militants here, in the Staropromyslovsky district, fire most often from inhabited five-story buildings.

- Well, where are they, the visible targets? – I asked Sergei and Alexander.

As if in response to my question, Chechen grenade launchers fired almost double, invisible, at the Russian checkpoint there, in the black haze, behind the dilapidated houses. Next came machine-gun fire.

“The soldiers of the internal troops responded,” said Sergei.

Above our head there was a sky with few stars, illuminated by rare lightning from flares. The skeletons of broken houses rose intermixed with each other, and then the Khrushchev five-story buildings with illuminated windows populated by people popped into view. We sat on a flat roof filled with weapons. My back was chilled by the AGS, looking with its barrel at where the Dudayevites had just shown themselves. Our faces were blue-black, as if camouflaged by the main color of the night. From the four corners of the world, now giving flame, now sparking and falling off, rare fires flickered for a long time.

“We’re like in a giant frying pan,” I said, hinting at the flatness of the roof, at the cast-iron darkness around, poking my finger at the north, south, west, east, illuminated by small, tongue-tinged flames.

They silently agreed with me, clarifying that the Dudayevites would not allow the fire under this frying pan to go out even for a minute.

In the distance there are machine gun bursts again, and the bullets on their expiration date, with a kind of even polite whistle, strike to the left of us.

“The success of a night battle,” I remembered, “depends on how thoroughly it is prepared during the period of organizing defense during daylight hours.” I knew that the GUOSH was carefully prepared for a perimeter defense, that all approaches to the building were covered by flank and crossfire. And that even if the enemy miraculously breaks through to the walls of the building, he will first run into minefields and other surprises, and then he will still be finished off with weapons fire. It was precisely the knowledge that this would happen that I explained to myself the absolute calm of the Tyumen residents Alexander and Sergei, with whom the time was approaching to say goodbye...

Taking turns, the guys left saying that it was surprisingly quiet today. They joked: “Maybe they were scared of you, a journalist. They didn’t want to get into the newspapers.”

Oleg, Nail, Gena, Andrey came - the same balanced, experienced in every gesture, well-rounded, hereditary “streltsy”.

- Spartak is a champion! - in the direction where the AGEES barrel is facing, someone is firing a Kalashnikov with a machine gun.

- This is Klepa! Chechen! – the guys laugh admiringly at this skill. – We have known this Spartak fan for a long time.

Automatic, machine gun, and grenade launcher duels take place away from the GUOSH. Why? Maybe the Sobrovites cleared the area, and those who fired at the Main Directorate of Military Safety with great intensity were killed? The secret and overt war around the Main Directorate of the Joint Headquarters of the Russian Ministry of Internal Affairs does not subside even for a day. They will knock them out and capture some - other militants do not ignore this building on Ladozhskaya, 14.

You’ll never hear your bullet,” Gennady tells me. He served in the 405th mountain-alpine battalion. I look at him with undisguised respect. Gena’s father is a military man, his wife and mother-in-law are police officers. The guy remembers them with love.

“Today is Gena’s birthday,” Andrey says unexpectedly. – He is twenty-five years old.

Congratulating Gennady, I painfully remember where I celebrated my twenty-fourth birthday. And I can't remember. Meanwhile, the Chechens saluted in our direction with three - one after another - flares. We lie down on our faces on the tarpaulin.

The Raven night vision device reveals myriads of stars. Their distant beauty leaves one indifferent. Here, on the roof of GUOSH, their cold, mirror light is of no use to us. “Are these stars or wolf eyes?” - I remember a poetic line. “Why,” I think, “do the Tyumen riot policemen sitting next to and opposite them not talk about the dangers of their combat duty, about Dudayev’s snipers? Why do the guys move on the roof without bending down too much? Do they sometimes walk through dangerous areas at full height and demonstratively? Do they emphasize who is boss in the house? But war, I know, is a ballet of accidents. There is no guarantee that right now you are not being targeted with a night sight. "What is it?" - I ask. And in response: “If you run around here like a cowardly mouse, your own “roof” will quickly go away.”

– This is not our first time in Chechnya. Here, on the roof of GUOSH, we seem to be on vacation,” say the guys, former paratroopers and border guards.

“Wow, a vacation,” I think. “Under heavy fire from under-barrel grenade launchers.” I have seen unexploded grenades from Chechen grenade launchers more than once in the yard of the GUOSH. Every other night, or even every night, there are sniper duels near the GUOSH, in which the riot police are sometimes like live bait - this is when the security forces work on the snipers.

– In January, near Khasavyurt, we fought to take more than one height. In August they helped to knock out the “spirits” from Argun.

– During one of the “cleansing operations” they found a young Chechen woman wounded in the stomach. Due to poverty, she was not taken to the Chechen hospital. Our squad doctor provided first aid to her.

