"Chmoshniki"
After the fighting we stopped at Bagram, spent the night, and from there we returned to Kabul. In Bagram, I met a friend from my studies. I looked - near the "bulldozer" (in Afghanistan this was the name of the regimental cafe, in Gayzhunai it was usually called "buldyr") a kid who looked like a homeless person was sitting and eating a loaf of bread from the end. He pulls out the pulp, breaks it and slowly eats it. I went to a cafe, took something. I went out, I pass by - like a familiar face. He came up - he jumped up: "Hello, Vityok!" Me: "Is that you? .. And why are you sitting here like a" chmoshnik "?" - "Yes, so I wanted to eat." - “Why are you eating here? Sit down even on the step, otherwise you hid in the corner. He: "It's okay!" It was the same guy from Minsk whose mother was the director of a confectionery factory.
And only then the guys from our training, who ended up in the 345th regiment in Bagram, said that he really is a "chmoshnik" (in the army jargon - untidy, not taking care of himself, unable to stand up for himself. Abbreviation for "a person morally backward. ”- Ed.). I didn't think that I would get to Afghan, but I did. And he was so killed there! I even felt sorry for him. Although in training I did not like him: after all, I had to carry the personal one on crosses and marches all the time literally on myself, he tortured me completely.
And the story with this guy ended in failure. The deputy commander of their regiment, my fellow countryman, told me about this later. In the 345th regiment there was a "flight": a PKT machine gun (Kalashnikov tank machine gun - Ed.) Was stolen from the BMP-2. It looks like it was sold to dushmans. But who needs it? This is no ordinary machine gun with a stock. Of course, you can shoot manually from the PKT. But this is a tank machine gun, it normally shoots through an electric trigger.
They searched and found out inside the regiment so that the matter would not go any further - they would give it in the neck! But they never found it. Then on the armor we drove to the village and announced over the speakerphone: “The machine gun is missing. Whoever returns will be greatly rewarded. " A boy came and said: “I was sent to say that there is a machine gun. We bought it. " - "How much money do you want?" - "So much." - "When will you bring it?" - “Tomorrow. Money up front". - “No, now - only half. The rest is tomorrow. If you leave with the money and don’t return the machine gun, we will level the village to the ground ”.
The next day, the boy returned the machine gun. Ours: "We'll give more money, just show me who sold it." Two hours later, everyone who was in the park was lined up. The Afghan boy showed - this one, blond. It turned out that the machine gun was sold by the son of the director of the confectionery factory. He got it for five years.
At that time, he only had about a month to serve him ... He had no money, everything was taken from him. And he wanted to return home with a normal demobilization. After all, "chmoshniks" were sent to demobilization as "chmoshniks": they were given a dirty beret, the same vest. They got into the "chmoshniki" for various reasons. In our platoon, for example, there was a cross-fire guy. Our people were surrounded. We were shooting back. The wounded appeared. And then a helicopter came to them, but only for the wounded. The wounded were loaded. And then the guy ran to the side, wrapped his leg with something and shot. And I saw this demobilization!
The crossbow was from our call, but we did not even communicate with him. After all, paratroopers are paratroopers, no one likes injustice. If I plow and do everything right, and the other is taking time off, does not want to do anything, then slowly he becomes a "chmoshnik". Usually they were sent to some bakery or to carry coal. They did not even appear in the company. In our company we had one such from Yaroslavl, the other from Moscow. The first was a bread slicer, he cut bread for the whole regiment, and the other was stoked by the boiler room. They did not even come to spend the night in the company - they were afraid that the dismissal would be beaten. Both lived like that: one in a stoker, the other in a bread slicer.
Tragedy struck the one who heated the boiler room. Once he went to the grain-grower, who gave him bread. And this was seen by the warrant officer, who was the senior in the dining room. The ensign was very boring, he gave almost no one bread. The ensign took the bread from the stoker, put it on the table and gave it to the guy in the "melon"! He fled to his stoker. After some time, he became ill, he went to the doctor. The doctor saw another soldier, he says - sit down. The guy felt really bad ... Suddenly he lost his sight. The doctor took him to his place and began to ask: "So what happened, tell me?" He managed to tell that his warrant officer hit him in the dining room ... And - died ... He had a cerebral hemorrhage.
