Gennady Troshev

My war. Chechen diary of a trench general

Relatives and friends of all soldiers and officers,

Those who fought and are fighting in the North Caucasus, I dedicate

My father, Nikolai Nikolaevich, was a career officer, a military pilot. After graduating from the Krasnodar Aviation School, he was sent to the front. He ended the war in Berlin in May 1945. A year later, in Khankala, a suburb of Grozny, he met the Terek Cossack Nadya, my mother.

In 1958, my father fell under the so-called Khrushchev reduction and was fired from the Armed Forces. In those years, this fate befell many captains, majors - young, healthy, full of strength and energy men. The father was extremely distressed by what had happened. It got to the point that somehow, with his characteristic directness, he slashed at me: “So that your foot is not in the army!”

I understood that in his soul there was an unhealed, painful wound. This doesn't go unnoticed. He passed away in the prime of life - at 43 years old.

I always remembered my father's order and after graduating from school I entered the architectural department of the Moscow Institute of Land Management Engineers. However, after the death of his father, he was forced to drop out of school and go home, as the family was in a difficult situation. He got a job, helped his mother and sisters. But when it's time to fulfill your sacred duty to the Motherland and put on military uniform, I filed a report with a request to enroll me as a cadet of the Kazan Higher Command Tank School, thereby violating my father's ban. I am sure that I did the right thing then, and I have no doubt that if my father were alive, he would be happy for his son. And not at all because Troshev Jr. rose to the rank of general and became commander of the district troops. My father was very fond of the army, and, apparently, this feeling was passed on to me. In fact, I continued the main work of his life, which I am proud of.

Until now, I remember with gratitude my first commanders: platoon commander - Lieutenant Solodovnikov, company commander - Captain Korzevich, battalion commander - Lieutenant Colonel Efanov, who taught me the basics of military science.

Almost thirty years later, the knowledge gained within the walls of the school, and then in two academies, had to be applied not only in Everyday life but also in war. In war - special in every respect. In the war that the army waged, due to objective and subjective circumstances, on its territory against bandits and international terrorists. In the war that took place in my homeland. In a war that followed special rules and, by and large, did not fit into any classical schemes and canons.

tragic events recent years in the North Caucasus were ambiguously perceived in our society in the mid-90s, and even now they cause controversy.

Maybe I would never have taken up my own memoirs. However, many books have already been published that directly or indirectly tell about the events in Chechnya. Surprisingly, most authors are terribly far from the issues that they touch on in their “creativity”. They did not really see and do not know either the war, or the people (whose names nevertheless appear on the pages of books), or the mentality of the local residents, or the army. In general, thanks to such a lightweight approach of some authors, a whole mythology of armed conflicts in the North Caucasus has been created.

Down and Out trouble started. Based on these myths created by the writing fraternity, a new growth of fairy tales about the Chechen war begins to grow. For example, as an axiom, the thesis about the complete mediocrity and impotence of the army in the first Chechen campaign. Now, relying on this dubious thesis, another generation of "specialists on Chechnya" is building their no less dubious concepts and conclusions on a crooked foundation. What can come of this, except for an ugly design?

For me, a person who went through both Chechen wars, who participated in battles with Wahhabis in Dagestan, it is difficult for me to put up with speculation, and even with outright lies about events that I know for sure.

Another circumstance prompted me to take up the pen. The Chechen war made many politicians, military leaders and even bandits widely known both in our country and abroad. Most of them I knew and know personally. He met and talked with some, with others he was in the general ranks - shoulder to shoulder, with others he fought not for life, but for death. I know who is who, what lies behind the words and deeds of each person involved. However, the image that the press or they themselves have created for them often does not correspond to reality. I admit that my assessments are too personal. But even in this case, I think that I can publicly express my attitude towards many "glorious characters of the Chechen wars." Even obliged to do so, if only for the sake of completeness.

I was also prompted to talk about the war in the North Caucasus by the desire to warn everyone against repeating the serious mistakes made in the 1990s, both political and military. We must learn the bitter lessons of Chechnya. And this is impossible without a sober, calm and deep analysis of all the events that have taken place in this republic over the past ten years. I hope that my memories will contribute to this.

A good help in working on the book was the diaries, which I tried to keep as regularly as possible. Memory is an unreliable thing, so I sometimes wrote down many episodes in detail, giving my assessment of events. Therefore, the reader will find many diary fragments.

I cannot but express my gratitude to those who helped in the work: Colonel V. Frolov (officer of the operational department of the headquarters of the North Caucasus Military District), Lieutenant Colonel S. Artemov (head of the analytical department of the editorial office of the Military Bulletin of the South of Russia), and other employees of the district newspaper. My special thanks to military journalists Colonels G. Alekhin and S. Tyutyunnik, who actually became co-authors of this book.