– And there was another case. We went to the apiary. We looked around. Bees fly out of all the hives, but not from one. They opened it. There are two machine guns, two F-1 grenades and an RPG charge. The owner of the apiary fell to his knees: “Don’t take the weapon. It's alien. The militants will come and kill you for what you failed to preserve!”

– There are many such cases, militants hide guns from harmless people.

“It’s already deep night, and the windows of many houses are on fire. Why? - I ask.

- This is a precautionary and peaceful measure.

“Today is a good, calm night,” Gennady tells me.

“It’s just that the “spirits” decided not to spoil your birthday,” I try to joke in response. It suddenly seems to me that the Tyumen riot police seem to feel somehow awkward. A journalist came to a dangerous site, but no shots were fired in their direction. And I say that I am incredibly glad that they are not firing at us.

The coolness and dampness of the Chechen snakes have long been unpleasantly cold on the body. Is the city sleeping or not sleeping? Unclear. All around is viscous, dank darkness. Local residents at the nearby market said how afraid they were of nightfall. Because behind the doors of their apartments someone begins to walk barely audibly, attics open and close, broken glass creaks underfoot. “Who’s walking? We don't know. Maybe murdered souls, or maybe militants.”

Everything here in Grozny is crafty and deceptive. Many things need to be perceived exactly the opposite.

I, a columnist for the newspaper “Shield and Sword” of the Ministry of Internal Affairs of the Russian Federation, was leaving home, in the “booth” of the press center, when the long-lived Grozny roosters crowed their pre-dawn songs. Surprisingly, there was a whole vocal group that survived the bombings and street battles. I left, having served the six hours allotted to the riot police on the roof, with the confidence that the rest of the night would pass bloodlessly for them. After all, with the first mystical cry of the rooster, evil spirits disappear from the city streets.

Before the iron door closed behind me, letting me into the warmth, Gennady, who celebrated his 24th birthday on the roof of the GUOSH, said with slight sadness:

– And our Tyumen roosters crow much more cheerfully...

September 1995

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, actually.

We were gathered, I remember, they gave us 10 days to prepare. What can you prepare during this time? Funny. And here 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 soldiers. 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 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 massacres - 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.

This article was automatically added from the community

Valera is an officer of the Moscow region special forces. Due to his duty, he has to be in many alterations. A champion of many judo competitions, a hand-to-hand combat instructor, he is not very tall, but he is built firmly and has a very impressive appearance, he is concentrated all the time, he is of the silent breed.

Through a scout friend he came to the Orthodox faith, fell in love with pilgrimages to holy places - to the Pereyaslav Nikitsky Monastery, Optina Pustyn, and his favorite place was the Holy Trinity Lavra of St. Sergius, where he often confessed and received communion, and consulted with Elder Cyril.

And here is the third business trip to Chechnya. Before this, not a single scratch, although the combat operations were very, very “cool”. God took care of the Russian soldier. Now, before leaving the Kazan station, Valera spent two days in the Lavra, confessed, took communion, plunged into the holy spring, and spent the night in the Lavra bell tower. Encouraged by the blessings of the Lavra elders, Valery, together with Borisych, a fellow soldier who led him to faith, set off by train from Sergiev Posad to Moscow. On the way, Borisych gave him a leather embossed icon of the Holy Blessed Grand Duke Alexander Nevsky, with a piece of fabric sewn onto the back of it.

What kind of matter is this? - Valera asks her friend.

Here it must be said that several years earlier, the rector of the Novosibirsk Cathedral, Archpriest Alexander Novopashin, brought from St. Petersburg the blessing of Bishop John, Metropolitan of St. Petersburg and Ladoga - the greatest shrine of the Russian land - a particle of the relics of the winner of the Battle of the Neva and the Battle of the Ice. Having accepted the shrine, the priest constantly and reverently served prayers on the road. The valuable relics were wrapped in a special board. Then, when the relics were delivered to the cathedral, this board was divided among the parishioners. It was a particle of this cover that was sewn onto the leather icon of the Svyatorussian Grand Duke-Warrior Alexander. His dear friend told Valera about this, admonishing his comrade-in-arms with his most expensive shrine that he had owned so far.

On one of the days of the three-month Caucasian mission of the military unit in which Valery served, an order was received from the command: to storm a base fortified in the mountains - about four hundred militants with warehouses of weapons, equipment and provisions. The authorities planned at the beginning to carry out a powerful artillery preparation along with an attack aircraft strike. But something unexpected happened for the special forces: they received no support from either aviation or artillery.

We set out in a long column on armored personnel carriers in the late afternoon in order to arrive at the site early in the morning. The Chechens became aware of this operation, and in a mountain gorge they themselves set up an insidious ambush for Russian soldiers. The column moved like a snake in a narrow gorge. On the left is the cliff of a deep gorge, where a mountain stream roared far below. To the right, sheer cliffs rose up.

