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

The truth about the exploits and everyday life of the Chechen war in the stories of its eyewitnesses and participants formed the content of this book, which is also published as a tribute to the memory of our soldiers, officers and generals who gave their lives for their friends and continue their military feat for the sake of our well-being

They say that paratroopers are the most uncompromising warriors. Maybe so. But the rules that they introduced in the mountains of Chechnya during the complete absence of hostilities are clearly worthy of special mention. The paratrooper unit, in which a group of reconnaissance officers was commanded by Captain Mikhail Zvantsev, was located in a large clearing in the mountains, a kilometer from the Chechen village of Alchi-Aul, Vedeno region.

These were rotten months of rotten negotiations with the “Czechs”. It’s just that in Moscow they didn’t understand very well that you couldn’t negotiate with bandits. This simply will not work, since each side is obliged to fulfill its obligations, and the Chechens did not bother themselves with such nonsense. They needed to pause the war to take a breath, bring up ammunition, recruit reinforcements...

One way or another, an obvious rampant of “peacekeeping” began by certain high-profile personalities who, without hesitation, took money from Chechen field commanders for their work. As a result, the army men were forbidden not only to open fire first, but even to return fire with fire. They were even forbidden to enter mountain villages so as not to “provoke the local population.” Then the militants openly began to live with their relatives, and they told the “federals” to their faces that they would soon leave Chechnya.

Zvantsev’s unit had just been airlifted into the mountains. The camp, set up before them by the paratroopers of Colonel Anatoly Ivanov, was made hastily, the positions were not yet fortified, there were many places inside the fortress where it was undesirable to move openly - they were well under fire. Here it was necessary to dig 400 meters of good trenches and lay parapets.

Captain Zvantsev clearly did not like the equipment of the positions. But the regiment commander said that the paratroopers had only been here for a few days, so the engineers continued to equip the camp.

But there have been no losses so far these days! - said the regiment commander.

“They’re taking a closer look, don’t rush, Comrade Colonel. The time is not yet ripe,” Misha thought to himself.

The first “two hundredths” appeared a week later. And almost as always, the cause of this was sniper shots from the forest. Two soldiers who were returning to the tents from the mess hall were killed on the spot in the head and neck. In broad daylight.

The raid into the forest and the raid did not produce any results. The paratroopers reached the village, but did not enter it. This was contrary to orders from Moscow. We're back.

Then Colonel Ivanov invited the village elder to his place “for tea.” They drank tea for a long time in the headquarters tent.

So you say, father, there are no militants in your village?

No, there wasn't.

How is it, father, two of Basayev’s assistants come from your village. And he himself was a frequent guest. They say he wooed one of your girls...

People are telling lies... - The 90-year-old man in an astrakhan hat was unperturbed. Not a single muscle on his face moved.

Pour some more tea, son,” he turned to the orderly. Eyes black as coals glared at the card on the table, prudently turned upside down with the little secret card.

“We don’t have militants in our village,” the old man said again. - Come visit us, Colonel. - The old man smiled a little. Unnoticeably so.

But the colonel understood this mockery. If you don’t go on a visit alone, they’ll cut off your head and throw you on the road. But with soldiers “on armor” you can’t, it’s contrary to orders.

“They’re besieging us from all sides. They’re beating us, but we can’t even conduct a raid in the village, huh? In a word, it’s the spring of ’96.” - The colonel thought bitterly.

We will definitely come, venerable Aslanbek...

Zvantsev came to see the colonel immediately after the Chechen left.

Comrade Colonel, let me train the “Czechs” like a paratrooper?

How is this, Zvantsev?

You'll see, everything is within the law. We have a very persuasive upbringing. Not a single peacemaker will find fault.

Well, come on, just so that my head doesn’t fall off later at army headquarters.

Eight people from Zvantsev’s unit quietly went out at night towards the ill-fated village. Not a single shot was fired until the morning, when the dusty and tired guys returned to the tent. The tankers were even surprised. Scouts walk around the camp with cheerful eyes and mysterious grins in their beards.

Already in the middle of the next day, the elder came to the gates of the Russian military camp. The guards made him wait for about an hour - for education - and then took him to the headquarters tent to the colonel.

Colonel Ivanov offered the old man tea. He refused with a gesture.

“Your people are to blame,” the elder began, forgetting his Russian speech out of excitement. - They mined the roads from the village. I will complain to Moscow!

