Stories from participants in the Chechen war about militant battles. Chechnya

IT STARTED LIKE THIS

It all started in early November 1994. While we
were still in Dagestan, they announced to us that
We are leaving soon on a business trip to the Caucasus, we explained that
there are some political unrest in the Caucasus, and
we must play the role of peacemakers. We were given be-
striped bandages and said that in the event of a clash with the population
do not use any weapon other than a bayonet.
In early December 1994, we were promoted to command
“collection” and were urgently sent to the territory of Chechnya. Arrivals
we got there early in the morning and, as it turned out, we were
near some mountain village. In the afternoon we were given the command “from-
fight,” we again got into our cars and, having driven off a few
kilometers, we turned off the main road into a field. Here
we were given some rest and food. After that we
explained that we were sent here to support the
new forces, but it turned out that they arrived first, before us
there was no one here. We took up a circular formation on the field.
Ron and began to wait for the order. The main road turned out to be
highway Makhachkala - Gudermes. First, passing cars
mobiles stopped, and people, Chechens, sitting in
When they came out, they insulted us, spat at us and threatened us. But
over time the situation worsened. On the highway
I had to set up a checkpoint. The main task was
guard the nearby bridge.
One morning near the road we saw a large
a crowd of people, they were coming straight towards us. followed again
command “gather”, fasten the “bayonet-knives”. After a few
By the next minute we were already standing in front of a huge crowd. Official
Rams with great difficulty managed to enter into negotiations with
them and agree not to bring the matter to a fight, which
could end badly. Military men carry out orders
and only an order. And they will fulfill it at any cost. People left.
From that time on, we no longer wore white armbands.
Later we learned that during the negotiations we were given time
I need to clear this space. But we didn’t do this and
fell into blockade. The message was only by air.
Our stay there was complicated by the unusual
for us the climate: at night - frosts, during the day it is much warm -
lee, but at the same time incessant, penetrating
through, wind. We lived wherever we had to, at first I slept in
armored personnel carrier. But when the frosts began, the hatches of the armored personnel carrier
frozen with mud. Then MI-26 cargo helicopters arrived
they brought us materials, and we equipped ourselves with dugouts,
heated by stoves. I had to sleep
4-6 hours a day. We didn’t have a bathhouse, we didn’t wash
almost month. True, then near the mountain they discovered a family
nickname, they drove a pipe in there and made a hole in the side. So do
We now have at least some opportunity to wash ourselves.
At night, militants fired at us from the mountains. So, standing in
trench, I celebrated the New Year, 1995, which at that time
Few people remembered the cop. But our officers came out and
they launched signal flares, it was very beautiful and
very worrying.
Time passed unnoticed, and only at the end of January 1995
year we were replaced by the Moscow riot police, but we soon found out
knew that almost their entire detachment was defeated by an attack by
Chen fighters.
Alexander Safonov

BAPTISM OF FIRE

War. How distant and unreal it seems
TV screen and newspaper pages. For me
the war began on December 29, 1994. Then, in the composition
columns, our 276th regiment was heading to the center of Chechnya -
city ​​Grozniy. Sitting in an infantry fighting vehicle, we are having fun
we joked and laughed about the fact that we were going to a real
war and that the bullet is a fool. But they couldn’t even imagine
guess where we'll end up when we arrive. It is now possible to go to Chechnya
but to go under a contract, and then us, conscript soldiers, yes
what kind of soldiers are there - youngsters after training, no one asked
sewed An order, a command, a marching column... Let's go.
The offensive on Grozny is the most memorable day
in my “Chechen” life. It was on New Year's Eve
December 31, 1994. Night of fireworks and salutes.
The gloomy outskirts of the city frightened with their ominous
tire. What awaits us there? It's winter outside. In the south she
just like our spring. As I remember now, mud, wet
snow. Our column slowly moved along one of the
streets of Grozny. Tense silence, here and there bones burning
ry, as if someone had just been here. We stopped.
And then it began...
It’s unclear where queues of cars came towards us.
mats and machine guns. There are high-rise buildings all around. Darkness, eye
poke out. In this darkness, only traces of the tracks were visible.
Serov. It was necessary to return fire at them.
But how to do that? After all, all of us who are in armored vehicles
terah, who are in infantry vehicles. By order, they began to disperse
sharpen. Yes, what kind! They ran away in all directions. Spin-
there is nowhere to hide. From both sides of the street, from different floors,
incessant shooting. Turmoil, complete confusion.
Where to run when they're shooting all around?!
Our squad consists of 11 people and a commander, consisting of
the one I was in ran around the corner of some nine-story building.
Having broken a window on the first floor, we climbed inside and looked around.
foxed No one seems to be there. They started shooting where they could see
there were lines of tracers. It quieted down a little. Either Chechen
The people are exhausted, or there are fewer of us. We hear the
kaz:
- By car! - And again shooting from nowhere and into nothing -
Where. We rushed to our car. Colon-
no order was given to leave the city. We held out
It's four o'clock there, but who was keeping track of the time? IN
in my first battle, our commander, a young man, was wounded
long lieutenant, most likely just from college.
And in general, we didn’t count many of our guys back then.
foxed
Until the morning the column stood outside the city. Then she unpacked
were torn to pieces. And the next decisive step
we did on the evening of January 1, 1995, moving
going in three directions towards the center - the “White House”.
The baptism of fire was difficult. But there's nothing in life
it doesn't come easy. Now I know this for sure.

Sergey Ivanov

WE VALUE FRIENDSHIP

I served in the 76th Guards Air Force
airborne division in the city of Pskov.
Our regiment flew to Chechnya on January 11, 1995. At-
landed at Vladikavkaz airport. There they gave us
equipment and ammunition. Columns depart from the airport
headed to the city of Grozny. I was second in command
platoon and was the commander of an airborne combat vehicle.
On January 13 we entered Grozny. The picture appeared re-
terrible among us. There were many corpses lying around,
parts of human bodies, they were chewed by dogs.
At night, our regiment entered into battle with militants, “taking” the House
culture. My friend and I were running towards the building.
nu. I was the first to cross the asphalt path, next
The rest of the soldiers were running home behind me. At this time between
A shell exploded in front of us. I was shell-shocked. Coming to
consciousness, I heard the cry of my comrades asking for help.
I get up and run to them. The fighter's entire stomach was torn apart by a shrapnel.
I take him in my arms and carry him to the nearest five-story building, where he is
The orderlies were busy. Then he returned to battle again. This night
we had to retreat. Artillery came to our aid
Leria. After the shelling, in the morning, we took the House building
culture.
This was my first battle, in this battle we lost a lot
th comrades, and the friend whom I carried from the battlefield, too
died, the wound was fatal.
For carrying a wounded comrade from the battlefield, I was awarded
awarded the Suvorov medal. The award was presented to me in 1996.
Until February 16, they were in Grozny. A week and a half
We were waiting for the weather: it was pouring rain. Then the columns
moved towards Gudermes, constantly being subjected to artillery bombardment
relu, especially at night. Near Gudermes there are scattered shelves -
whether by points. Our company was located along two roads, along
to which the militants had to retreat. With one hundred
their rons were stormed by internal troops, and here they must
we were to storm them. The fight was successful. We are half-
many militants lived there. In this battle, comrade Su-
Leiman Tagin captured two “spirits”.
Guys from Kurgan, Chelyabinsk, Moscow served with me.
you, Minsk and other cities. There have never been any times
divisions, everyone was like brothers. In the first days in Chechnya there was
It’s scary, but a person gets used to everything. Gradually and
military hardening, toughness and courage appeared in us.
The hardest battle was for taking the dominant position.
hundred square meters near the city of Gudermes. Our platoon went to the
vedka. We ran into an ambush. The “spirits” opened fire. We are from-
stepped. In the morning, with regimental reconnaissance, we again sent
They went to “comb out” and were surrounded. A little
confused. Our battalion commander, a former “Afghan” who fought
in many hot spots, raised our morale,
saying: “Guys, don’t be timid, every landing
a nickname costs 3 “spirits.” I think these words helped us out-
you from the encirclement, however, we lost our comrades then:
two scouts and a sapper. They retreated, opening fire. Behind-
Our artillery hit the “spirits”. After artillery
rela went on the attack. During the battle we found our re-
beat. Our sapper was born in a “shirt”: he lay wounded
on his stomach, the spirits took his machine gun without turning it over
back, thereby not noticing signs of life in him.
He told how the “spirits” finished shooting our wounded.
In this battle, many militants were killed, but they also lost
many of his comrades. From this commanding height,
after the replacement arrived on May 1, 1995, I was sent
either to Pskov, to the division, and from there I was demobilized.

Serzhik Miloyan

SOLDIER'S DAYS IN CHECHNYA

I first came to Chechnya on May 7, 1995. Is our
The unit was stationed near Bamut.
I remember well the festive fireworks in honor of Father's Day.
troubles. It gets dark early in the mountains, the nights are very dark, and therefore
volleys of Grad installations, shots from mortars and highway
The moat colored the night sky with unimaginable colors.
At the end of May, the maneuver group, which included a platoon,
near the Asinskaya station guarded water intakes and conservation
ny plant. There were no active hostilities here.
At the end of June, in a column of 30 vehicles, a maneuverable group
Pa went to the Nozhai-Yurtovsky district. Our armored personnel carrier was walking
on patrol - about five hundred meters ahead. Near the village of Ore-
Howo there was an explosion: the car was thrown up and split
in half, eight fighters sitting on the armor, sized
melted around. A shootout broke out. Still, we are lucky
I tried to get out from under the fire without losses, only a few people
The catcher was shell-shocked, including me.
Then the column passed the city of Grozny and stopped
in the town of Balaisu. They stayed here until August 1995.
We were searching for militants in the mountains based on intelligence data.
ki. It wasn’t easy: there was no road, you couldn’t walk over the rocks,
you go, and there are bandits guarding the roads, and the local population
Lenie treated us with milk during the day, and at night they shot at us.
In mid-August we were transferred to the Oktyabrsky district
city ​​of Grozny. We took up positions in dugouts on the hills, on
called “Three Fools”. The locals treated us
hostile. I heard how once a child of six or seven years old
Pointing to the Russian soldiers, he asked his mother:

Mom, are they killers?
How will you feel after such questions from children?
Raids on the capital of Chechnya, search for militants - the main
task at that time. One day in an ammunition depot
a militant shell fell. A huge explosion took lives immediately
twenty-four Russian soldiers. A terrible incident...
After Grozny we were sent to the village of Shelkovskaya.
Here one guy left our combat post right away.
He was weak-willed and constantly asked to be
sent home. A couple of days later the body of the runaway was found.
man... with his head cut off.
In September our unit was transferred to the city
Sernovodsk, where the guests had to take part in the assault
Nits “ASSA-2”. According to intelligence data, about
five hundred militants. The platoon lost ten people, and I
received a shrapnel wound in the stomach.
January-April we stayed in Alkhon-Kale, lived in pa-
patches. The platoon commander died here, he died stupidly:
went to the stall for cigarettes and took a bullet from a passer-by
a car passing by. This is not uncommon here.
Later they took part in the cleansing of the villages of Gekhi-Chu, Urus-
Martan, Achkhoy-Martan, Semashki and others. We suffered
There are big losses here. In these situations it was necessary
take command over even ordinary fighters, so
how all the officers died.
The last place of deployment is Achkhoy-Martan. Here for
the first Chechen campaign ended for me, from here I
demobilized and went home.
Years passed, but Chechnya did not let me go, I experienced
there was some kind of nostalgia for her, I remembered fallen military friends,
Zey, various events and meetings with interesting people,
felt on my lips the taste of wild garlic - wild garlic, which in
walnuts grow in abundance in the mountains, replacing us
dry rations during battles and campaigns, and a lot of things...
And so, on October 17, 2002, I again arrived in the North.
ny Caucasus for contract service. Service
bu started in the city of Argun, in a reconnaissance platoon, where
stayed until December. Participated in operational search operations
events. Although the war has officially ended, but
columns of Russian troops were constantly attacked
arrows At night they even shot at us from the mosque.
Then the platoon was transferred to the Nozhai-Yurt region. TO
At that time, many objects were restored. Me-
The local population already belonged to Russian soldiers
friendly and helped with supplies. The fighters bought once
speakers, learned the Chechen language. I began not only to understand
his mother, but could also pronounce individual phrases.
They still went on raids, took part in reconnaissance
active search actions: walked through the mountains and forests in
claims of gangs. Once upon a time near the Yaryk Su stream
(clean water) found traces of “wild boars”. Arrange-
an ambush: three soldiers in camouflage robes took cover
near the path in the treetops. And so, at five o'clock in the morning,
no less than forty bandits appeared, armed to the teeth
bov, with horses. They passed right below us. For a long time
We then sat in stupor, without saying a word.
In February 2003 they returned to base. When the
walked along the gorge, they fired at us from their own helicopters,
I had to hide under the rocks. Contacted by radio
with headquarters. And then the path led down, the first trail was
my friend Renat. Suddenly there was an explosion: a fighter
stepped on a mine, as a result received 15 fragmentation wounds
neniya. We later found out that we were walking straight through a minefield.
Many, having read these lines, will say: “What a hunt -
go to Chechnya?” And I like to know danger and
overcome it. The blood then runs faster through the veins,
the taste for life intensifies.
I think, I’m even sure, I’ll rest a little, I’ll order again
I am signing the contract and going to serve in Chechnya. To someone
after all, you still have to do this difficult work, so let
it will be me who is not afraid of her, and then whatever God sends.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Chechen girl fell in love with Sasha, she was much younger than him, she was 16 years old, then the secret of the soul. For the third year, she brought him goat’s milk into the pit at night, lowered it onto strings for him, and that’s how she 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 express my deep gratitude to the Russian officer Vladimir Dobkin, one of the few who did not betray or forget... It was only thanks to his courage that this book was born.

Sergej Hermann

Aty - baht
...to the soldiers and officers of the 205th Budenovskaya motorized rifle brigade, living and dead...