The guys dozed on the armor; there was still enough time to reach their destination. Suddenly, the thunder of a shot sounded in front of the column, and the column stopped. The front armored vehicle in which the commander was riding began to smoke thickly, and tongues of flame burst through the clouds of black smoke. Almost simultaneously, a shot from a Chechen grenade launcher hit the tail of the column. The last armored vehicle also began to smoke. The column was pinched on both sides. There is no better place for an ambush. Ours are clear: neither forward, nor backward. The Chechens are hiding behind rocks and firing intensely from there. Valera jumped off the armored vehicle by the wheels, mechanically glancing at his watch. And then the cacophony began. Russians literally began to be shot at point-blank range. There was practically no way to answer. Valera thought that this was probably his last hour, or rather minutes. Never before in my life had death been so close.

And then he remembered the blessed icon of Grand Duke Alexander Nevsky. Frantically taking it from his chest, he only had time to think the words of the prayer: “The prince is a Russian warrior, help!” And he began to be baptized. He was lost in prayer for a moment, then he looked back and saw that the special forces soldiers lying nearby, looking at him, were also crossing themselves. And after the prayer, they began to unanimously respond to Chechen shots from machine guns and under-barrel grenade launchers, while heavy-caliber armored machine guns started working overhead. And then a miracle happened. From where the columns were coming from behind, on the side of the Chechens, the fire began to subside. Having approached, grabbed the dead and wounded, they pulled back. And they were doomed! Minimal losses: three killed, including the commander, two drivers, and five wounded. Valery looked at his watch again; the battle lasted 20 minutes, but it seemed like an eternity.

After the battle, when they returned to base, the guys said as one: “The Lord preserved.” After 2 days, the previously planned artillery preparation was carried out. They entered the militant camp without firing a single shot from a machine gun or grenade launcher. Piles of tricked-out bodies mixed with household garbage and not a single living bandit. Here is such a case of concrete help from heavenly patrons to the Russian army.

And in connection with this story, I remembered something else. There is a motorized rifle unit in Central Russia, where the priest led the spiritual life of missionary work. The guys - both officers and soldiers - began to pray, confess, take communion, and became accustomed to morning and evening prayers and reading akathists. The regiment's unit is transferred to Chechnya. In one of the heavy battles, three field commanders were captured. They kept him locked up. When officers and soldiers stood up for prayer, dirty swearing came from behind bars. But gradually, seeing the spirit of our soldiers, the swearing became less. And one day the Chechens ask them to be baptized, so that they too can become soldiers of Christ. Baptized, they were released, two then returned to the unit. I don't know their future fate...

Yuri LISTOPAD

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 recognized Sasha Vorontsov by his eyes; I hadn’t seen him for 5 years and I recognized 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 was not 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. So they put him against the rocks, he is on his knees, and 15-20 meters from him, several people with machine guns who 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 got him 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.

“...I'm going on a business trip soon. I have a bad feeling in my heart. The first funeral came to the detachment. They burned our column. Our guys died. The Czechs burned them alive, shell-shocked, in an armored personnel carrier. The column commander was hit in the head. Thus began the second war for our detachment. I felt sad and had a bad feeling. I began to prepare for it, I just knew what awaited us.”

...Faces received information about some suicide bombers. We went there, to this village, and took three stoned women. One was about forty years old, she was their recruiter, the main one. All three of them were on drugs because they all smiled at us. They were interrogated at the base. The eldest didn’t want to admit anything, and then, when they put an electric shock in her panties, she began to speak. It became clear that they were planning to carry out terrorist attacks to blow up themselves and many people at our home. They have documents and found a lot of things in the house. We shot them, and sprayed the corpses with TNT so that there would be no traces at all. This was unpleasant for me; I had never touched or killed women before. But they themselves got what they asked for..."

Going on a business trip soon. I have a bad feeling in my heart. The first funeral came to the detachment. They burned our column. Our guys died. The Czechs burned them alive, shell-shocked, in an armored personnel carrier. The column commander was hit in the head. Thus began the second war for our detachment. I felt sad and had a bad feeling. I began to prepare for it, I just knew what awaited us.

Suddenly, the militants’ PK started working from the roof of the house, one of ours shouted in time for me to lie down, the bullets passed above me, their melodic flight could be heard. The boys began to hammer back, covering me, I crawled. Everything was done instinctively, I wanted to survive and that’s why I crawled. When he reached them, they began to shoot at the machine gunner with grenade launchers. The slate scattered and he fell silent; I don’t know what happened to him. We retreated to our original positions.

For me it was the first fight, it was scary, only idiots are not scared. Fear is an instinct of self-preservation, it helps to survive. The boys who get into trouble with you also help you survive. They slept right in the snow, placing boards under them, huddled together. There was frost and wind. A person gets used to everything, survives everywhere, depending on his preparation and internal capabilities. They made a fire and lay down near it. At night they fired grenade launchers into the village and slept in shifts.

