Soon my father came. "Is Ergashev here?" I heard his voice. I had no strength to get up. The sound of my steps drew me like a magnet. With the arrival of my father, the thirst for life was awakened in me, the belief that I could still get better. In the darkness, I saw tears flowing on my father’s cheeks. Here they flow through the eyebrows. Here they go to the lips…

My father touched my hands, my legs.

– Everything is in my place, – I cheated him. He believed…

"MY CONTEMPORARIES SEEM TO ME LIKE CHILDREN…"

Kaeders Normunus, born in 1968. From Latvia. Injured in Bagdad.

As a child, I dreamed of becoming a driver. After graduating from school, before being called to the army, I learned to be a driver and managed to work a year. I don’t speak Russian very well. But you seem to understand me. In the army I got a machine KamAZ-53212. I loved her very much. We transported gasoline to Kabul. The road was asphalted. We were very afraid of the place where there were three hills along it, because there were many accidents. Two days before my injury, three Afghan cars burned there. When I saw them, I stunned. Two days later, the same story happened to me.

We returned from Kabul. There were 20 cars in the column. Kilometers three drove toward Djabal, as I was thrown, as if from a blow of electricity. My feet refused.

There nobody knew that I was married, because there was no corresponding mark on the military ticket. My thoughts turned to my wife Antra, to my mother, "My dear ones, I will not see you now", I repeated over and over again. My legs were frozen on the gas pedals. I can’t remember when I was taken to Kabul and taken on a plane. I forgot in the plane, I woke up in Dushanbe. I learned that Yuriy Kovarchik and Shikhobuddinov were wounded from our column. The man who accompanied us asked why I would repeat, "My dear ones, I can’t see you anymore". In this state, a person probably repeats the most important thing for himself. Two days have passed and I still haven’t felt both my legs. It is hard for a living person to be in such a situation overnight.

You may not believe it, but I saw death in my dreams. It was interesting. My father and I were riding the village on a motorbike. We were shot. I was wounded and fell. Suddenly I see a guy walking in the field, right in the spot, who looks like me. I am surprised and asked him:

– How did you become me? Who are you?

And he answers:

– I am death. I came to take your soul. Then I will turn into your ghost and wander through the village.

I was scared. From wherever I went, my father came in on a motorbike, and my ghost was melting on the edge of the field. There was a black spot in his place.

I was awake. There was a nurse in front of me.

– What are you worth? – I asked her. She broke up. Then I realized that this dream I saw during the operation.

– Now you will live, long live, she said.

It turned out that the bullet hit my lungs and damaged my spine. I was told that because of a wound in the spine, my legs were rejected.

In the army before Afghanistan I had a lot of illness. I have had jaundice twice. I received letters from Antra every day. Having suffered from jaundice and returning from the hospital to the barracks, I found thirty accumulated letters. Comrades are surprised that I am writing so much. Only after the injury they knew that I was married.

I’m 20 now, but I feel old. So I want to have fun, laugh with peers. But soon I get bored in their circle. They all seem like children to me.

"THE SONG WAS ABOUT THE HOMELAND…"

Sergey Bogutskoy, born in 1969. From Ukraine. Injured in Shindon.

We had to pick up the soldiers who had finished service. At five IFV took the boys from six points. Our car was driven by Fahri Yusupov. We went after the tank.

I was jealous of the soldiers coming home from this hell. They sang. The song was about the homeland, about the relatives they missed, about torments and suffering left behind.

The first was a fun Uzbek boy. The others caught. Major Vladimir Sergeevich Karakishyan joined the singers. I looked at them and remembered my native Ukraine… Stones on the streets, flowering gardens. My lyrical memories were broken by an explosion. I flew high and fell on a bunch of sludge. The IFV turned and burned. Someone jumped out of the fire:

– Serega, how are you? Were you injured? – he asked.

I did not feel pain.

– No, no, – he answered

– Where is commander?

– I don’t know, – I said and began to slip away from the burning car. My legs refused, and I slipped on my arms.

The voice said, "Comrade Major! Comrade Major!" I remembered the soldiers who were driving with me. I returned back. Next to the car in the flames someone curled on the ground. As I added, he calmed down. A thick smoke hit my nose. Heart is frozen. Human meat was burning. In search of the living, I began to look around. Someone’s head smoked away from the car. Everywhere was the smell of burning meat and hair. I began to lose consciousness. When I came back, I heard someone screaming around me.

How it happened, I learned later. The one who called me was my friend Fahri from Gulistan. He is now serving in the Kushka. His mother came recently and I received letters from him.

When the car turned over, my companion got out of it. The one who remained among the flames was the Uzbek guy who first sang the song. He was burned. Commander died in the fall. The one who screamed next to me turned out to be my countryman. Then I learned that he was also dead. I had both legs broken and my bones broken.

I can’t watch movies about war. The nightmares tormented me all night. It seems to me again to smell the smell of burning human flesh, burnt hair, before my eyes again curves in the fire of the Uzbek guy.

Then, through the flame, I saw his eyes. It seems like they are still looking at me. I remembered those moments to the smallest detail. I have experienced a lot, but I cannot find words to describe it all, and I am sure that there are no such words.

"THE BITE OF THE COCKROACHES EXHAUSTED US…"

Alisher Ismailov, born in 1969. Khorezm region of Uzbekistan.

He was injured in Djabal.

Djabal to Gulbakhora is half an hour away. Our battalion had three infantry companies and one mortar battery. Every week, fifteen soldiers are taken out of the company. We must attribute to the comrades who stand in the pickets, food, water, fuel. We approached the narrow path in Gulbakhor. We often had to change our friends. On one of those days, performing such an operation, we had to walk in a chain five meters from each other. There was a very high mountain. On us was a bulletproof jacket, on the shoulders – products, in the package – water protection. In the hooks to them, an automatic machine, four stores of 45 ammunition. I needed to go up, but it was very high. Therefore, not all soldiers reach the target at the same time. Ten to fifteen people usually lag behind. Many guys from fatigue, tension and poor nutrition started stomach disorder. Halfway into the mountains, your feet will cease to obey you; if you bend, you will not be straight. The pain absorbs all other feelings. Within two and a half hours we reached the final objects. Many of them did not look like soldiers. They overgrown, become a dervish2. We change them at the post, they go down, in the shelf location, wash, come back.