The colonel called the intelligence chief.

The elder claims that it was we who set up the tripwires around the village... - and handed Zvantsev the wire guard from the tripwire.

Zvantsev twirled the wire in his hands in surprise.

Comrade Colonel, this is not our wire. We give out steel wire, but this is a simple copper wire. The militants staged it, no less...

What an action movie! “Do they really need this,” the old man shouted loudly in indignation and immediately stopped short, realizing that he had been stupid.

No, dear elder, we do not set up targets against civilians. We have come to free you from the militants. This is all the work of bandits.

Colonel Ivanov spoke with a slight smile and complicity on his face. The old man left, somewhat defeated and quiet, but furious and annoyed inside.

Are you letting me down under the article? - The Colonel made an indignant face.

No way, Comrade Colonel. This system is already debugged and has not caused any failures yet. The wire is really Chechen...

Chechen snipers did not shoot at the camp for a whole week. But on the eighth day, a soldier from the kitchen squad was shot in the head.

That same night, Zvantsev’s people again left the camp at night. As expected, the elder came to the authorities:

Well, why put tripwires against peaceful people? You must understand that our tape is one of the smallest, there is no one to help us.

The old man tried to find understanding in the colonel's eyes. Zvantsev sat with a stony face, stirring sugar in a glass of tea.

We will proceed as follows. In connection with such actions of bandits, a unit of Captain Zvantsev will go to the village. We will clear the mines for you. And to help him I give ten armored personnel carriers and infantry fighting vehicles. Just in case. So, father, you will go home on armor, and not on foot. We'll give you a ride!

Zvantsev entered the village, his people quickly cleared the “non-deployed” trip wires. True, they did this only after intelligence had worked in the village. It became clear that a path led from above, from the mountains, to the houses of the villagers. The residents clearly kept more livestock than they themselves needed. We also found a barn where beef was dried for future use.

A week later, an ambush left on the trail in a short battle destroyed seventeen bandits at once. They descended into the village without even sending reconnaissance forward. The village residents buried five in their teip cemetery.

A week later, another fighter in the camp was killed by a sniper bullet. The colonel, calling Zvantsev, told him briefly: “Go!”

And again the old man came to the colonel.

We still have a person who died, a tripwire.

Dear friend, our man also died. Your sniper took it.

Why ours. Where is ours from? - the old man became worried.

Yours, yours, we know. There is not a single source for twenty kilometers around here. So it's up to you. Only, old man, you understand that I cannot demolish your village to the ground with artillery, although I know that almost all of you there are Wahhabis. Your snipers kill my people, and when mine surround them, they throw down their machine guns and take out a Russian passport. From this moment on, they can no longer be killed.

The old man did not look the colonel in the eyes; he lowered his head and clutched his hat in his hands. There was a painful pause. Then, with difficulty pronouncing the words, the elder said:

You're right, Colonel. The militants will leave the village today. Only the newcomers remained. We're tired of feeding them...

They will leave like that. There will be no stretch marks, Aslanbek. And when they return, they will appear,” Zvantsev said.

The old man stood up silently, nodded to the colonel and left the tent. The colonel and captain sat down to drink tea.

“It turns out that something can be done in this seemingly hopeless situation. I can’t anymore, I’m sending two hundred after two hundred,” the colonel thought to himself. “Well done captain! What can you do? In war it’s like in war!”

Alexey Borzenko

News

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.

War in Chechnya Stories of participants in the Chechen War

Interview with Alexander Gradulenko, participant in the 1995 assault on Grozny

He didn't return from the battle yesterday

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, already 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”, but 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 “forward, guys!” Our battalion commander, Major Zhovtoripenko, comes out next and reports: “The personnel are not ready for combat!” Next are 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 already with other commanders...

By the way, those who told the truth at the airfield then slowly “left” the army. I and my friends have great respect for these people. 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. 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, we were already mentally trying on blue helmets. But when the train stopped in Kaspiysk, that’s where our peacekeeping ended. We 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 scuffles - 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 the same Chechnya, our souls hurt. That's 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”, a program to help the parents of dead children. We are not asking for money, we just want understanding.

