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

up, you lump! Wake me only for two reasons: when my replacement arrives, or
if the Soviet forces pull out of Afghanistan! Got that?"
"Yessir."
"Get lost!"
Titov, a hulk far superior in strength and size than the officer, bent
obediently, like a lackey reprimanded by a demanding master and backed out
of the room. Knowing the senior lieutenant's fiery temper, and having had
his liver and kidneys bashed, like all the other soldiers, when the
lieutenant was in a bad mood for some reason or no reason at all, he decided
that discretion was better than pre-demobilization impudence. He closed the
door quietly behind him, straightened his shoulders and, like a werewolf
under a full moon, immediately became a merciless "grandpa" the severe boss
of the barracks.
Venting his spleen for the humiliation he had just endured - the
offensive words had carried clearly to the young soldiers on duty, Titov
kicked the slow and inefficient private Myshkovsky, who was swabbing the
floor with a mop:
"You fucking leaky rubber! When were you supposed to finish cleaning?!"
The pail fell over with a clatter and murky water spread in a pool on
the plywood floor of the barracks.
"I'll make you lick the latrines clean with your tongue, Myshara!
Useless turd!" yelled Titov at the top of his voice, so that everyone would
hear.
"Junior sergeant Titov!" The commander's voice cut across Titov's
railing.
"Do you understand, worm?" continued Titov regardless. "Down on the
ground and do ten pushups! Fast! Fast! I'm warning you, Myshara!" He pressed
the soldier's head down with his boot, and added in a slightly lower voice:
"I'll finish you off!"
"!" came the commander's voice again..
"What's the MPF, Myshara?" Titov pressed own even harder with his boot.
"The Military Paratroop Forces ..."
"The MPF are the shield of the Motherland, greenhorn! And you don't
deserve to be a rivet in that shield! "
Myshkovsky continued to lie prone in fear. The boots of the
all-powerful "grandpa" stamped off in the direction of the common room.
"Junior sergeant Titov reporting as ordered" he stated with barely
concealed insolence, addressing lieutenant Sharagin, who was having his head
shaved bald. Legs crossed, he sat immobile on a small bedside chest. His
shoulders were draped with a bedsheet bearing the stamp of the Ministry of
Defense - a purple star. A uniform with the red armband of the officer
responsible for the company lay on a nearby shelf.
Lieutenant Sharagin was studying his new appearance in a small, cracked
mirror. The mirror reflected gray-blue eyes, a clean-shaven chin with a
fresh razor nick, a straight nose, a thick mustache. There were only a few
patches of hair remaining on his head to be scraped off by the barber's
blade wielded by sergeant Panasyuk. The white skin exposed was in sharp
contrast with the deep mountain tan and seemed to be stretched tightly over
his cranium, like the skin of a drum.
That was exactly how Sharagin wanted to see himself - with a shaved