The ensign was immediately pecked: “Who are you yourself? You don’t go to the military ”. Although he was not imprisoned, he was transferred somewhere. It was a specific "flight". How to hide such a case? And they awarded the deceased guy the Order of the Red Star posthumously. Of course, the guy himself was sorry. His mother, the director of the school, then wrote us letters: “Guys, write what a feat my son has accomplished! They want to name the school after him. " We think to ourselves like a soldier: wow! Such a "chmoshnik", and in honor of him the school is named! This is how it happened: many of us could have been killed in combat a hundred times, but we survived. And he avoided difficulties, and so everything ended tragically for him.
There was also one "chmoshnik". His name was Andrey. He wrote poetry. Once after Afgan, my friends and I met on the day of the Airborne Forces at VDNKh. I stand waiting for my people. I see - there is a guy standing, paratroopers who did not serve in Afghanistan are crowded around. And he says so pompously: we are there this, that, that! .. I listened, listened - well, I don’t like the way he talks. And then I recognized him! "Andrei! It's you?!.". He saw me - and ran away with a bullet. They ask me: "Who is he?" - "Never mind".
He was morally weak, he could not stand the battle. Therefore, they left him in the company, they did not take him anywhere. And on top of that, he didn’t take care of himself: every day he had to be sewn - he was not sewn. And he didn't wash at all, he walked dirty.
We ourselves constantly kept ourselves in order, we washed our clothes. On the street, under the regimental washbasin (these are pipes twenty-five meters long with holes) there is a concrete hollow through which water flows. You put your clothes there, smeared it with a brush - shirk-shirk, shirk-shirk. Turned over - the same thing. Then I washed the brush and use it to remove the soap from the clothes. I washed it, called someone, twisted it together, ironed it with my hands - and put it on myself. In the summer, in the sun, everything dries up in ten minutes.
And Andrei did not wash these clothes at all. Forced - it's useless. But he wrote good poetry. They come from combat, demobilize him: “My girlfriend's birthday is coming soon. Come on, think of something Afghan: war, helicopter planes, mountains, love-carrots, wait for me, I'll be back soon ... ”. Andrey: "I can't do that!" - "Why can not you?". - "I need a special condition ...". - “Ah, imagination! Now I will give you imagination! " And takes the boot. Andrey: "Everything, everything, everything ... Now it will be!" And then he composes the necessary verses.
He was a creepy lazy person; he fell asleep everywhere. Already being demobilized, I was in a company outfit, he was with me. It is clear that demobilization is not worth the orderly, there are young people for this. I come - it's not on the nightstand. And this nightstand is the first in the battalion. The battalion commander comes: "Where is the orderly?!." I run out sleepy: "I!". - "Who is on duty?" - "I". - "And who then the orderly?" - "I ran away to the toilet." - "Why didn't they put anyone in?" - "Because I'm an idiot, probably ...". I had to say something. - "Get up yourself!" Here everything began to boil for me: there is a huge difference between those who go to the military in the mountains and those who do not. It seems that all this is the Airborne Forces, but it is different, like the infantry and pilots. Some in the mountains constantly take risks, but on the armor there is much less risk. And I have to stand on the bedside table! ..
I found him: "Are you sleeping?!.". He: "No, I'm resting ...". And zero emotions, sleeping for myself ... (Probably, I slept in the same way when I fell asleep on the run at the post after Kandahar.) I punched him with some kind of boot: "Well, quickly on the nightstand! ..". And literally kicked him into the corridor.
to be continued…
Documentary evidence of a participant in the entry of troops into Afghanistan, memories of the cruel customs that reigned among the soldiers of the airborne troops.
Service in the army is a sacred duty and an honorable duty in the USSR. (From the Constitution of the USSR)The Afghan war has long passed, which left a deep imprint on the political situation around the world in the 1980s. However, until now, the beginning of that war is largely shrouded in mystery and speculation. What then happened in Afghanistan on the eve of 1980? For what purpose was this grandiose military operation conceived, the result of which was a protracted nine-year war, how it was prepared and carried out - two chapters of the book are devoted to the answers to these questions.