Thinking about these memoirs, I saw my future readers in those who lost relatives and friends in Chechnya, who probably want to understand why and how their sons, husbands, brothers died ...

Fate brought me to war with different people: with politicians, and with military leaders of the highest rank, and with leaders of bandit formations, and with ordinary Russian soldiers. I have seen them in different situations. Each of them showed himself differently: someone was firm and resolute, someone was passive and indifferent, and someone played his “card” in this war.

I preferred to talk primarily about those whom I personally met, whom I saw in the case (for example, I do not write about Dzhokhar Dudayev). But among actors there are many who fought on the other front line. Of course, I expressed my attitude towards those prominent figures whose names are on everyone's lips. As in any memoir, the author's assessments are controversial, sometimes very personal. But these are my estimates, and I think I have a right to them.

In a difficult extreme situation It manifests itself as the whole essence of a person on an x-ray, you can immediately see who is worth what. There is everything in the war - cowardice, and stupidity, and the unworthy behavior of military personnel, and the mistakes of commanders. But this cannot be compared with the courage and heroism, selflessness and nobility of the Russian soldier. To him we owe all the best that is in our military history. No matter how competently and beautifully the commander draws an arrow on the map (the direction of the attack of the strike), an ordinary soldier will have to “drag it on his shoulders”. Our Russian soldier needs to bow at his feet for having endured the heaviest burden of military trials and did not break down, did not lose heart.

Unfortunately, not everyone with whom I walked shoulder to shoulder difficult roads Caucasus are mentioned in this book. But I gratefully remembered and will remember my combat colleagues, comrades in arms (from a soldier to a general), who are difficult for new Russia the hour stood in defense of its integrity. And to those who laid down their heads on the battlefield, I bow low: eternal glory to them!

CHAPTER 1. THE BEGINNING OF THE WAR

FROM THE SHIP TO THE BALL

In September 1994, I was on a long business trip to Transnistria - as part of a commission to resolve the conflict. Shortly before this, the 1st Guards Tank Army, where I was the first deputy commander, left the territory of Germany and relocated to Smolensk.

A call from the commander of the North Caucasian Military District, Colonel-General Mityukhin (with whom we served in the Western Group of Forces) found me at headquarters in Bendery. “Gennady Nikolaevich, haven’t you stayed too long in the rear? Alexey Nikolaevich started the conversation jokingly. “Will you come to me as the commander of the 42nd Army Corps in Vladikavkaz?” I replied, "If you think I'm qualified for this role, I

Gennady Troshev

My war. Chechen diary of a trench general

Relatives and friends of all soldiers and officers,

Those who fought and are fighting in the North Caucasus, I dedicate

My father, Nikolai Nikolaevich, was a career officer, a military pilot. After graduating from the Krasnodar Aviation School, he was sent to the front. He ended the war in Berlin in May 1945. A year later, in Khankala, a suburb of Grozny, he met the Terek Cossack Nadya, my mother.

In 1958, my father fell under the so-called Khrushchev reduction and was fired from the Armed Forces. In those years, this fate befell many captains, majors - young, healthy, full of strength and energy men. The father was extremely distressed by what had happened. It got to the point that somehow, with his characteristic directness, he slashed at me: “So that your foot is not in the army!”

I understood that in his soul there was an unhealed, painful wound. This doesn't go unnoticed. He passed away in the prime of life - at 43 years old.

I always remembered my father's order and after graduating from school I entered the architectural department of the Moscow Institute of Land Management Engineers. However, after the death of his father, he was forced to drop out of school and go home, as the family was in a difficult situation. He got a job, helped his mother and sisters. But when the time came to fulfill my sacred duty to the Motherland and put on a military uniform, I filed a report with a request to enroll me as a cadet of the Kazan Higher Command Tank School, thereby violating my father's ban. I am sure that I did the right thing then, and I have no doubt that if my father were alive, he would be happy for his son. And not at all because Troshev Jr. rose to the rank of general and became commander of the district troops. My father was very fond of the army, and, apparently, this feeling was passed on to me. In fact, I continued the main work of his life, which I am proud of.

Until now, I remember with gratitude my first commanders: platoon commander - Lieutenant Solodovnikov, company commander - Captain Korzevich, battalion commander - Lieutenant Colonel Efanov, who taught me the basics of military science.

Almost thirty years later, the knowledge gained within the walls of the school, and then in two academies, had to be applied not only in everyday life, but also in war. In war - special in every respect. In the war that the army waged, due to objective and subjective circumstances, on its territory against bandits and international terrorists. In the war that took place in my homeland. In a war that followed special rules and, by and large, did not fit into any classical schemes and canons.

The tragic events of recent years in the North Caucasus were ambiguously perceived in our society in the mid-90s, and even now they cause controversy.

