Download zagortsev special purpose sailor. Andrey Zagortsev - special purpose sailor

Andrey Vladimirovich Zagortsev

Sailor of Special Purpose

Dedicated to sailors recent years Great Empire.

In fact, everything turned out to be not as we would like. Not at all! In one day, we did not become handsome men in black uniforms and black berets. Only the buckle with the anchor of a black "wooden" belt and a black vest reminded of belonging to the fleet.

That's all naval attributes. Even RF duffel bags (chmyr's backpack) like ordinary infantry. We are not supposed to have a damn thing - we have the Young Sailor Course. That says it all. There is absolutely no romance, and even no sea. And in the morning exhausting run in heavy cowhide boots. After all, I used to run well both three kilometers and one hundred meters. And he didn’t hang like a sausage on the horizontal bar. And then, as in one day, it was chopped off - no running, no jumping, no pulling up. I don't understand what happened. The foreman of the company, the senior sergeant - "conscript" is running somewhere ahead with the first platoon, we are running at the tail of the company column, our platoon leader, also a "cricket", Khromov, is pushing us behind. Khromov is a sergeant, and the position of a "platoon officer" is an officer or ensign. But our sergeant has experience and authority in educating the younger generation of "marines".

When we stop these races, no one really knows, we rush like sluggish horses, coughing and panting, bulging eyes and barely raising our legs in heavy boots. It's useless to jump. The net will carry his platoon on its shoulders. Some have tried. Did not work out. In general, everything is not as it seemed. Not like I saw in my father's unit. There, hefty sailors in black “peshukhas” broke bricks on display, deftly shot with both hands. On forced marches, they rushed in a well-coordinated black monolith, on parachute jumps, they walked without fear into an open hatch. How many times I have been driving, shooting, jumping - I can’t even remember. But here everything is different. The team, as such, has not yet formed a young replenishment in our company: we have only been here for two weeks. So, we know a neighbor in bed and on the table, and the commander of the squad from the permanent staff. And we are a variable composition. Charging in the morning - where can you get acquainted here! - then breakfast: the main thing here is to have time to throw in more porridge and sip a mug of tea, chewing bread and butter on the go. And then it started. All activities are on the run. Fire training, charters and those - in the ranks on the parade ground, tactics are more and more crawling or running, and endless physical training. Saturday cleaning. On Sunday sports holiday, and then you can sleep, undress completely, climb on the bunk under the covers and doze off until dinner. But this is if the squad leader allows. Our squad leader allowed. We didn't give him any trouble. We listen to him with our mouths open, we rush where they are ordered, we do what they say. Sergeant Sinelnikov drew attention to me when everyone was given cotton uniforms and two collars each, and seated on jars (stools) on the central deck (aka the central aisle, take-off, etc.). Although we have everything infantry-motorized rifle, household-everyday names are all marine. Just like us, privates are sailors. Sinelnikov explained to us how to hem, explained that we would be in our unit when we got there to hem and smooth the tunic according to the normal "Marine" style. In some parts, for example, they are not hemmed at all. And now you will be hemmed like the most natural “boots” and don’t fuck. While he was talking, I had already hemmed myself and sat pecking my nose. I had a very impressive experience in hemming collars, hemming tunics and camouflage. Father taught. We sometimes competed with him who could sew up his tunic faster. Best result I had a minute and forty seconds. Therefore, I sewed a brand new cotton tunic in two minutes. Sinelnikov, having finished the story-show, began to walk between the rows, seeing me with a shaking head and a half-open mouth, he barked:

Sailor, get up, what are you? .. - I didn’t have time to finish, I already jumped up and barked cheerfully:

Wow, sergeant, I'm already screwed!

Stop peeing. I don’t hem so quickly - a tunic for inspection ...

After inspecting the tunic, he grunted in surprise and tore off the hems with one jerk.

Come on, come on with me, podsheysya again ...

In the presence of the sergeant, I was hemmed in a minute and forty seconds. Sinelnikov grinned:

Volokesh, however. Where did you learn?

Friends from the army came, showed, comrade sergeant ...

You have the right friends. So, let's help the rest, show, take on the first two rows.

Here, perhaps, is all that I distinguished myself. Surprisingly, in the company there was nothing resembling hazing and other passions with which they so loved to scare civilians. I don't know why, but it didn't. The sergeants scared us that we would have to experience all this in our own skin in the units that we would get into, but for now we are in a company of young replenishment in training. Some of us after the course will immediately go to the unit, someone will remain in training, train as sergeants, radio operators and sappers. But it will be later, and now only exhausting running and classes, classes with scheduled breaks for sleeping and eating.

And soon, in the engineering training class, when we were all making an incendiary pipe, I again excelled. Having cut off the igniter cord at an angle, for convenience, he slightly ripped it open and, breaking off the match, put it into the incision so that the sulfuric head lay tightly on the cut. The ensign instructor, who was walking along the line of the platoon and checking the correctness of the manufacture of the pipe, stopped near me.

What kind of amateur performance is this, sailor?

Comrade ensign, but it’s also possible, it’s inconvenient to press a match with your finger.

Yes sir.

Come on, show it…

I, having taken a detonator cap from the ensign, fitted it to the other end of the cord, asked for "crimps" and built a tube.

You quickly got a sailor, but how can you figure out how to put it on time? the instructor grinned.

Yes sir! Comrade ensign, give me a cigarette.

Khromov, who was standing nearby, upon hearing my request, started up and wanted to express his commander's "fi", but the ensign, waving his hand, took out a pack of "Rhodopi" and held out a cigarette.

No, everything is clear. What's your last name, sailor?

Having written down my surname in a notebook, the ensign sent me back to the ranks and continued my studies. In addition to an approving poke from Sinelnikov, to whom I gave an honestly earned cigarette, I also deserved a couple of puzzled looks from my colleagues.

Someone even hissed like "got fucked up." I don't care, let him hiss, I remember him. A guy from somewhere in Kazakhstan, everything is always bad for him, everything is wrong. Yesterday, for no reason at all, I pushed my neighbor in bed, a silent and quiet boy from Moscow, at the exit from the dining room. Sinelnikov, seeing the push, without hesitation, weighed the pendal to the initiator. He growled through his teeth so that no one could hear and now began to constantly step in the ranks on the heels of my neighbor.