The first snow fell in early November. White flakes fell onto the icy tents, covering the field, trampled by soldiers' boots and disfigured by the wheels of army tractors, with a snow-white blanket. Despite the late hour, the tent city did not sleep. In the car park, engines roared, and blue smoke poured out of the tin pipes of the potbelly stove. The gray canopy of the tent opened and, wrapped in a spotted pea coat, a man crawled out of the hot, smoky belly. Dancing as he walked and not noticing anything around, he relieved himself a little, then, shivering from the cold, pulled the hem of his peacoat tighter and gasped:
- Lord... Tra-ta-ta, your mother, how good!
Distant stars twinkled mysteriously, the moon, bitten at the edges, illuminated the earth with a yellowish light. Freezing, the man yawned and, no longer paying attention to anything, slipped into the tent. The sentry watched him with an envious glance; there was still more than an hour left before the changing of the guard; all the vodka in the tent had to be finished during this time. The scouts were walking, contract service foreman Romka Gizatulin turned thirty years old.
A hot potbelly stove was raging in the tent, vodka stood on zinc with cartridges covered with newspaper, and sliced ​​bread, lard, and sausage lay in large piles. Hot scouts in vests and T-shirts, hugging and knocking their foreheads, sang soulfully to the guitar:
“Russia does not favor us with either fame or rubles. But we are its last soldiers, and that means we must endure until we die. Aty-baty, aty-baty.”
A heavyset man of about forty-five, with a gray head and a drooping Cossack mustache, rummaged under the bunk, took out another bottle, deftly opened the cap, humming to himself,
“I served not for ranks or orders. I don’t like stars for bla-a-at, but I earned the captain’s stars in full, aty-baty, aty-baty.” Then he poured vodka into mugs and glasses and waited for silence:
- Come on, boys, let's drink to military happiness and to simple soldier's luck. I remember during the first campaign I met a conscript boy in the hospital. For a year of fighting, all kinds
changed troops. He entered Grozny as a tanker, the tank was burned, and he ended up in the hospital. After the hospital, he became a Marine, then again fell into the meat grinder, miraculously remained alive and served in the Yurga communications brigade. So I quit as a signalman.
The scouts clinked glasses with assorted glasses and drank together.
- But I remember an incident, also in the first war, we entered the Vedeno region, intelligence reported that there were militants in the village, we were on a tank, two self-propelled guns, infantry were on armor. “The speaker was lying under a blanket, not taking part in the feast, the glare from the burning logs ran across his face. “We are entering Vedeno, but I have thoughts in my head, maybe we’ll take Basayev,” he waited out the laughter, leisurely lit a cigarette, grinned with his memories. “I was young, I thought I’d come home with a medal or order, and there would be talk in the village.” We enter the village from three sides and go straight to Basayev’s house, while everyone is sleeping, the moon is shining just like today. Let's face it - without reconnaissance, without support, without military protection, we take out the gates of the house. I have a tank barrel right into the window. And there was silence in the house, everyone had left, even the dog had been released from its leash.
We walked around the rooms and looked. Then let’s load all sorts of equipment into the cars, TV, video cameras. The “Czechs” fled and didn’t even have time to collect anything; probably someone warned them. Or maybe they listened to our wave. We go down with the platoon commander to the basement, and there is a diplomat on the table. We examined it, no wires were visible, we opened it, and there were dollars, half of the diplomat was filled with money. Our elder almost got sick. I say, maybe we can divide it between everyone, and he, in all seriousness, takes out a pistol and says, now we’ll calculate everything, rewrite it, seal it and hand it over to the command. I suspect that he wanted to accomplish a feat, he kept dreaming of entering the Academy and becoming a general.
A voice came from the stove:
“With that kind of money, he would have become a general even without the Academy.”
- While we were counting these fucking money and sealing it, it was already starting to get light. We’d rather, quickly, I’d like to report to the lieutenant, get into the cars and go ahead. Just as we were leaving the village, we were hit, the command vehicle was blown up by a landmine, the second one flew into the same crater, while we were turning around, the tracks were broken. Somehow we took up defensive positions and began to fire back. When the ammunition in the first vehicle began to burst, the Czechs left. Our lieutenant was wounded in the stomach, he is crawling, his intestines dragging on the ground behind him, and in his hands is a suitcase with money. At first I thought that the lieutenant had gone crazy, but then I took a closer look, and it turns out that he had handcuffed a diplomat to his hand.
The gray mustache drawled:
- Yes, your lieutenant really wanted to get into the Academy, or maybe he was just principled, there are such people too. I remember this incident...
They didn’t let him finish the story; the tent flap, covered with ice, rattled, clay-stained boots and the political officer’s face, red from the frost, appeared in the opening. Nobody was surprised at him
began to hide the glasses:
- Sit down with us, commissar, have a drink with the scouts.
The captain looked into the transparent abyss of the glass and touched the gray-haired man by the sleeve of his vest:
- You, Stepanych, are a shot hare, so hold your horses for now. Don’t let me drink anymore, but don’t let me go to bed either, otherwise they’ll be like they’ve been boiled. We're leaving in three hours. We must hold out until we get to the commandant's office.
The political officer downed the glass and, snacking as he went, climbed out of the tent like a spotted bear. Stepanych collected the dishes and put them in one bag:
- Sha! Brothers, let's slowly get ready, we'll be leaving soon.
The rise was announced an hour earlier. We assembled the tents, loaded the remaining firewood and belongings into the Urals, and attached the field kitchens to the tractors. The abandoned camp resembled a torn up anthill: thawed patches from tents showed black on the snow trampled by boots, and hungry dogs scoured the area, licking tin cans. A dirty gray crow sat thoughtfully on a pile of abandoned car tires, carefully watching the people scurrying here and there. One reconnaissance and patrol vehicle stood at the beginning of the column, the other brought up the rear. Stepanych, crimson with anger, leaned out of the hatch of the lead vehicle and, shouting above the roar of the engines, began yelling something, hitting himself on the head and pointing his finger at the command vehicle. The political officer pushed the dozing warrant officer and weapons technician in the side:
-Have you installed machine guns on the BRDM?
The technician began to make excuses:
- I received the machine guns late at night, and even in grease, I didn’t have time to install them.
Without listening to him, the political officer muttered:
“I didn’t have time, that means. It was necessary to raise the scouts at night, they would have set everything up themselves. Now pray that you get there safely, if a mess breaks out, either the “Czechs” will shoot you, or Stepanych will personally put you up against the wall.
Spitting in the direction of the command vehicle, Stepanych climbed inside the BRDM. Flipping the switch on the radio station, he announced:
- Well, boys, if we get there alive, I’ll light the thickest candle for the Lord.
The radio didn't work either. A military traffic police UAZ stood in front of the column, the company commander gave the go-ahead, and the column moved off. Stepanych pulled the zinc with cartridges towards him and began filling the magazines. Andrei Sharapov, the same intelligence officer who did not drink at night, turned the wheel with concentration, purring to himself: “Afghanistan, Moldova and now Chechnya, they left the pain of the morning on their hearts.” Sitting behind the machine gun, Sashka Besedin, nicknamed Bes, suddenly asked:
- Andryukha, didn’t you say yesterday what happened with your dollars?
Sharapov paused, then reluctantly answered:
- The dollars turned out to be counterfeit, or so they told us. I thought a lot about
With this, either the “Czechs” deceived us, leaving a bait for us to linger, or... or we were simply deceived by our own people.
We drove on in silence. Stepanich, groaning, pulled a bulletproof vest over his peacoat, pulled the mask over his face and climbed onto the armor. The column wriggled like a gray-green snake, engines growled, machine gun barrels looked predatorily and warily along the sides of the road. Without stopping at the checkpoint, we crossed the administrative border with Chechnya, the Minvodsk policemen, on duty and inspecting all transport, saluted the column with their arms bent at the elbow.
Gizatullin leaned out of the open hatch, exposed his sleepy, suffering face to the cold breeze, then handed Stepanych an aluminum flask. He shook his head negatively. The column passed through some village. Behind was a wooden post with a sign that had been shot....-yurt.”
A few minutes later, the BRDM engine sneezed and fell silent, and the column stood up. The company commander ran to the car and swore. Seeing Stepanych, he fell silent. Sharapov was already digging into the engine.
“Commander!” Andrei shouted, turning to Stepanych, “the fuel pump is broken, I’ll try to repair it, but the work will take at least an hour!”
“Here you are, Comrade Major,” said Stepanych, “let’s put the second mess in front and lead the column away.” Leave us your VAI UAZ, we’ll catch up with you in an hour. He muttered barely audibly: “If we stay alive.” I don’t like all this, oh, I don’t like it.
He took the machine gun off his shoulder and pulled the bolt, forcing the cartridge into the chamber. The column passed by, the scouts in the departing vehicle climbed onto the armor, waving their arms and machine guns. Stepanich ordered:
- So, guardsmen, the relaxation is over. Load up everyone's weapons, don't go into the forest, don't lean out from under the cover of armor, no one has yet canceled snipers and tripwires in this war.
Ten minutes passed. The gasket on the fuel pump cover had broken and fuel was not getting into the carburetor. The frozen fingers did not obey, and Sharapov cursed in a low voice.
The warrant officer-traffic inspector was dozing in the UAZ cab, the scouts, as usual dispersed, kept the surrounding area under gunpoint. Gizatullin stopped the red Zhiguli. The driver, a young Chechen, promised to bring a gas pump from Gaz-53. Stepanych did not hear the negotiations; he and Sharapov were digging into the engine. Fifteen to twenty minutes later a Zhiguli car appeared. Gizatullin rubbed his palms happily:
- Let's go now.
Stepanych didn’t like something about the approaching car; he jumped off the armor, moving the machine gun from his shoulder to his stomach. Almost simultaneously with him, not reaching the scouts 50-70 meters, the car skidded on a slippery road and stood sideways. The windows came down, and jets of fire from machine guns hit the scouts' car one after another. Small stinging bullets shredded the icy crust of the road, made holes in the tin of the UAZ, and ricocheted off the armor engulfed in flames. Andrei Sharapov, half hanging from the hatch, lay on the armor, his peacoat was burning on his back. Gizatullina's skull was cut off in a burst. The already dead body was in agony on the white snow, the yellowish brain with red blood streaks was pulsating in the open skull. Besedin’s body, pierced by machine-gun fire, flew towards the ground, and he slowly dropped to his knees, trying to lift the weapon with his weakened hands. Stepanych's left arm was broken and his face was cut. Growling, he rolled into the road ditch. Blood covered his face, red dots stood and moved in his eyes. The departing car was one of them, and he fired his grenade launcher almost at random. Then, no longer hearing the shots, he kept pressing and pressing the trigger, not noticing that the magazine was out of cartridges, that the car was burning, throwing sharp tongues of flame upward. Two more explosions sounded one after another. The doors of the red Zhiguli cars were torn off, they flew several meters away and burned out, smoking black smoke. The snow under the burnt car melted, revealing thawed patches of black earth. It was quiet. The white sun shone dimly through the curtain of clouds. At the horizon line, a pall of smoke hung over Grozny, the city was burning. The silence of the morning was broken by the sound of wings and the caw of crows - the birds hurried after their prey. The door of the UAZ slammed, a traffic inspector crawled out of the car, looked with crazy eyes at the scattered bodies, the smoking cars, and crawled towards the forest, scooping up snow with the pockets of his pea coat. Kneeling in front of the dead Besedin, Stepanich tore the bandage wrapper with his teeth, not noticing that the blood had already stopped bubbling on his lips, congealing in the cold and turning into a bloody crust.
Swaying his whole body, Stepanych howled. Falling snowflakes covered motionless bodies, bloody puddles, and spent cartridges with a white fluffy blanket. Hooded crows walked warily, painting the white ground with their footprints.

Soldier's mother

Dedicated to mothers whose sons will never return home.

Modern Calvary

In the summer of 2000 from the Nativity of Christ, along a dusty and rocky road leading to the village of Tengi-Chu, five armed horsemen were chasing three captives. The merciless sun forced all living things to hide, insects and creatures took refuge under stones and in crevices, waiting for the onset of the saving evening cool. In the sultry and viscous silence, only the clatter of hooves and the snoring of horses could be heard. Red-bearded Akhmet, pulling a wide army panama hat over his nose and leaning back in the saddle, purred quietly:
From wine, from naga
Mastagi of Egen
Hi kont osal ma hate.
My dear mother,
The enemies were defeated
And your son is worthy of you.
The slaves, barely moving their weak legs, followed the horses, carried away by a taut rope tied to the saddle. At some distance from them, a leisurely donkey, waving its tail displeasedly, pulled a cart with rubber wheels. The cart jumped, hitting the stones, and then a dull knock was heard, as if someone was hitting the lid of a coffin - thump, thump.
The cart was driven by a freckled boy about twelve years old, in his hands was a single-barreled hunting rifle. The boy pointed it at the prisoners, then laughed loudly, clicking the trigger. The prisoners are exhausted, their thin boyish necks stick out from the collars of their dirty shirts, their broken legs are bleeding. Salty, acrid sweat flows down the cheeks, corroding the dried crust of abrasions and leaving crooked tracks of marks on the skin gray with dust and dirt.
The roofs of houses appeared from behind the ledge of the mountain. The perked-up Akhmet stopped the column, stood up in his stirrups and peered for a long time into the sleepy, deserted streets. Flaring the nostrils of his thin, predatory nose, he inhaled the smell of his native village, the smoke of fires, fresh milk, and freshly baked bread. Dogs barked in the village, smelling the scent of strangers.
Akhmet shouted something in his guttural language. Two horsemen dismounted and untied the prisoners' hands. Three soldiers sank exhausted onto the road, straight into the hot, gray dust.

From the bottomless depths of the Galaxy, the Father Creator stretched out his hands to the small blue planet, carefully feeling his creation, dispelling the curtains of evil and pain swirling over the Earth.

From behind the stone fences, people silently looked at the thundering cart, silent horsemen with weapons, captive soldiers carrying a huge five-meter cross on their bent backs. Roughly planed pine beams seal their bodies to the ground. Frozen droplets of resin freeze like beads of blood on freshly planed wood. It seems that a dead tree is crying for people who are still alive. Old people, women and children came out of their houses, silently following the procession.
A week ago, conscript soldiers and a warrant officer were captured near Urus-Martan while they were erecting a cross at the site of the death of their political officer. On the square in front of the former village council building; The soldiers laid the cross on the ground, indifferently bumping their shoulders, dug a hole, and strengthened the cross in the ground. People looked at what was happening with a mixed feeling of fear and curiosity. The boys threw stones at the soldiers, the old men, separated from the crowd, leaned on their sticks, poking at the prisoners with calloused, dry fingers. In appearance, the two soldiers were no more than 18-20 years old, their frightened boyish faces turned white with notebook sheets in the approaching dusk. The ensign, a little older in age, continuously swallowed viscous sticky saliva, fighting a fit of mortal fear. The cloudless sky began to become covered with gray clouds, and a light breeze blew.
Akhmet shouted something, the bearded men began to push the soldiers with sticks, forcing them to work faster. The preparations were completed. The conscript boys were placed at the edges of the cross, and the ensign was tied to the crossbar with wire. Akhmet read out a long sheet of paper. “For crimes committed on Chechen territory, murders of people... rapes... robberies... the Sharia court... sentenced...”
The rising wind blows his words away, flutters a sheet of paper, stuffs his mouth, preventing him from speaking “...sentenced, taking into account extenuating circumstances... the youth and repentance of conscript soldiers Andrei Makarov and Sergei Zvyagintsev to one hundred blows with sticks. The ensign... of the Russian army... for genocide and destruction of the Chechen people, the destruction of mosques and the desecration of the sacred Muslim land and faith... to the death penalty...” One of the guards, acting as an executioner, climbed onto a stool and beat him in with several short strong blows thick long nails in the wrists. I cut through the wire with rusty pliers. The man hanging on the nails groaned and exhaled painfully: “Father.”
The soldiers were immediately laid out on the ground in the square. Long gnarled sticks tore the skin, instantly turning it into bloody rags. The man on the cross was breathing hoarsely and heavily, and a transparent tear trembled on his light eyelashes.
People were going home, bodies lay spread out in the square, and a lopsided cross was terribly white. Dogs were howling in the neighboring houses, the man on the cross was still alive, his body covered with perspiration was breathing, his blood-bitten lips were whispering and calling for someone...
Only Akhmet was left in the deserted square. Rocking from his toes to his heels, he stood for a long time in front of a wheezing man, powerlessly trying to raise his head and say something.
Akhmet pulled a knife from his belt, the bailiff cut his shirt on tiptoe from top to bottom, grinned, noticing a white aluminum cross on the boy’s sunken chest:
- Well, soldier, your faith does not save you, where is your god?
“My God is Love, it is eternal,” the blackened lips barely whispered.
Baring his strong yellow teeth, swinging briefly, Akhmet struck with a knife. The sky was torn apart by a terrible roar, thunder struck, and darkness fell to the ground. Drops of rain washed over the dead bodies, washing away the blood and pain. The sky cried, bringing back to earth the tears of mothers mourning their children.

A small fair-headed boy, who looked like his father like two peas in a pod, held his hand:
“Dad, what is God?” he asked.
- God is love, son. If you believe in the Lord and love all living things, then you will live forever, because love does not die.
Long eyelashes trembled, the boy asked:
- Dad, does this mean that I will never die?
Father and son walked along an alley littered with yellow leaves, listening to the bells ringing. Life continued as it had two thousand years ago. The small blue planet moved in orbit, repeating its path again and again.

Since the war there are no return tickets

The railway station of a small southern town is packed to capacity with people. The velvet season has begun, the first sign of which is the lack of train tickets.
There are two waiting rooms at the station, one is commercial, the other is general. In the commercial one, people pass the time and wait for the train, eager for the warm sea, the still hot gentle sun, and cheap fruit.
These people expect comfort and peace. Entrance to the hall is paid and there are no annoying gypsy beggars, refugees from Chechnya, homeless vagabonds trying to spend the night, and soldiers returning from the war.
There are several televisions, a clean toilet with paper and towels, a buffet counter where chickens on duty are served, soft buns, beer, coffee. The entrance to this oasis of well-being is guarded by a policeman with a rubber baton and a short-barreled machine gun. Next to him sits a girl controller in a brand new railway uniform and a flirty beret. She accepts the entrance fee and makes eyes at the policeman.
In the common room, conscript soldiers and unshaven contract soldiers are lying right on the floor, returning home. There are no tickets, the soldiers cannot board the train for 3-4 days. They sleep right on the floor, with dirty peacoats spread under them and duffel bags under their heads. Having escaped from where just yesterday they were killing and trying to kill them, many begin to drink right there at the station, some hire prostitutes or simply wander the streets lost.
The police and officers do not pay any attention to them. The officers keep to themselves, trying to disperse to hotels or private apartments.
A small non-Russian boy walks around the waiting room. He approaches the passengers and holds out his unwashed palm. His face is grimy, his clothes require washing and repair. Some compassionate old woman comes up to him and hands him a homemade pie. The boy takes the gift, twirls it in his hands and puts it in the trash can. He needs money. Now a special business has appeared in Russia: children ask for alms, then give it to adults. If the child does not bring money, he will be punished.
A red-haired contract sergeant with a scar on his face kicked his duffel bag and went to the railway ticket office. The glass windows are covered with a sign “No tickets”; the cashier with a wide, masculine face shifts bills, not paying any attention to the resigned passengers. The sergeant pushes through the line and knocks on the cloudy glass:
-Girl, I really need a ticket to Novosibirsk.
The cashier, without raising her eyes, answers with an indifferently routine phrase:
-There are no tickets.
The sergeant tries to make a pleading face:
“Girl, I really need to leave, my mother is dying,” and as a final argument,
-Girl, I’m coming back from the war, because I won’t find my mother.
The cashier finally raises her head:
-We have the same rules for everyone, I can’t help your mother.
The sergeant slammed his fist into the plexiglass window, pulled a hand grenade out of his pocket, and looked back at the people frozen in horror. He put it back in his pocket, pulled the knife hanging from his belt out of its sheath, rolled up his left sleeve and hit the vein with the blade. A stream of blood hit the glass, right on the painted mouth screaming something. A woman screamed loudly, the contractor turned white, knelt down and quietly fell to the floor, face forward. Two policemen with machine guns came running in response to the scream, bending over to the lying man, one of them began to tighten his arm with a tourniquet, the other, throwing the knife aside with his foot, quickly and habitually searched his pockets. Having pulled out a grenade, he whistled and began to contact the duty unit on the radio.
At this time, a beggar boy approached the soldiers lying on the floor and habitually extended his hand for money.
“Who did you approach, you non-Russian mug, you damned lump, who are you asking for money from? Go to your Wahhabis, they will give it to you,” yelled a blond soldier who approached with bottles of wine. When the boy rushed to the side, he squatted down. “There, one of our people opened his veins, there was blood, like in a slaughterhouse! God rest with him if he doesn’t survive.”
While the soldiers drank wine from the bottle, the passengers shyly hid their eyes to the side.
Two orderlies with a stretcher approached the contract soldier lying in a pool of blood, accompanied by a fat policeman on duty at the station.
They transferred the body onto a stretcher and wandered indifferently to the car.
The next morning this incident was reported on the Vremya program. One of the passengers managed to film a grimy child begging for alms, soldiers sleeping on a dirty floor, a stretcher with a bloody contract soldier, a station cleaner wiping human blood with a dirty rag. A few hours later, tickets appeared. The boy soldiers, like little ones, jumped on the soft compartment shelves, licked the ice cream and looked like children who had been left unattended by their parents.

