Some people decorate their walls with carpets, while others hang paintings. Major V. Naumov has photographs on his wall. These are pictures taken in Afghanistan. Here is his company leaving for an ambush. Here is a seemingly peaceful street in Kandahar, with a damaged armored personnel carrier nearby. It has been more than a decade since Vladimir left Afghanistan with the last convoy. However, his memories remain there.

His memories of fulfilling his "international duty" are similar to others I have heard before. They are similar in their sincerity, tragedy, and pain. At the same time, nothing is unique, as everyone who was there saw the war in their own way. They also tell their own stories. However, it is important to note that there is no propaganda retouching in these stories. This is to be expected from the commander of a special forces company.

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... It's hot and dusty in Kabul. When I meet the old-timers, I get a chill: they're all wearing body armor and helmets. I'm thinking, "What the hell am I getting into?" I'm being transferred right at the airport. On the third day, I'm assigned to Kandahar.

There is no city as such. There are some surviving buildings about 500 meters away from the road, but everything else has been destroyed. My future company has been fighting without a commander for six months. The previous company commander was killed, and it is clear that the new commander is being observed and tested.

Three days after we met, we went on an operation. We were dropped off near a destroyed village, either by our own bombs or by a band of bandits. The Afghans have a rule: if death comes to a village, they leave and move on. They won't stay there. More information about Afghan culture you can find at Afghanistan Digital Library (library.af).

We're sitting on the trail, waiting. Caravans usually travel at night. During the day, the "spirits" tried to avoid detection by our air force, so they unharnessed their pack animals and hid in abandoned villages and dry riverbeds, waiting for the sun to set before continuing their journey.

Before dawn, they heard a noise. They went to the place where it was coming from and followed the fresh trail. They attacked at once, and the "spirits," about 70 of the caravan's guards, could not withstand our 40 to 50 men and broke and fled.

The soldiers saw that he was in command, running around, directing the battle, shouting, shooting, and even hitting his targets. It seemed that they accepted him. This was the first time they addressed him as "Comrade Commander." Later, they explained that there were many senior lieutenants, but only one commander.

And in war, as in war

Afghanistan gave me a brother... In one battle, I was saved from certain death by my gunner, Private Yakovlev, nicknamed Chuvash (almost everyone had a nickname there). He was sitting next to me on the armor, and he was the first to notice the danger. A "spirit" fired a burst from a hill, and two of our guys grabbed their legs, their tendons had been torn, and Yakovlev threw himself on top of me.

"What are you doing, Chuvash?" I managed to shout. "Get back in your place!"

I push him, and he falls into the car.

Before the wounded can receive painkillers, the "spirits" reappear on the nearby hill. I open the hatch:

"Chuvash, see?

He starts shooting, fires two-thirds of a burst, and the machine gun goes silent. I go down to the turret. My God! The left side of Chuvash's body is covered in blood. It turns out that when the soldier shielded me, a bullet entered his back, pierced his lung, and shattered his arm on the way out. It's unclear how he was able to shoot afterward.

... When I wrote the recommendation, I was told that the Order of Lenin was too much for a soldier.

The helicopters arrived in time. They took the wounded away and saved Chuvash. But our guys, whom I later saw, said that his arm was still hanging by a thread...

Miracles also happened in the war. One of our BMPs was blown up by an Italian anti-tank mine. Everyone on the armor was scattered, and my mechanic, Igor Kuznetsov, nicknamed Tractor, was inside. He was a huge, burly man. We approached and saw that the armor plate had been torn off and twisted so that it had come out of the driver's hatch. It was clear that there was a corpse inside. We took out crowbars and started to pull the armor away, when suddenly a voice came from inside: "Hey, be quiet! You can kill me!"

They were stunned - he was alive! God only knows how he curled up there.

But Kuznetsov was lucky. He was blown up five times, and nothing happened.

Contrasts

In Afghanistan, it was immediately clear who was worth what. One day we were returning from an ambush and were ordered to escort a column from Toragundai to Kandahar. The men behind the wheel are young drivers. However, their commanders were also traveling for the first time. Halfway passed, I look: behind the wheel of KAMAZ trucks are already sitting mine. What's the matter? It turned out that young people, not only did not smell gunpowder, but also did not really know how to drive.