I had a friend with my father in the unit, sailor Konkin, a hefty forelock and always cheerful Rostovite, who advised: “Take me to the latrine. And there in the face and from the foot in the balls, and there in the legs to him "low" crap - as hard as possible. One, consider, demolished, and the rest will already be afraid. And if they are kneaded by the crowd, then from fear already. So don’t piss, let’s train our legs.” Oh, how he beat my legs! And how I about his hard, like steel ingots, hips stuffed leg raises, it's scary to remember. So his science was not useful to me, although I constantly trained the same blow - sometimes on trees, sometimes just like that, honing the speed and angles of attack.

In the evening in the latrine, I still met with that guy from Kazakhstan. I don't even remember his last name. I only remember that he liked to brag that he was from Semsk and they fought there quarter by quarter. I don't know how they fought. But my neighbor - "Muscovite" at the moment when I came in, had already whipped out his canteen offender with one blow. And no one even noticed the impact. Only a body with rolling eyes, sliding quietly along the wall. Here's your quiet. There were plenty of people in the latrine at that time. I helped the "Muscovite" Slavik lift the passed out sailor and bring him to his senses by splashing water in his face. The boy, waking up, shook his head and said only “Oh, fucking fucked up”, then got up and, staggering, wandered into the cockpit. Then he behaved quite normally and did not show himself in any way towards either me or Slava. And the rest of the sailors he no longer touched. But the case of a fight in the toilet somehow became known to Khromov. Someone snitched. No, not the guy from Semsk, this one is not of that breed, and even if he got it in the face, he took it deservedly, he won’t knock like that. When my neighbor and I were taken out in the morning formation and began to have both in the tail and in the mane, the “Kazakhstani” looked perplexed, because many might think that it was he who snitched. And then he came up to me at breakfast and tried to prove that it was not his doing. I believed him, and Slava too. And in the evening we were solemnly informed that we were representing the first company of young recruits at competitions in hand-to-hand combat. The commander, a huge senior lieutenant, who we saw only three times during the entire course of the young sailor, loudly read out our names, and we got out of line. Chills began to pound me, Slava was indifferent. One hundred and twenty young sailors looked at us with horror. The platoon leader Khromov fiddled with the shoulder strap of his harness on his chest and bit his lips. Sinelnikov made terrible eyes. The commander said a couple more phrases that I absolutely did not hear. I woke up in the "Lenin" cockpit.

Books enlighten the soul, uplift and strengthen a person, awaken the best aspirations in him, sharpen his mind and soften his heart.

William Thackeray, English satirist

The book is a great power.

Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, Soviet revolutionary

Without books, we now can neither live, nor fight, nor suffer, nor rejoice and win, nor confidently move towards that reasonable and wonderful future in which we unshakably believe.

Many thousands of years ago, a book in the hands the best representatives humanity has become one of the main weapons of their struggle for truth and justice, and it is this weapon that gave these people a terrible strength.

Nikolai Rubakin, Russian bibliologist, bibliographer.

The book is a tool. But not only. It introduces people to the life and struggle of other people, makes it possible to understand their experiences, their thoughts, their aspirations; it makes it possible to compare, understand the environment and transform it.

Stanislav Strumilin, Academician of the USSR Academy of Sciences

There is no better remedy for refreshing the mind than reading the ancient classics; as soon as you take one of them in your hands, even if for half an hour, you immediately feel refreshed, lightened and cleansed, uplifted and strengthened, as if refreshed by bathing in a pure spring.

Arthur Schopenhauer, German philosopher

Those who were not familiar with the creations of the ancients lived without knowing beauty.

Georg Hegel, German philosopher

No failures of history and deaf spaces of time are able to destroy human thought, fixed in hundreds, thousands and millions of manuscripts and books.

Konstantin Paustovsky, Russian Soviet writer

The book is magic. The book changed the world. It contains the memory of the human race, it is the mouthpiece of human thought. A world without a book is a world of savages.

Nikolai Morozov, creator of modern scientific chronology

Books are the spiritual testament of one generation to another, the advice of a dying old man to a young man who begins to live, an order transmitted by sentries going on vacation to sentries who take his place.

Without books, human life is empty. The book is not only our friend, but also our constant, eternal companion.

Demyan Bedny, Russian Soviet writer, poet, publicist

The book is a powerful tool of communication, labor, struggle. It equips man with the experience of the life and struggle of mankind, expands his horizon, gives him knowledge with which he can make the forces of nature serve him.

Nadezhda Krupskaya, Russian revolutionary, Soviet party, public and cultural figure.

Reading good books is a conversation with the most the best people past times, and, moreover, such a conversation when they tell us only their best thoughts.

René Descartes, French philosopher, mathematician, physicist and physiologist

Reading is one of the sources of thinking and mental development.

Vasily Sukhomlinsky, an outstanding Soviet teacher and innovator.

Reading for the mind is the same as physical exercise for body.

Joseph Addison, English poet and satirist

Good book- just a conversation with a smart person. The reader receives from her knowledge and generalization of reality, the ability to understand life.

Alexei Tolstoy, Russian Soviet writer and public figure

Don't forget that the most colossal tool of all-round education is reading.

Alexander Herzen, Russian publicist, writer, philosopher

Without reading there is no real education, there is not and cannot be any taste, or a word, or a multilateral breadth of understanding; Goethe and Shakespeare are equal to the whole university. Reading man survives centuries.

Alexander Herzen, Russian publicist, writer, philosopher

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We lined up again, the boatman pulled out a pile of grey-green life jackets. Such vests were used when disembarking combat groups from a surface vessel and, unlike bright life jackets, they were completely invisible on the water.

Do not damage the property, baby, - he instructed us, - fasten the straps on the carabiner under the eggs, the pumping hoses - so that they are near the muzzle.

Finally, we got ready again, inflated our vests.

Relax the belts of the machine guns to their full length, unfasten them from the barrel, fasten the carbines to the rings on the vests, the order of landing is the first subgroup, the left side into the battle line, the second - the starboard side! when firing - the side to the shore shoots from the stop, the side from the shore - standing over their heads. Once again I pay attention to safety precautions! first run - no shooting! just practicing! Group - in place!

We didn’t even manage to quickly take our places according to the calculation.

The standard "landing on a landing craft" is two points, - the boat sailor commented.

The group is on the beach! landing training! - commanded the caplet.

Only twenty minutes later we achieved complete coherence and speed. Finally sit down. The foreman - "cricket" reversed, the sailor, resting his feet, helped the boat motor, clinging like a monkey to the prow of the boat, thrashed his feet in the water and climbed aboard in a split second.

We moved away from the shore, picked up speed abruptly, turn, go at full speed. Popovskikh with binoculars at his eyes, not even swaying, stands with his legs wide apart. Side turn. On board from the shore.