The Last Abrek

The lion is stronger than all animals,
The strongest bird is the eagle.
Who, having defeated the weakest,
Wouldn’t you find any prey in them?
The weak wolf comes at those
Who is sometimes stronger than him?
And victory awaits him,
If death - then meeting with
her,
The wolf will die resignedly!
The hunters said that a huge gray wolf appeared in the mountains near the village. Old Akhmet, having met him one day on a mountain path, later claimed that the wolf had human eyes. The man and the beast stood for a long time, without moving, silently looking into each other's eyes. Then the wolf lowered its muzzle and trotted down the path. The old man, enchanted, looked after him for a long time, forgetting about the gun hanging behind his back.
Sometimes strange things happened in the mountains. A year ago, the first secretary of the district committee, Narisov, who came with his retinue for a picnic, fell into the abyss. The next night, people in the valley heard a wolf howling all night in the mountains. The crimson disk of the moon, covered with clouds, seemed like a huge bloody stain, ready to fall to the ground. Akhmet could not sleep all night, tossing and turning in his bed.
Exactly thirty years ago, on a February night in 1944, the moon shone like this. Then dogs also howled, buffaloes and cows mooed. This was the year when Stalin evicted all the Vainakhs to the cold Kazakh steppes in one night. Akhmet then lost his youngest son. Seventeen-year-old Shamil went hunting, and early in the morning the village was surrounded by Studebakers with soldiers. Since then, Shamil has not heard anything about his son. The eldest, Musa, was killed in the war, the daughter-in-law died on the road, when they were transported for several weeks in cattle cars. In two days she “burned out” from fever. He left in his arms five-year-old Isa, the son of Musa and Aishat. Now a fourteen-year-old great-grandson, also Shamil, came for the summer.
Six months ago, police chief Isa Gelayev was shot dead in the mountains. No one saw how it happened, but people said that Gelayev was shot straight in the heart. The killers did not touch his expensive gun, with which he went hunting. He was found by a shepherd from a neighboring village. Then he said that horror froze in the eyes of the dead Gelayev, as if before his death he saw
the devil himself. The shepherd also said that next to the body the prints of huge wolf paws were visible. That night, it seems, this wolf also howled.
In the morning Shamil was going to go hunting. Akhmet did not resist. The great-grandson was supposed to grow up to be a real man, like everyone else in the Magomayev family. Old people say that a Chechen is already born with a dagger. Akhmet did not approve of city life and city education. Moscow, where the great-grandson lived, is the spawn of the devil. City men are similar to women, they are just as weak, they also love to sleep on soft feather beds and sofas, they also love to eat and drink sweets.
Shamil rose before dawn. In the morning I cleaned the double-barreled shotgun and loaded the cartridges. When Akhmet went out into the yard, the boy was playing with his puppy Dzhali, the old man’s heart sank; his great-grandson looked like his missing son like two peas in a pod: the same hair, the same dimple on
cheek, the same crescent-shaped mole near the left eye. Shamil wanted to take his grandfather’s cloak with him, but then he changed his mind - it’s hard to carry. He rolled up the blanket, put it in his bag, and took a soldier’s bowler hat and an ancient dagger. Said:
- Grandfather, I’ll be back from hunting in the morning, don’t worry. I will spend the night in the mountains.
The old man just nodded his head - a man shouldn't talk much.
All day the young hunter climbed the mountains. Jali tagged along behind him. By evening, Shamil shot a kid, skinned it, and lit a fire. The meat was baked on coals. A satisfied dog, sticking out its pink tongue, lay nearby. The stars hung directly overhead. Wrapped in a blanket, the boy dozed off by the fire. Suddenly the wind blew and sharp thunder struck. It began to rain. The burnt coals of the fire hissed under the streams of rain, and the boy was surrounded by pitch darkness. Grabbing a gun and a blanket, Shamil rushed to a niche under a rock, but slipped on a wet stone and rolled down the slope, dropping the gun. He tried to get up, but felt a sharp pain in his leg. Crying in pain, he crawled upstairs. Having reached the rock, he pressed his back against its cooled side, trying to hide from the streams of water.
Tears mixed with raindrops flowed down his cheeks. The frightened puppy huddled nearby. The gun and blanket remained on the slope. The boy began to freeze. His clothes, soaked through, did not provide any warmth, and his thin body was shaken by violent tremors. The twisted ankle was swollen, causing excruciating pain. He hugged the puppy, trying to keep warm. The temperature rose, oblivion alternated with reality. Suddenly, Dzhali, with his ears pricked up, growled, then squealed pitifully, trying to hide behind Shamil. The boy raised his head and saw a huge wolf standing next to him. His eyes burned with yellow fire, and it seemed to the boy that steam was coming from his sides. The wolf ran for a long time, hot breath escaping from its open mouth.
The little hunter held his breath, the wolf growled and, coming closer, lay down next to him, covering him from the rain with his body. Having warmed up, the boy and the puppy dozed off, not noticing how the rain stopped and morning came. The wolf was also dozing, with his head resting on his front paws, and it seemed that he was thinking about something, trying to make some decision. Suddenly he stood up and licked
hit the boy in the face with a hot tongue and trotted along the path.
A few minutes later people appeared. Akhmet was holding a gun in his hands. Seeing the old man, Djali barked and squealed joyfully, as if trying to say “We are here, we are here!” Don't pass by! The blacksmith Magomed took the boy in his arms and wrapped him in an old cloak that he had taken with him. The boy’s body was burning, he was constantly delirious and whispering: “Grandfather, grandfather, I saw a wolf, he came to me and warmed me. Grandfather, he is not a beast, he is good, he is like a person.”
The upset old man whispered: “He’s delusional, he didn’t save the boy.” Urged Magomed:
- Hurry up, hurry up!
While the boy was sick and lying at home, Akhmet once again went to the place where the boy was caught in a thunderstorm. The prints of huge paws were visible on the dried ground, in a niche under the rock between
Shreds of gray wool stuck out like stones. The old man’s heart was restless, his soul could not find any place. Having sent his recovered grandson to Moscow, he almost never lived at home; he went to the mountains for a week, looking for traces of a strange wolf. Meanwhile, in the villages they began to talk about an unusual beast. People's rumors attributed to him something that did not exist. People believed and did not believe, old people shook their heads - a werewolf, they say, the soul of a man, an abrek who went to the mountains so as not to surrender to the authorities, moved into the body of this wolf.
One day, at the house where Akhmet lived, a district committee Volga braked, and the district committee instructor Makhashev and an unfamiliar elderly man in a formal suit and a medal bar on his jacket got out of the car. The man was under 60 or somewhere around that, gray head, attentive eyes. Something in his figure reminded Akhmet; there was a feeling that they had met somewhere. After greeting, Makhashev introduced the guest:
- Lieutenant General Semenov, from Moscow, fought in our area. I came to hunt, to remember my youth. He needs a guide in the mountains.
The old man didn't hear him; in his eyes there was a picture of the past: a column of trucks stinking of gasoline fumes, slowly rising up the mountain, green figures of soldiers with machine guns in their hands, angrily barking shepherd dogs and above all this, a military man tied with belts, giving orders. The same imperious, attentive gaze, gray temples, confident movements.
The old man stood hunched over, then said with dry lips: “Kanwella epsar” and, dragging his feet, went into the house. The door slammed loudly and the puppy squealed. The instructor wanted to translate the old man’s phrase, but, looking at Semenov, he stopped short. The general stood pale, his lips compressed into a narrow thin strip. Having glanced at Makhashev, Semenov turned and went to the car, the instructor trailing behind.
The old man continued to walk in the mountains, and Semyonov hunted somewhere in the same places. They both scoured the mountains, but their paths did not cross and they never met again. There was a rumor that the general wounded a wolf while hunting. But he failed to take the skin to Moscow. The wounded animal left
to the mountains to lick the wound and gain strength.
One morning, while hunting in the mountains, the old man saw an unfamiliar bearded man walking up a mountain path. Despite the morning coolness, he was naked to the waist. On his powerful, hairy back was a fresh, pale pink bullet scar. He carried a dead goat on his shoulders. The figure of a stranger emerged from the fog and after a few moments, disappeared. The man moved completely silently, and the old man could swear that he had never seen him in any of the nearby villages.
One day in the morning something seemed to push him. The damned moon was peeping into the windows again, preventing me from sleeping. A shot hit the mountains. Jali growled and began scratching at the door. The old man quickly got dressed, grabbed his gun, and hurried after the dog. The dog ran ahead, lowering its muzzle to the ground and howling dully. Akhmet, stumbling and falling, hurried after him, his legs trembling.
At the rock where he had previously found his grandson, General Semyonov was lying on his back. Blood from the throat torn by sharp teeth was caked on the face and chest. Not far from him lay a completely naked bearded man with his chest torn apart by buckshot.
On his bearded face, next to a crescent-shaped mole, a single tear froze like a drop of dew...

Kanwella epsar (Chechen) - the officer has aged.

Faith

Despite the summer month, the weather in recent days has not been pleasant at all. From the very morning the sky was overcast with gray clouds that poured cold, joyless rain onto the ground. As if on purpose, I forgot my umbrella at home and, having gotten wet to the skin, was no longer in a hurry to hide from the cold streams, but walked resignedly along the pavement, indifferently examining the glass windows.
The mood matched the weather. A few months ago, like a grain of sand during a storm, I was caught by the wind of immigration and dropped in beautiful, rich, but terribly distant and alien Germany. Suddenly, problems arose that I had not even suspected: everyday troubles, a language barrier, a vacuum of communication. And the worst thing: I felt superfluous at this celebration of life. The phone didn’t ring, I didn’t have to rush anywhere, no one was waiting for me or looking for a meeting with me.
Rare passers-by cast indifferent glances in my direction and silently hurried about their business. I was a stranger here. My heart was sad. It was a shame to realize that I was useless at forty years old.
Immersed in my joyless thoughts, I completely did not notice anything around me, and when I suddenly looked up, it was as if something had pushed me in the chest. It seemed to me that a ray of sunlight was hitting my face from behind the glass. I came closer. Through the glass one could see a small room filled with easels and canvases.
On the wall, next to the window, there was a completed painting, which made me stop. It depicted some kind of dilapidated rural church, reflected in the river flowing past. The sun slowly rolled out from behind the church domes, illuminating the ground, strewn with fading leaves, with some unearthly light. It seemed that in just one more moment the twilight would melt, the rain would stop and my soul would feel lighter. I covered my face with my hand: an inexorable memory carried me into the recent past.
...In the winter of 2000, Russian troops entered Grozny. The staff officers took into account the experience of the first
Chechen war, when in two days of New Year 1995 there were almost completely
The 131st Maykop brigade, the 81st Samara motorized rifle regiment, and a significant part of the 8th Volgograd Corps, which went to the aid of the dying Russian battalions, were destroyed.
Preparations for the assault on the rebellious Chechen capital were carried out seriously and lasted several months. All this time, day and night, federal aircraft hovered over the burned city. The rockets and shells did their job - the city practically ceased to exist. All high-rise buildings were destroyed, wooden buildings were burned, and dead houses silently looked at people with empty window sockets.
At the same time, people continued to live under the rubble. These were residents of Grozny, mostly old people, women, children, who had lost loved ones, housing, property during the war years and did not want to leave the city, because in Russia NO ONE NEEDED THEM.
The defense of the city was entrusted to Shamil Basayev and his “Abkhaz” battalion. Federal troops were supposed to surround the city and destroy all the militants, but Basayev outwitted the Russian generals, and on the last night before the assault he took some of his militants into the mountains.
The other part, disguised as civilians, settled in the city and nearby villages.
In early February, intelligence reported that the “Czechs” were on the eve of another anniversary
The deportations of 1944 are preparing a series of terrorist attacks for February 23. Suddenly there were many young men in the city.
The command of the group of Russian troops ordered to strengthen the garrison of Grozny
combined detachments consisting of fighters from commandant companies, riot police and special forces.
That's how I ended up in Grozny. By that time my contract was already coming to an end, and I really hoped that I would stay alive and return home.
Despite the cheerful assurances of politicians that the war in Chechnya was about to end, in Grozny snipers were still being shot from under the rubble, people and cars were being blown up by landmines. Our task was simple: accompany the columns, protect buildings and institutions. If the need arises to take part in sweeps.
On that February day, the sun was shining in the morning. The falling snow lightly dusted the piles of broken bricks and pieces of rusty tin with which the ground was strewn. They say that during the last war, local residents covered the bodies of dead soldiers with these pieces to prevent rats and dogs from devouring them.
Soldiers free from duty sleep side by side on plank bunks. Petty Officer Igor Perepelitsin sits at a hot stove and cleans his machine gun. Igor was born in Grozny, served in the police here, and rose to the rank of officer. Then, when Russians began to be killed in Chechnya, he left for Russia, but there was no place for him in the “authorities.” Then, along with the Cossacks, Perepelitsin went to fight in Yugoslavia, then in Transnistria. Well, when the mess began in Chechnya, he was right there. His police rank doesn’t count here, and Igor pulls the soldier’s burden with us. He knows everything about Chechnya and the Chechens. I ask him:
- Igorek, have you met Basayev?
- Well, Shamil is a dark horse, he studied in Moscow, they say that he even defended the White House during the putsch. I know one thing: before he appeared in Abkhazia, his battalion was trained at a training base of either the KGB or the GRU. They trained him especially for Chechnya, you know?
The sergeant-major clicks the shutter and pulls the trigger.
But I knew Ruslan Lobazanov, Lobzik, a former athlete personally, at one school
studied. He was a strong man, strong-willed, although he was a complete scumbag. On his orders, his childhood best friend Isa Kopeyka was burned along with the car. He also played some tricks with the committee. After his guard shot him, his committee ID was found in his pocket.
Igor spits on the floor:
- Take my word for it, they are all tied here with the same rope. I'm only fighting because
I can’t stop, war is like a drug, it’s addictive.
- Well, when this mess is over, what are you going to do?
- I’ll go to Moscow. I’ll gather some desperate guys and rush to the Kremlin. Then the whole country will breathe a sigh of relief.
They didn't let us come to an agreement. A SOBR officer comes running and shouts:
- Guys! Climb! The Czechs fired at the market with a grenade launcher.
We're going out to clean up. The people in the market immediately fled. Several dead soldiers, in bloody, dirty peacoats, and several civilians lie on the dirty snow. Women are already howling above them. We are blocking the streets leading to the market with armored personnel carriers, commanded by a major from the SOBR. We go down to the basement, riot police are with us, Igor Perepelitsyn insures the entrance. People live in the basement - Russian old people, children. A frightened flock of them presses against the wall. A girl of about 15-16 years old remains sitting on the bed in the middle of the basement, staring with frightened eyes and hiding something under the pillow. The riot policeman points a machine gun at her:
- Do you, beauty, need a special invitation or are your legs paralyzed from fear?
The girl suddenly throws back the blanket defiantly.
- Just imagine, they were taken away!
Instead of legs, she has stumps sticking out. Some old man shouts:
- Dear ones, we’re our own people, we’ve been hanging around here for years. Vera is an orphan from the last war, and even her legs were blown off by a bomb.
I go over and carefully cover her legs with a gray soldier’s blanket and take out a hidden package from under the pillow. I'm a mine clearance specialist, but this doesn't look like a landmine. It turned out to be paints, ordinary watercolor paints. The girl looks from under her brows:
-If you want to take it, I won’t give it back.
The riot policeman sighs like a peasant:
- The Lord is with you, daughter. We are people too.
In the evening we return to base. Several shells were found. There is a lot of this goodness here. Several Chechen men were detained. Igor knows one of them. He asks something in Chechen. He doesn't answer. The foreman explains:
- This is Shirvani Askhabov. Their six brothers are all fighters. Three died from bombings in the city, the rest fled to the mountains.
The detainees were taken to a temporary regional police station. Igor spent a long time explaining something to the duty officer. The next day I begged the foreman for two dry rations. For a box of chocolates I took bandages and medicine from the medical unit. I came to yesterday's basement. Nobody was surprised by my arrival. People were minding their own business. The girl was drawing while sitting on the bed. An old church looked at me from a white sheet of paper, its reflection in the autumn water. I pushed my duffel bag under the bed and sat down on its edge.
- How are you, artist?
The girl smiled with bloodless lips:
- Good or almost good. It's just that my legs hurt. Just imagine, they are no longer there, but they hurt.
We sat for two hours. The girl drew and talked about herself. The story is the most ordinary, and this makes it seem even scarier. Mother is Chechen, father is German, Rudolf Kern. Before the war, they taught at the Grozny Oil Institute and were planning to leave for Russia, but didn’t have time. My father worked as a driver and one evening did not return home. Someone coveted his old Zhiguli. At that time, unidentified corpses were often found in the city. After learning about the death of her father, her mother fell ill. She did not get out of bed and, once returning home, the girl found neither an apartment nor a mother. The city was bombed by Russian planes almost every day, and instead of a house there were only ruins.
And then Vera stepped on a mine that someone had forgotten. It’s good that people took her to the hospital in time, where the militants were operated on. Mina is Russian, but the Chechens saved her life.
We are silent for a long time. I smoke, then I ask if she has any relatives in Russia. She replies that her father’s brother lives in Nalchik, but it seems he has been planning to leave for Germany for a long time. I say goodbye and get ready to leave. The girl hands me the drawing and says:
- I want to paint such a picture that, looking at it, every person believes in himself, that everything will be fine for him. A person cannot live without faith.
The girl looks at me with her big eyes, and it seems to me that she knows much more about life than I do.
I was going to visit Vera the next day, but in war you can’t make any guesses. Our armored personnel carrier was blown up by a landmine. The driver and gunner were killed, and Perepelitsyn and I escaped with a shell shock and several shrapnel. From the Budenovsky hospital I called NTV correspondent Olga Kiriy and told her a story about a girl who lost her legs in the war. Olga agreed to help find her relatives and launched this story into the next report. Then she sent a letter in which she said that Vera was taken from Grozny by her uncle...
I'm standing in front of a dark shop window and trying to see the signature on the painting. Faith?..
How much do I need you now, VERA?

