387
The day I crap.
1977. I am lying in the cache with SVD, where we did not have. More precisely - in the Republic of Zaire. Like, when she called. Lying and most support the policy of non-intervention of the party and the government, that is, pretend that we have here really is not: mug painted a landscape, optics capped. The gunner in the right meter, even on your ass bush prikopat. Masking elegant, if not phrases occasionally exchanging himself to believe that anyone here. What can I say, a family of warthogs is not passed on to us just because a simple African "whore" literally scared them half a meter to our helmets.
Subject to wait eight hours. And not the fact that there will be. Strict radio silence. Put "bug" for an hour. If someone does not know - mechanical alarm clock, timer start up on the old washing machines, quietly hums and vibrates at the appointed time. Take a nap for an hour, an area overlooked by a pair of mats spread - and again silence.
And I doze, dream, as I remember, the legendary narrow circles in the SP66, and then I gently touched his shoulder and gently so in pure Russian, berate:
- Odnokursnichek, cap, cover up, do not shine!
Lord, I fucked up. In the truest sense of the word. Lie down for another five minutes, he kicked his partner, who does not even wake up. If possible, quickly and discreetly left the illuminated point. Object, by the way, that day did not go, and then another for years Brezhnev congratulated all Soviet holidays.
Since then, every year I go to the reunion of the Russian Peoples' Friendship University named after Patrice Lumumba and carefully peered into the white-toothed smile classmates. And then I get drunk in the trash and frightening black former students persistent requests to smoke a cigarette with me from the yellow-brown packs from time to time "Soyuz-Apollo". To this day forward, anyone of them hohotnёt and recognize that same pack of a dozen cigarettes, which put on the left of my helmet, and which still convinces me that it was not a dream and not a glitch, the very day when the I fucked up ...
© Cap
Source:
Subject to wait eight hours. And not the fact that there will be. Strict radio silence. Put "bug" for an hour. If someone does not know - mechanical alarm clock, timer start up on the old washing machines, quietly hums and vibrates at the appointed time. Take a nap for an hour, an area overlooked by a pair of mats spread - and again silence.
And I doze, dream, as I remember, the legendary narrow circles in the SP66, and then I gently touched his shoulder and gently so in pure Russian, berate:
- Odnokursnichek, cap, cover up, do not shine!
Lord, I fucked up. In the truest sense of the word. Lie down for another five minutes, he kicked his partner, who does not even wake up. If possible, quickly and discreetly left the illuminated point. Object, by the way, that day did not go, and then another for years Brezhnev congratulated all Soviet holidays.
Since then, every year I go to the reunion of the Russian Peoples' Friendship University named after Patrice Lumumba and carefully peered into the white-toothed smile classmates. And then I get drunk in the trash and frightening black former students persistent requests to smoke a cigarette with me from the yellow-brown packs from time to time "Soyuz-Apollo". To this day forward, anyone of them hohotnёt and recognize that same pack of a dozen cigarettes, which put on the left of my helmet, and which still convinces me that it was not a dream and not a glitch, the very day when the I fucked up ...
© Cap
Source:
