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

Fortes fortune adjuvat. (Fate helps the brave)

Latin proverb

Binding design by Yuri Shcherbakov

Illustrations used in the binding:

Tetiana Dziubanovska, piscari / Shutterstock.com

Used under license from Shutterstock.com

From the author

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

There were different attitudes towards those who fought in that “undeclared war” in the past: complete silence at the beginning, enthusiastic from the mid-80s, spitting and slinging mud in the 90s, incomprehensible now.

Recently, I have been asked quite often questions: what was all this for? Why were all the losses incurred necessary?

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

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

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

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

Location - Afghanistan

After graduating from the Omsk Combined Arms Command School in July 1982, I was assigned to the Turkestan Military District. Since I was handed a foreign passport, it became clear: the place of the upcoming service is the Democratic Republic of Afghanistan.

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

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

August 30

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

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

August 31

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

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

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

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

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

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

September 1

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

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

Alexey Orlov

Afghan diary of an infantry lieutenant. "Trench truth" of the war

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

Fortes fortune adjuvat. (Fate helps the brave)

Latin proverb

Binding design by Yuri Shcherbakov

Illustrations used in the binding:

Tetiana Dziubanovska, piscari / Shutterstock.com

Used under license from Shutterstock.com

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

There were different attitudes towards those who fought in that “undeclared war” in the past: complete silence at the beginning, enthusiastic from the mid-80s, spitting and slinging mud in the 90s, incomprehensible now.

Recently, I have been asked quite often questions: what was all this for? Why were all the losses incurred necessary?

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

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

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

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

Location - Afghanistan

After graduating from the Omsk Combined Arms Command School in July 1982, I was assigned to the Turkestan Military District. Since I was handed a foreign passport, it became clear: the place of the upcoming service is the Democratic Republic of Afghanistan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Officer module

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

Best friend - Sergey Ryabov

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

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

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

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

Today is a park day. Before lunch we work in the park of military vehicles, after lunch we have a sauna. I checked the BMP - brand new. They had just arrived at the regiment with the last column. BMP-1PG, there are no more of these in the regiment. Steel side screens are hung on them, covering the support rollers, above them there are metal strips at a distance of three centimeters, which will not allow to break through the board from the DShK, and it will break the cumulative jet, the bottom under the driver and commander has been reinforced, but I think it’s purely symbolic, because that an additional steel plate, two centimeters thick, 40x40 cm in size, fastened with bolts, can only protect morally, a machine for mounting the AGS-17 is installed on the tower - these are all the differences from the BMP-1. I talked with the driver mechanics, it struck me that this is a special caste of untouchables, they only do their own thing, if everything on the car is in order, they can take a nap in the landing force, I hope that this is correct.

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

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

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

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

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

September 1982 Young, green came to Afghanistan

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

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

First tests

First combat exit. How many excitements, experiences, emotions. It is necessary to go to the village of Karamugul, which is located fifteen kilometers south of the regiment, to block it, after which our Afghan "comrades" must check it, find weapons and capture opponents of the current government, if any. I'm getting my gear ready. No one walks with pouches here, it is extremely inconvenient. The most common option is a life jacket from the BMP spare parts kit. Cellophane bags with kapok fiber, which are designed to provide buoyancy, are thrown out, and the unloading is ready. Some make their own vests out of old cotton, with pockets for magazines, grenades, flares, and smoke. Someone simply sews pockets on bulletproof vests, there are two types of them in the company: an older one, with hexagonal aluminum alloy plates that overlap each other like scales, weighs six kilograms, and a modern one with titanium convex plates, it is easier - about five kilograms. I prepared a life jacket for myself, which houses eight magazines from the PKK. I tied two stores with electrical tape, a total of four hundred and fifty rounds - a full ammunition load. Everyone takes with him a dressing bag, which is pinned to a sleeve or body armor, a flask of water, tourniquets at the rate of one for three people, for each RDV-12 platoon, a rubber water tank that is carried behind the back. We take NSV (12.7 mm machine gun) and AGS-17 with us. I can’t imagine how they are carried around the mountains, because only the barrel of a machine gun weighs nine kilograms, and also the body is sixteen, the machine eighteen and a box with fifty cartridges eleven; AGS with a machine tool thirty kilograms and a box of fourteen and a half. There are no full-time calculations, but there are trained soldiers, everything is determined by the company commander, not for the first time, each soldier knows his own maneuver.

