"Mikhail Evstafiev. Two Steps From Heaven " - читать интересную книгу автора

No matter how hard Sharagin tried to get away from philosophical
musings, he kept plunging back into thought. He turned over and started to
examine the peeling green paint of the APC, the dried mud plastering its
body, the thick layer of dust that covered it just as it lined his lungs.
Soviet people in Afghanistan choked on dust and spat it out in thick
gobs of yellow, pus-like spittle.
Unexpectedly it came to him that glorification of war, romantic
perception of battle begins in childhood, when a child encounters a
veritable landslide of literature on the subject, when his mind is barely
able to digest heroic films in which the soldier is always victorious, and
where death of the enemy is a great feat.

... kids barely out of the cradle run around with wooden machine guns:
bang-bang, you're dead! ... nobody ever told us what real war is like, not a
single book explained that by its nature, war is an abomination ... the
Great Patriotic War was idealized, made into a fetish ... yes, we won, but
at what price! ... I learnt a lot from my grandfather ... but this is
something that will never be published in a single book or newspaper! ... so
it looks as though the loss of ten million lives is justified, and instead
of condemning such monstrous losses, instead of condemning those who
couldn't give a damn whether thirty or forty millions perish in the name of
victory, we eulogise martial success and prepare another generation hooked
on self-sacrifice ... my generation was well prepared, that's why we're
here, that's why our Soviet soldiers in Afghanistan perform miracles of
heroism ....

Saturated with specious, sweet, superficial and erroneous images of
war, boys with wooden guns dream of battle, dream of going to war, no matter
where or what.

... sadly, most of them never shed these childish illusions as they
grow up ... stop! cancel that! it looks as though we can't live without
violent emotion, without heroics, we always need an enemy who must be
destroyed ... so were we all, our whole country, only waiting for yet
another war, like this one in Afghanistan? ...

As soon as the sun was past the zenith, the soldiers, who had quieted
down for a while, came back to life, rubbing their eyes, yawning, crawling
out of their holes. With returned vigour came jokes, laughter, swearing,
shouts.
The day before, when the squad was moving out to its assigned position,
the lads pulled a fast number to get additional food, which they hid from
their commander while they were digging in and sheltering from the "afghan."
The armoured military vehicles, BMPs, met a herd of goats on a narrow
mountain road. The older herdsman, a sturdy man who struck Sharagin as
highly suspicious,

... he's a "spook," for sure ... and he'll remain in our rear, the
bastard ...