In the morning we went along the same route again, and I remembered yesterday’s battle. I saw those locals who showed the militants the way. They silently looked at us, we at them. Everyone had hatred and anger in their eyes. We passed this street without any incidents. We entered the center of the village and began to move towards the hospital, where the militants were holed up.

On the way, they cleaned out the boiler room. Severed fingers and other body parts were lying everywhere, and there was blood everywhere. When approaching the hospital, the locals said that they had a captured soldier; the militants broke his legs and arms so that he would not go anywhere. When the group approached the hospital, it was already occupied by our troops. We were given the task of guarding a basement with wounded militants; there were about 30 people there.

When I went down there, there were many wounded Chechen fighters there. There were Russians among them, I don’t know why they fought against us. They looked at me with such hatred and anger that my hand itself squeezed the machine gun. I left there and placed our sniper near the entrance. And they began to wait for further orders. When I was standing near the basement, two women approached me and asked me to give one wounded man to their home. I was a little confused by this request. I don't know why I agreed to this. I will probably never answer. I felt sorry for these women, I could have shot him, but they, the locals, saved our wounded soldier. Maybe in return.

After that, the Ministry of Justice came to pick up these wounded. It was a truly disgusting picture. They were afraid to go into the basement first and told me to go in first. Realizing that the riot police were in no danger, they began to drag them out, strip them naked and put them in a paddy wagon. Some walked on their own, some were beaten and dragged upstairs. One militant came out on his own. He had no feet, he walked on his stumps, reached the fence and lost consciousness. They beat him, stripped him naked and put him in a paddy wagon. I didn’t feel sorry for them, I was just disgusted to look at this scene.

We took this village into a ring and dug in right in the field. Snow, mud and slush, but we dug in and spent the night. At night I inspected the positions. Everyone was freezing, but they lay in their trenches. In the morning we went to the village again, clearing all the houses along the way. There the ground was boiling with bullets. Our patrol was cut off as always. The militants went on the attack. We fell like the Germans in 1941. The grenade launcher actually ran out in front of them, yelled: “Shot,” and launched a grenade launcher at them. Suddenly my friend, a sniper, came running, he was wounded in the chest and head.

Another one of ours remained there; he was shot in both legs, and he lay there shooting back. My friend fell onto my lap and whispered: “Brother, save me. I’m dying,” and fell silent. I injected him with promedol. Pushing him on the shoulder, I tell him: “Everything is fine. You’re still going to get me drunk for demobilization.” Having cut off the armor, I told the two shooters to drag it to the house where ours were. We reached a grid that, instead of a fence, divided the distance between the houses. They were overtaken by machine gun fire. One was hit in the arm, the other in the legs. And the whole line fell right on my friend, because he was in the middle. They left him near the chain-link.

Having collected all the wounded, they began to slowly crawl away from the house, because the house was already collapsing. We shot back at the corner of the house. Our people threw all the wounded over the chain link. What remains is my friend's body. They opened fire on us again. We lay down. Near the opening of the wall where we crawled, the machine gunner who was covering us was hit in the neck by a bullet, he fell, covered in blood. We later evacuated all the wounded along the road, covering ourselves with an armored personnel carrier. My friend passed away. We found out this later, but while the battle was going on. We fired back.

We drove to the starting point in the armored personnel carrier. We spent the night with the 1st group. They lost 7 people in the battle; it was even harder for them during the day. We sat down near the fire and dried ourselves in silence. I took out a bottle of Chekhov's vodka, they commemorated it in silence and silently went off to sleep in all directions. Everyone was waiting for tomorrow. Near the fire, the boys talked about those who died in the 1st group. I have never seen or heard anything like this before. Russia did not appreciate this heroism, just like the feat of all the guys who fought in Chechnya.

I was struck by the words of one idiot general. He was asked why the submariners who sank on the Kursk were paid 700 thousand rubles to their families, but the families of those killed in Chechnya have still not been paid anything. So he answered that these were unplanned victims, but in Chechnya they were planned. This means that we, who fulfilled our duty in Chechnya, are already planned victims. And there are a lot of such freak generals. It was always just the soldier who suffered. And in the army there have always been two opinions: those who gave orders, and those who carried them out, and that’s us.

After spending the night, they brought us food and our water - it relieved the tension of yesterday's battle a little. Having regrouped, we entered the village along the same routes. We were following the footsteps of yesterday's battle. Everything in the house where we were was burned out. There was a lot of blood, spent cartridges, and torn bulletproof vests all around. Going behind our house, we found the corpses of militants.