We leave at twenty-two hours, the fifth, sixth companies of our battalion, the reconnaissance company and the battalion of Tsaranda, the local police, they are also called “green”. When passing through the checkpoint, clicks of shutters are heard, everyone sends a cartridge into the chamber. Pitch darkness, not a damn thing in two steps, we go into the column one at a time. We go around the village of Bagi-Shah on the left, the dogs started barking, signaling with flashlights began from the village, they are answered from the mountains, which means we have been spotted. I convulsively squeeze the machine gun, behind each stone, it seems, the enemy sat down. We climb like a herringbone, a few steps to the left, then to the right, etc., it’s easier, we rise higher and higher. The company column resembles a caravan of loaded donkeys. Whoever has less cargo, they drag mines to the mortar, one in each hand, a kind of three-kilogram "dumbbells". Everything is distributed fairly, or honestly, how to look. Halt, which struck, many soldiers instantly fall asleep, absolute trust in the commanders. The soldier is sleeping - the service is on, I thought that this principle is not applicable here. By two o'clock we reached the goal, lay down, we are preparing shelters from stones.

At dawn, the "greens" entered the village, shooting began, they had dead and wounded. They couldn't move any further, they began to retreat. They drag the dead and wounded on their backs, we cover. For the first time I heard the whistle of bullets. It was not in vain that they dragged the Utes, he shut up the DShK, the enemy machine gunner did not dare to enter into a duel and fell silent. We received the order to withdraw. Helicopters cover. We're leaving, we're almost running. I have parade soldier's boots on my feet, and no one suggested their unsuitability for the mountains. A lot of small pebbles were poured into the shoes, terrible pain, but you can’t linger. I don’t know how I endured to the foot where the infantry fighting vehicles were waiting for us. Feet turned into a continuous bloody mess, socks soaked through with blood. In the evening, a celebration of life, vodka, mash, there are no dead or wounded, everything is wonderful. So was my first trip to the mountains.

For two days I walked along the shelf in slippers, but surprisingly, everything heals like a dog. At five in the morning we leave to meet the convoy, which will deliver to the regiment the goods necessary to ensure life.

Our column is lining up: in front of the BMR (combat demining vehicle), then sappers on two BRDMs, behind them is a tank platoon of the first tank company guarding the airfield; infantry behind the tankers; between the companies - "Shilka". Anti-aircraft self-propelled gun "Shilka" is the most terrible weapon for spooks. Four 23-mm barrels with a vertical pointing angle of up to eighty-five degrees, high rate of fire, can cover any target at a distance of up to two and a half kilometers in a fraction of a second, the Afghan version's ammunition load has been doubled, up to four thousand shots, "shaitan- arba" is called by her enemies. I saw the BMR for the first time, the school did not even talk about the existence of such a machine. It was created based on the experience of military operations on the basis of the T-62, only unlike the tank, instead of a turret with a 115-mm gun - a turret with a KPVT, the driver is not located as usual, but higher, the bottom is reinforced, double, and in front on each track rollers weighing 1.5 tons.

A couple of helicopters are covering from above, constantly hanging over us, or rather, loitering, they are carried forward, checking the route and the surrounding area, returning, being carried away again and returning again, literally walking over heads, a height of 20–25 meters, when they use up fuel, a replacement takes place . The spectacle is impressive, it seems, well, who can attack such a force (column) - it turns out, everything happens.

As soon as we leave the airport, a command sounds on the radio station - herringbone cannons, i.e. the first BMP turns the gun to the right, the second - to the left, the third to the right, etc., to repel a possible attack from any direction. The first possible place of collision with the enemy is the reeds, in front of the village of Samati, thickets of one and a half human height come close to the road. “Attention, reeds,” sounds on the air. It turns out that dushmans ambushed here more than once. We passed safely, before entering the village there was a small serpentine, next to the road, a “tablet”, a GTMU tractor, once exploded next to the road. Here we had to observe the syndrome of previous explosions: the senior driver of the company commander, having set constant speed, got out of the hatch, sat sideways on the armor and controlled the machine with his feet so that in the event of an explosion he would be thrown out and have a chance to survive. Glushakov Vitaly did not interfere in his actions, this should pass by itself. In the village near the road, my grandfather is sitting, waving his hands at us, as if welcoming, we answered. A red flag is hung over one of the houses, which means, as the senior comrades say, there will be no explosions.

In the 100-kilometer zone of responsibility of the regiment there are five "points", outposts guarding the route from Kishim to Faizabad.

Before Samati

Our first point is Karakamar, here is the third tank company. We pass without stopping, all the personnel near the road are greeted, waving their hands, for them the passage of their important event in an ordinary, monotonous everyday life. The Karakamar serpentine is the most difficult test for mechanics and drivers, it must be experienced. A narrow road carved into the rocks, more like a path, where even at the BMP the caterpillar hangs three centimeters over the abyss in some places, and at the bottom, from three meters at the entrance to almost five hundred in the middle, the swift Kokcha rushes. Glory to the Russian soldier, glory to our driver-mechanics, we pass at a decent speed. I think they are still testing me to some extent: my left hand is on the triplex, the speed is thirty or forty kilometers on flat sections, a chill runs through my heart from time to time, but I don’t show it. At about fifteen we reached Artyndzhalau, here is the headquarters of the tank battalion, here we stop for the night.