CHECHEN NOVEL

The commandant's company stood in the village for the third month. Contract soldiers guarded the school, kindergarten, and administrative buildings. They went out to destroy mini-oil refineries and escorted convoys of cargo and humanitarian aid across Chechnya. During the day it was quiet in the village, at night snipers were shooting, signal mines were exploding, and the military registration and enlistment office and school were fired at several times from a grenade launcher. Roman Belov returned to the company from the hospital. Having lain in a hospital bed with pneumonia and having grown quite thin on meager hospital rations, Belov was eager to join the company as if he were going home. A former history teacher, tired of the constant lack of money, he signed a contract and went to war to earn at least a little living. Many friends went into business, some into bandits. Many, like him, eked out a miserable existence, borrowing and reborrowing money from more fortunate neighbors, friends, and relatives.
In the war, of course, people were killed, military columns were ambushed, people were blown up by mines, but everyone drove these thoughts away from themselves. Today he is alive and well.
Having reported his arrival to the company commander and received his machine gun, Belov headed to the military registration and enlistment office. His platoon was located there, occupying the first floor. Over the past month, the contingent has changed a lot, someone was kicked out, someone was sent to the hospital, someone voluntarily broke their contract. Over the past time, the soldiers have improved their way of life; they no longer slept on the floor, but on beds. The sleeping quarters were warm from homemade heaters; food was prepared not in the soldiers’ field kitchens, but in a small room right there in the military registration and enlistment office.
The food was served by a tall woman of about thirty, wearing a long black dress and matching headscarf. Roman drew attention to her beautiful fingers; she did not look like an ordinary resident of the village. Thanking her for the food, Roman tried to help her put away the dishes and heard in response:
- No, no, you don’t have to do this! A woman must feed a man and clean up his dishes.
Belov was embarrassed and seemed to blush:
- But you waited for me to eat and didn’t go home.
The woman smiled slightly:
- Waiting for a man is also a woman’s duty and destiny.
Her voice was like the rustling of autumn leaves, it captivated and attracted, just as the sight of running water or a burning fire attracts the eye. An unfamiliar soldier entered, fastening his machine gun, and said:
- Let's go, Aishat, today I will be your gentleman.
They left, and Belov retained her voice, thin pale face, and long eyelashes in his memory for a long time. In the sleeping quarters, the neighbor down the aisle took out a flask of vodka from his bedside table:
- Give me fifty grams for an acquaintance. In war, vodka is the best remedy for stress. Vodka and work - the best cure for all this vomit has not yet been invented.
After drinking, the neighbor, who introduced himself as Nikolai, himself began to talk about Aishat, as if he guessed that Roman was hanging on every word about her:
- Chechen, refugee from Grozny. Pianist, have you seen what kind of fingers she has? The whole family: mother, child died, covered with bricks during the bombing. The militants took my husband away. So I was left alone - no home, no family. As they say, no homeland, no flag. - He crunched a pickled cucumber. - After I escaped from Grozny, I came here to visit my relatives. The deputy commissioner - he is also a “Czech”, though only half - assigned her to us. Everything is working, there is no salary, and there is always food. In this situation this is also important.
Roman lit a cigarette and listened carefully.
- She’s not a bad woman. Our guys tried to approach her, but she quickly turned away from the gate to everyone. Special officers also checked her, but fell behind. Not every man will be able to survive this, in general, you will see everything for yourself.
Roman thought that Nikolai would pour a second, he even came up with a reason to refuse, but Nikolai swept the flask off the table and put it in the nightstand:
- Well, bro, that's enough for today. Everything is good in moderation, with the next glass the violation of the oath and military duty begins.
Since morning, the military commissar has been wandering around the area. Belov and two machine gunners accompanied him. By evening, their legs were buzzing and they were late for dinner. However, Aishat had not left yet; there was a saucepan with hot porridge wrapped in a blanket on the table, and a frying pan with meat on the stove. Belov joked:
- Well, Aishat, today you have three men.
The wings of her nose twitched when he said her name, and she replied:
- In every woman’s life there is only one man, all the others are only similar or dissimilar to him.
They carried on their conversation, understandable only to the two of them. The tired soldiers finished their porridge, not paying attention to them. Nikolai came in with a machine gun, but Roman stood up to meet him:
- I’ll see Aishat off, you rest.
Nikolai advised:
- Don’t stay long, curfew is in half an hour. Don’t walk through courtyards and take a couple of grenades with you just in case.
They walked along the deserted streets of the village, street lamps flickered here and there, and the ice of frozen puddles crunched under their feet. They were silent. Roman caught himself thinking that he wanted to cuddle up to this woman. She asked:
- Why did you go to accompany me, because today is not your turn?
He knew what she would ask him, most women always ask the same question. He answered quite unexpectedly:
- Probably, I wanted to go back to the past. I saw off my first girlfriend in the same way in the winter. Only this was not in Chechnya, but in Russia. Snow crunched under our feet, and the same snow fell from the chimneys.
leisurely smoke. It was twenty years ago, and I had a feeling that happiness was ahead of me. I still remember how I wanted to kiss my girlfriend. It’s strange, I forgot what her name was, but I remember what her lips smelled like. Aishat shrugged her shoulders:
-You are not like other soldiers. What brought you here?
He answered sincerely:
I probably don’t know myself. I used to think about making money, but now I realized that I don’t need this money. It is impossible to accumulate wealth by seeing others suffer. Besides, money is needed only in the world where the lights of big cities are, where self-respecting men drive luxury cars and give their women flowers, gold, and fur coats. You just don't want to fall behind everyone else. Everything is different here. When you don’t know whether you will live to see tomorrow, thoughts about the eternal come to you, and you begin to appreciate every breath of air, sip of water, the joy of human communication.
He nevertheless took her by the arm, holding her so that she wouldn’t slip.
- I’m a former teacher, I’m used to explaining everything to children. Now I need to explain everything to myself. First of all, why do I live in the world?
They approached a small adobe house with dark windows. Leaving Aishat on the street, Belov entered the yard and made sure that there was no danger. Then he called her to follow him. Aishat opened the door with the key and warming her frozen palms with her breath, said:
“You have to go, you only have ten minutes left,” she paused and added. - Thank you for tonight, I never thought that I would ever feel so good.
The next day, he looked at his watch non-stop, afraid he wouldn’t make it to his company before curfew. Somehow it just so happened that he alone began to accompany Aishat home; it became his duty and privilege. If Aishat was released earlier, and he was away somewhere, she would wait patiently for him, reading in the kitchen. Or she looked thoughtfully out the window, wrapping her shoulders in a black scarf out of habit. They did not advertise or hide their relationship. Everyone thought they were having an affair, but they didn't think about it. They felt good together. Adults, they did not rush things, knowing that if something is easy to get, it is easily forgotten. Or maybe, having been burned in their previous life, having lost loved ones in one way or another, they were afraid to believe that happiness could be found so routinely and by chance. Well, just like going out to a bakery for a minute and finding a bar of gold on the road...
Federal troops were waiting for the order to attack Grozny. There was a constant cloud of smoke from the fires over the city. Columns of military equipment walked along the roads every day. The militants intensified the mine-sabotage war, every day land mines exploded on the roads, every day they fired at and burned columns, killed officers, policemen and employees of the Chechen administration. Near Nozhai-Yurt, the Ministry of Emergency Situations convoy with humanitarian aid was shot and burned. The column was accompanied by two armored personnel carriers of riot police and a BRDM with contract soldiers. The head of intelligence, Lieutenant Colonel Smirnov, went to the scene of the tragedy. Belov, with the intelligence department, was ordered to accompany him. For two weeks in a row they shuttled between Nozhai-Yurt and the group’s headquarters in Khankala. Roman counted the days when he would see Aishat.
Returning to the commandant’s office, he saw that instead of Aishat, another woman was busy in the kitchen. She answered his question:
- Aishat got sick, she has pneumonia. He's at home.
Not finding the company commander, Roman went up to the second floor to Major Arzhanov and asked permission to leave for the village. The major, already aware of the relationship between his relative and Belov, just waved his hand. Grabbing a machine gun, Roman dropped into the market, then almost ran to the familiar adobe house.
Aishat, wrapped in a scarf, was lying on the sofa. Seeing Roman, she became embarrassed and tried to get up. Almost forcing her onto the pillows, he began unloading food and fruit. For the first time in the entire time they met, they switched to you. Belov fed her tea from a spoon and kissed her chapped lips. She said:
- I always thought that the most pleasant thing in the world is to look after your man, and I never thought that it was so pleasant when your beloved man looks after you. Quenching the jealousy in his soul, Roman asked:
- Who is your favorite man?
She laughed and, kissing him on the lips, answered:
- Stupid, well, of course you are. Everyone else I've known or know is just like you.
In the evening Nikolai came to them, refused tea, and warned:
“We will resolve the issue with the authorities, but in the morning after curfew tea, be in the company.” You understand, work is work. And the guys will be worried. Don’t relax here, keep the machine gun at hand and always have a cartridge in the barrel. - Stomping his boots and coughing into his fist, he left.
It was already getting dark. They lit the stove and sat by the open firebox without turning on the light. The flames licked the logs, the fiery glare reflected on their faces. Roman stirred the coals with a poker. They crackled, throwing burning sparks from the firebox. Aishat did most of the talking, Roman just listened:
- When this war began, I didn’t think it would be so scary. I was never interested in politics, I didn’t go to demonstrations or read newspapers. I was all about music and my family. I didn’t care who Dudayev, Zavgaev or anyone else would be president.
Aishat removed his hand from her shoulder, at the same time pressing her cheek against his palm, and began to collect it on the table:
- I studied in Moscow for five years, at the conservatory, and never divided people by nationality. Therefore, when they started expelling Russians from Chechnya, taking away their houses and apartments, and in Russia at that time they told you straight to your face that you were a black-ass, and the police checked your passport, just because you were from the Caucasus, I became scared. Then on our streets, right in broad daylight, people began to be killed, killed just like that, by the right of the strong, because you have a machine gun in your hands, but your victim does not. Chechens began to kill non-Chechens. Our neighbors Dolinsky were killed only because they had a nice, large apartment, which they did not want to sell for next to nothing. My husband Ramzan was taken away from home that same night, and I still don’t even know who? People say that Labazan's bandits are bandits, but maybe that's not true. I can’t understand one thing, where did we get so many scum? I only know one thing. Ramadan is no longer
in the world, otherwise he would definitely find me.
She pressed her face to him:
-Are you tired of listening to me yet, honey? Maybe I shouldn’t have told you this, but I’ve been waiting for you for so many years, I knew that you would still come to me and I’d tell you about everything I’ve lived through these years.
She took a short breath, coughed, and guiltily pressed her hands to her chest:
- Let's put the table closer to the stove, and then we will have dinner by the fire, like primitive people. So, I won’t say that I loved Ramazan very much, but he was my man. I was devoted and faithful to him, well, probably, like a dog. You know, for a Vainakh woman, her man is the Universe. Then these terrible bombings and shelling of residential areas began. I went to get food, and when I returned home, neither my mother nor my daughter were there. I wanted to die, I thought I would go crazy. This went on for several years, then I met you. I don’t know what happened to me, but when I saw you, I had a feeling that it was you that I had been waiting for all my life. I don’t care at all how you lived all this time, and who was with you all these years. The only thing that matters to me is that you are next to me now.
They were already lying in bed, and she kept telling and telling. Roman stroked her body with his palms, kissed her trembling eyelashes, neck, chest, warming her with his breath. Then she warmly leaned towards him, giving all her unspent love, all the tenderness of her body. Every evening Roman hurried to the company to see Aishat, to be with her for at least half an hour. He was already seriously considering terminating the contract, taking Aishat and leaving with her to Russia, away from the war. Friday was Aishat's last day of work. She received the payment and in two days was supposed to go to Roman’s mother. She did not leave the military registration and enlistment office; out of established habit, she waited for him to return from security. Everyone already knew that she was leaving, that Roman was serving his last month and was also leaving after Aishat. Belov was given three days of leave so that he could spend the last days with Aishat before breaking up. He arrived, as always, half an hour before curfew. According to established habit, he put a grenade in the pocket of his pea coat. Happy and joyful, we went home. The military commissar looked after them through the window. Life is a strange thing, someone dies in the war, someone comes to life.
Leaving Aishat outside the gates of the house, Roman entered the yard and walked around the house on all sides. Strange, but a feeling of anxiety was born in my soul, familiar to all people who often come into contact with danger. He examined the door lock. Roman could have sworn that Aishat hung him a little differently in the morning. Without saying a word, Belov took out a grenade, opened the lock, then, pressing the pin, pulled out the ring and stepped over the threshold. He immediately realized that he was not mistaken, there was someone in the room. At the same time as he realized this, he heard the sharp pop of a pistol shot and felt a sharp, tearing pain in his stomach. Just ready to unclench his fingers and roll the grenade under the shooter’s feet, he heard a shout behind him:
- Roma, Roma, my beloved!.. Falling backwards, he lay down with his chest on the hand with the grenade, not allowing his fingers to unclench and let go of death from his hand. The man sitting by the window did not move, lowering his pistol, he looked at Roman with interest. Aishat ran into the room and fell on him, covering him with her body. Following her, a man in a leather jacket entered, with a machine gun in his hands. Picking up the machine gun Belov had dropped, he said:
- Ramzan, you should finish your business quickly, you need to leave.
He boiled and said in a sharp, guttural voice:
- Come on, shut your mouth and stand where I put you!
At the sound of his voice, Aishat raised her head and met the eyes of the grinning man they called Ramzan.
“You-s-s?” she breathed.
“Yes, it’s me,” he agreed briefly. - Get ready, you are leaving with me.
“No,” Aishat answered. -You can kill me with him, but I will not leave him.
“You!” Ramzan boiled. - Stupid woman, you forgot everything! I forgot who your husband is! What did they do to your family! Why do you need this Russian guy?
- My husband died six years ago. Then I lost my family, and I will mourn it forever. This man replaced everything for me - both my husband and my child. Do you understand that I love him? I love you like I have never loved anyone before. Ramzan pointed a gun at her:
“I’m very sorry, but I’ll have to kill you.” You yourself said that a woman can only have one man.
- You don’t understand anything, Ramzan, my man is him. “You were just like him,” Aishat said in a tired voice, covering Roman with her body, warming him with her breath.
The door slammed, Ramzan left. Aishat spread out like a black bird on the lying man, forcing his heart to beat in the same rhythm as hers, absorbing his pain into her body.
Soldiers ran down the street, jerking the bolts of their machine guns as they ran. Tired old women looked at them indifferently from the gaps of dark windows.