By coincidence of many circumstances and by the will of fate, as a simple soldier, I served in the same airborne division that first landed in Kabul in December 1979. Thus, I found myself in the very center of those historical events.
The book displays only what I saw myself and what I happened to learn from other direct participants in the described events. But the main content of the book is not so much military themehow much the army: my personal memories of the army and the morals that reigned in it, this is a description of the relationship between soldiers, which are called hazing or hazing. This hidden, invisible side of army life is complex and cruel, and many events and incidents that took place in Afghanistan are difficult to understand without knowing the order that developed between the soldiers back in the Union.
From the day I was called to Soviet Army, and throughout all two years of service in airborne troops I lived the everyday life of an army team according to its unwritten laws, far from any romance. Everything that I then had to see and endure - both during my service in the Soviet Union and in Afghanistan - served as the basis for writing the book.
Boyarkin Sergey
Afghan war soldiers
Sergey Boyarkin
Afghan war soldiers
(Internet option?).
DOC version
Documentary evidence of a participant in the entry of troops into Afghanistan,
memories of the cruel morals that reigned in the soldier's environment
airborne troops.
PART ONE
SOLDIERS BECOME
Service in the army - is in the USSR
a sacred duty and an honorable duty.
(From the Constitution of the USSR)
I WANT TO BE A PARCELER!
Cursed be the day when the surgeon
tapping on my sunken chest, he said "GOOD!"
(From the soldier's album)
The May 1979 draft was in full swing. The commission of the military registration and enlistment office for the distribution of conscripts worked smartly. And now, after passing all the doctors, it was my turn to enter this last office. Excited as if something turning point might happen in my life right now, I appeared before the commission like everyone else - in nothing but shorts.
Five people were sitting at tables piled up in a row, on which files with files of conscripts lay in piles. Everyone was in high spirits. The lieutenant colonel sitting in the center - the chairman of the commission - assessed my relics with a smile and, having looked through the folder with the medical reports, said:
It's good that you are short - it won't be cramped in the tank.
Got it? We trust you tank! - Another member of the commission supported the cheery tone of the chief.
Or maybe the guy dreamed of Morflot all his life. By the way, compact ones are also required in the submarine.
The last joke made me somehow uneasy: I would have had to serve in the Navy not two, but three years. Such a gloomy prospect prompted me to act more decisively and, gathering my courage, I asked in an uncertain voice:
Can I go to the landing? I have a category in parachuting, - and gave the lieutenant colonel a folded sheet in half - my certificate of a parachutist. There were only three lines filled in, which corresponded to three completed jumps.
Having studied its content with interest, the chairman was satisfied:
This is another matter! - and began to rummage through his folders, noticing, as it were, to himself. - Ask anyone, give everyone a landing, and you yourself have never even flown by plane! .. But no one wants to go to the Navy! In front of you, one, so barely, you know, persuaded, - the whole commission again smiled amicably and merrily fidgeted on the chairs. - And why do not young people like the sea so much?
In the end, the necessary folder was found and, having made the necessary note in -%), he solemnly concluded:
Come on! The fifth team is the Airborne Forces!
I beamed. I couldn't even dream of more. Having recently watched the film about the airborne assault "In the Special Attention Zone" in the cinema, I was still under his impression: how much there was army romance and interesting adventures that fell to the lot of strong and courageous paratroopers, and from all incredibly difficult situations "blue berets" always emerged victorious, as befits real heroes. And what is only a strong army friendship and mutual assistance! The film turned my head, and I was happy that my dream was coming true - soon I will become the same!
While filling out the combat agenda, the chairman strictly warned:
Whom they bring to the collection, I immediately send them to the sobering-up station, and then I guarantee only the construction battalion. Keep in mind! And more - put your hair in order. Two millimeters, no more! And then it's overgrown like a deacon - it's disgusting to look.
I flew home as if on wings. A sense of pride overwhelmed me. I will be a PARANOR! I will build muscles, learn sambo and karate techniques! Khaki uniform, blue beret - in a word, friends will die of envy! My soul became light and free. The painful thoughts that had tormented me for the last months immediately receded ...
