Also a few other photos on the same topic were offered by virtual space, which provided a picture of an American “Hercules”. Now they stand on the ground where Russian ILs and ANs (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) were once parked. You can see Americans pilots with bespectacled helmets, are dragging boxes, definitely containing toilet papers, along concrete slabs of my runway. The dust raised by these American “Apaches” is the very same dust which was ingrained forever in a collar of my jacket…
I can see no flies — portable bio toilets are erected everywhere…
It cannot be right. I think it is the wrong time — sorry, gentleman!
…Looking at the photo “Prior the strike”, I can recognize my airfield. It is a surprising and, at the same time, strange feeling to observe the past from a present image. The photo gives overview from the above and it makes an impression that nothing changed there.
I see the runway from where we took off and landed hundreds of times. I remember hot waves of an unbearable heat with a floating mirage of Eastern mountains.
I see a TECH platform, two hangars, and a narrow path, directing you to a parking lot, and a ground in-printed square mark that used to be our squadron house.
I see the parking lot and all others helicopter pads — among them is mine as well, but there is no board No.10 on it. It means that the board now is on duty in the air. And I am inside of it. And we are landing. A vivid infinity of my memory enhanced by a low quality picture.
Otherwise, how can I explain why I see every detail on these photos much more clearly.
The alley of residential mobile houses and pedestrian pathways are covered by broken bricks. I can see the central square with a Lenin bust in the middle, the courtyard of our headquarters with a small fountain, the diner hangar, the banya, (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor), and our swimming pool under the ragged camouflage net…
I see it all — figures of pilots and technicians, departing and landing helicopters, dust-busting oil tracks, landing fighter-bombers with a rainbow of colored parachutes at their tails, and above all of these I can see rusty-color mountains, blue sky, and white sun…
Nothing there has changed over these years, everything there is the same.
It means that I am at home again.
It was a day of the winter’s solstice of 1986. They arrived from Chirchik (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor) at the Tuzel airport in Tashkent on Mi-26. This model of aircraft was just recently adopted for military service. They routinely filled out custom declarations — “Do you have gold, guns, drugs?”, and proceeded for boarding to a “humpbacked” IL-76, which in one in an hour or so will fall from a stranger’s sky, coming down almost vertically with uncertainty to its passengers: whether it was just a rattling in their ears, or it was a noise from a huge aircraft fuselage, unable to withstand such compression and therefore was almost ready to fall apart.
Stretching out his neck, the flight engineer F. looked in the tiny window and saw how sugary sparkling pinnacles were floating under the sun. Nevertheless, the IL-76 did manage to land, and after turning engines off, and at an unbelievably slow speed, the ramp has opened. The daylight was so dazzlingly bright that new arrivals, standing with their suitcases and bags, must raise their hands to cover their squinted eyes.
They were met by a crowd of men tanned nearly to a black color, who were looking at the newly arrived rotation, with a mixture of delight and tender feelings. I think, even beloved women could not see so much love as was poured from the men’s eyes. The newcomers stepped down onto a sunny concrete, adding their milky-whites faces to the coffee-black colored crowd.
Above the stationary Ill-76, in the sky, two scampering MI-24s kept falling down and lifting up again and again with a howling roar, trying to protect this multicolored crowd; and the sound of iron “crocodiles,” frolicking over the stationary Ill, was a song of happiness.
The flight engineer F. looked around. He was standing in the middle of a huge endless crater-looking field. Its flat bottom was surrounded by rocky mountains with some breaking points at the north and south of this valley. The runaway was stretching in both these directions too. The scenery was colored in red and yellow, however, it was not a Martian one. Being an amateur astronomer, the flight engineer F. knew that such sceneries could be found under the Mercury sun only.
Newly arrived pilots were placed in tents; while a squadron of old pilots were occupied in so-called “modules” — prefabricated shield barracks: before returning to the Union (the short version of the U.S.S.R. — Editor), they should wait for a couple of days till “Hunchback” (IL-76) will arrive.
At night, everything was rumbling and trembling in the direction where the mountains were bombed by heavy artillery. Every night shells and cartridges, with rustling sounds, were flying above the tents. Howling and chattering flocks of the BM-21 “Grad” were flying over our heads with a sound that closely can be described as flushing water in a gigantic toilet. In the beginning, nobody could sleep. But a week later, nobody woke up, even, when their plywood walls were attacked by acoustic sledgehammers of artillery so hard, that all alarm clocks and shaving kits kept falling down from the shelves.
On December 23, in the morning, Lieutenant F. and Lieutenant Mukhametshin received Board No.10 (see “Terminology and Glossary” — Editor). The previous pilot of Board No.10 was constantly smiling, kept opening and closing hoods, running in circles, kicking pneumatics and slapping his hand on the glazing. Eventually he shook hands with two lieutenants, and with words “Do not worry, this machine is good and strong as a bull”, he rushed off from the parking lot without looking back.
After lunch, the flight engineer F. (who got his first turn to fly and went for an inspection of the newly received board) was approached by two pilots in bleached jumpsuits. It was obvious that due to celebration of their replacement, these two had a big hangover, more likely they did not even get sleep at all.
— Where is Andryusha? — the older aviator asked the flight engineer. — Has he already been replaced?
The flight engineer nodded, hoping that without Andryuha, these two will go away.
— Well, bro, then we will fly with you — the older aviator sighed, and both pilots, with a great effort, proceeded climbing towards the pilot’s seats.
Being the first day on duty and understanding nothing (are there warning signs here?!), the flight engineer F. followed them; still he could not comprehend what was going on. In his understanding, the newcomers should have received training before any military actions, or, at least, have some familiarization with a map of the area and local habitants. It was expected that training flights with an instructor over the airfield should be completed first, then the distances of flights should gradually increase, and only after a month, once mastering their flights and overcome any fear, they can be given a military task…However, the engine started up, and in the impenetrable yellow dust, the airplane drove to the field, revved the engine and lifted off.
— Get the machine gun ready, my friend, — the commander said. — Let us climb to the maximum height, and then you can sit back. We need the maximum, then “Stinger” cannot get us. Thank God, this is our last flight and it will be the end of my duty. After this trip, the fun will be all yours.
We reached the maximum height with enormous difficulties.
— Rotten machine… — the commander grimaced.