We snuggled as close as possible to the duval, having the grenades ready. We were lying on our sides, feeling the solidity of the duval with our stomachs. Turning my head I could see the soles of Irgashev's boots. Suddenly he turned his head and looked at me. The squinting glance from his narrow black eyes, broad face spotted with the dust under nose was amusing seen as it was - with a background of worn soles. I couldn't resist a smile. Irgashev took the relay-race with the gladness and smiled back. The skin on his cheek-bone was so strained that sometimes I began to think by what reserve he could manage to strain his mouth in white-teeth smile. Apparently when his mouth was closing, some other whole was opening on his body and in the vice versa. In our situation when our buttocks were tighten with the grip of fear, he could allow himself to do it.

Guys made everything very beautiful. At the same time, two guys ran round the corner to the other side of the street. Misha Shikunov and Pasha Morozov. The first hit the ground at the middle of the street (as far away as possible from the corner) almost lying on the ground, the second on his knees, being two metres behind Misha., shoot volley to the jut with the sniper. Almost at the same time we threw grenades over the duval. I, pushed off Irgashev's back, flew over the clay fence. Irgashev was supposed to be throwing over by Misha and Pasha.

I didn’t fall as I planned. I landed on all fours and hurt my knee. I used the pause between the last machine gun burst and the shooting of "Maradona" to race to the house.

My back was supposed to be covered by Irgashev who was somewhere behind me. Trying to keep the momentum from the fall to the ground, I moved over the first part of the way on all fours. Trying to stand up and having the Kalashnikov gun in the proper position at last, I rushed the door of the house. Breaking through the weak doors I overshot my target by a meter and a half and ran into something soft yet resistant.

The force of impact was so strong that I flew back opening the door with my head. From the ground I saw with fear a huge bearded Afghan, wearing the traditional baggy trousers, waist and turban, standing a metre away from me. While I tried to get my Kalashnikov ready to shoot, the giant was standing calmly with his gun in one hand and, I don't know why, rubbing his forehead with the other. I heard Irgashev'. I saw "dukh" raising the gun. I saw him look at me first, lying down near his feet, then at Iragshev, judging the situation. He coolly took a step back inside the house .I couldn't say about myself that I was as cool as him. I managed a wild burst of fire from my Kalashnikov . Keeping my back on the ground I carried on firing, sending bullets into the chest of bearded giant. I saw lead pierce his body, throwing him towards the wall.

Being a sergeant whose length of service cannot be described as "just from the plane" (almost all officers and soldier were delivered to and from Afghanistan by planes) I loaded tracer bullets as each third shell in the magazine. This helped to aim at the target and to correct fire. And now the bright yellow line, like a thin nail, pierced the "dukh's" body, throwing him to the opposite wall. As the last shell was free of its lethal stuffing, the fire line broke, cutting off the lethal stream. The body, filled with lead, became limp, the bearded man's knees bent. I could see fireworks on his chest: tracer bullets, stuck in his body. Like a spark, the last tracer bullet pierced in falling body. Irgashev, not giving me time to get to my feet, flew over me and rushed into the house, to the staircase, leading to the roof. I crawled to the house, expecting a sniper's attack. But the door inside the yard still was closed. Having changed the magazine I kept the gun aimed. Having turned head back I saw the dead man next to me. He laid near the opposite wall, with one of his legs screwed under him in unnatural way. I aw smoke from his stomach and heard a disgusting hissing - the tracer bullets were cooling in the dead body.

Having used the silence of the sniper, our guys rushed the yard over the duval, covered from the opposite roof by "Maradona" They moved to different corners of the yard, looking for shelters, as they were trained. "Dukh's" grenade, thrown from the roof with the delay couldn't hurt anybody. The answer was a few grenades, thrown from the yard, exposed on the roof. I was still standing over killed "dukh", when Pasha Morozov, not even trying to hide his temper, caused by my delay, ran from behind me. He turned the dead body, took a "vest" (a special construction of belts and pockets wearing on a bullet proof jackets for carrying magazines) and threw it to the corner of the house with anger. I took the gun of the dead "dukh". It was a Chinese Kalashnikov, its cover was polished almost white. The butt was broken in slivers by my bullets. I automatically clicked the shutter. A shell fell down on the floor, near my feet. I picked it up and put in a pocket. To think, all my life, all my 18 years, filled with gladness and disappointment was inside this small piece of metal. The same bullet shot from my gun, freed the heart of that Afghan from hate.

Everything was over. The machine gunner leaped down from the roof to the garden, located behind the house. But that day Allah had chosen, between the two Moslems who had an equal chance to die that day, the machine gunner - he sprained his leg leaping down on the mild soil of the garden. Our cotton-grower calmly nailed the poor guy to his native ground with short bursts of fire.