Yet quite recently, this winter, I was a physics student at Novosibirsk University. There, in the dormitories of the campus, surrounded on all sides by pine forests, my tumultuous student days passed. Breaking free from the care of my parents and thus gaining independence, I lived a new, interesting, albeit very stressful life: in the afternoon - lectures and seminars, in the evening self-preparation and cramming. And Saturday discos and noisy parties brightened up the boring endless study.
One day, passing by a board with various department advertisements, I drew attention to a separate nondescript sheet with a primitive parachute depicted on it. On the sheet it was written in uneven letters.
The Afghan war has long passed, which left a deep imprint on the political situation around the world in the 1980s. However, until now, the beginning of that war is largely shrouded in mystery and speculation. What then happened in Afghanistan on the eve of 1980? For what purpose was this grandiose military operation conceived, the result of which was a protracted nine-year war, how it was prepared and carried out - two chapters of the book are devoted to the answers to these questions.
By coincidence of many circumstances and by the will of fate, as a simple soldier, I served in the same airborne division that first landed in Kabul in December 1979. Thus, I found myself in the very center of those historical events.
The book displays only what I saw myself and what I happened to learn from other direct participants in the described events. But the main content of the book is not so much a military topic as an army one: my personal memories of the army and the morals that reigned in it, this is a description of the relationship between soldiers, which are called hazing or hazing. This hidden, invisible side of army life is complex and cruel, and many events and incidents that took place in Afghanistan are difficult to understand without knowing the order that developed between the soldiers back in the Union.
From the day I was drafted into the Soviet Army, and throughout the two years of my service in the airborne troops, I lived the everyday life of an army collective according to its unwritten laws, far from any romance. Everything that I had to see and endure then - both during my service in the Soviet Union and in Afghanistan - served as the basis for writing the book.
PART ONE
The soldiers become
Service in the army is a sacred duty and an honorable duty in the USSR.
(From the Constitution of the USSR)
I want to be a paratrooper!
Damn the day when the surgeon tapped on my sunken chest and said, "GOOD!"
(From the soldier's album)
The May 1979 draft was in full swing. The commission of the military registration and enlistment office for the distribution of conscripts worked smartly. And now, after passing all the doctors, it was my turn to enter this last office. Excited as if something turning point might happen in my life right now, I appeared before the commission like everyone else - in nothing but shorts.
Five people were sitting at tables piled up in a row, on which files with files of conscripts lay in piles. Everyone was in high spirits. The lieutenant colonel sitting in the center - the chairman of the commission - assessed my relics with a smile and, having looked through the folder with the medical reports, said:
It's good that you are short - it won't be cramped in the tank.
Got it? We trust you tank! - Another member of the commission supported the cheery tone of the chief.
Or maybe the guy dreamed of Morflot all his life. By the way, compact ones are also required in the submarine.
The last joke made me somehow uneasy: I would have had to serve in the Navy not two, but three years. Such a gloomy prospect prompted me to act more decisively and, gathering my courage, I asked in an uncertain voice:
Can I go to the landing? I have a category in parachuting, - and gave the lieutenant colonel a folded sheet in half - my certificate of a parachutist. There were only three lines filled in, which corresponded to three completed jumps.
Having studied its content with interest, the chairman was satisfied:
This is another matter! - and began to rummage through his folders, noticing, as it were, to himself. - Ask anyone, give everyone a landing, and you yourself have never even flown by plane! .. But no one wants to go to the Navy! In front of you, one, so barely, you know, persuaded, - the whole commission again smiled amicably and merrily fidgeted on the chairs. - And why do not young people like the sea so much?
In the end, the necessary folder was found and, having made the necessary notes in it, he solemnly concluded:
Come on! The fifth team is the Airborne Forces!
I beamed. I could not dream of more. Having recently watched a movie about the airborne assault "In the Special Attention Zone" in the cinema, I was still under his impression: how many army romance and interesting adventures fell to the lot of strong and courageous paratroopers, and from all incredibly difficult situations "blue berets" always emerged victorious, as befits real heroes. And what is only a strong army friendship and mutual assistance! The film turned my head, and I was happy that my dream was coming true - soon I will become the same!