Maybe I would never have taken up my own memoirs. However, many books have already been published that directly or indirectly tell about the events in Chechnya. Surprisingly, most authors are terribly far from the issues that they touch on in their “creativity”. They did not really see and do not know either the war, or the people (whose names nevertheless appear on the pages of books), or the mentality of the local residents, or the army. In general, thanks to such a lightweight approach of some authors, a whole mythology of armed conflicts in the North Caucasus has been created.

Down and Out trouble started. Based on these myths created by the writing fraternity, a new growth of fairy tales about the Chechen war begins to grow. For example, as an axiom, the thesis about the complete mediocrity and impotence of the army in the first Chechen campaign has already been accepted in Russian society. Now, relying on this dubious thesis, another generation of "specialists on Chechnya" is building their no less dubious concepts and conclusions on a crooked foundation. What can come of this, except for an ugly design?

For me, a person who went through both Chechen wars, who participated in battles with Wahhabis in Dagestan, it is difficult for me to put up with speculation, and even with outright lies about events that I know for sure.

Another circumstance prompted me to take up the pen. The Chechen war made many politicians, military leaders and even bandits widely known both in our country and abroad. Most of them I knew and know personally. He met and talked with some, with others he was in the general ranks - shoulder to shoulder, with others he fought not for life, but for death. I know who is who, what lies behind the words and deeds of each person involved. However, the image that the press or they themselves have created for them often does not correspond to reality. I admit that my assessments are too personal. But even in this case, I think that I can publicly express my attitude towards many "glorious characters of the Chechen wars." Even obliged to do so, if only for the sake of completeness.

I was also prompted to talk about the war in the North Caucasus by the desire to warn everyone against repeating the serious mistakes made in the 1990s, both political and military. We must learn the bitter lessons of Chechnya. And this is impossible without a sober, calm and deep analysis of all the events that have taken place in this republic over the past ten years. I hope that my memories will contribute to this.

A good help in working on the book was the diaries, which I tried to keep as regularly as possible. Memory is an unreliable thing, so I sometimes wrote down many episodes in detail, giving my assessment of events. Therefore, the reader will find many diary fragments.

I cannot but express my gratitude to those who helped in the work: Colonel V. Frolov (officer of the operational department of the headquarters of the North Caucasus Military District), Lieutenant Colonel S. Artemov (head of the analytical department of the editorial office of the Military Bulletin of the South of Russia), and other employees of the district newspaper. My special thanks to military journalists Colonels G. Alekhin and S. Tyutyunnik, who actually became co-authors of this book.

Thinking about these memoirs, I saw my future readers in those who lost relatives and friends in Chechnya, who probably want to understand why and how their sons, husbands, brothers died ...

Fate brought me to war with different people: with politicians, and with military leaders of the highest rank, and with leaders of bandit formations, and with ordinary Russian soldiers. I have seen them in different situations. Each of them showed himself differently: someone was firm and resolute, someone was passive and indifferent, and someone played his “card” in this war.

I preferred to talk primarily about those whom I personally met, whom I saw in the case (for example, I do not write about Dzhokhar Dudayev). But among the actors there are many who fought on the other front line. Of course, I expressed my attitude towards those prominent figures whose names are on everyone's lips. As in any memoir, the author's assessments are controversial, sometimes very personal. But these are my estimates, and I think I have a right to them.

In a difficult, extreme situation, the whole essence of a person appears as if on an x-ray, you can immediately see who is worth what. There is everything in the war - cowardice, and stupidity, and the unworthy behavior of military personnel, and the mistakes of commanders. But this cannot be compared with the courage and heroism, selflessness and nobility of the Russian soldier. We owe him all the best that is in our military history. No matter how competently and beautifully the commander draws an arrow on the map (the direction of the attack of the strike), an ordinary soldier will have to “drag it on his shoulders”. Our Russian soldier needs to bow at his feet for having endured the heaviest burden of military trials and did not break down, did not lose heart.

Unfortunately, not everyone with whom I walked shoulder to shoulder along the difficult roads of the Caucasus are mentioned in this book. But I gratefully remembered and will remember my combat colleagues, comrades in arms (from a soldier to a general), who, at a difficult time for the new Russia, stood up to defend its integrity. And to those who laid down their heads on the battlefield, I bow low: eternal glory to them!

The purpose of this preface is least of all literary. Let's leave the weak and strong sides of Vyacheslav Mironov's story to the critics.

It is important for me to understand what happened to the Russian military officer, to the Russian army at the end of the 20th century, against the backdrop of three hundred years of Russian military history.

Since the time of Peter the Great, the army has played such a significant role in the political, economic, socio-psychological life of our country that without understanding its fate, the peculiarities of its consciousness, its ideas, it is impossible to understand the fate of the country and people.

You can talk as much as you like about the perniciousness of the militarization of Russian life - and this is pure truth! - but it is pointless to ignore the real state of affairs: for a long time the problem of a military man will be one of the key problems of our public consciousness.

The Afghan and Chechen wars made this problem particularly acute.

In order to understand what is happening in this area, you need material that you can trust. And this is, first of all, the evidence of the participants in the events.

Captain Mironov's confession is from this layer of material.

I did not accidentally use the word "confession". These are not just memories of what we have experienced and seen. This is a clear attempt to expel from one's consciousness, from one's memory that very terrible, sometimes disgusting, unbearably cruel thing that does not allow a person to live a normal human life. After all, the "genre" of confession in its original - church version - is the need to cleanse oneself of the worst, sinful things that happened to the confessor. He who confesses sincerely is always cruel to himself. There are serious suspicions that Jean-Jacques Rousseau in his famous "Confessions" attributed to himself shameful acts that he did not commit, so that his confession would become a model of the genre of self-disclosure of a person in general, and not just a specific Jean-Jacques.

Captain Mironov's book is a terrible book. The horror of anti-humanity is condensed in it to the limit. And it doesn't matter whether all this happened to the author himself or whether he drove the experience of others into his plot. In any case, this is a confession of a Russian officer of the era of the Russian-Chechen tragedy, ruthless to himself and to the world.

The phrase "Captain Mironov" inevitably awakens a literary association (I don't know if the author counted on this) - "The Captain's Daughter", the commandant of the Belgorod fortress, Captain Mironov, an honest campaigner, infinitely faithful to the oath. But we will return to this captain later.

The narrative of Vyacheslav Mironov is in some way an encyclopedia not only Chechen war, but also combat situations and characters in general. Here is a breakthrough of a small group through the territory controlled by the enemy, and a battle in the environment, and senselessly bloody, criminally unprepared attacks, and a thieving quartermaster, and a dude from the General Staff, and a traitor-defector captured, and a military brotherhood ...

And all this takes on a fantastic flavor when you realize that the action takes place within the boundaries of one city - Grozny - which has turned into some kind of "zone" from the "Roadside Picnic" by the Strugatskys, a space that was yesterday still peaceful, residential, filled with ordinary houses, objects, but in which anything can happen today ...

Trying to write "the truth and only the truth", Mironov, nevertheless, cannot avoid the fighting youth, the eerie romanticization of what is happening. But this only adds psychological credibility. Obviously, this is an inevitable element of the retrospective self-perception of fighting people. Without it, the memory of the bloody nightmare would be unbearable.

Knowing well terrible essence war, the subtle and intellectually powerful Lermontov, the author of the bitter and wise Valerik, wrote in a letter from the Caucasus to a Moscow friend: “We had every case, and one rather hot one that lasted 6 hours in a row. There were only 2,000 of us infantry, and there were up to 6,000 of them, and all the time we fought with bayonets. We lost 30 officers and up to 300 privates, and their 600 bodies remained in place - it seems good! “Imagine that in the ravine, where there was fun, an hour after the deed it still smelled of blood ... I got into the taste of war ... "

If we compare the story of Captain Mironov with the memories of the participants in the Caucasian War of the 19th century, then a lot of situational coincidences open up. And fundamental coincidences.

Here is a picture of soldiers lynching a sniper, a defector from Russian army to the Chechens, described by Mironov: “Thirty meters from the entrance to the basement, fighters stood in a dense wall and discussed something loudly. I noticed that the barrel of the tank's gun was somehow unnaturally pulled up. Coming closer, we saw that a rope was hanging from the trunk. The fighters, seeing us, parted. The picture opened up terrible - a man was hanging at the end of this rope, his face was swollen from beatings, his eyes were half open, his tongue fell out, his hands were tied behind his back.

And here is what a Russian officer, a participant in the capture of Shamil, wrote in his diary in August 1859 after the assault on the village of Gunib: “Many murdered murids were lying on the road below the first blockage. They remained in the places where their fights with the Shirvans took place. One of the corpses, barefoot, with cracked skin, was burned. This is a runaway soldier, probably an artilleryman, who fired at the Shirvans when they were going uphill; finding him with a gun, the Shirvans beat him half to death with rifle butts, set fire to his dress, and he was completely burned. The unfortunate man received the reward he deserved!”

The only difference is that in 1995 the lynching had to be justified and in an official document the hanged sniper “died of a broken heart, unable to bear the pangs of conscience”, and the artilleryman burned in August 1859 was absolutely of no interest to anyone - the massacre on the spot with defectors was legal deed.