Stranger…

Closer to midnight, life in the three-story squat building of the former village council finally calmed down. The military commandant of the Northern Security Zone, Major General Kuznetsov, groaning and shuffling with his boots, descended the stairs; slamming the door, he went out into the yard. A huge puddle spilled from the plank toilet, painted with lime, all the way to the porch. The winter horned moon, surrounded by cold stars, was reflected in the puddle at his feet. Cursing in an undertone, the general relieved himself directly on the yellow horns. Kuznetsov had chronic prostatitis, and for a long time he stood in front of a puddle in a stupid pose with his fly unbuttoned.
A painted face appeared in the dormer window adjacent to the building's commandant's office. The sniper sitting in the “secret”, frozen, decided to move a little. Seeing the general stretched out over a puddle, he burst into his fist and hid in the darkness. Groaning and wincing, Kuznetsov buttoned up his pants and dragged himself into the warm warmth of his office, where he had a sofa. The riot policeman sitting at the door stood up, but the general, not paying attention to him and muttering something under his breath, went to his room. Muffled music could be heard from the ground floor, where the sleeping quarters of conscripts, contract soldiers and a platoon of riot police were located. Yesterday evening, scouts brought an ancient dagger to the police for exchange. “Chench” turned into a friendly dinner, which could easily develop into a smooth friendly breakfast. When all the wine was drunk, the stash and alcohol “NZ” were used.
The object of celebration, stuck in the center of the table, silently listened to the conversation between the tall red-haired riot policeman and the contract sergeant. Poured the remaining alcohol into mugs. The riot policeman needed to come out for air. Swaying and brushing his broad shoulders against the walls, he went out into the street. The contractor turned the ancient blade over in his hands, frowned in concentration, and cut the lard. From an old tape recorder, the voice of Marina Khlebnikova was heard: “...My general... the last hero. My general..."
The returning riot police noticed a sleeping guard soldier under the stairs. By order of the commandant, a police post was set up on the first floor. In the basement, where the army soldiers had living quarters.
A conscript boy in a dirty pea coat was sleeping, curled up in a tattered old chair, the machine gun stood nearby on the concrete floor. The riot policeman tiptoed up to the sleeping soldier, stood next to him, wondering what to do, yelling “Rise!” or simply give the new guy a punch in the ear for losing his vigilance and putting his comrades in mortal danger. Having come up with an idea, the riot policeman unfastened the magazine from the machine gun and returned to the cockpit. The contractor was already asleep, his head on the table. The riot policeman finished his alcohol, then pushed the sergeant on the shoulder and thrust a machine gun horn at him.
- On the! Give it to the company commander in the morning. The young guy fell asleep at his post, let him punish him properly so that others will be disgraced, otherwise they will soon slaughter us like sheep.
Having wiped the dagger with a rag, he admired the shine of the steel for a few moments, then put it in a sheath inlaid with silver and wandered into the next cockpit. There were three hours left before the rise.
Zhenya Naydenov dreamed of a sea that he had never seen. In their village, the only reservoirs were a pit, from which they used to take clay for bricks. The pit was filled with rainwater and was a place where local punks gathered to rest. Here they drank wine, played cards, swam and sunbathed.
Zhenya dreamed that he was walking on hot yellow sand, and the incoming waves softly hit his feet. A white steamer appeared in the distance, it was heading straight towards Zhenya, cutting the sea wave with its nose. The captain stood on the deck and waved his fist, his mouth opening in a scream. Zhenya listened: “...your mother, tra-ta-ta-ta-ta...new guy,” shouted the captain in the voice of Sergeant Zykov.
Zhenya jumped up in fear, and the squad leader loomed over him like a green, spotted block:
- Did you fall asleep, goldfinch? We’ve been looking for you for half an hour, we thought the Czechs had dragged you away.
- No, Yura, I just closed my eyes for a minute, it’s already an ascent anyway, no “Czechs.” The sergeant raised his fist, but changed his mind and relented:
- Okay, new guy, I forgive you. Go to breakfast, you'll have to go fetch firewood as punishment.
“Comrade Sergeant, I didn’t sleep,” the soldier mumbled.
- After the victory you’ll sleep off, but now there’s war. And don't forget that you are punished for sleeping on duty. You can even complain about me to the company commander, he’ll put you in prison quickly, he’s been dreaming of it for a long time
try out your creation.
The sergeant added a few more words about Major Muratov and his pit, which he prepared for captured militants and undisciplined subordinates.
Naydenov did not go to breakfast. Having taken off his boots, he collapsed on the trestle bed in his pea coat. It seemed to him that he had just closed his eyes when Zykov’s hoarse voice was heard again:
-Where is this damn salabon again, you bastard.
Still half asleep, Zhenya fumbled for his hat in the darkness, grabbed the gun by the barrel and jumped out into the yard like a bullet. Several soldiers, on the orders of the company commander, poured rubble from the onboard Ural into the spilled puddle. The company sergeant major, Warrant Officer Morozov, barely cooled down from the general’s morning scolding, looked around furtively and, hiding behind the cabin door, hastily downed half a glass of vodka. He barely had time to put a cigarette in his mouth when Kuznetsov appeared with his retinue. The ensign choked, rolling the whites of his eyes, and shouted:
- Sergeant Zykov, fuck your leg. Where are the people with the tools?
At this time a sergeant and four soldiers appeared. Zykov muttered gloomily:
- I’m here, why are you yelling?
They threw axes and saws into the back of the tented Ural and climbed in themselves. Zykov ordered to fasten the magazines and load the weapons. The sergeant sat down on the edge of the side and stuck out the barrel of his machine gun. The ensign sat in the cab with the driver. Zhenya only just now noticed the absence of a magazine, feeling cold, he rummaged in the pockets of his pea coat, still not believing himself, he began to feel the floor, hoping that the magazine had fallen out of his pocket and was lying somewhere nearby. I decided to cheat: if I told the sergeant that I had lost the magazine with cartridges, he would return the car and then I would definitely not be able to avoid the pit. Naydenov strapped on the empty magazine and pressed his back against the side of the car.
Zykov was smoking, raising the collar of his peacoat and releasing cigarette smoke into the frosty air. I felt bad at heart, there were still three months left before demobilization, two months in Chechnya passed more or less calmly, but there was a feeling of something alarming. If the sergeant had more combat experience, he would have realized that this was a premonition of trouble. Fate warns that a catastrophe awaits a person soon. The cow and horse are also crying, anticipating imminent death from the knife.
Zykov didn’t know this, so he thought that frayed nerves were to blame. Then his thoughts switched to something else: that it would be nice to fool the Chechen teacher, who came to the military commandant this morning to ask him to give her some building materials for the renovation of the school, and also, he needed to quickly fuse the box of grenades that he had prepared for Umar. An old Chechen found a stocked pond somewhere and was killing fish there. As he said, “peculiarities of Chechen national fishing.”
In war, everyone bargains, you can’t do without it. Only now General Kuznetsov is transporting tanks of gasoline from Chechnya, and the company sergeant-major is selling soldiers’ canned food and cereals. They live accordingly - the general drinks cognac and snacks on caviar, and the ensign drinks vodka and snorts it with pickled cucumber.
Slamming its sides, the tractor got out of the village. The engine roared powerfully and drove towards the forest. After several bombs were dropped there, there were many fallen dry trees in the forest. Acacia and elm burned well, so for the last month we went there to collect firewood. An old, battered Zhiguli car appeared on the road. He slowly moved towards. The ensign put his palm to his forehead, shielding his eyes from the sun and trying to see who was sitting in the car. Having caught up with the military, the Zhiguli beeped in greeting and, picking up speed, rushed towards the village.
- Who is this? - the ensign asked anxiously.
“Who the hell knows, the car looks like a local police officer,” said the driver, without taking his eyes off the road. There was a knocking sound coming from the body on the roof of the cab. Zykov jumped out of the car and went to the door:
- Hey, sergeant major, there are three Czechs with machine guns in the Zhiguli, maybe we can catch up?
The ensign scratched his head:
- Yes, these are local cops, if we run into an international scandal, we’ll be late. The general will plan again, let's go.
The sergeant shrugged and silently climbed into the back. Ensign Morozov had six months left before the end of his contract and pension; he did not want any complications.
It was nice in the forest. Some bird was calling. From under the melted snow, green leaves preserved from the fall peeked out. The soldiers, throwing off their peacoats, took up axes and saws. Even the foreman, intoxicated by the fresh, heady air, grabbed an ax and, like a peasant, skillfully chopped down branches. Seeing the shrunken, sleep-deprived Naydenov, the sergeant put him under guard. Zhenya clicked the safety lever, praying to God that the sergeant would not suspect anything. It seems to have worked out.
The heated Zykov took off his undershirt and, together with the foreman, sawed the crooked trunk of an acacia tree. Tight muscles bulged on his back; it was clear that peasant physical labor gave him pleasure.
Zhenya sat in the distance, watching the road out of the corner of his eye and biting a withered blade of grass. A weak breeze ruffled the miraculously surviving leaves of the trees. A steamy, smiling Zykov approached, wiping his sweaty face with a handkerchief and putting on his pea coat, and said:
- I respect men’s work, you feel like a man, and not a slob. A real man must either break, or build, take away, or protect. Let's go to the car, help load it, otherwise you'll fall asleep at your combat post.
The sergeant deftly picked up the machine gun and, hanging it around his neck, moved into the depths of the forest. Already approaching the car, Zhenya heard a shout:
- Hey! Well, stand!..
Turning back, he saw the sergeant furiously pressing the trigger of the machine gun, jerking the bolt over and over again. The forest silence was broken by machine gun fire. As if in slow motion, Zhenya saw how bullets were tearing out pieces of cotton wool from Zykov’s back. Startled, he rushed to the car and, tripping over a root protruding from the ground, fell to the ground, having time to notice how the fiery jets knocked down the soldiers, tearing their bodies, forcing them to writhe in mortal pain.
When he opened his eyes, his first thought was that he was in a grave. There was darkness all around, my cramped legs went numb. My hands were tied behind my back, for some reason I smelled of gasoline, and nausea rose in my throat. Zhenya wanted to scream, but only a strangled groan escaped from his throat. The mouth was sealed with duct tape. He closed his eyes and began to pray. Zhenya had never been to church and didn’t know how to pray, but in early childhood he saw Grandma Galya tie a scarf and put a candle in front of the icon of the Mother of God. In a chest of drawers that smelled of mothballs, she constantly kept a supply of yellow candles, the thickness of her little finger. The grandmother turned away from everything that was happening, slowly and thoughtfully placed her fingers folded in a pinch on her forehead, stomach, shoulders, and whispered: “To You, Most Pure Mother of God, I fall and pray, if the Queen constantly sins and angers your Son and my God... I repent in trembling, will the Lord strike me... My Lady Theotokos, have mercy and strengthen me.” Grandmother Galya bowed earnestly, the flame of the candle was reflected in her pupils.
Little Zhenya tried not to make noise at such moments; his mother explained to him that his grandmother was talking to God and asking him for protection. Sometimes the boy peered through the door crack: the uneven flame of a candle enlivened the woman’s face on the darkened icon; it seemed that the Mother of God was listening to her grandmother, heeding her prayers and promising with her gaze: “Everything will be fine, everything will be fine.”
Choking and choking with tears, Zhenya groaned and muttered: “Most Holy Theotokos, Most Pure Mother of God, have mercy, save and preserve.”
The floor under my feet stopped shaking, the trunk hood opened, and daylight hit my face. A man in a police uniform painfully poked him in the chest with the barrel of a machine gun:
- Why are you howling, fucking scary? You should have stayed at home, but you came to kill children. If you moo any more, I'll cut out your tongue.
The man with the machine gun hit him in the chest again and slammed the trunk. Darkness fell again, Zhenya began to cry silently, tears flowing down his cheeks. The car drove for several hours, sometimes branches whipped across the roof of the car, scratching sounds were heard, and Zhenya guessed that he was being driven through the forest. The engine roared strainedly, and he realized that the car was moving into the mountains. Finally, the noise of the engine stopped, the iron gate rattled, the car drove a few more meters and stopped. There was an unfamiliar guttural speech, a man's laughter, and the trunk opened again. An unfamiliar bearded man tore the ribbon from his lips and, grabbing him by the collar of his peacoat, pulled him out of the trunk like a kitten. His numb and stiff legs could not hold him up, Zhenya sank to his knees, right into the snow porridge. People around laughed:
- Why, warrior, can’t you hold your legs up because of fear?
An old man in a furry hat and with a stick in his hands came close to him and looked into his face. He lifted his eyelids with calloused yellow fingers, examined his teeth, clicked his tongue disapprovingly, and muttered something displeased. Other men were pulling machine guns out of the car, Zhenya recognized his own, with a scratched butt, and his heart ached. One of the men, hearing the old man’s voice, answered something and, lifting Zhenya from the ground, dragged him into a barn.
“Father is dissatisfied, he says they brought in some dead Russian, saying you’ll do a bad job.” If you become lazy, we will feed you to the dogs, and we will bring someone else in your place. So look, the length of your life depends only on yourself,” he said, locking the door with a large barn lock.
The barn turned out to be inhabited; several goats were lying on the floor against the wall. Seeing Zhenya, they fearfully jumped up from their place, then, blinking in fear several times, they again lay down in their place and began to chew their gum.
Naydenov looked around his prison. Stone walls, loophole windows through which even his head could not crawl through, a straw-covered floor. He sat on his haunches almost the entire night. Towards morning, when fatigue overpowered fear and anxiety, he dozed off, clinging to the warm goat's side. Early in the morning the door creaked, an unfamiliar man beckoned him with his finger:
- Follow me, soldier.
They went up the steps into the house and into the room. An old man was sitting in a chair, twirling a green rosary in his hands. A boy of about ten years old sat at his feet on the fluffy carpet, looking from under his brows. Four bearded men in camouflage clothing sat on a sofa against the far wall.
- Tell me, who is he? - the old man demanded. - Don’t even think about lying - it’s a sin, Allah will punish you.
Stammering and choking on words, Zhenya began to tell how he was drafted into the army, brought to the Budennovskaya 205th brigade, then Mozdok, Chechnya. How he fell asleep with a machine gun at his post, how a magazine with cartridges disappeared, how he was captured. They listened to him in silence, the old man twirled his rosary in his hands. The youngest couldn't stand it:
- Did you take part in the purges? Shot at Chechens?
Zhenya shook his head negatively:
- I’m only in my third week in Chechnya, I haven’t shot yet, the old people didn’t take me to combat. I was just working and standing guard.
The men started talking and started talking in their own way. The old man looked at them with a hard look, the noise died down.
- Mother, is there a father? Where are you from, from what places?
Realizing that nothing threatened him yet, Zhenya answered more boldly:
- He lived in Siberia, his mother works as a nurse in a hospital, his father is a driver.
The old man clicked his tongue:
- What can you do? Can you lay bricks, can you repair a radio or TV?
- I can do everything around the house, hammer a nail, nail a board. I grew up in a village, I can milk a cow. I don’t know about the TV, but if there is some simple fault in the receiver, the wiring
Solder it, replace the plug - I can do that.
The old man closed his eyes.
- My name is grandfather Akhmet, Hadji Akhmet. These are my sons, they are all fighting, there is no time to do housework. You will live with us, you will work, you will receive food. Now they’ll let you change your clothes, I have another employee, his name is Andrey, he’s been living with me for ten years. He will show you everything and tell you, he will give you work and food. Now your sons will talk to you again, and remember, you have only one way out from here. No, not in the cemetery, there we bury Muslims, true believers. We throw people like you into the ravine. There they are eaten by animals.
The old man finished speaking and waved his hand. The men stood up. Realizing that the conversation was over and he also needed to leave, Zhenya headed for the exit.
It so happened that upon leaving the house, Zhenya found himself surrounded by Akhmet’s sons. He was pushed around the corner of the house. As he fell, he ran into someone’s knee with his face and felt the salty taste of blood in his mouth. Then someone's strong hands lifted him up. While Zhenya was trying to retain the remnants of consciousness, someone hit him in the solar plexus with their elbow. Gasping, he began to kneel, but they did not let him fall. Strong blows threw him in different directions. Zhenya was afraid that if he fell, they would beat him and trample him to death. Spitting blood, he rose and rose to his feet, afraid of losing consciousness. Finally, the older bearded man, with a short heck, jumped up and hit him in the face with his heel. Zhenya threw up his hands and fell over backwards. The light faded in his eyes, and he no longer felt how someone’s hands dragged him into the summer kitchen.
An old man with a piebald, tousled beard was sitting in the room, drinking tea from a large porcelain mug with broken edges. The men said something in Chechen. The old man jumped to his feet and helped lay Zhenya against the wall. Then he brought water and, having wet a towel, began to wipe his bloody face. The elder said:
- Change his clothes, by the evening he will recover and let him clean the cattle pen. Tell him how he realizes that these are flowers. If anyone complains about his behavior, or he decides to run away, I will hang him with my own guts.
The old man clasped his hands:
- Shamil, what the hell is he doing, look for yourself, he’s barely alive, but that’s where his soul hangs on.
After marking time, the men left, after a while the younger Idris came and brought a bag of clothes. By this time Zhenya had already come to his senses and was squatting, leaning his back against the wall. The old man handed him a mug of water, the soldier’s hands trembled. He drank, splashing water on the floor. Idris bared his white teeth in a smile:
- Well, is he alive, soldier? Nothing, for one beaten, they give two unbeaten. Looking around, I handed him a long cigarette.
- Come on, you’ll smoke in the evening, it’s a thrill, shaitan-grass. Just don’t tell your father, our old man is strict and will swear.
Groaning and mumbling something all the time, an old man with a beard, his name was Andrei, helped Zhenya take off his clothes and change. The military camouflage, boots, and belt were rolled up in a heap and taken away somewhere. Zhenya pulled on old sweatpants, a shirt, and a sweater. My whole body ached, my head was spinning, my eyes were swollen and turned into narrow slits. Andrei returned from the street, looked at his swollen face, clicked his tongue sympathetically:
- Well, well, well, it will heal until the wedding.
He had no front teeth, his speech was slurred and had a lisp.
- They are the ones who have gone berserk now. The eldest, Musa, was killed by the feds. You've probably seen his son, his name is Alik, a sweet boy. I have known this family for ten years, it was a good family, prosperous, hard-working, but the damned war changed everything. She makes animals out of people.
By evening the brothers left. Zhenya and Andrey drove the goats out into the street, cleaned them and removed the manure. His head was spinning and aching, Zhenya felt nausea coming on. But he was alive, the events of the last 24 hours had completely exhausted him, and he didn’t know whether it was good or bad that fate had spared him. In the evening he gave a cigarette with marijuana to Andrey, but refused to smoke himself. In his village they drank vodka, but most of his peers had a negative attitude towards the “poison”. In the company, most of the soldiers were ready to give up cartridges or dry rations for marijuana. Zhenya himself tried smoking a couple of times, but didn’t like it and never got used to it.
Little Alik brought a can of milk and bread. Having smoked, Andrei became talkative, smiled happily, showing toothless gums, and laughed. Zhenya noticed that the zipper on the boy’s boot had broken. I asked him to take off his shoes, threaded a thick thread into a needle and carefully sewed up the torn seam. The boy stamped his foot and ran away.
Zhenya slept poorly, and when he woke up, he saw through the window the orange moon and the stars jumping around it. Andrei was snoring on the sagging sofa, but as soon as Zhenya approached the door to go out into the yard to relieve himself, the snoring stopped and a voice was heard:
- Where are you going?
Zhenya answered, the snoring resumed. It was cold outside, and dogs barked occasionally. Zhenya closed his eyes and imagined his native village. The dogs were barking the same way, the stars were shining the same way, only there was no snow, and the silence was not so thick. Here it is viscous, alarming, like in a dark basement, you don’t know where or what you’ll trip over.
The door creaked, Andrei appeared, white underwear, yawned, and urinated in the snow. Immediately, with the toes of my boots, I covered the yellow puddle with snow.
- Don’t worry, guy, the most important thing is that you stayed alive. There is no way out of the grave, but there is always a way out of prison. God willing, everything will work out. Drive away harmful thoughts from yourself, there is no use in running away from here, there are mountains all around. They will catch up with the dogs and torture you, so be patient. The Lord will show you a way out, let's go to sleep.
This is how life began for Zhenya Naydenov in the Usmanov family.
Early in the morning he and Andrey woke up, drank tea and bread, fed the cattle, carried water, and chopped wood.
Zhenya cleaned the house, washed the floors, and did all the work in the house. He almost didn’t talk to Ahmed and the women, he kept his distance. In the middle of the day or in the evening, Alik came running to the room where he and Andrei lived, bringing broken toys. Zhenya repaired them, talked with the boy, told him all sorts of stories from his childhood, melting his soul, laughing. One day we went into the forest to get firewood. Zhenya looked for a suitable branch, cut it down, and took it with him. Neighbor Yunus, accompanying them into the forest with a machine gun, glanced sideways and asked:
- Why do you need this stick?
Zhenya replied that he would carve wooden spoons. Returning home, he cut off the branches, pulled the string, and wrapped it with electrical tape. Alik, when he saw it, was stunned:
- Did you do this to me, Zhenya?
He nodded his head affirmatively. The boy spent the whole day on the street, shooting with a bow at birds and lying around cans. In the evening I brought milk and homemade cakes. He sat quietly next to him, in no hurry. Zhenya was sitting at the table, repairing the old shoes that Andrei had brought, the old shoes were completely worn out.
The sun was setting. The room was getting dark. The generator engine started working. Zhenya remembered how he was fond of adventures as a child, and began to talk about Robinson, how he ended up on a desert island, how he met Friday. He no longer remembered much of what he had read; he had to strain his imagination and invent it. The boy listened with bated breath, his eyes sparkling. Having told the story about the famous wanderer, Zhenya, seeing the boy’s genuine interest, began to talk about the three musketeers. As soon as he reached the moment of D’Artagnan’s duel with the musketeers Athos, Porthos and Aramis, Maryam, Alik’s mother, came. Zhenya was confused at first, then recovered from his embarrassment and continued his story. Carried away, he even jumped up from the table and with an awl, like a sword, inflicted several injections on the cardinal’s imaginary guards. Alik laughed, Maryam also smiled, then she took her son by the hand and said:
- It’s already late, grandpa is waiting for you, you should read the Koran.
Two weeks later, the body of the Usmanovs’ youngest son, Idris, was brought to the village. During an attack on a police checkpoint, a machine-gun burst tore open his chest and stomach. Torn, bloody intestines fell out onto the ground, and Idris, trying to somehow reduce the pain tearing his body, kept pulling his knees up to his stomach. He was already unconscious, but his body still reacted to the pain and wanted to live. They brought him home, in bloody, torn camouflage and with numb knees pulled up to his stomach. He was wrapped in a gray checkered blanket, the kind they distributed in a refugee camp in Ingushetia. In the village there was a woman crying and howling. Alik ran into the closet, out of breath, said something in Chechen to Andrey, then turned to Zhenya and said:
- Come with me, my mother sent me, I need to hide you.
They made their way through the vegetable gardens into the neighboring yard. Alik pulled the key out of his pocket, removed the lock from the cellar lid, and waved his hand:
- Get in there and sit quietly, otherwise they will kill you. Mom said she would talk to grandfather. I'll bring you something to eat at night.
The funeral of Idris Usmanov took place in accordance with traditions. The men dug a grave and laid him facing Mecca. According to Muslim custom, the body was not washed or changed. The bloody clothes were supposed to serve as proof to Allah that he died in the fight for the faith. A long metal pipe was installed over the grave. They slaughtered a bull, and distributed saag, funeral meat, and alms to neighboring yards. For three days, while the funeral dhikr lasted, Zhenya sat in the cellar. Alik came running several times, threw down his padded jacket, and handed over a bundle of food - meat, milk, flatbread. To be honest, all these days Zhenya had no time to eat; time stood still. Lying in the dark, he thought about the same thing: “Will they kill or not kill? Will they kill or won’t they?” You could, of course, try to break the lock, but what's the point? Where to go? If they catch up, then it will definitely be death. Three days later Andrei came, threw back the lid and shouted:
- Get out, prisoner, freedom.
Zhenya returned to the Usmanovs’ house, life went on as before. Akhmed still didn’t talk to him; when he met, he turned away and frowned. Zhenya got used to it and began to feel freer. So that bad thoughts would not enter my head and melancholy would not consume me, I tried to keep myself busy with work: mowing the grass, hauling hay, repairing the fence, fixing the roof on the barn, caring for the cattle. Life in the fresh air, hearty food and physical work strengthened his body, he even seemed to become taller. Several times he caught the eye of Maryam, Alik’s mother. The young woman's gaze was confusing and alarming. When Maryam came into their room, he wanted to talk to her, touch her skin. He had never had intimacy with a woman, and he kissed only twice in his life, at a school party with a girl from the next class, Larisa Sokolova, and at his own send-off to the army with his neighbor Tomka. Andrey probably felt something, once he chuckled after Maryam left and said:
- Look, soldier, you have only one head. If Ahmed notices your shuras or suspects anything, he will personally cut off your head. This is not Russia, this is the Caucasus, it has its own laws. Be careful with Maryam, young woman, twenty-eight in total, blood and milk, and without a man for four years already.
Four months passed, spring came. Shamil Usmanov left his detachment and came home for a few days. He looked at Zhenya for a long time, then said:
- Well, you bit your face, soldier, maybe you’ll join my squad? I just need an orderly. I’ll teach you how to shoot, you’ll get even with the offenders, and I’ll also pay you in dollars. You’ll convert to Islam, marry a Chechen woman, you won’t find women like ours anywhere, just think.
On the last day, Shamil decided to go down to the valley. I talked with my father about something for a long time, then took a machine gun, several magazines with cartridges and called Zhenya:
- Come with me, stop messing around.
Alik begged to take him with him. The Niva meandered along some paths for a long time, its engine roaring, going down and up the serpentine road. Alik happily jumped in the front seat, begging his uncle to let him steer or shoot with a machine gun. Shamil laughed and promised that as soon as Alik grew up a little, he would take him into his squad to beat the infidels.
Zhenya dozed in the back seat, occasionally glancing out the window, memorizing the route just in case.
They did not stay long in the village of Yarash-Mardy. The owner of the house exchanged a few phrases with Shamil in Chechen, quickly had a snack and drank tea. Shamil drank a bottle of vodka with the owner Umar. He never drank at home and was afraid of his father. Then they loaded meat, smoked fat tail, medicines, bandages, and ampoules into the trunk.
When we set off on the way back, it was already evening. Alik was dozing in the front seat, curled up. Shamil pulled the shutter of the machine gun, placed it next to the seat, and turned on the headlights. I decided to take a short route back. Drinking vodka dulled the sense of danger. The headlights picked out from the darkness gray boulders of stones, islands of grass yellowed by the heat, and dark silhouettes of trees. Suddenly, a shadow darted in a ray of light, hit the radiator grill, choked on a short cry of pain, fell to the side, Shamil sharply slammed on the brakes, grabbed the machine gun, and fell sideways onto the side of the road. There was a resounding, ringing silence, the cicadas were crackling. Alik woke up and asked in a whisper:
- Shamil, what was that?
Shamil rose from the ground, kicked a large gray bird, it hissed, stretched its neck, crawled to the side, dragging its broken wing behind it.
“Hya doa walla hyakhitsa,” Shamil swore, “there will be no luck.”
He sat behind the wheel gloomily, put Alika in the back seat with Zhenya, turned off the headlights, and the car moved forward by touch. The impending danger took the hop out of his head. Shamil sat tense, leaning forward, vigilantly peering at the road, ready to grab the machine gun at any moment. Zhenya, just in case, opened the door slightly, pressed the boy close to him, so that at any moment he could jump out of the car with him. A strong spotlight beam hit the windshield directly, and a voice amplified by a megaphone was immediately heard:
- Stand! In case of disobedience, we open fire to kill!
Shamil gritted his teeth:
- Ay ustaz! - hit the brakes and changed gears.
The blinding beam of the spotlight twitched and moved behind the car. Shamil stepped on the gas, the engine roared, the car, wobbling and clinging sideways to boulders, rushed back. Several bursts of machine gun fire immediately rang out. Throwing the boy onto the floor of the car, Zhenya managed to see how a line of bullet holes pierced the glass, turning it into a mosaic of fragments. Shamil twitched, pieces of debris and splashes flew from his head. As if in a dream, Zhenya looked at some bloody stalk sticking out where his neck should be. A fountain of blood came out of her. Then he grabbed the boy by the collar, hooked the machine belt and fell out of the car. He fell very unsuccessfully, covering the child, and plowed several meters along the ground. But still Alik screamed and moaned:
- Zhenya, I have a leg.
There was no time to understand and examine the wound. Overcoming the pain in his side, Zhenya threw the boy on his shoulders, grabbed the machine gun and, limping, ran along a barely visible path into the mountains. Hiding behind a boulder, he heard the screams of soldiers, the sharp beam of a searchlight rummaged along the ground, boulders, and road. In the place where the overturned car remained, an explosion was heard, and a column of flame rose from behind the bushes. The spotlight continued to slide over the stones, not allowing me to rise. Zhenya pulled the machine gun towards him, took aim at the blinding circle, and exhaled:
- Lord, bless!
The machine gun in his hands twitched with a nervous, angry tremor. From the second or third stage, the spotlight went out and darkness fell. Zhenya darted to the side like an inaudible shadow. He lay down behind a boulder and waited until the response bursts began to shred the stone behind which the wounded boy lay. Without sparing any ammunition, he fired the remainder of the magazine at the flashes in front of him. Pressing his back against the boulder, he quickly changed the magazine and listened. In the ringing silence the clatter of boots and the clang of metal could be heard. Someone swore loudly and commanded:
- Ivantsov, call the carnation!
Zhenya rushed back to the stone where he had left the boy and whispered to him:
- Be patient!
He threw him on his back, and, bending down, rushed higher into the mountains. Machine gun fire rattled, and a thin boyish voice rang: “Carnation, carnation, I’m the seventh. Spirits attacked, up to five people, we have one three hundredth. Carnation, carnation, I am the seventh.
Then Zhenya himself was surprised for a long time how, in pitch darkness, jumping from stone to stone, he managed not to break his neck. Probably, the genes of the taiga ancestors who hunted animals in the taiga and lived by hunting have awakened. Or maybe the danger has sharpened all the senses, forced him to turn into a wild animal, whose salvation depends only on the speed and dexterity of his legs, visual acuity and hearing. Or maybe the Mother of God, whose face he saw in early childhood, spread her palm over him, protecting him from death. Only an hour later he decided to take a short break. Alik was no longer moaning or crying, he was unconscious. Zhenya carefully laid him on the ground and carefully took off his bloody trousers. The bullet went through the left leg. The wound was bleeding and oozing blood. Zhenya remembered with sadness the medicines left in the car. He took off his T-shirt and was glad to himself that it was made of cotton. He tore it into ribbons and urinated on the remaining piece of rag. Then he pulled out a cartridge from the machine gun, swung it with his teeth and pulled out the bullet. He poured gunpowder onto the edges of the wound, crossed himself and brought a lit match. Immediately, the flaming gunpowder was slammed down with a wet hoe. The boy screamed in pain. Zhenya covered his mouth with his palm, feeling how sharp teeth grabbed his fingers. Hurrying and looking around, he bandaged the wound and, throwing the boy on his shoulders, rushed into the darkness. He fell and rose, the thorns tore his body. With every step the burden became heavier and heavier. Realizing that he would not inform the boy, he threw the machine gun. Several times Zhenya put his ear to his chest, listening to whether his heart was beating.
Coming across a stream, he fell to his knees and drank the ice-cold water for a long time. Then, wetting his palm, he wiped the boy’s face and tried to pour a few drops into his mouth through clenched teeth.
The sky began to turn gray when he reached the village. He himself did not understand what helped him get home, not get lost and not fall into the abyss - chance, luck, or the instinct of a hunted animal, on whose trail hunting dogs are following. Zhenya carried the boy into his closet and laid him on the bed. Andrey twitched and jumped up from the sofa:
- What, what happened, what happened to the boy, where is Shamil?
Without answering, Zhenya grabbed a loaf of bread, several onions, and matches from the table. Andrey undressed Alik with trembling hands, felt his body, and lamented:
- Ahmed, he will kill you!
Zhenya shouted:
- Shut up! - Then he added. - The boy is fine, he will live, I disinfected the wound. Shamil is no more. They were ambushed. Half his head was blown off. Already at the threshold he said to the old man: “Tell him not to look for me, it’s not my fault.” Let him take care of the boy better. Because of him, I already have no way back to my people.
He jumped out into the gray dawn and rushed into the mountains. The alarmed dogs saw him off with loud barks. Until late evening, Zhenya sat in a rock crevice, next to the Usmanovs’ house. From above he could clearly see the women scurrying around the yard. Maryam shouted something to Ahmed, pressing her hands to her chest. A few minutes after he lay down in his shelter, Andrei, supporting him by the arm, brought old Zura. She was known for curing illnesses, curing toothaches, and setting dislocations. So far no one was going to look for him, but, just in case, he took an open pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, gutted the tobacco and, rising higher, covered his tracks. Zhenya, of course, understood that this was all nonsense. People who have lived in the mountains all their lives will immediately find it if they want. With the greatest regret he recalled the abandoned machine gun. Weapons have always given a person a sense of confidence and security.
Towards evening, when dusk had already fallen, he set off. He didn’t know where or why he was going. You just had to go out to people, try to get some documents, and then get out of Chechnya. It was impossible to return to the unit. How can you explain to the special officers why there were no cartridges in your machine gun? Why didn't you resist? Why didn’t you try to escape for six months? And in yesterday’s shootout, he shot at his own people, wounded someone, rode in the same car with the bandit, in fact, helped him and followed his orders. Whatever one may say, the faithful tribunal, how many years will they give him - five, ten, fifteen?
He tried to walk, choosing the most remote places, paths already overgrown with grass. He rested during the day, hiding from prying eyes, and walked at night, guided by the stars. On the third day he went out to the road. I wanted to eat and drink. The loaf of bread and onions had long since been eaten. He decided to give up on everything and go out to people. Ten or fifteen minutes later he was overtaken by an army Ural with a tented body and an explosives emblem on the cab door. The car braked sharply, raising a cloud of dust. A young lieutenant in a spotted uniform jumped out of the cockpit. The barrel of a machine gun pressed into Zhenya’s back; looking back, he saw two contract soldiers behind him.
They didn't take him long. After 20-30 minutes the road turned to the side, we passed one checkpoint, then another. The car was not checked. The lieutenant showed some paper from the window to the indifferent soldiers and they drove on. At the last block, pulling himself up on his hands, a military man in dirty camouflage and a black scarf on his head looked into the back. Zhenya knew that these were worn by contract soldiers who had been in more than their first war. The contractor looked carefully at Zhenya, who was cowering on the dirty floor, and, reaching over the side, lifted his head by the hair. “What breed of animal is this?”
“Yes, probably a wolf, there are no others here.”
The contractor looked into Zhenya’s face once again, let go of his hair and jumped to the ground.
“Lieutenant,” he shouted, disgustedly wiping his palm on his own jacket. Your darling is going to see Major Selyukov in the evening for a conversation. I'll come back from my walk and take care of it personally.
A few minutes later there was a smoky smell of burnt porridge. The Ural entered the territory of a military unit. From the soldiers’ remarks, Zhenka realized that it was OPON, a separate special-purpose regiment.
When he obeyed the command, he jumped to the ground, he was searched again, with his face buried in the wooden side of the truck.
Then they ordered me to strip down to my underpants, turned out my pockets, and took away my shoelaces and trouser belt. The lieutenant handed him over to a warrant officer, who silently and quickly examined his arms and shoulders to see if there were any bruises on them from the butt of the machine gun, bullet or shrapnel scars. Then I looked at his palms for a long time, even smelled them. He waved his hand, said something in a low voice to the soldier who had jumped up to him, and he led Zhenya away from the tents and buildings, where a sign “Stop!” hung on a pole. Dangerous area. The sentry shoots without warning.”
A sentry with a wide, high-cheekbone face sat on his haunches. He was stripped to his waist, his spotted jacket was lying on the ground, and a machine gun with double magazines lay nearby. On a canvas belt with a wide soldier's buckle, instead of a bayonet, dangled a wide knife of frightening proportions. The sentry, about the same age as Zhenya, was smoking leisurely, as if reluctantly releasing streams of smoke from his mouth and nose. The guard stopped nearby, took out a cigarette, and motioned for a light. He exchanged a few phrases with the sentry, calling him Ildar. All this time, Zhenya stood nearby, with his hands behind his back. Having finished smoking, the contract soldier pushed Zhenya in the back, towards sheets of rusty tin lying a little to the side. He ordered the sentry:
“This one is in the pit until further notice. In the evening, go to Selyukov for tea.”
“To the pit, to Selyukov, to Selyukov, we Tatars don’t care,” Ildar grumbled, pulling aside a sheet of rusty tin and lowering a thick rope into the pit that appeared. From the dark womb, like a grave, came the smell of sewage and human excrement. He pushed Zhenya towards the pit: “I’m counting to three, whoever didn’t hide, it’s not my fault.”
Skinning his palms on the hard surface of the rope, Zhenya slid down. My feet found myself in something thick and sticky. Gradually his eyes got used to the darkness, and he sat down on a piece of cardboard lying in the corner of the pit. The hand felt several cigarette butts and boxes of matches. He put the bull in his mouth and struck a match several times. The damp sulfur crumbled, then flared up with a dim, somehow painful flame. While the match was burning out, Zhenya looked around. The hole was about three by four meters, four to five meters deep. In one corner stood a dented rusty bucket.
"Hey, Ildar! How long do I have to sit here?
The tin moved to the side, and the face of the sentry appeared in the opening.
-It’s called zindan, and you’ll have to sit here for a long time. We send to Chernokozovo once a month. Unless, of course, Major Selyukov sets you free first. Yesterday, he freed one like you... from earthly burdens. The heavy bitch got caught, and by the time I dragged him to the car, he was all sweaty.
Hey, do you have anyone here? If there is, let me tell my relatives, let them collect money for a deposit, or at least bring food. If you get to Chernokozov alive and survive there, you will go to the Pyatigorsk Pre-trial Detention Center, or Rostov. You won’t be able to return from there anytime soon; the courts are not very kind to your brother, a militant; they give 10-15 year sentences. And they also need to survive, otherwise the convoy might be killed somewhere at the stage with boots, or the lads will be put on a pike.
- What kind of fighter am I!? Three years ago I came to work, but the owner hid his passport and disappeared somewhere. Maybe they killed him, or maybe he left or went to the mountains.
Ildar drawled:
- Well, look for yourself, it’s my business. Although, if he wanted, he could drink some vodka and eat some homemade pies.
The soldier mumbled for a long time about his relatives who should bring food for the detainees and money for the soldiers, about the fact that he needs to carry out his service, and someone is now having fun with girls in civilian life, about the fact that he will return from this fucking Chechnya and then...
Zhenya didn’t listen, some thought was spinning in his head.
- Ildar, who is Selyukov?
- Selyukov, this is the chief of reconnaissance of the regiment, he is already heading for a third war. The Czechs promise one hundred thousand greenbacks for his head. He personally talks to all prisoners. No one plays Zoya Kosmodemyanskaya with him, it’s useless. Everyone wants to live and everyone understands that if he lies, he himself will pronounce the sentence and carry it out himself. Why do we have minimal losses in our regiment? Yes, because the head of the blood intelligence service is not afraid and personally teaches young people to kill. It doesn’t matter what with a knife, a stick, a nail, a piece of wire. When the Maikop brigade was killed in Grozny, many did not even fire a single shot, because they were not ready to kill. If only there were more officers like Selyukov, then all the militants would have been sitting in the pits for a long time.
Zhenya sat silently. The talkative Ildar was replaced, the soldier who replaced him was silent. Zhenya didn’t really want to talk either. He was waiting to be taken in for questioning. Time passed, but he was not called anywhere. It got dark. Zhenya silently looked at the starry sky, then dozed off, curled up on a piece of cardboard.
He woke up from the cold and from the fact that earth was pouring into the hole from the rope being lowered. The unfamiliar soldier grinned cheerfully. From hunger and sitting motionless in the hole, Zhenya swayed slightly. Only here in the fresh air did he feel that his body and clothes were saturated with the smell of urine and excrement. Already habitually folding his hands behind his back, he walked along the path. Despite the late hour, the regiment resembled an anthill. The engines of the cars were running, people were scurrying around non-stop, shouts of commands and loud swearing were heard.
They brought him into a room and sat him on a stool in the corner. The guard stood nearby. A loud voice was heard from the next room:
- How can I know this informant? Selyukov did not report to me; he has his own people in all the villages. He took the scouts and rushed to the meeting in two armored personnel carriers. He promised to bring information about Abu Tumgaev’s gang, but was ambushed in front of the village. When they reported to me that a battle was underway, I sent reinforcements and called in the helicopters. No. Nothing is known yet. Selyukov was killed, with eight more two hundredths with him. The bitches finished off, three went missing. We are clearing the village.
There was silence for some time, the man in the next room was listening to someone attentively, then he repeated “end of connection,” hung up and burst into a loud obscene tirade. Just at this time, Zhenya’s guard, coughing quietly, looked into the slightly open door:
- May I allow you, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel?
An overweight military man of about forty or forty-five, with red, inflamed eyes, growled at him irritably:
- Drag this carrion back, there’s no time for him now.
Zhenya was again taken to the pit. From snatches of conversations he already understood that there would be no interrogations for now. The regiment lost its intelligence chief and eleven soldiers with him. The personnel were alerted to search for the gang that carried out the ambush.
It rained cold all the next night. Rusty sheets of iron and pieces of roofing felt provided little protection from the flow of water. Zhenya pulled a piece of blanket lying in the corner of the pit over his head. He pressed his shoulders into the wet earthen walls, trying to find at least some protection from the cold and dampness.
Suddenly a rope fell next to him.
- Well, darling, are you sleeping? Come on, get out, they're calling you in for questioning. And let’s move your rolls, otherwise we don’t like it when people are late.
The soldier, who had not had enough sleep and was also wet, was angry; he had to stand guard in the early morning, during the sleepiest hours. And then you still have to trudge through the rain to headquarters to escort this unfinished animal. The sentry didn’t even think about why he classified the man sitting in the pit as a militant. It doesn't matter that he has Slavic appearance. Last week, a special officer from the group came and said that Shamil Basayev has many mercenaries from Ukraine and the Baltic states in his gang. There are even Russian officers who were captured and now serve as instructors. Or they dress up in Russian uniforms and, under the guise of federal officers, commit murder, robbery, and rape. That’s why Chechen women don’t give it to the soldiers, they despise them. Previously, before Chechnya, the regiment was stationed in Astrakhan, so in the evenings there was no end to the local prostitutes. But here you have to abstain, there is nowhere to go, and it’s scary. A month ago, two contract soldiers went out at night to look for women, but never returned and disappeared.
The soldier was shivering from the cold, mother Chechnya, in an undertone, in which there are not even whores, Shamil Basayev, together with Khattab, who started this war, the regiment commander Colonel Mironov, who is now sleeping with contract soldier Marinka, and this freak who needs to be dragged in for interrogation.
The lights were on in the headquarters. The guard on the porch looked at Zhenya without any interest, and, without taking the cigarette out of his mouth, muttered:
-The first door to the right, to Captain Sazonov.
An officer was sitting at the table in the office. He sorted through the papers lying on the table, completely ignoring the people who came to him. Zhenya leaned sideways against the wall, enjoying the warmth. A sentry stomped behind him.