They were hidden in holes in the corn. Wounded mercenaries were found in one of the basements. They were from Moscow, St. Petersburg, and Perm. They shouted to us not to kill them, they have families, children at home. It was as if we had escaped from an orphanage into this hole. We shot them all. We left the village at night. Everything was burning and smoldering. So another village was wiped out by the war. There was a gloomy feeling in my soul from what I saw. During that battle, the militants lost 168 people.

I was so cold that I couldn’t pull my hands out of my pockets. Someone took out a flask of alcohol and offered to warm us up; we just had to dilute it. We sent two people to the ditch. One began to collect water, the other remained on cover. And at that time about 15 militants came down to meet them. The distance was 25-30 meters, it was twilight, and everything was visible. They walked boldly into the open and without patrol. They were stunned when they saw us and stood up. Our guys rushed back to us. The militants did not shoot. I started waking up the guys.

We struck first from the KPVT. The battle has begun. I sat down near the front wheel of the armored personnel carrier and began to shoot. Our machine gunner started working, hit the tank, and the militants began to retreat. They had many wounded and killed. The tank gunner was not oriented in the dark, and I ran towards him and came under fire from the tank. I was pretty shell-shocked. I couldn’t come to my senses for about 20 minutes. They pulled me away.

I crawled up to the machine gunner and exchanged fire with him. We had a heavy fire. In response, the militants hit the tank in front of it with a grenade launcher. But if they didn't hit him, let's keep shooting. The battle went on for about an hour. In the morning we were stunned; there were bloody trails in front of us. They pulled their own. The severed body parts were chopped up by KPVT and me. We ran up and began collecting trophies - machine guns, grenade launchers, unloading gear. Suddenly, shots and grenade explosions were heard. It turns out that the militants were wounded and were ambushed by us. There were two surviving militants who were seriously wounded, and they blew themselves up along with the wounded.

That night there was an attempt to break through by a small group of 3 people. They came towards our group, they were stopped by a patrolman, asking them for the password in the dark, they threw a grenade at him, it bounced off a tree and fell next to the group’s location, and from there the PC immediately started working, the machine gunner also hit this group from his PC . They were all riddled with holes. The next morning, the “screen stars” came running - riot police, through whom they passed unnoticed, and began to pose with the corpses of the militants and take photographs. Goats...

Many empty beds with candles and photographs of the guys appeared in the squad. In the detachment we remembered everyone and remembered them alive. My heart was heavy. Having lost our guys, we survived. We sat and walked together, and now they are gone. Only memories remain. There was a man, and now he is gone. This death snapped its teeth nearby and took for itself who it liked. Sometimes you get used to the idea that you yourself will someday end up there and your body will turn to dust. Sometimes you want to feel your friend next to you, to sit and hang your jaw, but he’s not there, there’s only one filming left, where their faces are alive. They were all great guys, and if we forget them, they will definitely die. Rest forever, brothers. We won't forget you, we'll see you there someday.

According to the radio from the commander of the 2nd group, one militant came out saying that Allah knows better and he sees who is fighting for the faith, and it became clear that our brother was killed. We followed their route, the detachment commander yelled for us to go faster, but they were hitting us from 2 sides - from the forest and from the neighboring street. We walked through the houses. We split into groups and went forward.

It was heard that the battle was going on somewhere ahead. We wanted to go out to the gardens, but they hit us again from the forest from the border. Suddenly shadows flashed ahead of us. One was in the window, the other darted into the basement. I mechanically threw a grenade there, and Smoked hit the windows with a burst of fire. When we went to look at the results, there were 2 corpses - a grandfather and a grandmother. Bad luck. There was another attempt to break through, but it also did not yield anything. The corpses (of the spirits) were then cut: ears, noses. The soldiers went wild with everything that was happening.

In the morning, my friend and I were called to headquarters. They said it was for escort. We went to headquarters dissatisfied, because after 2 hours the convoy was leaving, and we were sent for some kind of escort. We came there, and the major general of our division presented us with our first awards - a medal ... for a special operation back in October 1999. This was a surprise for us. Having hung it on our chests, we set off in a column. Having paid the conductor 500 rubles on top, we piled into the carriage. Having laid out all our things, we threw the medals into a glass of vodka and began to wash them. The dead guys were remembered with a third toast, and everyone fell asleep where they could. That business trip was too difficult for us.

After everything I had experienced, I began to drink heavily. I often started arguing with my wife, although she was pregnant, I still had a blast. I didn't know what would happen to me on my next business trip. With my friend who moved in with me, we had a blast. I didn't even try to stop. It broke inside me, and I began to treat everything coldly. He came home at night and tipsy.

My wife was getting more and more upset and we were arguing. She cried. I couldn't even calm her down. The days were approaching a new business trip, and I couldn’t stop, I didn’t know what would happen there. It is difficult for me to describe this period, because it was full of contradictions, emotions, quarrels and experiences. Especially the last day before a business trip. I went to the base, where we got drunk and drank until the morning.