Dedicated to the glorious infantry of the 860th Separate Red Banner Pskov Motor Rifle Regiment

Fortes fortune adjuvat. (Fate helps the brave)

Latin proverb

Binding design by Yuri Shcherbakov

Illustrations used in the binding:

Tetiana Dziubanovska, piscari / Shutterstock.com

Used under license from Shutterstock.com

From the author

Why did I suddenly take up these notes? Twenty-four years have passed since the end afghan war and twenty-eight - how it ended for me.

There was a different attitude towards those who fought on that " undeclared war”, in the past tense: complete silence at the beginning, enthusiastic - from the mid-80s, spitting and pouring mud in the 90s, incomprehensible now.

AT recent times I often get asked the question: what was all this for? Why were all the losses incurred necessary?

I always answer the same way - we did our duty, we defended our Motherland. Everyone who happened to be in Afghanistan sincerely believed in this (and now no one I know is going to disbelieve in this).

I, like many of my peers, happened to be in Afghanistan immediately after graduating from college. We, the commanders of platoons and companies, were real plowmen in that war. Like tractor drivers on collective farm fields, so we did our daily, hard, sometimes routine work in the mountains of Afghanistan. True, the price for poor-quality work was life.

There were real heroes among us, there were orders, there were purchased orders; but to us, infantry lieutenants, they were not sold, we earned them with our sweat and blood.

Over the years, a lot of fables, legends arise, the truth is intertwined with lies. I would like to tell you about the hard work of infantry lieutenants, who were always next to the soldiers, and in battle they are always ahead. I want to speak truthfully and impartially. Not a single word of lies will be in these memories, let my truth be harsh, unsightly for someone, you need to know about it. Let everyone who reads my memoirs learn about what I witnessed, what I had to endure.

Location - Afghanistan

After the end of the Omsk combined arms command school in July 1982, I was assigned to the Turkestan military district. Since I was handed a foreign passport, it became clear: the place of the upcoming service is the Democratic Republic of Afghanistan.

A month of vacation flew by unnoticed, and now again a joyful meeting with comrades.

All those who went to serve abroad were gathered at the school, where they were handed orders. The farewell evening flew by unnoticed, they did not go to bed, they could not talk enough. And so began seeing off from the Omsk railway station. Someone went to serve in Germany, someone went to Mongolia, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, and I went to Afghanistan.

For two and a half days the train dragged from Omsk to Tashkent. Before Alma-Ata, for the first time in my life, I saw mountains, looked at them with curiosity, not imagining that in the near future it would be very dreary from such landscapes.

August 30

Arrived in Tashkent. In the pass office of the district headquarters I met Yura Ryzhkov, a classmate from the third platoon. Climbed together in the personnel department, both get an appointment in military unit field mail 89933. We were told that this was the 860th separate motorized rifle regiment, which is deployed in the city of Faizabad, Badakhshan province. The personnel officer buzzed all ears about how wonderful it would be for us to serve in this regiment. For what? We, graduates of the illustrious school, were brought up in the spirit of the old officer school. Wherever the Motherland sends us, we will serve there, ready for any difficulties and trials. There was a worm of doubt whether to ask for another part. But a sensible thought came: we will come and see. Having finished all the work in the afternoon, we decided to have a snack. Nearby is the restaurant "Sayohat". When we entered, an amazing sight appeared before our eyes. In the restaurant there are only officers and ensigns, well, women, for some reason it seemed that they were all representatives of one, the most ancient profession. A mixture of all existing forms of clothing: full dress, casual, field half-woolen and cotton overalls, tank overalls in black and sand, blue pilots, there are even some comrades in mountain uniforms, shod in climbing boots with tricones. The ensemble plays, and before each song, announcements are heard into the microphone: “This song sounds for paratroopers returning from Afghanistan”, “We give this song to Captain Ivanov returning from Afghanistan”, “For officers of the N-th regiment returning to Afghanistan, this song will sound, ”etc., of course, money is thrown for this, it is felt that the musicians receive a good income. We had lunch, drank a hundred grams each and, taking a taxi, went to the transit point.

The first thing that came to mind when I saw the shed, in which there were bunk army bunks without mattresses, was a rooming house from Gorky's play "At the Bottom". Either some old barracks, or what kind of warehouse it used to be, in general, full of f ... c. Nearly everyone is drinking. Yesenin's lines come to mind: "They drink here again, fight and cry." They sing songs with drunken anguish, they dance, they hit someone in the face, probably for the cause, someone, having sorted out, burps, someone talks about their exploits, someone sobs in a drunken hysteria - and so on until almost morning.

August 31

Woke up early, some didn't go to bed at all. Many suffer from a hangover, but courageously endure. We loaded into the "pazik" and drove to the Tuzel military airfield. Here you need to go through customs and passport control.