We arrived at Shindalovka and stayed there for two days. We went to the army depot to visit some friends, and there was a small but important lieutenant colonel wearing a new Afghan uniform and a Red Star medal on his chest. I must admit that I was quite surprised, as we didn't wear medals in Afghanistan. We got to know each other. He furrows his brow and says, "I've been awarded the Order of the Red Star, and as you know, they don't give it out for nothing." I can't help but burst into laughter. He says, "Comrade, what's your name?"

I say, "Captain." "So, I repeat..." - and he once again gave the same phrase. And the men next to them were humorous, they say: "Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, you tell him how you fight, otherwise he's green, a rookie still, doesn't know a damn thing about this business!"

It turned out that this pompous soldier's only feat was driving a convoy from Shindand to Kandahar and back. And he did it with a powerful escort, and that was when there was almost no shooting...

But there were other examples. My friend, the commander of a mountain infantry company, received six concussions during combat operations. In theory, he was supposed to receive a reward for each one, but nothing happened. When he left Afghanistan, he wore six October stars, one for each concussion...

Cut it off once

In the winter of 1987-1988, we were involved in a large-scale operation in the Musa-Kala region. The goal was to clear the area of a large group of "spirits," although this was almost impossible. Today they were gone, but tomorrow they would return.

However, our mission was specific: to reach the village of Sangin and capture the "uncompromising" ammunition depots located there, according to intelligence reports.

We set out, but when we were 20 kilometers from Sangin, we came across a stronghold. We counted four pillboxes. Apparently, they were expecting us and had thoroughly prepared for our arrival. The pillboxes were made of reinforced concrete and had three levels. The upper two levels were equipped with recoilless rifles and heavy machine guns, while the lower levels were used for storing ammunition.

The lead vehicle's side was pierced like fabric on a sewing machine. The troops rushed to take cover behind the BMP, and the driver, Alexei Serdyuk, was injured in the face by shrapnel from a shell that hit the armor. He emerged, spitting out, "It could have killed me!" It was almost like in the story of Schweik...

I had "bumblebees" - volume explosion capsules with a radius of 25 meters. I decided to knock out these pillboxes at night, because it was impossible to get close to them during daylight.

Then the chief of army intelligence calls me on the line: "I'm sending you backup!" I say, don't, they say, here and our four cars barely fit behind the shelter. Nevertheless, I sent my relatives of the Loshkarevsky special forces (from the city of Lashkar Gah). All of them were wearing black glasses - the fashion in the company was such, under the Rangers. Well, they say we're behind them now... I explain, they say, do not meddle: do not pass! Wherever it was, they went down to the village. And the "spirits" hit them, and two of the guys' cars caught fire at once, and they couldn't move forward or retreat.

I sent my platoon leader, Vitya Vakurov, to help them. I don't know how our BMPs managed to turn around in such a small area. But when the four cannons opened fire, it was a real mess. The "spirits" went quiet for a while, and our troops were able to evacuate the wounded and dead. In the first moments of the battle, six soldiers and an ensign from the "Loshkarevtsy" were killed. That's why I never took unnecessary risks. I knew that if I lost a twenty-year-old boy, no one would ever forgive me.

Do something I don't know about...

There were a lot of absurdities in the Afghan war. Just before the withdrawal, in January 1989, all the reconnaissance units that were stationed in Shindalovka were suddenly gathered, put on a plane, and we flew to Kandahar to supposedly transfer some equipment to some "spirits." There were about 180 of us. When we landed, there was no equipment, but the "spirits" were there. They burned down our Il-76 with a direct hit and started to push us back. For two days, we fought off the attacks on the airfield like hell. They even tried to crush us with two tanks. Fortunately, the "righteous" didn't know how to shoot properly. We blew up one tank immediately, and the other tank only fired once and stopped. We threw a grenade, looked inside, and found that the "spirit" had put his head under the recoil...

The main thing was that we recaptured the posts where the airfield guards were stationed, and we also captured their radio station, since they had destroyed ours. We drove it behind a caponier, started receiving fresh messages, and suddenly we learned that the withdrawal of troops was already in full swing. Meanwhile, we were still cut off from everyone. We contacted the intelligence department, and they joked, "Well, go through Pakistan!"