Group! coast patrol at the landing site! Aagooo!!

If only not to fall overboard and put a bullet in the back of the head to a sailor sitting at the side "to the shore." The boat shakes, the target runs up and down from under the sight and smoothly shifts to the left. But how can you shoot under such conditions! Somehow they got shot. On command, they unfastened the magazines, the cartridge in the chamber, shot into the air, the weapon for inspection, the barrels up. Popovsky with small steps along the side. Inspected! To the fuse.

What a hit there! They fired into the rocks - into the sand and stones - fifteen rounds each, and they calmed down. Luckily no one in the group was shot. A sharp turn of the boat.

The foreman commander of the motorboat is working out the escape from the shelling.

Waa, - a splash from our board. The sailor of the second subgroup, who was sitting in the rear patrol, with his legs up high and not letting go of his machine gun, went into the water.

Chilaaveek overboard, - the boat sailor joyfully exclaims, jumps to the side, on the go spinning the skert with a float and a load at the end in his hand.

The foreman sharply slows down, the scout, who has fallen overboard, in a life jacket that has slipped over his ears, waves with both hands. The machine is no longer there. The sailor-boatman deftly throws the shkert, which flops right in front of the nose of the crazed sailor, who instinctively clings to the float. The sailor lashes the skert on a small T-shaped bollard on board the boat (devices on board for fastening boats to the pier). He deftly pulls up the "chilaaveek", and lashes out again.

Stepanyich! push ashore - I have it in tow!

Everything happens literally in just half a minute, we don’t even have time to realize anything.

So that's why we attached machine guns with a belt to a life jacket! Clever, however, otherwise they would now dive, looking for a trunk. Whole incident. And so, a sailor towed by a boat, pulled the machine gun out of the water by the belt, and, eyes wide with fright, looks around and sways on the wake of the boat.

Popovskikh on the shore did not say a word about the incident, he only gave us a lecture in his raspy voice about the procedure for observing the coast and his partner on board. We were the first to react to the fallen sailor, give a command and take measures to rescue, but we did not react in any way - only opened our mouths.

After checking weapons and ammunition, in a short break, Fedos whispered in my ear:

Mui Ne is everything! Zeleny fell overboard, and he had Zhdanovskaya's "Shmotka" (nautical school) behind him. They went there on all sorts of boats and he is a CCM in swimming! he couldn't get out on his own. It was his Pop who persuaded him before classes - I'm talking about those! I saw him instructing him yesterday after class.

Indeed, the sailor Zelenov was older than us and graduated from the nautical school in the city of Zhdanov. Most likely, he flopped overboard on the task of the commander, who decided to test our combat coherence. Just like that, such an experienced sailor could not be embarrassed. Then, after a couple of weeks, Zeleny himself confessed to us that he acted on the task of the Popovskys. The second firing from the side of the lifeboat went without incident, although the results were completely unimpressive. They returned to the unit without walking in azimuths, just running. After maintenance of weapons and equipment and lunch, at the command of the commander, Fedosov led the group to a summer class to summarize next lesson. We were expecting a break, but everything went quietly. The lieutenant commander said that he gave us practice in shooting from the water and from the board of the watercraft. And then he stunned us all:

And by by and large, as soon as the group starts firing and enters the battle during the landing, the scouts turn into heroic marines and die without completing their main task.

Whatever one may say, our captain is right. And there's nothing you can do about it. Moreover, as he said, the landing from the landing craft will mainly take place at night, and it will be almost impossible to see anything on the shore. And if the battle starts, then the landing of the group will be completely failed. At the sound of shots, detachments to combat underwater sabotage forces will immediately arrive, coastal defense forces, border guards will pull up and that's it - "goodbye rocky mountains." If you still have to use weapons, it's better to use silent samples. In our group, we have devices for silent, flameless shooting, night sights, but no one has yet had the practice of such shooting from the "water". Our commander said that now he is just developing a lesson plan with the practical implementation of shooting from the "water" at night using noiseless flameless shooting devices and night sights. Moreover, he wants to work out firing from the side afloat when practicing the landing. If someone in the group has some ideas and considerations on how to keep sights and silencers from getting water, how best to organize classes, then he asks not to be shy - to think, discuss with all personnel and report to the group commander. Popovskikh set tasks for the next school day, put a mark in the notebook of conversations with personnel. Just at that moment, our reconnaissance "Komsomolets" looked into the gazebo, he is also the full-time political officer of our first company, and, smiling happily, asked permission from our commander to have a conversation with the personnel. Popovskikh grimaced, gave the "Komsomol leader" fifteen minutes and left for the location, taking with him the foreman of the second article Fedosov.

"Komsomolets", in the rank of senior lieutenant, began to read to us some newspaper clippings about "new trends", some speeches by Gorbachev, handed out several newspapers.

I languidly leafed through the Komsomolskaya Pravda, found an interesting article by some correspondent Filinov, who exposed the youth group Laskovy May, and plunged into reading with pleasure. The senior lieutenant was tired of messing with us, he collected newspapers and in a conspiratorial whisper told us that rumors were circulating around the territory of the unit, that in some of the units an underground viewing of videos was arranged and if someone knows something, let him inform him.

Damn! I'm an active member of the Komsomol, but I don't feel like going and reporting anything. I would love to go see the film "Bloodsport", about which the midshipman from the carpentry shop hinted to me. Maybe you should tell the midshipman? Although he probably already knows that political officers are interested in him. It is strange that the special officers have not yet become interested in them. It will be bad if the underground video salon is shut down.

But where can I get a couple of rubles for a Saturday video session?

In the evening before lights out, Fedos said that the commander had set him the task of accepting all the property of the group and the battalion from Markov. And he didn’t beg and didn’t ask questions - he simply ordered. Midshipman Markov was already in the know and was not at all saddened by the circumstances. According to the state, he remained in the group, but now he will work somewhere at the disposal of the commander of the reconnaissance post. Not bad, however, for such a young midshipman. Now the foreman of the second article Fedosov acted as deputy commander and was in charge of all economic and security issues in our unit. Responsibility for the foreman of the first year is rather big. I hope that Aleksan Palych Fedosov will not be arrogant now. Having already mentally licked my lips, I imagined how we drink tea in the evening in the battleship and listen to our group tape recorder and brilliantly come up with a drop-dead plan for the lesson, from which Popovskikh becomes wildly delighted and gives us a ruble so that we can watch the film "Bloodsport" . Ah, yes, I was dreaming. After dinner, in private time, Fedos and I counted uniforms, overalls, caps, RD-54, MG, some ropes, carbines and other elements of military equipment.