Everyone checks out differently. They asked me: "For the first time?" - "First". - "Come on." Anything could be carried. But since we were instructed both at the school and at the district headquarters, we didn’t think to take more than two bottles of vodka with us. Comrades with bruised faces were asked to show their luggage for inspection, and, God forbid, there was a bottle that exceeded the norm. The main national wealth could be carried in the stomach, but not in luggage, which many used - who had enough strength. Some were taken to the personal search room, where they were searched in full with undressing, tearing off their heels, autopsy cans, squeezing toothpaste out of tubes, and they found hidden money. In the sump, waiting for the flight, you can’t hear enough stories on this topic. It was striking that no one would help the women, there are quite a lot of them, to bring heavy suitcases. To questions like: “Where are the knights?”, Crooked grins and complete disregard. “Chekists,” I catch someone’s exclamation out of the corner of my ear. But those girls, women who travel from Afghanistan are literally carried in their arms.

But then it all ended, they loaded into the IL-76, most of them on their own, some with the help of their comrades. We take off, sadness flew in - after all, we part with the Motherland. Will it be possible to return? Tashkent seemed like such a hometown.

An hour and a half later, the plane begins a sharp decline, it feels like we are diving. As they later explained, such an extreme landing is made for safety reasons, there is less chance of being shot down. The landing is made, the plane taxis into the parking lot, the engines stall, the ramp opens, and ...

We are in hell. It feels like you have entered a steam room, where you have just put a ladle on the heater. Hot sky, hot earth, everything breathes heat, all around are mountains, mountains, mountains, ankle-deep dust. Everything around, as in a cement plant, is covered with dust, the earth is cracked from the heat. Two ensigns are standing at the ramp, like cowboys descended from the screen of an American western. Faces scorched by the sun, famously wrinkled panama hats, burnt-out heba, machine guns with twin magazines tied with electrical tape on their shoulders - “courageous guys, real militants.” These are ensigns from the transfer, where they soon delivered us.

We gave prescriptions, food certificates, received instruction, settled down. The clock was changed to local time, one and a half hours ahead of Moscow. There is much more order here than in Tashkent. We even got bed linen and had breakfast. It is stuffy in the tents, there is no water, this is the greatest boon for these places, they are brought in three times a day, it lasts for two hours, it is impossible to drink, it is so heavily chlorinated. For those for whom the time has come to leave for their units, announcements are heard over the loudspeaker, it almost does not stop. Sitting in the smoking room, we observe how the MiG-21 comes in for landing, sits down somehow uncertainly, when landing it suddenly turns over and lights up, later it was reported that the pilot had died. Some kind of shooting suddenly starts around and just as suddenly ends. Thus passed the first day of stay on Afghan soil.

September 1

Finally, it's our turn. Already in the afternoon, the loudspeaker broadcasts: "Lieutenants Orlov and Ryzhkov to arrive at headquarters to receive documents." Once again we receive prescriptions, food certificates, and we are taken to the airfield. The way to Faizabad lies through Kunduz, and soon An-26 flies there.

Forty minutes later we land at the Kunduz airfield. The plane is met by many military men. Hugs, joyful meetings. One of the warrant officers asks if there is anyone in Faizabad. We respond and go through the runway to the location of the regiment's material support company - it is located in Kunduz. Here is the Fayzabad transfer for those departing from the regiment and arriving at the regiment. It is a dugout, where for the first time we settle down comfortably, it is pleasant to relax in coolness after the scorching sun. For us, they immediately set the table, serve dinner. We ask about the regiment, another ensign comes up, and the stories begin. A week ago, there was a large convoy delivering goods to the regiment, a tank and a BRM (combat reconnaissance vehicle) were blown up, several people died. We are unobtrusively hyped for vodka. Yura takes out one, I did not succumb, I shore. We drank, talked some more and lay down to rest.

September 2

Today, “turntables” fly to Faizabad, as helicopters are called here. A pair of Mi-8s is carrying mail and something else. We agree, sit down, after forty-fifty minutes we land at the Faizabad airport. We are met, or rather not us, but helicopters, here all the arriving helicopters are met by someone. Today the honor fell to the postman, or maybe his position is called something else. The car "ZIL-157", popularly called "murmon", rolls up to the gangway, bags with mail are reloaded, some other cargo, we climb into the body and go to the regiment. And he, here he is, standing across the river, at hand, but two kilometers along the road.

