War in Chechnya - stories of soldiers. Special Forces Diary

Alexander Gradulenko is 30 years old. Blooming male age. Retired captain, awarded the medals “For Courage” and “For Distinction in Military Service”, II degree. Deputy Chairman of the public organization "Contingent". Veteran of the first and second Chechen wars. Wars of modern peaceful Russia.

In 1995, contract sergeant Alexander Gradulenko, as part of the 165th Marine Regiment of the Pacific Fleet, took part in the assault on Grozny.

Sasha, what makes a person who saw the death of his friends with his own eyes still go on the attack the next day?

Honor, duty and courage. These are not beautiful words, in combat conditions the husks fall off from them, you understand their meaning. These building blocks make up a real warrior. And they are the ones who lead into battle. One more thing. Revenge. I want to avenge the boys. And end the war as soon as possible.

Questions come to mind later, at home, when the euphoria of “I’m alive” wears off. Especially when you meet the parents of those guys... Why did they become “cargo 200”, and I didn’t? These questions are difficult, almost impossible, to answer.

Did you personally, Sasha, understand where you were flying?

Have you ever imagined what war is? Vague, very vague. What did we know then? What is bad in Chechnya is that the first assault failed, how many guys were killed. And they understood that if they collect marines from all fleets, and the marines have not been used in combat for a long time, then things are bad.

From our native Pacific Fleet, the 165th Marine Regiment was being prepared for departure. Where can you find 2,500 trained people if the Armed Forces are understaffed? The Pacific Fleet command decides to staff the regiment with personnel serving on ships and submarines. And the guys only held the machine gun when they swore an oath. The boys have not been shot at... And so are we, in fact.

We were gathered, I remember, they gave us 10 days to prepare. What can you prepare during this time? Funny. And now we are standing at the airport, winter, night, the planes are ready to depart. A high military official comes out and talks about patriotism and “go ahead, guys!” Our battalion commander, Major Zhovtoripenko, comes out next and reports: “The personnel are not ready for combat!” Next come the officers, company commanders: “The personnel are not ready, we will not be able to lead people to the slaughter.” The high rank in the face changes, the officers are immediately taken under arrest, we are sent back to the barracks, and in the morning we fly to Chechnya. But with other commanders...

By the way, those who told the truth at the airfield then slowly “left” the army. I and my friends respect these people very much. They essentially saved our lives, defended us at the cost of their careers. Our battalion, as supposed conscientious objectors, was not thrown into battle. Otherwise, they would have died like the guys from the Northern Fleet, the Baltic. After all, they were already withdrawn from Chechnya in February - there were so many wounded and killed.

Bricks of victory over fear

Remember your first fight? How does a person feel about this?

It's impossible to explain. Animal instincts kick in. Anyone who says it’s not scary is lying. The fear is such that you freeze. But if you defeat him, you will survive. By the way. Here's a detail: exactly 10 years have passed since the first Chechen war, and we, getting together with friends, remember the battles - and it turns out that everyone saw different things! They ran in one chain, and everyone saw their own...

Alexander Gradulenko served in the second Chechen war as an officer, a platoon commander. After a severe concussion, after a long treatment in the hospital, he graduated from the Faculty of Coastal Forces of the TOVMI named after Makarov and returned to his native regiment. And even the same platoon in which he fought as a sergeant was given command.

The second time we were sent to war classified as “secret”. There was talk about a peacekeeping operation, and we were already mentally trying on blue helmets. But when the train stopped in Kaspiysk, our peacekeeping ended there. They guarded the Uytash airport and took part in military clashes.

Who is more difficult to fight - a soldier or an officer?

To the officer. More responsibility, this time. An officer is constantly visible, and even more so in battle. And whatever the relationship between the officer and the soldiers in the platoon, when the battle begins, they look only at the commander, they see in him protection, and the Lord God, and anyone else. And you can’t hide from these eyes. The second difficulty is that managing people with weapons is difficult, you have to be a psychologist. The rules in battle become much simpler: if you don’t find a common language with the soldiers, you engage in massacres - well, beware of a bullet in the back. That’s when you understand the meaning of the words “commander’s authority.”