The officer at the desk looked up.
- Why are you standing here? He asked - Come on, sit down, there is no truth in your feet. He waved his hand to the guard with the machine gun - Go out, wait outside the door. I'll call you when you need me.
Beware of a catch, Zhenya carefully sat down on the edge of the stool.
The captain lit a cigarette:
- You were detained in a combat zone, without documents. We don't know who you are. Particles of gunpowder were found on your clothes, characteristic calluses and traces of gun grease were found on your hands. An ambush was set up a few kilometers from the place where you were detained. All this is enough to put you against the wall in combat conditions without trial or investigation. Therefore, if you want to live, tell everything in order - first name, last name, how you ended up in Chechnya, who you fought in the detachment, where you hide your weapons, what operations you took part in, how many people you personally killed, and so on, in detail. Our conversation with you today is the first, and it may well be the last. So let's do it without formalities. I'm making a deal with you. You tell me everything honestly and without concealment, and without any harm to your health, I send you first to a temporary police department, and then to a pre-trial detention center in Rostov, Pyatigorsk or Stavropol. It depends on your luck. In the pre-trial detention center, you will find a cell with a bed and a white sheet, three meals a day, a bathhouse and other delights of civilization. But most importantly, as soon as you leave Chechnya, you will have hope that you will live, and perhaps for a very long time. In five years you will be free, receive a passport and go to all four directions, either to America or to China.
Otherwise, if you start portraying an underground hero in front of me and remain silent, or try to tell some terrible tale about your life, then your chances of survival automatically drop to zero. In this case, you can only count on the fact that, at best, your corpse will be buried somewhere along the road. At worst, you will be eaten by stray dogs. A minute to think. Agree?
Zhenya nodded his head affirmatively. The captain placed a stack of yellowish, rough paper in front of him and moved a ballpoint pen.
- So, let's begin. Who are you? Last name, first name?
- Private Evgeniy Naydenov, 205th motorized rifle brigade, military unit No. 13764, drafted in May 1999.
- Rank and surname of the brigade commander?
- Colonel Nazarov.
- How did you end up outside the unit’s location, deserted?
- No way. I was sent with a group of soldiers into the forest to get firewood. Armed Czechs attacked. During the battle I was shell-shocked and lost consciousness. I woke up already in the trunk of a car, without a weapon and tied up.
- Which military personnel were with you in the group?
-Ensign Morozov, Sergeant Zykov and four privates. They are not from our platoon. I had just arrived from training two weeks ago and still didn’t know everyone in the company by last name.
- When did it happen?
- At the beginning of December last year, I don’t remember the exact day.
- What did you do with the Chechens? Why didn't you run?
- Lived in the Usmanov family, worked around the house, helped with housework. There was nowhere to run, mountains all around. They would have caught him with the dogs anyway. Then he would definitely lose his head. He waited a moment and ran. Now I’m sitting in your hole.
-What is the fate of the rest of the group?
- I don’t know, I’m telling you, I was unconscious. They brought no one else except me. Maybe someone wounded remained in the forest. The Czechs said nothing about this. But they collected all the weapons and took them with them.
- Who carried out the attack?
- The Usmanov brothers - Shamil, Idris, Aslan, Rizvan. The elder Musa was killed earlier. I lived with their father Akhmed Usmanov, he calls himself Akhmed-Khadzhi.
- Where are the Usmanovs now?
- An old man lives in the village forever, with his daughter-in-law and grandson. The younger Idris was killed two months ago, Shamil last week. Aslan and Rizvan are still alive, but they are now in the forest and hardly appear at their father’s. In winter, when the greenery disappears and the mountains get colder, then they will go down to rest.
- Did you personally take part in operations against Russian troops?
- No never. I was kind of like a farm laborer, I worked for grub. Shamil, however, wanted to take him into his detachment, but I think he was offering it more for fun. He was a great joker until he was killed. And I didn’t express any desire.
- Why do you have gun grease on your hands?
- This is not gun oil, but automobile oil. I repaired Akhmed’s equipment, well, there’s a diesel generator, a tractor, and a car engine. So my hands were always in grease and in the car.
- Besides the Usmanovs, who else is fighting against us? Which militants are you familiar with, names, surnames, call signs?
- Shamil and I once visited Yarash-Mardy. There, medicine and food for the militants were taken from the owner, his name is Umar.
- Umar's address?
- I don’t remember, and it was at night. If I find myself in a village, I’ll probably find it. He has an interesting fence around his house, made of white sand-lime brick.
- Do you know who organized the ambush on Major Selyukov?
-But how should I know, I was sitting in the pit when Selyukov died.
Sazonov got up from the table and walked around the office. Despite the night and the impenetrable mud on the street, the captain was clean-shaven, looked cheerful and rested. He smoked, standing by the window, and was thinking intently about something, putting together in his mind a mosaic known only to him.
- What is your relationship with old Akhmet? - Sazonov suddenly asked.
- What kind of relationship can we have? He is the owner, and I am a thing that he can give, sell or throw away as unnecessary. I am a Russian soldier who was taken prisoner, and the Russians killed his three sons. Although there is probably some kind of goodwill on his part, I somehow saved his grandson.
- Under what circumstances did this happen?
- Well, when Shamil and I went to Umar for medicine, the boy was with us then. On some block we were fired upon, the boy was wounded and I dragged him home.
- What happened next?
- He took advantage of the commotion and ran away from the village. I wandered through the mountains for several days, then descended onto the plain and fell into your pit.
- So it turns out that you regret leaving the Czechs. Maybe it was better for you with them? By the way, you soldier swore an oath of allegiance to the Motherland. And instead of fighting with weapons in hand, he served the enemy. In combat conditions, you yourself know what this entails. I’ll just give you to my soldiers and say that you’re a mercenary, a sniper. “They’ll cut you into thongs in a minute,” Sazonov spoke quietly, looking intently into Naydenov’s face.
Zhenya was dejectedly silent; there was nothing to object to. The captain only voiced the thoughts that were spinning in Zhenya’s head every day.
- Okay, soldier, go. Think about your fate and how you can make your fate easier. In the meantime, I’ll think about your story, check everything, and if I didn’t lie, I’ll try to help. The Russian officer keeps his word. Let's go. Convoy! - he shouted quietly.
The guard waiting outside the door stepped through the door.
- Feed the detainee and maintain him on a general basis.
Zhenya was taken back to the pit. He never slept a wink until the morning. It was very cold. The wet clothes did not provide any warmth, and Zhenya curled up like a fetus, trying to get at least a little warm and fall asleep. In the morning, a pot of millet porridge and a piece of bread wrapped in newspaper were lowered into the hole on a rope. The cold porridge did not go down his throat, but Zhenya stuffed it into his mouth, convincing himself that he needed to eat, that he needed to survive.
The thought slipped away, he could not concentrate and think through to the end why he needed to live. It seemed that everything was already over, that there would never be a way out of this hole. The past life was seen as something surreal, like a dream. There was no longer any fear; there was indifference to one’s own life and to the fate of others. Zhenya asked himself why he was so afraid of dying, because it’s not scary at all?
By the evening of the next day, the rope fell to the bottom of the hole again. He was led along a familiar path. But this time the office was empty, Sazonov was not there. Following the guard, two soldiers in spotted camouflage suits entered. Without saying a word, one of them hit Zhenya in the face. With some kind of animal touch, he felt that there would be a blow, and ducked under the fist. His hands grabbed the collar of someone else's camouflage coat with a death grip. He struck with his knee in the groin and, falling onto the limp body, grabbed someone else's throat with his fingers. The soldier wheezed.
One of the soldiers hit Zhenya in the back of the head with a rifle butt. And when he fell to the side, trying to hide his head and protect it from the blows, they started kicking him, not allowing him to get up. The blows from tarpaulin boots landed in the face and stomach. Already losing consciousness, he heard a knock on the door and a familiar voice:
- Stop fighting! Ivantsov, Karamyshev, what did I order you? Bring the detainee to me. What did you do? Did you want to go to court? I'll arrange it for you quickly. March to the guardhouse and in the morning, so that the explanatory notes are already on my table.
- Comrade captain, he rushed at Ivantsov himself, wanted to snatch the machine gun, almost strangled him. A healthy scent, they barely calmed down. We only relaxed him slightly, we didn’t even break anything.
- Who did I tell to march? One more word and you yourself will sit in a hole.
Zhenya heard the creak of the door being closed and the click of heels in the corridor. Overcoming the pain, he squatted down, leaning his back against the wall.
- Well, Naydenov, how are you feeling? Can you talk? Then listen and remember.
I checked everything you told me. For the most part, your information is confirmed, but it gives you absolutely nothing. Yes, you are a soldier of the Russian army. Yes, I was captured. These facts have been established and do not raise any doubts.
Another question is, under what circumstances were you captured? Why are all your colleagues killed and you are alive? What were you doing with the Chechens for several months? Why did he end up in the same car with field commander Shamil Usmanov, and most importantly. Why, when you were shot at at the checkpoint, didn’t you kill Usmanov, or raise your hands and shout “Guys, I belong”? After all, you were in captivity of the militants, and according to logic you should have waited like manna from heaven for liberation. Instead, you again ended up with the Wahhabis, and then, for some unknown reason, at the location of a united group of Russian troops. I'll tell you this, the special department and the military prosecutor's office will have a lot of questions. Our people, even with fewer sins, remain in the pit forever. I will say more, it would be even better for you if you were a Chechen militant and not a Russian soldier. They at least periodically fall under amnesty, or their relatives buy them out for money. And no one will pay money for you, because for everyone you are a traitor, and the amnesty does not apply to traitors. Do you understand everything I'm saying?
Zhenya silently nodded his head.
-Then you must also understand that your affairs are bad. You will survive now, then you yourself will ask for death. In Russia, living with the stigma of a traitor is not at all sweet.
The captain fell silent, watching Zhenya’s reaction. Naydenov swallowed sticky saliva and croaked in a choked voice.
- What is my solution? It’s not just that you have soul-saving conversations with me.
- You see, I wasn’t mistaken about you, you’re not a fool. This makes me happy. War is a vile and cruel thing. She breaks people's destinies and turns them into minced meat. I want to help you because I believe you are not the enemy. But you must help me too.
Zhenya listened silently.
-One of the Usmanov brothers, Aslan is Khattab’s confidant. In 1996 ago, he underwent training in a special training camp near Kabul. He was taught tactics by a certain Beslaudin Rzayev, a Pakistani intelligence officer working under the guise of humanitarian organizations.
Aslan Usmanov is the link between Khattab and terrorist organizations in Pakistan that finance Chechen militants. Currently, Usmanov is in Georgia, but any day now we expect his appearance in Chechnya. It was for his arrival that an operation was prepared to destroy the reconnaissance group of Major Selyukov. The bandits needed to provide evidence of their successes in the fight against the infidels. It is the results of Aslan Usmanov’s inspection that determine how much money will be sent to the militants.
We will make sure that you end up with the Usmanovs again. Sooner or later Aslan will show up to his father. You give us a signal and your task will be considered completed. Agree?
Zhenya answered with a question.
- Do I have a choice?
Sazonov thought about it.
-I think not. Therefore, you will now sign the documents and give your signature. Your operational pseudonym will be, well, for example, yours, or your brother-in-law.
Zhenya smiled sadly, then it would be better - a stranger. And also explain how you are going to destroy Aslan Usmanov, I need to tell you first, and for this I still need to get out of there somehow.
-In half an hour, an airborne force will be sent to the place where the signal was given. The commander of the landing group will be warned about you. You will leave with the paratroopers. The criminal case against you will be dropped under an amnesty. You will no longer serve, you will lie in the hospital for a couple of weeks, you will undergo an examination and return to civilian life, to see your parents.
You will have to sit in a hole for several days, we must prepare a legend for your return to the Usmanovs. And believe me, today’s incident is just part of the plan to destroy the bandits and your rehabilitation. In a few days, you will understand everything yourself. Sign here and here. Zhenya, without looking, signed on the sheets of paper laid out in front of him.
The captain pressed a button under the table. The guard entered and Zhenya habitually, with his hands folded behind his back, stepped over the threshold.
The next day, late in the evening, a young Chechen was lowered into the pit. His name was Umar. According to Umar, he was detained during the clearing of the village. He was not in a gang, never held a weapon in his hands, and hoped that his relatives would soon raise money and buy him out. Umar swaggered around and pretended that he was not at all afraid.
The next night, drunken contract soldiers pulled them out of the pit and kicked them for a long time. Umar's arm was broken, and Zhenya dodged the blows for a long time, habitually hiding his face in his knees, covering his groin and stomach. The contractors abandoned Umar and switched to Zhenya.
In the morning they were thrown into a hole. Umar groaned, clutching his broken arm to his chest. Zhenya stood up with the last of his strength. I folded a piece of cardboard several times and made a tire. Then he tore his shirt into ribbons and bandaged the cardboard to Umar’s hand.
Last night brought the young people closer together. They weren't beaten anymore. Umar had lost all his ambition and now did not leave Zhenya’s side. He asked.
- Zhen, would you like me to tell your mother that you are here?
Zhenya answered indifferently,
- What can my mother do? Come to Chechnya and pick me up? But who will give me to her? I’m now a fighter, even if I don’t die in the pit by the time she arrives, I’m still finished. And I’m not the last bastard to drag my own mother here. What if something happens to her? How can I live in the world then? If you get out of here, it’s better to tell Usmanov Akhmet about me, he’s from the village of Galashki. Tell me, so and so, Zhenya disappears. If not today, then tomorrow the devils will beat you to death.
If he wants to help, let him get me out of here.
One morning, a rope was thrown into the pit again, and Umar was pulled out of the pit. Zhenya helped him get out and whispered:
- If everything works out for you, don’t forget about me.
Umar nodded his head.
Three days later, Zhenya was again brought to Sazonov. The captain was in a good mood. He pulled up a chair for Zhenya and poured him some tea.
-Well, soldier, our plan is working, you will soon be free. A man from Usmanov has already come and offered money for you. We agreed on four hundred dollars. By the way, you are worth more than Umar, who was sold for only two hundred bucks. You are valued more; the militants probably have more serious plans for you.
Okay, drink your tea and listen carefully. We warned your master that you will stay here for another two days. If the money is not delivered by tomorrow evening, we will send you to Rostov. It will be more expensive and more difficult to buy you out of there. I think they will come for you tomorrow.
Not far from your village there is an old fortress. You should know, you've probably been there yourself.
Sazonov laid out photographs on the table.
Here in this wall, you can easily recognize it, the two lowest bricks are taken out. Inside the niche you will find everything you need for the first time: a pistol, a couple of grenades, a satellite phone, and a radio beacon. As soon as Aslan Usmanov appears at his father's house, you will activate the beacon. You press this button here. In the meantime, under some pretext you leave the house and wait in the ruins of the fortress. Twenty to thirty minutes after the signal is given, the paratroopers will already be with you. As I already told you, the paratroopers will be warned about you.
The password is someone else's. Review - strangers don't come here.
After completing the task, the helicopters will pick you up, take you to the base in Khankala, and there those who need you will take care of you. Well, soldier, have you changed your mind? Let's not drift, everything should end well.
As Captain Sazonov said, the next morning Zhenya was again pulled out of the pit, but they were taken not to headquarters, but to the checkpoint. About a hundred meters from the concrete blocks stood an old Zhiguli car. An unfamiliar, unshaven, middle-aged man was sitting behind the wheel. Old Akhmet stood next to the car, leaning on a cane. He had an astrakhan fur hat on his head and several medals on his chest. The old man looked off into the distance without blinking, pretending or actually not noticing the soldiers staring at him. Zhenya stopped nearby and said:
-Marshalla hulda khuna, ah, - hello.
Umar taught him this word
Ahmed-haji lowered his eyes to him:
-Alive? Then let's go home.
We drove in silence. Zhenya was sitting in the back, the car shook on the potholes and bumps, his beaten body ached. He fidgeted in the seat, trying to sit more comfortably. The driver watched him warily, glancing at the rearview mirror. Then the driver said something in Chechen, the old man nodded his head in response. It seemed to Zhenya that they had been driving for a very long time. Along the way we stopped at checkpoints several times. The driver got out of the car, shook hands with the soldier or policeman, and after that they drove on. Zhenya asked:
-Do you know everyone, are these all your friends?
Ahmed and the driver laughed.
-Of course not. It’s just that when a soldier or traffic cop greets me, I have fifty rubles folded in my palm. I hand over the money and move on. As they say, to whom is war, and to whom is mother dear. Not a bad business, right Ahmed-haji? But tell me, father, was it like this before? When you were at war, was it possible to travel through German or Soviet posts for money? Imagine, he gave the SS man fifty Deutschmarks and took the tank straight to Berlin, to Hitler’s bunker.
Old Ahmed turned to the driver and said gloomily:
-Don't talk nonsense. This simply could not have happened before. Neither the Germans nor the Russians took bribes.
In June 1941, when the war began, I served in Belarus. And of course there were plenty of German saboteurs, everyone’s documents were better than the real ones, you couldn’t dig them up.
We once stopped a black vehicle, and in it was an NKVD member with the rank of senior major and his wife, a state security lieutenant with a five-year-old son. They go to the rear, on instructions from the NKVD, to rescue secret documents. And senior major, this rank seems to correspond to an army general.
With me is the senior squad leader, Sergeant Major Viktor Kovtun, a border guard. And the foreman found it suspicious why the security officer major’s index and middle fingers were yellow from nicotine. It's like he's smoking samosad or cigarettes. The entire command staff was smoking cigarettes at that time, but Comrade Senior Major, what did it turn out to be, shag? Not according to rank. Cigarettes? Only the Germans had them back then.
Kovtun then pierced the box with documents with a bayonet. And there is iron, a walkie-talkie. This lieutenant, despite the fact that she is a woman, immediately snatches the revolver and straight into Victor’s heart. Here I put them all in one line, and the boy too. I felt sorry for the child later, but war can’t change anything.
Tell me, now what kind of traffic cop will stop the car with the general, and even check the documents? There are no more brave men in the Russian army like Sergeant Major Kovtun. That’s why Shamil reached Budyonnovsk. It’s a pity that he didn’t take enough money with him, otherwise he would have reached Moscow. Yeltsin would have taken hostages or deputies, and then the war would have ended immediately.
Zhenya raised his voice again:
- How long did you fight?
-Count the entire war, from forty-one to February forty-four. I just returned with a reconnaissance group from the German side; they brought in the officer’s tongue. A serious German was caught with important documents. I reported to the regiment commander and just lay down to sleep, they took me up to headquarters. And there the head of the special department, Major Garbuzov, tore off my shoulder straps, I grabbed the pistol, but didn’t have time to shoot. They tied me up, tied me up, took my awards away and sent me into exile in Northern Kazakhstan. And there are already all of our people who managed to get there and did not die on the way. My brother Ilyas was hunting when the Chechens were being evicted. So I stayed in the mountains with a gun. He fought for almost ten years. In 1953, when Stalin died, he came to our house. Ossetians lived there then. They stabbed him with a pitchfork. My brother was very cold in the mountains, got sick, warmed up by the stove and dozed off. The Ossetians were promised a reward for him; he caused a lot of grief to the Soviet authorities. He killed the chief of police, the secretary of the district committee, the soldiers caught him, the police, but everything was useless. He knew such paths and holes in the mountains that not a single dog could find him. When I returned from exile, I looked for this Ossetian Marat Koliev, but he seemed to have disappeared into the ground. If I ever meet his son or grandson, I will kill him without a second thought. Blood feud has no statute of limitations.
“Yes, yes,” said the driver, “I’ve also been waiting for my bloodline for five years.” Contractor shot my father. In the winter of 1995, my father left home; he was already over seventy years old. In the morning I went to the water pump to get water, and the sniper was sitting in ambush, he became bored, and out of boredom he decided to have fun. The bullet hit my father right in the head. To justify the contract soldier, they then put a grenade in the old man’s hand, like a militant. There was never a trial, the case was closed, I didn’t want him to be given a sentence. They would have given me ten years for murder, where would I have looked for him later, I would have had to go to prison myself to get a bloodline in the zone. The contract worker quit and went to his home in the Kemerovo region, the city of Yurga. I found his address, bought a train ticket and went to Siberia. While I was getting there, a former contract soldier killed someone while drinking. But Allah is merciful, they gave me only five years, probably they gave me leniency for past exploits. I counted every day for five years when it would come out. Before my release, I waited at the gate for a week, I was afraid I would miss everything or not find out. As soon as he came out, I followed him a little away from the camp and stabbed him in the throat like a sheep. I only regret one thing: I should have reminded him about my father so that he would be scared before his death. Although, perhaps, the contract soldier no longer remembered his father, that winter, corpses were found on the streets every day, soldiers shot out of fear, and some shot for fun, so as not to get bored.
Zhenya asked:
- Grandfather Ahmed, how did you find me?
“Umar reported, said that they were beating you very hard, and showed him the hand that you had bandaged. My relatives collected money and I went. You saved my grandson, I am now your debtor. Don’t be afraid of anything, they say here, for three days you are my guest, then a relative.
Zhenya finally managed to sit down more comfortably; the fatigue of the last few days had taken its toll and he dozed off. I woke up from the creaking of the iron gates; a car was driving into the yard.