I arrived home at about seven in the morning, there was 1.5 hours before departure. Having opened the door, I immediately received a slap in the face from my wife. She waited for me all night, even prepared the table. I silently took my things and left for the train without even saying goodbye. There were too many quarrels and worries during this period. On the train, our shift was walking, I lay on the shelf and realized everything that had happened to me. It was hard and painful inside, but the past could no longer be returned or corrected, and it was even more painful...

On the way, some slept, some drank, some wandered from car to car with nothing to do. We arrived in..., it’s winter outside. Snow and frost. Unloaded. One half of the squad flew on helicopters, the other went under its own power. It was cold to ride on armor, but it was necessary. We unloaded the BC and drove off. We spent the night in…. shelf.

We were accommodated in the gym and slept on the floor in sleeping bags. We sat down at a small table, made a cocktail - 50 g of alcohol, 200 g of beer and 50 g of brine - and warmed up, some of them went crazy and fought among themselves. It was hard to wake up in the morning, but on the parade ground we made a special forces “business card”, and a machine gunner with a PC fired a burst into the air. After all these adventures, this regiment was in shock, it seems that no one organized such concerts, they will remember us for a long time. Yes, this is how special forces should conduct things.

The faces received information about some suicide bombers. We went there to this village and took three stoned women. One was about forty years old, she was their recruiter, the main one. All three of them were on drugs because they all smiled at us. They were interrogated at the base.

The eldest didn’t want to admit anything, and then, when they put an electric shock in her panties, she began to speak. It became clear that they were planning to carry out terrorist attacks to blow up themselves and many people at our home. They have documents and found a lot of things in the house. We shot them, and sprayed the corpses with TNT so that there would be no traces at all. This was unpleasant for me; I had never touched or killed women before. But they themselves got what they asked for.

The squad has been through too much. We lost about 30 people killed and about 80 wounded. And this is too much not only for the detachment, but also for the mothers of the victims. But you can’t answer the question of why you remained alive and my son died, and no one will answer this question. It was too hard to look the mothers in the eyes. But nothing can be done or changed. We were woken up at 4 am. A reconnaissance ambush captured a messenger at a water pumping station, and there was a shootout. We needed to go there and pick up the abandoned SVD and the prisoner.

We went there again. It was raining. Having taken him, he turned out to be a young Czech, about 15 years old, we tortured him. I shot him, that is. next to his head, and [he] began to betray everyone. He gave us information about their camps, caches and several messengers and a signalman. While we were interrogating him, we were fired upon from the forest, we prepared for battle, but nothing happened. We began to develop this information.

To check the authenticity, we decided to take the cache, and then the addresses. With the 1st group, we went to the village with 4 boxes and quickly took the cache. There were 2 “bumblebees”, 8 kg TNT and an 82 mm mine, this was enough to save someone’s life. And then we went to the address of the militants’ signalman. We quickly burst into the house, cordoning it off on all sides. He was found in an abandoned house nearby. We dragged him to the armored personnel carrier. The Czech who handed him over to us identified him, and I held him at gunpoint, pushing a pistol into his ribs.

We quickly turned up and went to the base. After briefly torturing the signalman, he also gave us a lot of addresses. And it was decided to take it right away in hot pursuit. Again we went to the address of the bombers, who were involved in many explosions. Having arrived at the house, they noticed us and began to leave for their gardens. Our group broke into the house, we took nearby houses, covering the assault force. Seeing those running away, our patrol opened fire. The assault team took one, we took one down, and the eldest left. We picked up the body on a nearby street, no one saw it. And quickly to the base. A crowd of protesters was already gathering.

At the base, all the militants were identified, and information was downloaded from them using a brutal method. They decided to wipe the dead militant off the face of the earth altogether by wrapping him in TNT and blowing him up. This had to be done in the morning, around 4:00, so that there would be no witnesses. All information was transferred to the intelligence department. I wanted to sleep and eat. I fell asleep, I don’t remember, at about 2:00. We sat with a friend over a glass of alcohol. It eased a little, but not for long.

I was woken up at 4:30, I had to remove this militant from the face of the earth. Having wrapped it in cellophane, we went to the Sunzhensky ridge. There they found a pit with swamp slurry. The bullet entered his thigh and came out of his groin; he did not live even half an hour. Throwing him in the middle of the pit, I put a kg of TNT on his face, another between his legs and walked away about 30 meters and connected it to the battery, there was an explosion. We went to explore the place.

There was a corpse smell, and no traces of blood. There are no emotions inside. This is how they go missing. I always felt sorry for the guys. So much loss, so much pain. Sometimes you wonder if all this is in vain, for what purpose and for what purpose. Our homeland will not forget us, but it will not appreciate us either. Now in Chechnya everything is against us - the law, Russia, our prosecutor's office. There is no war, but the guys are dying.