Zyr, - puffed Fedos, - shaking some thick book, - this is like a book of accounting for the movement of material property in a group, in! I just don’t understand, Pop said that we should also check with the company book! He also said - carefully check the form twenty-six! Do you know what form this is?

Well, probably some form for special tasks ... how many sets of this form should be? Let's take a look at the top shelves.

Capplate said to check form twenty-six, but how many of these forms - he didn’t say a damn thing. I, so I suspect, should be for the whole group - twelve sets.

Listen, we have already counted everything and copied it on a piece of paper, we have a set of each uniform, and there is enough peakless cap for the whole company. But the twenty-sixth - I have never seen such a thing! I need to find out from the "godkov" how she looks.

Exactly! let's go to Mikhel, company battalion. He knows what it is.

Mikhey, an imposing sailor, preparing for the "descent", sat in the company battalion without getting out. It was not even noticeable on constructions and checks. The foreman of the company, senior midshipman Anichkov, trained him to such an extent that after a certain period of time he could not even pay attention to the conduct of the company economy. Sailor Mikhel Mikhail Mikhailovich knew literally everything: how to conduct reconciliations in the rear services, what boxes should be in the company training and material base, how to write off ammunition and other property. Changing underwear, obtaining uniforms in warehouses, issuing clothes and underwear to groups - all this lay on his shoulders.

The reconnaissance point operated a system of group battalions. At first, property was issued to companies, and then issued to groups. This was probably due to the fact that the group can work as an independent combat unit. Therefore, uniforms, equipment, and a supply of dry rations were stored separately in each group. Already serving in officer positions, I realized that this was a very well thought out system. Indeed, sometimes we noticed during formation that one or two reconnaissance groups were not in the ranks. When and where they left, only one commander of the group and the higher authorities knew. Even the company commander might not know. And it was much easier to carry out additional training of groups for the implementation of a training or combat mission. All the property is at hand, they closed the group in the cockpit, put up a sentry near the door and that's all - please. The dimensions of the cockpit make it possible to put up a layout of the terrain, hang maps, put up tables for cleaning weapons, and at the entrance to the cockpit, to the right of the door, at the coaming itself, there is a telephone socket sticking out. I realized all this much later and in fits and starts, moving from one period of service to another, from position to position.

Michel sat at a large table under the light of a large table lamp in blue armlets, a vest and blue shorts from a tropical uniform. A sailor, like Gaius Julius Caesar, did several things at the same time. He sanded a wooden mock-up machine gun with sandpaper, drank tea from a glass cup in a metal cup holder, talked with the senior sailor - the owner of the "cold" battleship, who recently puzzled us on making a box for the layout of the area.

Allow me on board, comrade sailors, - Fedos greeted politely.

We immediately in unison, after a nod from the sailor Mikhel, reported:

We don’t stand on the rudders, we don’t work as artel workers!

Why we report this, no one could really explain. For some reason, it was customary, if a young sailor came to a senior call to solve some problems, to report that way. In other companies and divisions, this was not the case - it was the "trick" of the first company. Where this proverb came from, no one even remembered, but - tradition is tradition.

Michal Mikhalych, we came to you for a consultation, - began Sanya.

I thought you came for the position to be put down, - neighed "Mikhel", - this is necessary - a week without a year, and already sat in the group battalion of the "locker".

We’ll definitely put down, the parcel will come to me soon, - Fedosov promised, - here we wanted to ask - how does the twenty-sixth form look like? And then we rummaged through all the shelves, but we didn’t see her. We think maybe our midshipman took home?

The "cold" bataler whinnied rather and almost choked on his tea, - Sailors! you are fucked up! box out for the layout of what a noble collapsed (found). He took Markush anyway, you will have to turn pale in front of your caplet!

Damn it! in vain I was so happy for my partner - now he will burn for this incomprehensible form, and Markov will go into refusal, he will say - the young sailors did not follow. It will burn to the second-rank foreman - oh, it will burn!

Oh, carp, well, you are stupid. Let's go to your battalion - Mikhal Mikhalych will put everything into compartments for you, - Mikhel sighed patronizingly, - you are now our battalion, and here - "m-a-f-i-i"!

It turns out that in addition to the "mafias" of "starshaks", "cylinders", "galley" there is also a mafia of batalers. What if there is still a mafia of midshipmen, officers, admirals?

"Mikhel" went into our group battalion, surveyed all the shelves and compartments, took out from under his arm his thick book, taken with him, and sat down at the table with a masterly air.

First I tell you, - he proclaimed, - sailor - tea!

Mikhal Mikhalych, but we don’t have tea or a boiler, Markov took everything, - I spread my hands sadly, - we have a group tape recorder, so the midshipman took the cord from him. You can't listen to music now.

However, how deaf everything is ... as if behind a bulkhead. Okay, listen, and tomorrow after lights out you are already treating me to tea!

The sailor began to tell us about things and orders, the existence of which we did not even suspect. All the property that is listed on the company is entered in the book that he just brought. Fedosov will now have to come every two weeks with his book and check with Mikhel. All issued property must also be recorded and a signature taken from the sailor. In addition to the property located in the battalion, the deputy group commander is also responsible for the racks, jars, tables, bedside tables located in the cockpit. Only the group commander is responsible for weapons and ammunition. Time will pass and when we turn into "godkov", then the deputy commander of the group will be responsible for the weapons - this is the practice here, if the deputy group commander is made up of conscript sailors. All property at the reception must be checked with our book, and then checked with the company, and the foreman of the company or Mikhel will put their signature on the fact that the property has been reconciled. Usually there is more property than is listed on the group. On the one hand, this is good - there is always an unaccounted for stock for all sorts of unforeseen cases. On the other hand, if an inventory and all sorts of checks are carried out by the reconnaissance point authorities, then the excess property will immediately be put on the balance sheet of the group, and it turns out the company, and then some of the materially responsible persons of the company will have difficulties. Difficulties may also arise with the company battalion, and God forbid this will happen through our fault. So, if there is too much, then so be it. And if there are signs of verification, it is better to hide everything acquired by overwork to go to hell. The worst thing is when, in the group, there is a shortage and it was discovered by a battalion officer after accepting the position and signing the acts. In our case, the situation is twofold. Markov, by order from above, works at the pompotyl, but is listed in the group. When he surrenders his position, he can easily blame everything on the unreasonable slut - the foreman of the second article Fedosov. And it turns out that the stupid Fedos, having accepted the battalion and property, squandered everything, while the zealous midshipman plowed in the sweat of his brow for the benefit of naval intelligence. Therefore, the senior and experienced sailor advises us, in a paternal way, to check all the property with our book and write an act that we can palm off on our caplet. He will force Markov to sign it in the "passed" column. Then this act will lie on the table of the company commander, be registered and will be a completely official document confirming that the carp of the second article Fedosov accepted exactly so much and the bribes are smooth from him! The act must be drawn up in triplicate. One will be in the company, the second will be in the group, and let Fedosov hide the third in the battalion and keep it - either until the battalion is handed over to someone, or until the very "going ashore."