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Stories and articles

Chechen War. There will be no peace

Vedeno

The doctor died that night. I just fell asleep and didn't wake up. He lay on the bed, young, strong, handsome, and we stood silently around him. Consciousness refused to accept this death. Not from a bullet, not from a shrapnel, not from an enemy shot, but because in the depths of this strong young body the heart was suddenly tired of this war, of its dirt and pain. Tired and stopped.

I was in a bad mood! A long, tedious rain poured down, turning the detachment’s camp into a swamp. The low, deathly gray sky emitted icy, prickly streams onto the ground, with which the insane mountain wind kept whipping across the face. The distance of a couple of tens of meters between the tents turned into an obstacle course, and every step on the slippery steep slope required skill and balance.

Truly, rain in the mountains is a special cataclysm. The damp logs were barely smoldering in the potbelly stove, filling the tent with acrid smoke and not providing warmth. Everything was damp and soaked with water. The dirt crunched underfoot, the cold, damp camouflage stuck disgustingly to my back. The rain drummed loudly on the tarpaulin. The doc also died...

We stormed ancient Ichkeria, the very heart of Chechnya - the Vedeno region. But what does stormed mean? The motorized rifle division, having knocked down Dudayev's blocks and ambushes, climbed into this mountain valley and stopped. There was no war.

The “Chechi” valued and loved this “ancient Ichkeria” too much. Walker-envoys from the surrounding villages reached out to the division commander, slyly assuring him of peace and loyalty, but in reality, they were ready to sign anything, even an agreement with Iblis, the Muslim devil, just to survive and push the army out of here. Don't let her fire a single shot here.

It was there, in the valley, in other people's villages, that they easily and mercilessly exposed other people's houses to Russian shells and bombs. It was the valley Chechens who had to experience the full horror of this war: the ruins of destroyed villages, the ashes of their homes, death and fear. Here they tucked their claws in front of Russian military power and froze. This is their nest, this is their patrimony. They wanted to preserve it at any cost.

And the division was inevitably drawn into this game. Accustomed to fighting, wiping out enemy strongholds from the face of the earth, breaking his resistance with fire and iron, she was now clumsily and dissatisfiedly engaged in “peacekeeping” - negotiations with “bearded men”, with some nimble “administrators”, “delegates”, “ambassadors” , who had a smile glued to their lips as if by choice, and their eyes lasciviously rummaged around, either calculating the equipment, or simply hiding from our eyes.

Both the division commander and the “ambassadors” perfectly understood the falsity and insincerity of the signed papers and the promises made, so the negotiations went neither shaky nor slow. Somehow by inertia, without interest, sluggishly.
The army people - soldiers, platoon leaders, company commanders - gloomily cursed at the “negotiators”.

- Take everything here to such and such a mother. Burn out this nest of snakes, throw mines at them, so that for another five years they will be afraid to return here. Grandfather Stalin was wise. Knew how to handle them. No bombings or casualties. A humanist, not like Yeltsin.

...What the hell will the negotiations give! They have a lair here. If we leave, they will steal everything here again. Both weapons and equipment. The bases have been deployed. Slaves are being snatched up throughout Russia. Burn everything here to the ground!

But they didn’t let me burn it. The war froze in the foothills of Vedeno.

Those on this earth who immediately and unconditionally accepted the Russians are animals. In almost every crew, in every platoon, someone lives. Where is the dog, where is the cat, where is the rooster. One day, on the road, I met an armored personnel carrier; on its armor, among the soldiers, lay... a bear cub, with a military cap cleverly sitting on its head.

The dogs have nicknames that are just right - Dzhokhar, Nokhcha, Shamil.

In general, it seemed that everyone who was not tied by the neck with a rope to Chechen houses and fences went over to the Russians: cats, dogs, birds. Apparently, they have learned in abundance the peculiarities of the Chechen character. The rams were just unlucky. They have the same fate - under any government.

Vedeno in Chechen means “flat place.” The untouchedness of the land and the neglect of the villages immediately catches the eye. Not a plowed plot of land anywhere, not a grape vine or garden anywhere. Dirty, rickety fences, fences. Labor here is clearly not in tradition and is not held in high esteem. “Russians, we need your women, we... will have them, and your hands, so that you work for us,” a Chechen radio operator once philosophized on the air. This formula contains their entire morality. The radio operator was impudent, he loved to climb into our frequencies and talk about “Russian pigs” and “Chechen heroes”. This is what let him down. The police special forces spotted the place from which he was broadcasting. Together with the “philosopher” they covered an entire radio center here. They killed a dozen Cheches and a local commander. And the radio operator was convinced from his own experience that the Russian hand can do more than just plow.