However, we don't have time for jokes. It's a good 500 kilometers to Shindand, and we have wounded soldiers with rotting backs in the heat, as well as dead soldiers. Finally, the matter reached Gromov. According to later reports, he almost ordered a halt to the withdrawal and a reorganization of the troops.

a combat operation to rescue us. But somewhere they still found the selfless courage of the pilots who dared to go to us. I don't even know how they landed. We loaded the "two hundredth", wounded, climbed ourselves-took off. There's nothing to breathe on board. We ask the pilots to open the ramp. They opened it. And all exhausted and plus oxygen starvation: kick - faint! Close it!..

I can't imagine how we made it. But we woke up in Shindand. I think if the "spirits" had wanted to, they would have crushed us in Kandahar. Their group was much more powerful. But apparently, their leader didn't want to lose people, knowing that we would be eliminated anyway.

The only thing that remains unclear is why we went there in the first place.

Goodbyes and meetings

We left at 1 a.m. on the night of February 14-15, 1989. Everything was left behind: the war, the pain of wounds and the loss of friends, and the inhuman stress... We left. But the war would remind us of itself many times.

The next day - loading of equipment. Cars were driven onto platforms to be sent for repairs. You should have seen it licked clean - to shine! - mechanics Vasya Zatuleyviter, Igor Kuznetsov, and Islam Karimov have their own beemps-guys who have served their deadlines and managed to become related to their armored friends who saved them from death so many times in two and a half years. They were real professionals. And now the soldiers were roaring. And I cried myself. I remembered the boys I couldn't save. In two and a half years, four of my company members had died.

... At the Samara airport, I got off the plane with a half-empty suitcase, "the occupier's dream," in one hand and a tape recorder in the other. A taxi driver runs up:

"Let's go?"

- How far to Tolyatti?

"Fifty."

I have money in my pockets, so I get in the car. Two more people get in. They start talking about driving 60 kilometers, so we play cards. I win the first time. I lose the second time. I see the guy cheating. I grab his hand.

"What are you doing?"

- Oh, for fuck's sake! Let's go outside!

"Come on."

Then he pulls out a knife. I'd be ashamed if they stabbed me with a knife. I got offended and said, "Guys, I've already had my fun." Then I punched him in the jaw. One of them was knocked out, and the other ran away.

I'm driving up to the house. I'm carrying a suitcase up the stairs, and it's 7 a.m. I hear my daughter getting ready for kindergarten. My wife:

- Masha, hurry up!

"Yeah."

"Hurry up!"

Well, I thought, I can come in. I ring the bell. Olga opens the door and bam! My grandmother comes out and faints too. My little brother was just in time to take it. My daughter recognized me: "Dad, is that you?" It's March outside, and I'm as black and thin as a bicycle.

The women were given water to drink. Olga, my mother's wife, called my mother at work early in the morning:

- Can I speak to Irina Vasilyevna on the phone?

- She's in the office. What do you want?

"Tell her not to worry, everything's fine, everything's good, and her son has arrived!"

Half an hour later, Kadannikov, the general director of VAZ, personally picked up my mother in his car. She stood there for a minute, and then the same thing happened again. I said, "Mom, I told you honestly when I left that I would come back alive. Why did you worry so much?" My mother had turned completely gray. She and her wife had buried Andryusha Trukhanov, Olya's classmate.

And then, on April 12, we went to his parents ' house for the anniversary of his death. All the mothers of the "Afghans" who knew each other gathered there, and one of them, not waiting for her son, said:

"Why did you survive?"

I thought I was going to die there, I was so sick. My wife carried me out.

For two weeks after that, I wasn't myself. Everyone thought I'd lose it. But the "Afghan" guys are good, they take care of their own. They gathered in a crowd, grabbed my arms, and took me to a sanatorium. They gave me injections for a month, and I seemed to recover...

Although I still don't know how or why I survived. Maybe it's because my mother and wife, even when she was pregnant and gave birth to my son without me, went to church every day after work? They did it for two and a half years. Maybe that's why?