Dating practice now ru
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. 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.
In the beginning I howled a wolf, just like that mad grunt. Nod to one of the grunts to secure the window, and then myself move to the doorframe. It seemed like the Earth, asphalt and house walls were ablaze from the burning fuel. When your boots slip on the bloody mucus, then the important thing is to think of nothing, and concentrate on only one objective: survive, survive and save your men. People panicked in the inferno, some tried to return fire, some helping the wounded. What would you, my reader, do in that hell on earth? Because those you'd lose will come to you in your dreams. Now we are going to the Central Train Station, where, in almost full complement, was wiped out the Mikop Brigade. When after the battle they began to fall asleep (imagine no sleep for a week, adrenaline and Vodka for breakfast, lunch and dinner), spooks slunk up and wasted them from a point blank range. When our brigade fought its way through heavy rebel defences to help them, our tanks had to struggle through barricades of corpses of our Slavic brothers... If you want, can go to my basement, the fighters have beaten five rats just now and are cooking breakfast now. Just the mistake Chapaev made: no guards along perimeter. Their commander, with both his legs injured; still tried to reassert control, although he could retreat to the rear. When you see how tracks chop and hummer human flesh, how heavy leading wheels coil intestines of people just like yourself...
"Reinstating Constitutional Order" on the territory of the former Soviet Union. Our soldiers are Siberians and all together we are "mahra" (Russian word for cheap tobacco). Glue moves away from the window and a starts muttering into his handset, calling onto the 1st Battalion's Road Post and our APCs. - "Sopka" is waiting for us, "boxes" were fired upon and rolled back a block.