But here, in Vedeno, they don’t allow us to fight. In the villages, shaven-headed, bearded men of about thirty, with a wolfish longing for someone else's blood frozen in their eyes, openly walk around, spitting through their teeth after the armored personnel carriers. They are now “peaceful”, an “agreement” has been signed with them. The division will leave, and after it these will go into the valley. They will leave to kill, rob, and take revenge. But now you couldn’t touch them - peacekeeping. They, the peacekeepers, would be here - under bullets.

Restless

The 19th motorized rifle division “spirits” was nicknamed Restless, because for the past year and a half it has been wandering around Chechnya from one end to the other, chasing gangs and detachments, taking cities and villages, knocking down ambushes and strongholds. Having taken Grozny, fought in the Northern group, she then took Argun and Gudermes, fought near Vedeno and Bamut. Now she is here again. But not for long. Soon its regiments will leave for Shali, where, according to intelligence data, up to one and a half thousand militants have accumulated, then, most likely, they will move to the northeast. That's for sure - a restless division...

But war is not a holiday. The division pays dearly for its restlessness. In a year and a half, she lost three hundred people killed and about one and a half thousand wounded. With a staff strength of seven to eight thousand people, this is almost a quarter of the staff. There is not a company or platoon here that does not have its own mournful list of losses...

But if only it were a matter of combat losses, other losses are much more painful and difficult to experience. The division speaks with bitterness and pain about the former commander of one of the regiments, Colonel Sokolov, and the head of intelligence of this regiment, Captain Avdzhyan. Both were something of a division legend. One can talk for a very long time about their exploits during the storming of Grozny. Both were nominated for the title of Hero and both were... expelled from the division and from the army. Their “fault” was that in the heat of battle, having captured three “spirits”, the soldiers simply did not take them to headquarters. The colonel and captain were removed from their posts and put on trial “for lynching.” This blew up the division so much that a little more - and the battalions would have gone to smash the prosecutor's office. The authorities came to their senses. They didn’t try the officers, but they kicked them out anyway. Undeserved and shameful. And this pain is still not forgotten...

Restless fights with some special passion. With your unique handwriting. The chief of artillery, a short, stocky colonel with attentive, tenacious eyes, said:

- A month ago mine worked - yes! One battery was stationed in Ingushetia, the other near Vedeno, and the self-propelled guns near Khasavyurt. So the shells were placed on targets just a hundred meters from our front line. And not a single one - on their own. Everything is on target. The infantry later thanked...

Even I, a person far from artillery, could understand the pride of an artilleryman. This work is truly top class!

We leave at dawn...

“The wind is blowing through the mountains. Lifting our thoughts to the skies. Only dust under the boots. God is with us and with us is the banner and the heavy AKS at the ready...” - a “compote” from Kipling and the everyday life of Chechnya is sung by a intelligence officer of a special forces police department with a guitar. He is the team leader. An ordinary Russian young man. Nothing like Ramb or Schwarzenegger, but behind the soul there is a year and a half of war. You can’t count how many raids there were in the rear of the “Czechs.” There are more than a dozen “spirits” in the account. In general, only an experienced person can identify real “specialists”. There are as many as you like here, hung with weapons up to their eyebrows in camouflage and fashionable “unloadings”. But they are as close to the “specialists” as they are to the sky! A real intelligence officer usually wears a worn-out "gornik" - an ordinary student canvas windbreaker - and the same pants. And there are exactly as many weapons on it as needed - without excess. No cool camouflages, no fingerless gloves and similar gadgets.

A “specialist” can be recognized by his face, tanned by the winds, bad weather, sun and cold, which has become somehow especially dark-tanned.

— All life is on the street. “Like wolves,” the “specialists” commander laughs. “I’ve even started to grow underfur and claws...” the major scratches the thick hair on his chest.
By morning the camp of the “specialists” was empty. The groups went to the mountains. The guitar remained in the sleeping bag to wait for its owner.