When viewed from above, the regiment is located, as it were, on a peninsula, the Kokcha River makes a loop here, washing the location of the regiment from three sides. We cross a turbulent river along a bridge without railings, at the entrance there are pedestals with infantry fighting vehicles and armored vehicles, between them there is a metal structure in the form of an arch, decorated with slogans and posters, on the right is a checkpoint. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed in the right aft door of the infantry fighting vehicle a neat hole, as if made with a thin drill, from the cumulative jet of an anti-tank grenade. We are dropped off at the headquarters of the regiment, which is a small shield house. Introduced themselves to the commander of the regiment. Colonel Harutyunyan, a typical native of the Caucasus, lush mustache, adorning his face, only emphasized this. Surprisingly kind, one might say, he talked to us like a father, invited deputies, introduced us. Only the chief of staff was missing, he was on vacation. After a conversation with the commander, we entered the combat unit. I was assigned to the fifth company, Yura Ryzhkov to the fourth company. After that, we were asked to introduce ourselves to the battalion command.

We were escorted to the headquarters of the second battalion by the officers who had gathered at the headquarters. The arrival of new people is a significant event in the life of the regiment, and on this occasion a whole group of officers and ensigns gathered, word of mouth worked. We meet on the go.

The headquarters is an ordinary UST (unified sanitary-technical) tent. The battalion commander, Major Maslovsky, is tall, strong, slightly cheeky, a kind of blond beast. The chief of staff, Captain Ilyin, strict, fit, all so authorized, one can feel a military bone. Political officer major Ekamasov and deputy chief technical officer major Sannikov have not made any impression so far. After a short conversation, where we were told about the traditions of the battalion, that the second battalion was fighting, participating in all combat exits, we were transferred to the company commanders for further acquaintance. True, before that, remembering the instructions of the school officers, I suggested that in the evening I introduce myself on the occasion of my arrival in the glorious combat battalion, which was accepted with a bang.

Met with officers of the company. Commander - Captain Glushakov Vitaly. It is felt that a smart, competent officer has been serving here for about a year, the political officer - Yakovlev Volodya and the only commander of the third platoon at the moment Valera Meshcheryakov - a little over a year. They took me to the officer's dormitory, the module was a prefabricated panel house, in fact, a plywood house. I settle down, a bunk is allocated for me, I arrange my suitcases, hang up my uniform ...

Officer module

At about eighteen guests, officers and ensigns begin to gather. There are three ensigns: Yura Tankevich, senior technician of the sixth company, Kostya Butov, senior technician of our company and battalion weapons technician, Kolya Rudnikevich, a remarkable personality, under two meters tall, hefty, energetic, it turns out that he arrived only a week earlier. The evening began solemnly, our three bottles were poured into twenty people, the battalion commander said good word about the infusion of fresh blood into the officers of the second battalion, and ... away we go. Panama was thrown on the table, which was literally filled with Vneshposyltorg checks in a couple of minutes. It turns out that there are several points in the regiment where you can buy vodka at any time of the day or night, however, at a price that exceeds its face value by five times, and if you take into account the exchange rate of the check to the ruble, then ten times. They sell vodka: the commander of the third mortar battery is a captain, the treasurer of the regiment is an ensign, the head of the officer's canteen is a civilian woman. That's really true, to whom the war, and to whom the mother is dear.

Best friend– Sergey Ryabov

Sergey Ryabov, the commander of a platoon of the sixth company, volunteered to perform an honorable duty, “Hedgehog, hedgehog,” as he is called. I decided to keep him company. Afghan night, you can't see anything in a meter, as if the lights were turned off in a room without windows, I had such sensations. Almost at every step you hear: “Stop two”, “Stop three”, “Stop five”, this is such a system of passwords here. Today, seven is set, that is, you need to answer the missing figure up to seven. But Serega navigates confidently, and in about twenty minutes we return to the module with a case of vodka. I considered myself strong in relation to alcohol, nevertheless, I broke down at one in the morning, the people were buzzing until three, and that was because the sixth company left for a combat mission at five in the morning. The chief of staff turned out to be the only one who does not drink vodka at all. Sipping mineral water all evening.

September 3

In the morning they were presented to the personnel of the company. The location of the company consists of two USB tents (unified sanitary barracks), each for fifty people, for living; one USB tent, where there is a pantry, a utility room and an office; cellar for drinking water and a smoking room; a little further away, in the UST tent, fenced barbed wire, weapon storage room.

Met with the platoon. There are 21 people on staff with me, 18 are on hand, two are on a business trip. In the battalion, the first platoon was jokingly nicknamed " foreign legion because representatives of twelve nationalities serve. There are six Kalashnikov machine guns (PK) in a platoon, and even a non-standard automatic grenade launcher (AGS-17) - very powerful weapons. Deputy platoon commander Borya Sychev, the same age, born in 1960, awarded the order Red Star, quits a month later, looks incredulous. In the platoon, two more leave in the fall, both wounded, awarded, now working on the construction of the officers' canteen, a demobilization chord. In the meantime, the dining room is located behind the headquarters of our battalion, and also in a tent. I received equipment, hebe, weapons, however, instead of boots with high berets, they were given soldier's ceremonial boots. Feet are light and comfortable, but we'll see how it is in the mountains.