Home again... When I was in the detachment, my friend arrived and said with a chuckle that my wife had given birth. I was completely taken aback by surprise. We went in to wash ourselves, and time dissolved into space. In short, my wife gave birth on Monday, I showed up only 3 days later. She was offended by me, I showed up there tipsy. She asked me to buy her medicine, I went to the pharmacy. We bought what we needed and wandered into a local tavern, and there I was lost for another day... A few days later we took my wife and child home. I took my baby in my arms, such a sweet little thing. I'm glad…

We were taking a break from some left exit. Somewhere in the morning there was a strong explosion and shooting, we were raised to the gun. One group left. It turned out that an armored personnel carrier was blown up by a landmine. 5 people were killed and 4 were injured. The dead were laid on the helipad. Our group went out to look at the dead. There was silence, everyone had their own thoughts. And death was somewhere nearby... Now the war was even tougher. Previously, they at least saw who they were with and knew who to shoot at, but now you have to wait all the time for them to hit you first. This means you are already shooting second.

All around there was one setup and this dirty war, hatred and blood of ordinary soldiers, not the politicians who started it all, but ordinary guys. In addition to this setup, they cheated with money, with military money, just a swamp, in short. And despite this, we did our job and carried out these stupid orders. And they came again on a business trip. Everyone has their own reasons and motives for this. Everyone remained themselves.

In the village, two FSB officers and two from Alpha were killed. The entire nomadic group is removed from operations and thrown into the village. Everyone worked for the result to avenge the guys from Alpha. There were strict cleansing operations in the village. At night we brought Chechens to the filter, and there we worked harshly with them. We drove around the village and surrounding areas in the hope of finding the corpses of FSB officers. Then it became a little clearer what exactly happened. In order to verify the information, gigolos and opera faces entered the village.

We drove in two cars. The “six” was the first, the UAZ medical aid was behind. For some reason, in the center of the village, 06 went to the market, and the boozy woman went further. At bazaar 06, militants are blocking and shooting, our only time to broadcast was that “we were blocked.” When the drunk with the alphas entered the market, local women swept the glass and washed off the blood.

Another 5 minutes - and no traces would have been found, but everything had already fallen somewhere as if through the ground. Only on the 2nd day they found the corpses of two faces at the entrance to the village. In the morning, we crossed the bridge in an armored personnel carrier and drove up to the place where everything happened. Next to the corpses stood a burnt 06. The corpses were badly mutilated, apparently they had been tortured. Then they arrived from the Alpha and radioed to their people...

Returning to the base, we were glad that the bridge we were crossing was mined and the landmine did not go off. And where the corpses were, a 200-liter barrel with 2 land mines and filled with lead barrels was buried 3 meters away. If it had worked, there would have been many more corpses. In the morning we went to the addresses. They took the first address quickly, two of them. The women turned up the hi-fi, already on the street. A crowd had gathered, but we, having pushed two Czechs, were already flying to the filter outside the village. There they were handed over to the “termites”. We went to another address, took a young Czech and an elderly one. They were thrown out near the filter with bags on their heads, and the fighters kicked them heartily, after which they were given to the faces.

Having left for the village, we received an order to turn around and enter the neighboring one; a gang of militants was discovered there and set up an ambush. Having crossed the river in armored personnel carriers, we entered that village. The brothers from another detachment had already entered into battle with the militants and pressed them tightly, surrounding them, they desperately resisted. And they asked their people for help, in response the militants replied that they should prepare to become “shaheeds”, the surrounded militants did not want to become martyrs, they say, it’s too early, then only Allah will help you, but one group responded and went to help, and we went to them They came out and smashed it.

We were sent to look for a PKK abandoned during a firefight by militants. We didn't find him. And out of anger from everything that was happening, I beat up the militant. He fell to his knees and sobbed that he did not remember where he had been thrown. And we dragged him on a rope, tying him to an armored personnel carrier.

Today is my child's birthday. 5 years. I really wanted to congratulate you, but I was far away. I promised to buy a parrot, but I will only do it when I arrive. I miss you so much, I really miss my family. I know how they wait for their daddy, I once saw my child praying for me. My soul shuddered. Everything was childishly pure and from the heart, I asked God for dad and mom and that everything would be fine with them. This really touched me.

Having arrived at the base, we settled down and had dinner, when they were eating, a shot rang out, as it turned out later, our soldier shot at another who went somewhere at night without knowing the password. The wound was serious, in the stomach, the entrance was as thick as a finger, the exit as thick as a fist. At night we were taken to the helicopter. Whether he will survive, I don’t know. The war becomes incomprehensible, its own. And sometimes it comes to the point of absurdity and incomprehensibility, and without meaning, for what and for whom. In the evening I looked at my medal... which was awarded before leaving. It's nice, of course. And it’s nice when you appreciate it on time. I didn’t sleep well, the artillery was hammering in the mountains all night.