Replacement

- “Plafond” requested a “turntable”. “She will be there in half an hour,” the commander announced. “Plafond” is the call sign of the aircraft controller assigned to the detachment. The call sign smoothly turned into a nickname. Plafond - lean blond - in the world, i.e. outside the war, pilot on An-12. Now he is wrapped in a raincoat on the landing site, and in the headquarters tent there is disassembly:

“I want to stay myself,” said the short, strong man, the group commander, for the umpteenth time. - I know people. They got used to me. I understand the situation. I'll replace it in a month.

- Commander, well, the person wants it himself. Why not leave it? Let’s replace the signalman, he’ll also be out of jail soon,” he supported a conscientious objector from another group.
The detachment commander, a lieutenant colonel, a former paratrooper, summed it up briefly:

- You're flying! Get ready, the turntable is coming soon. Whether he wants or not... Not children! The deadline is up - go home. If something happens, I will never forgive myself. Fatigue is fatigue. Take a rest and come back...

They are replaced in different ways. Someone, demonstratively crossing out day after day on the calendar, counting down their deadline, preparing for departure a week in advance. Someone only has time to hastily grab a backpack with clothes, returning from the mountains and being late for the turntable. It seems that there is always one thing - sadness when parting. It’s hard to leave friends here, cats scratch at my soul. And very often when parting you hear:

- Wait, brothers! I won't be late...

It's really great coming back here. With bags of gifts, gifts, letters, vodka. They return cheerfully, with some strange feeling of lightness of liberation. And, falling into the strong arms of friends, you suddenly catch yourself thinking that you were languishing without them. There, in peaceful Moscow, I missed these people, this business...

Guardsmen and Musketeers

As in any war, glory is poorly shared here. Everyone strives to pinch off a larger piece and prove that it was he (his regiment, his branch of the army) who “made” the war. And at the same time, “get away” from the neighbors.

The army men make sarcasm at the internal troops, while the air force officers pay the “soviets” with the same coin—that’s what the army men are called. Both of them scold the paratroopers and special forces, and they, in turn, are not averse to taking a ride on the infantry and tank crews. The pilots get it from everyone at once.

Everyone is jealously counting who fought more where, who took which cities, who killed the most Cheches.

And watching this skirmish, you suddenly catch yourself thinking that all this is very reminiscent of Dumas’ plot - about the endless enmity of the cardinal’s guards and the king’s musketeers.

But the order comes, and all jealousy goes away. Infantry storms Dudayev's fortified areas and surrounds villages. Internal troops and employees of the Ministry of Internal Affairs go to “clean up” the inside of these snake houses. Somewhere in the mountains “specialists” are wooling “chechey”.

Everyone has their own thing to do in this war.

We will consider ourselves glory later...

In general, everyone was very tired. The people are tired, the equipment is tired, the weapons are tired. The special forces detachment that took me in has not left this war for a year and a half. Once brand new armored personnel carriers now resemble sick old men, when, wheezing and coughing like asthmatics, they barely climb mountains at the limit of their worn-out engines. Pockmarked machine gun barrels with paint faded from endless shooting. Darned and darned camouflages, worn out, tattered tents. A year and a half of war! For the last three months I have been in the mountains without going out. Hundreds of kilometers of roads. Dozens of villages. Losses. Fights.

People are completely exhausted and tired. And yet this is a squad! This is a strange Russian mentality, when no one complains, does not curse fate, and when they return from the mountains at night and receive a new task, they meekly begin to prepare for the raid. Refuel, hastily clean your exhausted armored vehicles, which were running out of all their conceivable resources. Fill belts and magazines with cartridges, charge the batteries of radio stations, patch windbreakers and pants that are creeping from disrepair. And only in the morning do you lose yourself in sleep for a couple of hours. Black, deep, dreamless.

And then, having hastily swallowed the porridge with canned fish - the stew is long over, just as the bread and butter are gone, sit down on the armor - and go! "We leave at dawn..."

...There will be no peace. No matter how Moscow politicians talk about it, there will not be peace here for a very long time...

I saw a Russian slave who worked for four years in Dargo. His eyes are impossible to forget.
I saw an old Russian woman - she was forty-two years old. Her husband and son were killed in Grozny, she knows nothing about the fate of her thirteen-year-old daughter...

I saw something here that, probably, my eyes should have long ago turned black with horror and hatred. As, indeed, with any soldier in this war...

No, there will be no peace. Nobody will give it to us.

Moscow - Khankala - Shali - Vedeno - Moscow

Armament