The sixth company returned, after Fayzabad they ran into dushmans, there was a battle, but, thank God, they returned without loss. Kostya Churin, the commander of the first platoon, jumping out of the BMP, hit his tailbone on a stone, moves with difficulty, they tease him, and he gets angry, the details of the battle are told with humor. In the evening there was a holiday again, only there was not enough vodka, but there was as much local brew as you want. Local craftsmen adapted a hundred-liter tank from PAK (field car kitchen) for its manufacture. The recipe is simple - boiled water, sugar, yeast. Today is the third day since it was delivered, and it has already arrived. Sergey Ryabov told me about this, with whom we live in the same room, and we have beds next to each other. I have established friendly relations with him from the first day.

4 September

Today is a park day. Before lunch we work in the park of military vehicles, after lunch we have a sauna. I checked the BMP - brand new. They had just arrived at the regiment with the last column. BMP-1PG, there are no more of these in the regiment. Steel side screens are hung on them, covering the support rollers, above them there are metal strips at a distance of three centimeters, which will not allow to break through the board from the DShK, and it will break the cumulative jet, the bottom under the driver and commander has been reinforced, but I think it’s purely symbolic, because that an additional steel plate, two centimeters thick, 40 × 40 cm in size, fastened with bolts, can only protect morally, a machine for mounting the AGS-17 is installed on the tower - these are all the differences from the BMP-1. I talked with the driver mechanics, it struck me that this is a special caste of untouchables, they only do their own thing, if everything on the car is in order, they can take a nap in the landing force, I hope that this is correct.

After dinner we went to the bathhouse. It was built on the banks of a river. It is a stone building made of wild stone clinging to a steep bank at the turn of Kokchi. Nearby is a DDA (disinfection shower unit), a car based on the GAZ-66, in short, an army bathhouse that takes water from the river, heats it and supplies it to a tent, or, as in our case, a stationary, stone-built room. Inside there is a washing room for thirty people, however, there are only eight nipples, a steam room with a heater and a pool. The heater is hot, the temperature is under 100 °C, the water in the pool is ice cold. After the steam room, it's so cool to take a dip, life immediately becomes more fun. Steam room - swimming pool - steam room - pool - washing, it was I who withstood such a process, and some climbed into the steam room five or six times, who has enough health. After the bath, as the great Suvorov said, - sell the last shirt ... They didn’t sell anything, but they drank.

September 5 (Sunday)

Oddly enough, a sports festival is held in the regiment, as if he had not left his native school. Roll up, 1 km cross, 100 m only did not run. I ran third in the battalion. The first was Captain Ilyin, as it turned out, a candidate for master of sports in officer all-around, the second was Zhenya Zhavoronkov, commander of the sixth company, he fought with him the whole distance, but lost for a couple of seconds. After that, we went for a swim, the water is icy, it burns directly with cold, but it also adds vigor. It's good on the river, but you need to prepare for classes. Business time, fun hour. I sat down at the notes, by tomorrow I need to write eight pieces.

September 6–8

Classes, classes, classes... Monday began with drill. It’s hot, I can’t stand the drinking regime, I often drink: spring water, there are several springs here, cold, pure, very tasty water, a decoction of camel thorn, a peculiar aftertaste, but, they say, in the heat the best option is nothing helps, but everything drunk immediately comes out then, and even more thirsty. Senior comrades give recommendations, you shouldn’t drink at all during the day, at least gargle your throat, you can drink plenty only in the evening, but so far there is not enough willpower.

Next to the regiment, just behind the barbed wire, there is a small training ground. Just left the gate of the 2nd checkpoint - the director of the BMP. Cannon targets depict the hulls of armored personnel carriers and infantry fighting vehicles, hit or blown up once, machine gun targets are standard, mounted on lifts, appear according to the firing course.

To the right of the headmistress is a military shooting range, followed by a tankodrome. I always shot decently at the school, rarely good - mostly excellent. But here... The gunners-operators make a short stop for two or three seconds, instead of the ten set on the course, and - on target, in the infantry, almost every shift shoots perfectly, the drivers drive everything perfectly, the speed limit is almost doubled, some still complain, they say, the engine does not pull, - I am delighted.

September 1982 Young, green came to Afghanistan

Everything is like in the Soviet Union: combat, physical, shooting, driving, protection against weapons of mass destruction, tactical training. Where is fighting, fight with enemies? After all, he was going to the war and was ready to give his life for the Motherland, and then ...

A wall newspaper is published in the company every month, and in each platoon there are battle sheets, but nothing is written in them about participation in battles, some kind of nonsense about nothing under the strict control of political officers. I am required to have plans for notes, a properly designed platoon combat training journal, and compliance with the class schedule. Where did you get???