While filling out the combat agenda, the chairman strictly warned:
Whom they bring to the collection, I immediately send them to the sobering-up station, and then I guarantee only the construction battalion. Keep in mind! And more - put your hair in order. Two millimeters, no more! And then it's overgrown like a deacon - it's disgusting to look.
I flew home as if on wings. A sense of pride overwhelmed me. I will be a PARANOR! I will build muscles, learn sambo and karate techniques! Khaki uniform, blue beret - in a word, friends will die of envy! My soul became light and free. The painful thoughts that had tormented me for the last months immediately receded ...
Yet quite recently, this winter, I was a physics student at Novosibirsk University. There, in the dormitories of the campus, surrounded on all sides by pine forests, my stormy student days passed. Breaking free from parental care and thus gaining independence, I lived a new, interesting, albeit very stressful life: in the afternoon - lectures and seminars, in the evening - self-preparation and cramming. And Saturday discos and noisy parties brightened up the boring endless study.
One day, passing by a board with different department announcements, I noticed a separate nondescript sheet with a primitive parachute depicted on it. The sheet read in uneven letters:
Attention!
Those wishing to practice parachuting
sports come to military department.
Below was the audience number and class time.
Aha! This is what I need! - I immediately caught fire. - I'm going to tickle your nerves!
About twenty people responded to the call to conquer the sky. Classes with us were led by a sportsman named Ruban. He looked about forty years old, and he was very, very relaxed with us. The first two months, while theoretical training was underway, Ruban intimidated us with all sorts of incredible incidents from the life of the Berd flying club, where we had to jump with a parachute, and when the practical exercises began, where the parachute packing and the sequence of actions during the jump were practiced, he, without choosing expressions, reproached us for stupidity and inability. Especially hit the five girls who were in the section: he found fault with the smallest trifles and let go of such tactless turns and comparisons that sometimes he brought them to tears.
And so, after passing the medical commission and passing the exams at the regional flying club, the group was finally allowed to jump.
We arrived at the Berd sports airfield. Having received and laid down the parachutes, we waited for our turn for a long time, watching how training helicopters were leaving somewhere in flocks, how long-winged airplanes circled soundlessly in the sky, how multi-colored beads of parachute domes formed behind planes flying at high altitudes - then athletes jumped.
The undisputed leader and soul of the team among us was Nikolai - a tall and rather strong guy who had already served in airborne troops... He was three years older than everyone else and treated us like an adult, patronizing and at the same time as an equal. It was fun with Nikolai, and everyone was drawn to him. He jokingly taught us about life and loved to remember something interesting from his army service. But one of these stories really discouraged me.
Boyarkin Sergey
Afghan war soldiers
Sergey Boyarkin
Afghan war soldiers
(Internet option?).
DOC version
Documentary evidence of a participant in the entry of troops into Afghanistan,
memories of the cruel morals that reigned in the soldier's environment
airborne troops.
PART ONE
SOLDIERS BECOME
Service in the army - is in the USSR
a sacred duty and an honorable duty.
(From the Constitution of the USSR)
I WANT TO BE A PARCELER!
Cursed be the day when the surgeon
tapping on my sunken chest, he said "GOOD!"
(From the soldier's album)
The May 1979 draft was in full swing. The commission of the military registration and enlistment office for the distribution of conscripts worked smartly. And now, after passing all the doctors, it was my turn to enter this last office. Excited as if something turning point might happen in my life right now, I appeared before the commission like everyone else - in nothing but shorts.
Five people were sitting at tables piled up in a row, on which files with files of conscripts lay in piles. Everyone was in high spirits. The lieutenant colonel sitting in the center - the chairman of the commission - assessed my relics with a smile and, having looked through the folder with the medical reports, said:
It's good that you are short - it won't be cramped in the tank.
Got it? We trust you tank! - Another member of the commission supported the cheery tone of the chief.
Or maybe the guy dreamed of Morflot all his life. By the way, compact ones are also required in the submarine.
The last joke made me somehow uneasy: I would have had to serve in the Navy not two, but three years. Such a gloomy prospect prompted me to act more decisively and, gathering my courage, I asked in an uncertain voice:
Can I go to the landing? I have a category in parachuting, - and gave the lieutenant colonel a folded sheet in half - my certificate of a parachutist. There were only three lines filled in, which corresponded to three completed jumps.