We even got dizzy. Fedosov, diligently sticking out his tongue, scribbled in his notebook, making notes.

Mikhalych, - he urged, - tell me, please, well, and the form twenty-six - what is it?

The sailor shook his head, as if complaining about our stupidity, and, calling to him, opened the book he had brought with him.

Look, here in the corner in typographical font what is written in small letters?

Form number twenty-six! we read in unison.

Like this! turns out in the Navy even books have their own form.

With the help of Mikhel, we again began to count the property, referring to the books. Everything came together one to one, only there were more caps.

Yeah, - the company battalion commander said mysteriously, - the property in your group that was unaccounted for after the gathering of your "ancestors" was unmeasured, and now, there, everything counts. "Lunduk" shoved everything into his chest.

Under the guidance of an old-timer, we wrote three acts, in which, in addition to the signatures of Fedosov and Markov, there should have been paintings by Popovsky, the company commander, captain of the third rank Leonov, and company foreman Anichkov.

Mikhel put his signature in our book and left, reminding us that tomorrow he was drinking tea with us with a "cold bataler", checking our knowledge. And, finally, he advised me to get acquainted with one of the signalmen: they are very thoughtful sailors in electrical matters, they can help in some way. So you drank tea and were transported until the lights out.

In the morning we had two hours of social and political preparation, and we, sitting in the summer club, diligently took notes in notebooks of Gorbachev's speeches about the coming world "detente", events in the world, in the Army and Navy. Sailor Zelenov - "Green" was peacefully snoring next to me, drooling into a notebook where "sleep schedules" were displayed.

Taking the opportunity, I gently nudged the sailor, who had begun to snore softly, with my elbow:

Well, Zeleny, when will you give back fifty kopecks?

Zelenov opened his eyes, yawned sweetly, and muttered:

So what? - and fell asleep again.

I pushed him like this every five minutes, keeping him awake. Zelenov reached such a state that in order for me to fall behind, he pulled out a fifty kopeck piece from the pocket of his robe and thrust it into me - if only I would get rid of it. We have half of the Bloodsport donation, now we have to find another fifty dollars. I hope that Fedosov will also come up with something. After social and political preparation, we rushed along the beach, dragging the whole group with an inflatable rubber boat. Then they rolled over on it, put it down and climbed up again. Not a bad activity - similar to water rides, but exhausting no worse than running. Then half of the group sat inside, and the other half swam, pushing the boat in front of them. It seems to be where as simple - swim and push. However, the boat was uneven, scoured the course and swayed. Here everything depended on the coordinated actions of the sailors. I had to train - to rake at the expense of the commander. One hand had to cling to the rope, the other - to rake. The main thing is that the strokes on both sides are synchronous and of the same power. Soon, everyone's "arms and legs fell off." It's good that we practiced only on a zero set: only in shorts, and even put on life jackets. And what will happen next when we flounder in full gear with backpacks and weapons. At the end of the lesson, Popovsky nevertheless distributed flippers and only one fighting pair pushed the boat. And to finish off, for the last five minutes, the whole group of us slapped the sand in flippers, dragging the boat and the commander peacefully sitting in it. At dinner, I couldn't even raise my hand with a spoon, and when I was slapped on the back of the shoulder, I almost plunged my face into a bowl of pea soup.

Break, why is he so sluggish, - Dieter, who quietly approached me from behind, asked me.

Hello, Dmitry Anatolyevich! Dim, in the classroom, the capplate wiped us out, barely rustling on the deck.

Yours can. Finish your compote, go out into the air - tell me what's what.

I quickly finished my compote and, after asking Fedosov for time off, ran out into the street. Bolev and his partner were standing near the smoking room and twisting the waist belts on their hands, talking animatedly about something. Seeing me, they made an inviting gesture with their hand, without stopping the exciting lesson of unwinding the belts. I, fearing to get an "anchor" badge on the forehead, cautiously approached and stood aside.

Well, Break, half a liter sewed from you! we found another fellow countryman for you, he returned from the hospital, from the communications company, a central officer, a normal sailor-"year-old", well-rounded. Today he said - at dinner he will find you.

I don’t have an awl, I got scared (again, I need to put down).

Yes, we're joking, we ourselves know that you don't have a damn thing. How are you? Is everything okay in the group?

Yes, everything is on course. My partner is now working for the castle committee of the group, yesterday they took the battalion, the midshipman pulled our cord from the tape recorder - now you won’t listen to hell, everything is fine with the capplate, he doesn’t find fault.

Oh, why did you give away the cord, was the "magician" bought with your own money?

Yes, he never asked us. In general, he quietly left, only gave the keys to Popovskikh - and you can’t see him.

We chatted for another five minutes before my group left and, satisfied with each other, dispersed. After lunch, classes continued. Then there was a summing up for the week, meetings in groups, drawing group battle sheets. At dinner, Motyl was already on duty at the distribution, and when I went for a supplement, he generously poured a couple of scoops of pasta into my tank, doused me with red gravy and winked. I crushed my grin and, with a wink in response, was pushed out of the queue of suffering supplements. Damn it! and I wanted to ask him for tea for brewing. Sanya Fedos seemed to have built a boiler, and after dinner we wanted to use it. When I almost ran to the table, carrying a hot tank on outstretched arms, some second-rate foreman blocked my way.

Sergeant major, let me pass, - I muttered, - the handles of the tank mercilessly burned my palms.

Yes, right now, crucian, maybe you will kick me in the stomach, - the foreman answered lazily and continued to stand on the road.

Without saying a word, I went around him and put the tank on the table, and as soon as I sat down, someone's hand, crumpling the guis, lifted me from the bench by the scruff of the neck.

S-a-l-a-g-a! did anyone give you permission to go? did anyone let you go?

Well, now I will feel the notorious "hazing". And I thought that she was not here at all, there was only "mentoring". Damn, and there are no familiar starshakovs nearby. I began to frantically look around. What to do? Hit the back of the head in the nose? A fight in the cafeteria with a senior draft is the end of a career. Start asking for forgiveness - the same thing. Fedos, looking at me half upturned, suddenly grinned rapaciously and scooped up a ladle from the table in his fist. Zelenov, who was sitting next to me, abruptly stood up and moved behind the foreman holding me. "Kiev", frowning, rose from the benches.