Alexander takes out the “Book of Memory”, published by “B”, and points to one of the first photographs, with carefree boys in uniform smiling.

- This is Volodya Zaguzov... He died in battle. During the first battle, my friends died... But these are my friends, those who survived, we now work together, we are still friends.

You and your friends, one might say, passed with honor not only the test of war, but also a much more difficult test - the test of peace. Tell me, why is it so difficult for warriors from “hot spots” to fit into peaceful life?

War breaks a person both spiritually and physically. Each of us crossed the line, violated the commandment, the very same one - do not kill. Should I come back after this, stand on my square like a chess piece? This is impossible.

Just imagine what awaits, for example, a scout who went behind enemy lines when he arrives home. Community appreciation? Of course. The indifference of officials awaits him.

After demobilization, after the war, my parents helped me. Friends are the same, fighting ones. I think this friendship saved us all.

Proud memory

You come from a family of career military personnel. Why did they break tradition and resign so early?

Disappointment came gradually. I’ve seen a lot in military life, I’ll say without bragging, it would be enough for another general. And every year it became more and more difficult to serve the Motherland, seeing the attitude towards the army and veterans.

Do you know how many questions I had that I had no one to ask?.. They are still with me now. Why are they cutting down military schools and conscripting civilians who have graduated from a university to serve as officers for two years? Does a person who knows for sure that he is here for only two years care what happens next? No grass can grow on him! Our lower officer ranks have been exterminated - why? I didn't find any answers. That’s how the decision to leave the army slowly came. Get down to business. After all, you can bring benefits to your homeland in civilian life, right?

We - me and my friends in the Contingent organization - still live in the interests of the army, we care. When they show Iraq or Chechnya, my soul hurts. That is why we began to actively work in the “Contingent”. We found contact with the administration of the region and the city, participated in the development of a program for the protection and rehabilitation of veterans of “hot spots”, and a program to help the parents of dead children. We are not asking for money, we just want understanding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yuri LISTOPAD

I have heard various mysterious stories about mysticism in war before. In general, it seems to me that when the line between life and death is thinned to the limit, the supernatural manifests itself especially clearly. Stories about the Great Patriotic War are fragmentary and unclear, often sound simply stupid, and there are fewer and fewer witnesses. I never had a chance to communicate with Afghan veterans. But I am familiar with one of the participants in the Chechen war (second). This is the son of my godmother - Lech. At one time, Lekha ran through the mountains for a year and a half and brought back many interesting stories, which I present to you.

Black sapper

In general, stories about “black” demobilization, ensigns, and battalion commanders are very typical for the army; almost every unit has them, but in this case it is a special story.

In the mountains it often happens that a soldier is walking through the forest, walking, and suddenly - BANG! - and there is no soldier. Mine. Not on the path, not on the road - just in the forest, one mine, they didn’t place their own, the prisoners say that they didn’t either. In such cases, experienced fighters say “The black sapper is furious...”. According to soldiers' beliefs, placing single mines in random places is the main occupation of a black sapper. Where did the black sapper come from? There are many opinions on this matter, but the most common version is that they once sent a mine sapper to lay out a site for mines, but the sniper killed him, for some reason the body could not be buried, so the dead sapper walks through the mountains, carries out an uncanceled order - he places mines .

Dead fog

It is no secret that many soldiers from the Chechen war are still missing. Some of them are considered victims of “dead fog.” It happens that there is a remote checkpoint, they come to check it, but there is no word from the soldiers: there are no signs of battle, weapons and other things are still there. Or they sent a couple of soldiers to the “secret” (a hidden position away from the camp, to detect the enemy), and then went to check - but they were not there, and again there were no traces. “So why the fog?” - you ask. It is believed that the first such case of “disappearance” occurred with a reconnaissance platoon that was raiding the mountains. The guys were walking, the weather was good, communication was excellent, there were no traces of the enemy. website We contacted headquarters every half hour. And their last message was: “Now we’ll go to one more point and to the base.” There’s a stupid fog, you can’t see anything” (I’ll say right away that fog in the mountains is a common phenomenon and no one considers it bad weather) And that’s all. This platoon was never seen again. When they missed the communication session three times, they sent a helicopter after him, searched from the air, searched from the ground, but found nothing. No traces of battle, no soldiers.