In the morning we went to ..., where a soldier killed 2 officers and a cop and fled the unit. We stopped near N, swam and washed, there were two weeks left here - and then we went home. Lately I’ve been really wanting to, I’m probably really bored, I just wanted to do some household chores and take my mind off all this crap. We settled down to rest, the locals brought us some food, and as soon as we started eating, we were removed from this place; even the yellowbell had to be hastily peeled off. We arrived at the same place where we started looking for this freak. And in the dark they had already completed all their work. I passed out, I don’t remember how, looked at the stars and fell asleep.

At about 8 o'clock it became known that this freak had been killed in the morning. I don’t know what he hoped for. The last operation was in N, and then we went to the base. I couldn’t even believe it. We drove through Chechnya coolly, with police lights flashing on armored personnel carriers and an American flag for fun. On this day, everyone was on edge, and we were the best for everyone, no one else was in any trouble. There was excitement around us, our souls were amazing, we were waiting for the shift. On the way, our driver rammed all the Chechen cars, although on the road we caused terror with our armored personnel carriers, and everyone was afraid of us.

I had a bad feeling from the very beginning. The intelligence chief was confident that everything would be fine. That day we went for a swim. And in the evening it began to rain, it felt like, guys, stay at home. ...Our tent was flooded, rats were running around the tent. I still had strong doubts about this whole operation. I couldn’t fall asleep until 2 am - I close my eyes and see only darkness. We drove into the village in complete darkness, left the boxes on the edge of the street, and went to the address on foot. The 1st group covered us.

They surrounded the house quietly and quickly climbed over the fence using the assault ladder. In the courtyard, everyone took their place. I walked third from the side, with my friend behind. They quickly dispersed. The group leader had already broken open the doors, and at that time shots were heard from the back of the house. The bullets hit him, and a smoke grenade exploded while he was unloading. Someone pushed me aside and disappeared into the smoke. I crawled on my back out of the yard. The boys pulled out the squad leader.

It was heavy. The bullet passed between the plates in the side and exited just above the heart. We put him on the APC and he drove away. They started checking people - one was missing, so they started looking. There were short lines coming from the house. The house was cordoned off, we didn’t shoot because it was a setup. As it turned out later, we would all have been imprisoned if the house had been demolished. We did not have such rights at that time.

My hands were simply tied. It turned out that there was not even a combat order for this operation. We needed a result. It turned out that our showman, he wanted to settle scores with the one we approached, with our own hands, and for this he promised several AKs to the boss. My friend was lying in front of the door. One bullet entered the head under the helmet, turned it around, and the other entered a vertebra. At one of these moments, he pushed me away from the door and thereby saved my life.

And the station told us that the commander of the assault squad died on takeoff. The doctor said that he would not have survived: the vessels over the heart were torn by the bullet. One single burst came out at him, and only one ended his life. Everything inside me was empty. My premonition did not deceive me. When we arrived at the base, the boys were lying on the takeoff in bags. I opened my friend's bag, took his hand and said, "I'm sorry."

The second lay already swollen in the bag. The boss didn’t even come out to say goodbye to the boys. He was drunk as hell, at that moment I hated him. He always didn’t give a damn about ordinary fighters; he made a name for himself with them. Then he scolded me at the meeting, humiliated me in front of everyone for this operation, making me the extreme in everything, reproaching me with the boys. Bitch. But nothing, nothing lasts forever, someday he will be rewarded for everything and everyone.

You wonder if it’s enough, how much longer you’ll have enough strength. Is it still necessary to take care of your life? To live for my family, children, my beloved wife, who needs to erect a monument for all the suffering with me, experiences, expectations. I probably need to tie it up, or maybe a little more? I don’t want to stop there, I want more, I want peace and prosperity, the comfort of home. I will achieve this.

Another year of my life has passed. The past year has been very bad. Many of my friends died. Those people who were with me in work and life are no longer there. ...Now you think a lot about your life and actions. Maybe the older you get, the more you think about it. Let these lines remain from me. They are my life. My. It’s a pity that if I had done things a little differently in some military encounters, maybe the guys would have survived.

Maybe life takes its toll, fate too. I miss home so much, these business trips are already boring. It turns out that it is easier to fight with an external enemy, i.e. with the one who shoots at you, than with your “enemies” within the squad. It's very sad for me that this happened. He fought, and in an instant everything turned to dust. I gave 14 years of my life to the detachment, I lost a lot and lost many.

(I) have many pleasant memories, but only about those who really gave their lives for the detachment. Time and life, as always, according to their own law, will put everything in its place. It’s a pity that you can’t fix anything about this, but just try not to repeat your mistakes and live normally. My service in the special forces ended. The detachment gave me a lot and took a lot away. I have a lot of memories in my life.