"Mikhail Evstafiev. Two Steps From Heaven " - читать интересную книгу автора

seven thousand or more meters, as if it had hit a sudden air-pocket or had
been struck by an enemy rocket, a "Stinger" missile or some such. In fact
the plane, shooting out dozens of heat emanating decoy targets, was making a
steep, spiraling descent in order to land.
When the plane taxied down the landing strip, the ramp would open,
letting in a rush of unfamiliar Afghan mountain air and the sight of an
alien, and therefore alarming, mountainous landscape. From this moment on,
the countdown began, measuring the fated time in Afghanistan for the new
arrivals, a time which, for some, meant the last months of their life.
The newly-arrived soldiers, officers and non-coms, including women,
obviously felt awkward, and stared around in barely concealed curiosity and
unease, squinting in the strong mountain sunshine. Those who were returning
from leave, or military business, or medical treatment could be spotted
immediately: they knew why they had come here and which way to head from the
landing strip. They were returning to a place that had become familiar,
home. The soldiers arriving at the Kabul airdrome had identical haircuts,
were equally puzzled, equally without rights, wearing identical uniforms,
and depersonalized by this sameness; in long, often badly fitting
greatcoats, heavy, uncomfortable "shit-squasher" boots" and similar
kit-bags, they all looked the same from a distance. They were delivered here
like ammunition: like little missiles in the guise of soldiers if you did
not look too closely, expendable material, which differed only in size and
caliber.
Hardly anyone throughout the breadth of the great and mighty Soviet
Union took the lives of the soldiers, officers, non-coms, lieutenants, first
lieutenants and captains seriously. Insignificant units of humanity, of whom
there was still an endless supply! So there was nothing to feel sorry about.
The soldiers arriving in Kabul were faceless, just like thousands of
other young men dragged in for two years, torn out of their usual lives in
order to learn suffering, patience and survival until such time as the
Motherland would consider that they had paid in full for the care and happy
childhood she had lavished on them, and sent them replacements which had
grown up in the meantime.

x x x

"They're flying, comrade senior lieutenant. Two flights have landed,"
reported junior sergeant Titov to the officer who lay on his bunk in
hopeless and dreary anticipation of his replacement's arrival. Dressed
correctly in uniform, he was watching the progress of the flies crawling on
the ceiling and turned an irritated eye on his junior.
"So what, Titov?"
"I wouldn't know, comrade senior lieutenant..."
"I said, so what that they're flying?"
"...you told me to report when any planes land ... So I'm reporting..."
"What does that tone of voice mean? Hey? Bloody homo stallion! " The
officer turned his head and stared Titov in the face. "Who the hell do you
think you're talking to? Dismissed, Titov! Close the door!"
"What?"
"Close the door on your way out! And don't bother me again! Straighten