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The men were all "green", some rushing forward, others still fear struck in their "armour". If crippled, I've got a little toy in my pocket - RGD-15. I've seen enough of our crippled post-war heroes living in peace life. The second grunt kneels near one of the bodies, unbuttons his coat and flank jacket and fetches his papers and the dog tags. The boys wouldn't mind anymore but their families must be notified. - Got'em - answered private Semeonov, nicknamed "Semeon". - Now, via this basement we run across to the neighbouring street, then to the first batt (battalion). - I'm asking my RTO (Radiotelephone operator), private Harlamov. His arms are long, sticking out of his BDU, like sticks, no one size fits. First time you see the guy the impression is like torn gorilla arms were sewn to a man's body.

I had to boot and kick them out of their APCs and foxholes. Baku, Kutaisi - 90, Tshinvali -91, Moldova - 92 and now Chechnya. They too were following orders of their Motherland, their Party, their Government and hell knows whom else. Ducking into the nearest basement, grenades on stand-by. Otherwise smart asses in the Government won't pay them their pensions, reasoning that soldiers are missing in action and who knows, maybe even crossed over to the other side. Now probably no one could recall where his nickname "Glue" originated. - Get on the APCs too, - that's me about the left behind at the Railway Station APCs, - ask how they're hanging.

We call it lovingly: "podstvol'nichek", although, weight of the device could prove a bit too much (about half a kilo).

It is mounted under the rifle's barrel and can be fired straight into the target or launch in an overhead trajectory.

Their faces are all black from gunpowder, eyeballs and teeth are shining. Nod to one, point direction to another and we are all off sprinting forward, zigzag, "screw" and roll. - Eh, mama told me: "learn English" - My mama told me: "Do NOT crawl into wells, sonny". No sign of the enemy in the window at the other side of the house and we leapfrog, taking short streaks, stooped four times our normal hight, towards the Central Train Station. The brigade remains are trying to fight the way to the old center.

Although, these coats were surely not made for rolling. High above in the sky, a jet fighter is barraging the city with high explosives and shooting at somebody's positions from an unreachable hight. Gunfights are starting everywhere sporadically and sometimes turn into some kind of cheesecake: ragheads, us, ragheads again and so on (US Marines call it a "cluster fuck"). The headquarter, rather all the remains of it got circled and fights.

At least the dogfaces are more confident now, more or less used to this, all were tested by fire.

Eh, what a wonderful device, this launcher (Russian GP-25, under-barrel grenade launcher for AK assault rifles, similar to M203 - grenade-launching tube sometimes mounted under the rifle barrel of an M-16).

En route to the Central Train Station, the streets are crammed with burnt and mangled hulks of "armour" and strewn with dead bodies. They said, when the First Battalion busted the "demons" out of the Station building, as the gunfire slacked off, one of the grunts, having looked around, howled. But hving not we made coming to the first battalion commander yet as rushed in one of the sentries, securing the entrence in the house, and shouted in half-wisper: - "Dukhs" are going! Mostly the officers, but there were good few the soldiers and the warrant officers.

From the report we knew he was Russian and, from his own words, even from Novosibirsk. On two APCs, along with the recon squad I set off to pick up "the clapper". Approximate expectation gave us the figure of about fifty people to be her.

Sometimes we even point the Air Force guys onto them and they onto us. The sitting nearby ones listened to our talk ans opened the discussion about the problems of nutrition from the expedients.

In the dark we fire on each other and take our own grunts prisoners. No reconnaissance to ascertain the spooks' defensive structures, no artillery runs to soften them up. And did not hide his stomach to be horrified when getting the only thought about the rat-fleshy.

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