Having studied its content with interest, the chairman was satisfied:
This is another matter! - and began to rummage through his folders, noticing, as it were, to himself. - Ask anyone, give everyone a landing, and you yourself have never even flown by plane! .. But no one wants to go to the Navy! In front of you, one, so barely, you know, persuaded, - the whole commission again smiled amicably and merrily fidgeted on the chairs. - And why do not young people like the sea so much?
In the end, the necessary folder was found and, having made the necessary note in -%), he solemnly concluded:
Come on! The fifth team is the Airborne Forces!
I beamed. I couldn't even dream of more. Having recently watched the film about the airborne assault "In the Special Attention Zone" in the cinema, I was still under his impression: how much there was army romance and interesting adventures that fell to the lot of strong and courageous paratroopers, and from all incredibly difficult situations "blue berets" always emerged victorious, as befits real heroes. And what is only a strong army friendship and mutual assistance! The film turned my head, and I was happy that my dream was coming true - soon I will become the same!
While filling out the combat agenda, the chairman strictly warned:
Whom they bring to the collection, I immediately send them to the sobering-up station, and then I guarantee only the construction battalion. Keep in mind! And more - put your hair in order. Two millimeters, no more! And then it's overgrown like a deacon - it's disgusting to look.
I flew home as if on wings. A sense of pride overwhelmed me. I will be a PARANOR! I will build muscles, learn sambo and karate techniques! Khaki uniform, blue beret - in a word, friends will die of envy! My soul became light and free. The painful thoughts that had tormented me for the last months immediately receded ...
Yet quite recently, this winter, I was a physics student at Novosibirsk University. There, in the dormitories of the campus, surrounded on all sides by pine forests, my tumultuous student days passed. Breaking free from the care of my parents and thus gaining independence, I lived a new, interesting, albeit very stressful life: in the afternoon - lectures and seminars, in the evening self-preparation and cramming. And Saturday discos and noisy parties brightened up the boring endless study.
Once, passing by a board with various department announcements, I noticed a separate nondescript sheet with a primitive parachute depicted on it. The sheet read in uneven letters:
Attention!
Those wishing to practice parachuting
sports, come to the military department.
Below was the audience number and class time.
Aha! This is what I need! - I immediately caught fire. I'm going to tickle your nerves!
About twenty people responded to the call to conquer the sky. Classes with us were led by a sportsman named Ruban. He looked like he was forty years old, and he was very, very relaxed with us. The first two months, while theoretical training was underway, Ruban intimidated us with all sorts of incredible incidents from the life of the Berd flying club, where we had to jump with a parachute, and when the practical classes began, where the parachute packing and the sequence of actions during the jump were practiced, he, without choosing expressions, vilified us for stupidity and inability. Especially hit the five girls who were in the section: he found fault with the smallest trifles and let go of such tactless turns and comparisons that sometimes he brought them to tears.
And now, after passing the medical commission and passing the exams at the regional flying club, the group finally got $. / Ci% - before jumping.
We arrived at the Berd sports airfield. Having received and laid down the parachutes, we waited for our turn for a long time, watching how training helicopters were leaving somewhere in flocks, how long-winged airplanes circled soundlessly in the sky, how multi-colored beads of parachute domes formed behind planes flying at high altitudes - then athletes jumped.
The undisputed leader and soul of the team among us was Nikolai - a tall and rather strong guy who had already served in the airborne troops. He was three years older than everyone and belonged to us as an adult patronizing and at the same time equal. It was fun with Nikolai, and everyone was drawn to him. He jokingly taught us about life and loved to remember something interesting from his army service. But one of these stories really discouraged me.
I looked - one of those who had just arrived, Nikolai said, was completely limp: he was sitting on the sidelines, sniffling. Service to him, you see, went to waste. Snot hung up, almost crying, and is already trying on the machine. Well, I think - now he will shoot himself! I went up to him, took the machine gun from him ...
I sat down next to him, talked to him heart to heart and reassured the guy, - knowing Nikolai's good disposition, I continued mentally. But I heard something different.