First of all, we go to the river, because everyone looks like blacks. While driving, I don’t think anyone could keep the established distance of 50 meters, there is no visibility. Dust completely covered the body, penetrated the throat, nostrils, spitting out something gray, nasty and viscous, crunches on the teeth, sick. It feels like you've been thrown head to toe in cement. Having washed ourselves, we come to ourselves.

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

Fortes fortune adjuvat. (Fate helps the brave)

Latin proverb

Binding design by Yuri Shcherbakov

Illustrations used in the binding:

Tetiana Dziubanovska, piscari / Shutterstock.com

Used under license from Shutterstock.com

From the author

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

There were different attitudes towards those who fought in that “undeclared war” in the past: complete silence at the beginning, enthusiastic from the mid-80s, spitting and slinging mud in the 90s, incomprehensible now.

Recently, I have been asked quite often questions: what was all this for? Why were all the losses incurred necessary?

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

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

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

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

Location - Afghanistan

After graduating from the Omsk Combined Arms Command School in July 1982, I was assigned to the Turkestan Military District. Since I was handed a foreign passport, it became clear: the place of the upcoming service is the Democratic Republic of Afghanistan.

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

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

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

August 30

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

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

August 31

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

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

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

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

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

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

September 1

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

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

September 2

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

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

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

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

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

Officer module

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

Best friend - Sergey Ryabov

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

September 3

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

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

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

4 September

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

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

September 5 (Sunday)

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

September 6–8

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

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

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

September 1982 Young, green came to Afghanistan

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

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

Alexey Orlov

Binding design by Yuri Shcherbakov Tetiana Dziubanovska, piscari A photograph from the author's archive is also used Why did I suddenly take up these notes? Twenty-four years have passed since the end of the Afghan war and twenty-eight since it ended for me. There was a different attitude towards those who fought in that undeclared war, in the past, complete silence at the beginning, enthusiastic since the mid-80s, spitting and pouring mud in the 90s, incomprehensible now. Lately, I've been asked quite a lot of questions, what was all this for? Why were all the losses incurred necessary? I always answer the same way, we did our duty, we defended our homeland. Everyone who happened to visit Afghanistan sincerely believed in this, and now none of those whom I know are going to disbelieve in this. I, like many of my peers, happened to be in Afghanistan immediately after graduating from college. We, the commanders of platoons and companies, were real plowmen in that war. Like tractor drivers on collective farm fields, so we did our daily, hard, sometimes routine work in the mountains of Afghanistan. True, the price for poor-quality work was life. There were real heroes among us, they were on the order, there were orders bought, but they were not for sale to us, infantry lieutenants, we earned them with our sweat and blood. Alexei Orlov - Afghan diary of an infantry lieutenant. "Trench truth" of the war.fb2 (3.35 MB)

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

Fortes fortune adjuvat. (Fate helps the brave)

Latin proverb

Binding design by Yuri Shcherbakov

Illustrations used in the binding:

Tetiana Dziubanovska, piscari / Shutterstock.com

Used under license from Shutterstock.com

From the author

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

There were different attitudes towards those who fought in that “undeclared war” in the past: complete silence at the beginning, enthusiastic from the mid-80s, spitting and slinging mud in the 90s, incomprehensible now.

Recently, I have been asked quite often questions: what was all this for? Why were all the losses incurred necessary?

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

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

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

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

Location - Afghanistan

After graduating from the Omsk Combined Arms Command School in July 1982, I was assigned to the Turkestan Military District. Since I was handed a foreign passport, it became clear: the place of the upcoming service is the Democratic Republic of Afghanistan.

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

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

August 30

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

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

August 31

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

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

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

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

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

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

September 1

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

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

September 2

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

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

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

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

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

Officer module

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

Best friend - Sergey Ryabov

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

September 3

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

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

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

4 September

Today is a park day. Before lunch we work in the park of military vehicles, after lunch we have a sauna. I checked the BMP - brand new. They had just arrived at the regiment with the last column. BMP-1PG, there are no more of these in the regiment. Steel side screens are hung on them, covering the support rollers, above them there are metal strips at a distance of three centimeters, which will not allow to break through the board from the DShK, and it will break the cumulative jet, the bottom under the driver and commander has been reinforced, but I think it’s purely symbolic, because that an additional steel plate, two centimeters thick, 40x40 cm in size, fastened with bolts, can only protect morally, a machine for mounting the AGS-17 is installed on the tower - these are all the differences from the BMP-1. I talked with the driver mechanics, it struck me that this is a special caste of untouchables, they only do their own thing, if everything on the car is in order, they can take a nap in the landing force, I hope that this is correct.

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

September 5 (Sunday)

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

September 6–8

Classes, classes, classes... Monday began with drill. It’s hot, I can’t stand the drinking regime, I often drink: spring water, there are several springs here, cold, pure, very tasty water, a decoction of camel thorn, a peculiar aftertaste, but, they say, in the heat the best option is nothing helps, but everything drunk immediately comes out