Anxiety

This is no longer a legend, but a story that happened directly with the unit in which Lech served (he was called up a little later than these events).

The usual story: night, anxiety, spirits, fought back. The only fact is that the soldiers were awakened by an electric alarm system, which no one turned on; moreover, the spirits previously de-energized its site, in the hope of cutting off the sleeping ones.

Strange cave

In order to hide from helicopters, artillery strikes and reconnaissance, dushmans hid in various natural shelters, such as caves. The next story is about one of the caves.

This story was told to Lekha by an acquaintance from another unit; in general, the story is controversial, but at least there is some truth in it.

Our soldiers found out that an unidentified man had entered the controlled village. They took the man and interrogated him. According to the narrator, the man was completely inadequate and was talking some kind of nonsense. But most importantly, they found out from him where he was from and who else was with him. As it turned out, he was from a gang of three dozen heads, he came running from a cave three kilometers away, he could not say anything intelligible about the reasons that prompted him to do such an act. Soldiers were sent to the cave, because three dozen dushmans were not the most pleasant neighborhood. But in the cave everything was interesting (according to the narrator): there were no people at all, all things were abandoned, weapons, duffel bags, cartridges, even outerwear (and it was cold) - everything was abandoned as if people were sitting around a fire, and then suddenly whoever was wearing anything rushed to run. Actually, they didn’t find anyone else, even though they searched. But the story may be true, because... It was the pile of junk found in the cave, dumped on the territory of the unit, that interested Lekha, and they told him this story.

Well, that's all. This is only a small part of the stories, legends, tales, and signs. But I tried to choose the most, in my opinion, interesting... But who am I kidding - I’m just tired of typing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Judas

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Recycling" in Russian

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

Tragic and comic side by side

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the land of unafraid "spirits"

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

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

In the mountains of Chechnya

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

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

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

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

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

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

Judah-2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

August 31 marks the 20th anniversary of the Khasavyurt truce, which ended the first Chechen war, the next stage of the great North Caucasian tragedy. Pre-perestroika Grozny, the 1995-1996 campaigns and the fate of the famous human rights activist and journalist Natalya Estemirova, to one degree or another, turned out to be facts of the biography of a resident of an ancient Central Ural town.

Morning of the dogs barking

A board from a cartridge box, thrown into a pre-dawn fire, flared up and took the shape of a bony bear’s paw drying up in the fire, and I remembered the elderly militant detained by our fighters. Handcuffed, sitting by the fire, swaying slightly, he whispered almost silently: “I told them, don’t wake up the Russian bear. Let him sleep. But no, they kicked him out of the den.” The Chechen looked with longing at the corpses of his own. His entire reconnaissance group was destroyed, falling into an ambush, which the special forces of the internal troops skillfully prepared for them. Professor Abdurakhman Avtorkhanov said the same thing, only in different words, to Dudayev, who announced gazavat. “Save Checheno-Ingushetia from a new tragedy. Resolve the issues of the crisis of power within the framework of the Constitution,” he said in 1991. But Dzhokhar still called tens of thousands of people to arms. Many of these Chechen “wolves” and “wolf cubs” were torn to pieces by “bear paws”.

Avtorkhanov, a suffering historian who knows Russia and his people, proposed adopting Eastern wisdom and diplomacy. But the leadership of the militants overestimated themselves. They named Lenin Avenue after Avtorkhanov. Grozny had not yet been destroyed. Now, in the receding darkness and fog, hiding from our eyes the Sunzha and the ruins of houses along its banks, the city shocked with restlessness, defenselessness against the power of two sides.