The foreman of the second article released me and began to turn his head:

Karasi! what blew up? and well, eat!

They eat pigs, comrade foreman of the second category, - Fedos almost growled, - you see, a sailor with a hot tank is coming. Why build it in the middle of the galley.

Yeah, - Zeleny said from behind the foreman, - not in a sailor way somehow.

Well, wait half a sun, crucians. You've screwed up in the end! I masturbate you priests and I will masturbate!

You will masturbate in the toilet, - Fedosov answered defiantly.

It is not clear how this skirmish would have ended - a fight or a bunch of threats and insults, if it were not for the appearance on the stage of another starshak with shoulder straps of the ship's chief foreman. A lean guy with a forelock sticking out from under his cap, limping slightly, approached our table, looked at the second-rank foreman and, smiling predatory, commanded:

Fuck! what are you knitting up to the salad again! did those old priests give a few bastards? go to the control room, there you and I will have a stalemate.

What a familiar Cossack accent! In my city, the entire male population "ghavarit" is exactly like that!

Chief Nail moved Zeleny with his shoulder and left.

Guys, who is Break? - Asked "forelock". I smiled and stood up and shook the outstretched hand.

Elder, can I take it? - asked my fellow countryman Fedosova. Sanya naturally could not refuse, but sadness clearly slipped through his eyes. I will now go with my fellow countryman, and he will have to "ruin" tea and sugar for Mikhel.

The foreman took me not to the location of the signalers, but somewhere behind the barracks, behind which there were some cars, from which there were wires to the nearby antenna field. A young sailor with a red bandage and a bayonet on his belt stood near the cars under the fungus next to the "PUS" sign. Seeing the foreman, he saluted with dignity, throwing his hand to the black cloth beret with chic.

Shaw, is there anyone from the "lockers" or ohvitzers?

No way, comrade chief sergeant! all gone!

Harasho, I will be with my fellow countryman, if anything - according to the second code. Are there questions?

No way!

Wow, how they have everything debugged - both the salute and the report. I have never been to this part of the territory and stared at everything around me with frank interest. We walked along the boardwalk between cars camouflaged with camouflage nets. The chief foreman stopped near one of them, climbed the metal stairs and knocked on the door.

You can't come here. Right now, I'll check and let's go to my mansion, - he nodded at the headquarters trailer, standing opposite.

A sailor's head popped out from behind the door. A slit immediately flew into this head and the question:

And why are we, comrade senior radio operator, opening the door without asking for the password, huh? How much can you teach?

Comrade chief foreman, well, I saw that it was you, - the radio operator began to justify himself.

Doesn't row! at the end of the shift - wash all the rubber mats on the deck with a dishwasher! Relaxed while I was lying in the hospital. Who is working at the center today?

Mandatory sessions worked "Squid", "Whaler", "Crab".

Okay, watch, I'm at my place.

Interestingly, when a fellow countryman spoke with his subordinates, he had no South Russian accent. He speaks loudly, clearly, and with an authoritative note in his voice. Real boss! I even got a little stunned and began to be afraid. We went up the metal ladder to the trailer. The countryman opened the padlock on the door, turned on the light and invited him to come inside. I opened my mouth in surprise. A real solid cabin, the walls are neatly sheathed with beautifully burnt plywood. On the sides - two metal beds-boxes, a table with a rotary telephone at the back wall, two metal safes. Boards with documentation, a shelf with books, a tape recorder, an enamelled electric kettle. Wow! This is how my countrymen live. Most of all I was struck by the fact that on the stand hanging over the bed, it was written - "Documentation of the head of the radio station." Boss! Glavsergeant-conscript chief - my fellow countryman! For me, this is much cooler than meeting a third-rank captain Chernokutsky.

My countryman's name was Nikolai Maslov, and although we were not from the same city, we were from the same district. I knew very well the village in which Nikolai lived before the service, we constantly went there from school to harvest apples and tomatoes. But in DOSAAF we studied together - in our city. Only Maslov studied in the class of radio operators, and at the same time studied in the parachute class along the way. I even remembered when he and another boy from our parachute class were escorted to the army. At that time I was just beginning to attend the section after the recent family move from Grozny after my father's dismissal from the army to the reserve. Honoring DOSAAF cadets who were leaving to serve was a must, and I even read some speech-promise at the solemn meeting that "we will not disgrace young cadets ... we will be worthy ...". Nikolay remembered me and even, chuckling a little, remembered how later on at a common "alcohol-free" feast they poured me half a glass of vodka, and then took me outside to vomit. The second guy we saw off was the same sailor from the second group of the mining company, with whom Dieter promised to introduce me after arriving from the "bede". The guys from our DOSAAF got together in the "Kyiv" training, and then together after graduation, having asked the distribution commission, they left for the fleet.

That's it! Lucky is not the right word! We recalled with laughter our parachute instructor Maratych, an old paratrooper of the "Margelov" flood.

Maslov, during the conversation, threw back the lid of one of the beds, began to take out various bundles and boxes.

Right now, let's have dinner, they sent me lard here. They slaughtered a wild boar at home - he was waiting for me, but I decided to stay for an extra term, I’m going to study soon, I wrote down let them stab, which he should stab the tunnel from old age.

I swallowed my saliva, I was terribly hungry for fat, but the restless Fedosov was sitting in the battleship and probably sadly waiting for Mikhel for tea.

Nikolay Sergeyevich, please excuse me, I would love to, but I can’t, oh my God, I can’t, - without noticing it myself, I switched to an accent.

What about? In the fragility of the problem, Ali strains who? Don't worry about Ghvozdya - he's grumpy, he's showing off in front of the salads. I saw - more to you will not climb.

That’s not Sergeyich, we would have gone Ghvozdya ourselves to a good-thread behind the galley.

Ah ... so the "backs" mustache are like that - that the starshaks, who "descended" in front of you, fought with all the hamuz, what do you look at. And what happened to you, then - let's balak.

I, as best I could, described to him the situation about the partner, about the reception of the battleship, about tea for Mikhel.

Ah... Michel! the Jew is still the same, but the sailor-bataler is not bad. Yes, I've run into it a couple of times. Right now, we'll go to your battalion - we'll sit there.

Maslov began to spin the dial of the telephone.