The building from which the sniper forced me and Irgashe to eat dust, was just an ordinary toilet. The floor was covered with the spent shells from the automatic rifle, which we couldn't find. There were neat embrasures in the walls. Looking out one of them I saw the street we were lying in just few minutes ago. That moment I understood that I had to become a sack with bones as the position was perfect. The guys couldn't find the sniper. Bombarding the toilet with grenades the group left the house. We met our politic officer right round the corner. All we got were a few rude words as an answers to our embarrassed explanations. We were the cause the delay for our company. Our the task was just to reach the established point and lock the circle. Just that.

Later, recalling that day, I often wondered if that sniper from the toilet remained alive?

... I leaned against the wall of the toilet, glancing down the street through the embrasure. Suddenly I heard a splash beneath me, in the deep recess of the pit . I came to the edge of the very narrow pit very carefully and saw nothing, but as I unwittingly moved back I saw him, or if to be more exact his body. He was hanging, caught on something. Apparently understanding that he could be seen, the sniper moved to the right side with the convulsive movements. Having seen the shake of his body I understood he would not be able to hang that way for a long time. And I gave him a chance, as he did for me there, while I was in the street ...

When I knew how easily one can die I can also say that one can live easily too. But a difficult death doesn't mean an easy life and a difficult life does not necessarily lead to an easy death. Though who can say, who that day was easier for. Maybe, the chance, given to the marksman was the most difficult trial for him. Maybe my kindness generated evil and hate in his heart, as if it was generated in my heart by the sluggishness of killed "dukh".

In our victory we just forgot that somebody's fault was the basis for victory, somebody's loss self-control. The parade of our victories turns into the hospital round of other's defeats and sacrifices after a number of years.

The quarter to beaten in Asia was always considered as the sign of weakness,on the other hand, an effort on yourself was considered as the right sign of presence of will.

I thought that time, if we defeat ourselves, stopping to be a slave of own body, whose mistake is the base for our victory, who has lost a chance, found by us? Apparently everybody has to pay. If not today so tomorrow.

That war went on and I lost both legs. Blown up by the anti-infantry Italian land mine (life later introduced me to a man who stated proudly that he was the officer of the sixth department, but before was working as a combat engineer in Kunduz. I was asked a question, how could I get into such a trouble, I answered about the anti-infantry Italian land mine, he said , showing his understanding , as though he had seen many of such mines (!?). I added, - LWith the ropes instead of handles³. I knew already who was seating in front of me, and that he didn't care of my story. He was the same combat engineer as I was a drummer, and the only thing he needed to know was the information about those who was involved in LAfghan deals³ ).

Meanwhile I was recovering on the hospital bed after being injured by an explosive of thirty grams that had been packed into a stiff shell, with a diameter about eight and a height of about three centimetres. I was looking for the enemy . The enemy to fight with whom I had to use my last power, who I could revenge upon for my blowing up . And finally I found him - it was myself, fatten on the hospital food, bathing if the shine of glory, intoxicated by the calmness and silence of peace life. I began a new war.

I won that war. That guy, who was looking at his artificial limbs, on which he ha d if not to pilot a plane but to dance for sure (according to country traditions (all Soviet children was taught by a book about a Soviet pilot of the Second World War, whose aircraft was brought down by Germans, who was wounded and had to crawled back to Soviet side for 18 days, in the winter time, without a food. He lost both legs but recovered and returned to the air forces again and fought against Germans until the end of the war)) , with fear luckily died together with his horse-splint artificial limbs model of 1911 year. He died of moral blows from the sergeant of Kandagar brigade. That sergeant stroke him to death. The sergant was coming in the worst moments, when he had to choose between what need to do and what is easier to do. What fights were there!!! It was real war inside of me and the sergeant won. He was forceful and straight forward in his wishes. His arguments were simple and obvious: "Why are you fucking around yourself? Don't disgrace the brigade! Why you, fucking bustard, survived? That's all you are able to do? Can you do it like that? If you cannot get off..." The most powerful argument I found while watching an action movie where the hero stated: "... Do you think I need all this - a car, a villa, girls? The only thing I need is a pasteboard box , a bench in a park and a rubber girl - that is what I have to claim the community!" "What can you claim them?" - asked me my sergeant.

That day the legless graduate of the Institute, the husband of a wife , who waited for him to come home from the war, the son who didn't vindicate the hopes of his parents, the friend of his friends and enemy of his enemies died in peace. The sergeant L buried³ him very unpretentiously with the words: "You lost you r war, son". The sergeant got his legacy: higher education, good health, adjusted life, Otto Bock’s (designer of artificial limbs) artificial limbs, the car, the garage, old enemies, old friends, old problems and unsolved questions.

He dealt with all of it very calmly. He refused part of the legacy immediately, the rest has gone itself. When I got all my property in the black bag, which I had after ruining my family and after the crash of my family fortunes, he stated to me proudly: "One need to have two things in life - courage and passion. Courage - to change an own life and passion to execute the dream. You have chance to leave this boat, soldier." I decided to stay and I have no regrets about taking part in the fraud called life. Maybe I died much earlier than that legless student who died o f fear when he stumbled on the bearded man?

It seems that everybody can see the sign on m y T-shirt: "Welcome to Kandagar brigade Lsculls³ !!!"