...After the death of the prophet, troubled times came when Muslims entered into battle with people who had apostatized from the faith, and Khalid ibn Walid was one of the amirs of the troops, defeating the troops of the false prophet. The amirs began to follow the others, in one place Khalid ibn Walid overtook a man respected by his people, who had previously been a Muslim. Amir ordered him to be killed and beheaded, this news reached from Umar to Abu Bakr who was very offended by Khalid for such an act. Umar demanded that Abu Bakr release Khalid from his position as Amir of the troops, to which Abu Bakr responded with a prayer to Allah - “Allah so price vukh otsu khalids dinchuh” and left him... and he left him because Islam benefited from him more than from the harm caused, since he bears individual responsibility for the murder, and the benefit of the winnings is returned to everyone...

To be continued

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Judas

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Recycling" in Russian

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

Tragic and comic side by side

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the land of unafraid "spirits"

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

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

In the mountains of Chechnya

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

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

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

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

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

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

Judah-2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

During the first war of 1994-1995, our father fought against the Russian occupiers and died heroically in June 1995, as the commander of the Chechen army. At the beginning of November 1999, due to the approaching federal occupation forces, I was forced to go to the mountains, leaving my 16-year-old brother at home in the hope that they would not touch him. But his young age did not save my brother - he went missing, taken away by the feds in the spring of 2000. Since then there has been no news of him. In the mountains I joined the troops of Khamzat Gelayev...

Ruslan Alimsultanov, a member of the Chechen Resistance, talks about the battles for the village of Komsomolskoye in the spring of 2000 and Russian captivity.

At the beginning of March 2000, being blown up by mines, Gelayev’s detachment entered the village of Saadi-Kotar (Komsomolskoye). And almost immediately a continuous missile and bomb attack on the village began. As it turned out later, they were waiting for us there. The artillery shelling was no less powerful than the missile and bomb attack. The detachment suffered heavy losses, finding itself surrounded, or, as the Russians said, “the mousetrap slammed shut.” There was no way to help the wounded, since the shelling did not stop around the clock, and there was no longer any medicine left. Many of us died due to lack of medical care, and many of the wounded were finished off by the feds.

I witnessed how our wounded guys were crushed by tank tracks, finished off with machine gun butts and even sapper shovels. The basements in which we hid the wounded with severed limbs were thrown with grenades or burned with fire. But the shelling of the village did not stop, and by mid-March almost all those who remained alive were wounded and exhausted by hunger and cold. The group I was in, on March 20, by lunchtime, was surrounded by tanks from all sides. Resistance was futile. If before this there were equal battles, as it should be in any war, and not only our guys, but also the enemy died, but now a simple massacre began.

We were asked to surrender, assured that our lives would be spared and that the wounded would be given assistance. The commander of the riot police, they called him Alexander among themselves, told us that Putin had issued a decree on amnesty for the militias and we believed him, which we later regretted more than once. After consulting among ourselves, we began to pull out our wounded from the basements and lay down the weapons that remained with us. If only we could have foreseen what awaited us next...

We were all gathered in a clearing outside the village and our hands were tied behind our backs, some with steel, some with barbed wire. After that they began to shoot us point-blank in our arms and legs. Some were shot in the kneecaps, while taunting them: “Do you want more freedom? What does she smell like? And where is your Gelayev?”

At that moment, we all bitterly regretted that we surrendered alive. They finished off all the seriously wounded and lost limbs in front of our eyes, without allowing us to turn away or close our eyes. And they finished off with machine gun butts and sapper blades, striking the wounds.

When they shot me in the arm and started beating me, I lost consciousness, and only woke up in the evening, in a heap of corpses. I saw that torture was still ongoing on the living. My right arm was completely broken and tied to my left arm with steel wire. One of the riot police noticed that I had come to my senses and asked if I could walk. My affirmative answer was followed by an order to move towards the cars standing at a distance, about 50 meters from us. Next to me lay another wounded boy, about 17-18 years old, one of his legs was completely crushed. Pointing to him, the military man told me, if you take him to the car, he will live. Since my hands were tied behind me, I asked the guy if he could grab me by the neck, he nodded in the affirmative. I leaned over to him, he grabbed me by the neck, and we moved towards the car. Suddenly there was a burst of machine gun fire, and the guy slid off me to the ground. I straightened up and looked around. Just as the soldier was preparing to pull the trigger again, another rushed towards him and, intercepting the machine gun, shouted that there was an order - “not to shoot everyone!” I looked at the dead guy and thought that I didn’t even know his name and didn’t have time to ask.

I turned and continued along the path, which lay through a corridor of soldiers with clubs and rifle butts ready to fall on my back and head. At a distance I saw our guys digging holes. I thought that they were digging graves in order to bury the mutilated corpses of our guys who had surrendered with me as prisoners, lying around.

I recognized one of the diggers. His name was Beslan. He was tall and strong beyond his years. He was only 18 years old. When I asked that he be taken with us, they told me that there was no order to take everyone at once. Later I found out that some of those I personally knew, including Beslan, were listed as missing. It became clear to me that those who remained were digging graves for themselves.

I slowly stepped into the “corridor” and was immediately stunned by a blow from a rifle butt to the head. I woke up from shaking and saw that I was lying, crushing the crushed leg of Bakar, my comrade in misfortune. The car was literally filled with wounded guys, it was shaking violently and it felt like we were being driven along country roads. Along the way, many of us lost consciousness and then came to our senses. So we ended up at the “Boarding” filtration point in the city of Urus-Martan. But we learned about our whereabouts much later.

The car drove into the yard and stopped. The car doors opened and we saw that we were in front of a tall building. There were a lot of military men around, all of them were older people, most likely they were secret service workers. Two military men climbed into our back and began to throw us to the ground. And we, crippled, had to get up and run to the doors of the building. Anyone who hesitated received a barrage of blows. I somehow got up and went where I was ordered to run, and many were then carried inside the building unconscious. In the camp we were systematically beaten and tortured, trying to force us to answer the question of where Khamzat Gelayev was. The officers said they would keep us here until we died of gangrene. We didn’t receive any medical help from them, they didn’t even give us a pill for pain.

I didn’t even know how long it lasted, since I spent more time unconscious, until one day I woke up in the hospital. It seemed to me that this was a wonderful dream when I heard my own voices and saw people in white coats above me. In addition, I realized that the doctors had saved my arm after all.

Little by little I remembered what happened before I went to the hospital. I remembered how a man in a white coat came to our cell, who was introduced as a paramedic, but after examining our wounds, he did not provide any help, and only said that the wounds were serious and our limbs would simply be amputated. I thought that I would be left without my right arm, since my entire forearm was crushed, and besides, I was constantly beaten on this wound.

A few days later, me and several other guys were hastily taken from the hospital. It turned out that our relatives paid a large ransom for us. The terrible reality is over, but in my head the nightmare continues, coming to me in my dreams. Probably, painful and terrible memories will haunt me and my comrades for a long time.