Crew! build at the kung! - he barked into the phone, switched off, took out a cardboard box, left bundles in it. And in my head it seemed to click and I remembered the words of Mikhel: "Make acquaintance with signalmen." Oh, Nikolai Maslov is right! Mikhal Mikhalych is still a Jew! Surely he already knew something, company battalions find out all the news sometimes faster than staff sailors clerks. Bataler acquaintance - with some kind of boss! - never hurts. Oh, it’s not in vain that he came to our battalion for tea. The company clerk, who keeps the book of official records, is a regular guest with him. So, where I came from, it's not worth finding out at all. And the fact that I have a chief foreman of the land, he probably knew even before the miners. Personality I am a little "lit up" at the point - with my "klestyrophobia"! - Yes, and he was involved in the "scheme" of the starshaks for the rearrangement of staff units. Mikhel must have calculated all the moves, exits, transitions. While I was thinking, Maslov had already collected the box and ordered me to leave. Three sailors were already standing near the trailer, waiting for the foreman.

Yes, crew! listen to the task, - commanded Maslov, - sailor Skiba! you take this box and run it to the battalion of the first company in the priest's group! there the zamkkomgruppy should accept it ... - he turned to me.

Foreman of the second class Fedosov, - I prompted.

Maslov handed the box to the sailor and continued, "Sailor Skiba II!" in the kung on the device in touch! did the brothers understand the task?

Exactly so, - the sailor brothers answered.

Plyaskin is in reserve! he is also a messenger, in the absence of communication! God forbid, what a proshara - I will send everyone to low-power ones! Everything, do it!

The sailors rushed off different sides. I was even a little embarrassed that I now know such a significant person. The size, although small, is subordinate to a crew of four, but they obey him no worse than we do our caplet. Slowly talking, we went to the location of our company. An officer from the communications company, who met us on the way and was already hurrying home, stopped Maslov and began to ask about something. I modestly stood on the sidelines, putting my hand to the cap and saluting the officers and midshipmen hurrying home. Finally, the officer spoke to the Chief Petty Officer and said goodbye to him by the hand! Whoo! Yes, I'm just lucky! On the way, looking at the limping fellow countryman, I plucked up courage and asked:

Nikolai Sergeyevich, were you in the hospital with your leg?

That I was lying with my hands and with eggs in a full set, - the countryman laughed, - I broke my leg. Closed fracture I was - right now, I'm walking around a little.

On jumps? Probably jumped with a container?

And so! on jumps - from the kung ladder. After the rain - how fucking! ..

A puzzled Fedos sat in the battleship and looked with fear at a cardboard box with goodies.

Estimate, some godok runs in, asks - are you the deputy group commander? - and a box on the table. And he himself through the coaming was like that. I didn't even have time to open my mouth.

Then Fedosov noticed the sergeant-major coming in after me and got up out of harm's way and barked:

I wish you good health, comrade foreman!

At ease, - Maslov grimaced, - well, why are you yelling, as if said. Come on, crucian carp, let's set the table, spread some salt there, some bread there, shortbread cookies, caramel, instant kohve - the godfather with "bede" passed through the infantry. Let's rustle the water! is there something to boil?

Fedos took out four large iron mugs, and proudly pulled out some kind of monstrous cord with two pieces of iron at the end.

Here, the boiler itself built. True, I haven’t tested it yet, but it should work, - Sanya proudly declared, and moved to the outlet.

Why, it's well made - the wire is normal, insulated, it's thick what - started justify Fedos.

The layer between the head hatch and the brains is thick, - Maslov accused Sanya of incompetence. Give me your bulbulator here! one - blowing for water, just dial it into a jar. And in general - sopritya a couple of cans in the galley, and defend the water in one, and boil in the other. The second - show what kind of wires you have. And give me shoe heels, four pieces.

I trudged along for water, Sanya began to rustle in the drawers of the table, pulling out pieces of wire, metal heels and other crap. I had to first wash the jar, covered with a white coating, and only after that draw water. While I was fiddling with the jar, by my arrival Maslov had built a new "bulbulator" from four metal heels, an electric plug had already been screwed and wrapped with blue electrical tape, and the tape recorder was turned on and Garik Sukachev was wheezing from the speakers, talking about "plumbing on the roof" .

Estimate, - Fedos whispered in his ear, - Markush didn’t take the wire away, he stuffed it into the battery compartment, and we were stupid.

Here's the thing, - Maslov muttered under his breath, examining the plates of heels in the light, - well, give me a jar.

Andrey Vladimirovich Zagortsev

Sailor of Special Purpose

Dedicated to the sailors-scouts of the last years of the Great Empire.

When we stop these races, no one really knows, we rush like sluggish horses, coughing and panting, bulging eyes and barely raising our legs in heavy boots. It's useless to jump. The net will carry his platoon on its shoulders. Some have tried. Did not work out. In general, everything is not as it seemed. Not like I saw in my father's unit. There, hefty sailors in black “peshukhas” broke bricks on display, deftly shot with both hands. On forced marches, they rushed in a well-coordinated black monolith, on parachute jumps, they walked without fear into an open hatch. How many times I have been driving, shooting, jumping - I can’t even remember. But here everything is different. The team, as such, has not yet formed a young replenishment in our company: we have only been here for two weeks. So, we know a neighbor in bed and on the table, and the commander of the squad from the permanent staff. And we are a variable composition. Charging in the morning - where can you get acquainted here! - then breakfast: the main thing here is to have time to throw in more porridge and sip a mug of tea, chewing bread and butter on the go. And then it started. All activities are on the run. Fire training, charters and those - in the ranks on the parade ground, tactics are more and more crawling or running, and endless physical training. Saturday cleaning. On Sunday, a sports festival, and then you can sleep, undress completely, climb on the bunk under the covers and doze until dinner. But this is if the squad leader allows. Our squad leader allowed. We didn't give him any trouble. We listen to him with our mouths open, we rush where they are ordered, we do what they say. Sergeant Sinelnikov drew attention to me when everyone was given cotton uniforms and two collars each, and seated on jars (stools) on the central deck (aka the central aisle, take-off, etc.). Although we have everything infantry-motorized rifle, household-everyday names are all marine. Just like us, privates are sailors. Sinelnikov explained to us how to hem, explained that we would be in our unit when we got there to hem and smooth the tunic according to the normal "Marine" style. In some parts, for example, they are not hemmed at all. And now you will be hemmed like the most natural “boots” and don’t fuck. While he was talking, I had already hemmed myself and sat pecking my nose. I had a very impressive experience in hemming collars, hemming tunics and camouflage. Father taught. We sometimes competed with him who could sew up his tunic faster. My best result was a minute and forty seconds. Therefore, I sewed a brand new cotton tunic in two minutes. Sinelnikov, having finished the story-show, began to walk between the rows, seeing me with a shaking head and a half-open mouth, he barked:

Sailor, get up, what are you? .. - I didn’t have time to finish, I already jumped up and barked cheerfully:

Wow, sergeant, I'm already screwed!

Stop peeing. I don’t hem so quickly - a tunic for inspection ...

After inspecting the tunic, he grunted in surprise and tore off the hems with one jerk.

Come on, come on with me, podsheysya again ...

In the presence of the sergeant, I was hemmed in a minute and forty seconds. Sinelnikov grinned:

Volokesh, however. Where did you learn?

Friends from the army came, showed, comrade sergeant ...

You have the right friends. So, let's help the rest, show, take on the first two rows.

What kind of amateur performance is this, sailor?

Comrade ensign, but it’s also possible, it’s inconvenient to press a match with your finger.

Yes sir.

Come on, show it…

I, having taken a detonator cap from the ensign, fitted it to the other end of the cord, asked for "crimps" and built a tube.

You quickly got a sailor, but how can you figure out how to put it on time? the instructor grinned.

Yes sir! Comrade ensign, give me a cigarette.

No, everything is clear. What's your last name, sailor?

Andrey Vladimirovich Zagortsev

Sailor of Special Purpose

Dedicated to the sailors-scouts of the last years of the Great Empire.

When we stop these races, no one really knows, we rush like sluggish horses, coughing and panting, bulging eyes and barely raising our legs in heavy boots. It's useless to jump. The net will carry his platoon on its shoulders. Some have tried. Did not work out. In general, everything is not as it seemed. Not like I saw in my father's unit. There, hefty sailors in black “peshukhas” broke bricks on display, deftly shot with both hands. On forced marches, they rushed in a well-coordinated black monolith, on parachute jumps, they walked without fear into an open hatch. How many times I have been driving, shooting, jumping - I can’t even remember. But here everything is different. The team, as such, has not yet formed a young replenishment in our company: we have only been here for two weeks. So, we know a neighbor in bed and on the table, and the commander of the squad from the permanent staff. And we are a variable composition. Charging in the morning - where can you get acquainted here! - then breakfast: the main thing here is to have time to throw in more porridge and sip a mug of tea, chewing bread and butter on the go. And then it started. All activities are on the run. Fire training, charters and those - in the ranks on the parade ground, tactics are more and more crawling or running, and endless physical training. Saturday cleaning. On Sunday, a sports festival, and then you can sleep, undress completely, climb on the bunk under the covers and doze until dinner. But this is if the squad leader allows. Our squad leader allowed. We didn't give him any trouble. We listen to him with our mouths open, we rush where they are ordered, we do what they say. Sergeant Sinelnikov drew attention to me when everyone was given cotton uniforms and two collars each, and seated on jars (stools) on the central deck (aka the central aisle, take-off, etc.). Although we have everything infantry-motorized rifle, household-everyday names are all marine. Just like us, privates are sailors. Sinelnikov explained to us how to hem, explained that we would be in our unit when we got there to hem and smooth the tunic according to the normal "Marine" style. In some parts, for example, they are not hemmed at all. And now you will be hemmed like the most natural “boots” and don’t fuck. While he was talking, I had already hemmed myself and sat pecking my nose. I had a very impressive experience in hemming collars, hemming tunics and camouflage. Father taught. We sometimes competed with him who could sew up his tunic faster. My best result was a minute and forty seconds. Therefore, I sewed a brand new cotton tunic in two minutes. Sinelnikov, having finished the story-show, began to walk between the rows, seeing me with a shaking head and a half-open mouth, he barked:

Sailor, get up, what are you? .. - I didn’t have time to finish, I already jumped up and barked cheerfully:

Wow, sergeant, I'm already screwed!

Stop peeing. I don’t hem so quickly - a tunic for inspection ...

After inspecting the tunic, he grunted in surprise and tore off the hems with one jerk.

Come on, come on with me, podsheysya again ...

In the presence of the sergeant, I was hemmed in a minute and forty seconds. Sinelnikov grinned:

Volokesh, however. Where did you learn?

Friends from the army came, showed, comrade sergeant ...

You have the right friends. So, let's help the rest, show, take on the first two rows.

What kind of amateur performance is this, sailor?

Comrade ensign, but it’s also possible, it’s inconvenient to press a match with your finger.

Yes sir.

Come on, show it…

I, having taken a detonator cap from the ensign, fitted it to the other end of the cord, asked for "crimps" and built a tube.

You quickly got a sailor, but how can you figure out how to put it on time? the instructor grinned.

Yes sir! Comrade ensign, give me a cigarette.

No, everything is clear. What's your last name, sailor?

In the evening in the latrine, I still met with that guy from Kazakhstan. I don't even remember his last name. I only remember that he liked to brag that he was from Semsk and they fought there quarter by quarter. I don't know how they fought. But my neighbor - "Muscovite" at the moment when I came in, had already whipped out his canteen offender with one blow. And no one even noticed the impact. Only a body with rolling eyes, sliding quietly along the wall. Here's your quiet. There were plenty of people in the latrine at that time. I helped the "Muscovite" Slavik lift the passed out sailor and bring him to his senses by splashing water in his face. The boy, waking up, shook his head and said only “Oh, fucking fucked up”, then got up and, staggering, wandered into the cockpit. Then he behaved quite normally and did not show himself in any way towards either me or Slava. And the rest of the sailors he no longer touched. But the case of a fight in the toilet somehow became known to Khromov. Someone snitched. No, not the guy from Semsk, this one is not of that breed, and even if he got it in the face, he took it deservedly, he won’t knock like that. When my neighbor and I were taken out in the morning formation and began to have both in the tail and in the mane, the “Kazakhstani” looked perplexed, because many might think that it was he who snitched. And then he came up to me at breakfast and tried to prove that it was not his doing. I believed him, and Slava too. And in the evening we were solemnly informed that we were representing the first company of young recruits in hand-to-hand combat competitions. The commander, a huge senior lieutenant, who we saw only three times during the entire course of the young sailor, loudly read out our names, and we got out of line. Chills began to pound me, Slava was indifferent. One hundred and twenty young sailors looked at us with horror. The platoon leader Khromov fiddled with the shoulder strap of his harness on his chest and bit his lips. Sinelnikov made terrible eyes. The commander said a couple more phrases that I absolutely did not hear. I woke up in the "Lenin" cockpit.