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Two weeks later he stood with three friends behind the L-shaped reinforced concrete podpodezdnoy wall of the five-story building, and they discussed to which construction series this unusual architecture, "Togliatti" or "Bulgarian" belongs. They did not want to stay in the house: the sewage system had not been working there for several months, the stench was terrible. The entire cellar was packed with civilian and dying soldiers. From the whole house there were only two entrances, and the other part for some reason destroyed by their blows of the Drying. On the approaching wall periodically hit the queue, the house opposite was occupied by an enemy who knows how to fight and is very motivated. They did not want to storm this house either to the boys of Bambus, nor to the platoon of the paratroopers, nor to any rabble from the boys: motorized rifles, VVshnikov and even the surviving division of marines. God knows how they all ended up in a ruined house, but everyone is already tired of the same thing: stupidity and betrayal of the command. Bambus agreed with the commander of the landing party, and he diluted his children demoralized boys. The paratroopers barely regained order and dragged the brave but stupid suicide bombers from the windows, and cowards were scooped out of the basement. Now it was possible to fight, but I did not want to. Bambus did not let go of the native speaker with the radio scanner, and he translated the broadcast: in the house opposite there were 12 enemy fighters and three triples sat in ambushes from the flanks, covering two snipers. In this situation, the assault was a suicide, that's Bambus and his comrades and hawked bikes in the fresh air, smoking Rostov cigarettes. Suddenly, from the entrance to them came the drunk in the trash ensign, shouting "For the Airborne". Prapor was dragging the "Mukha" granotomore along the ground in an already cocked state. Bambus in a moment sadly realized that now there will be an end: this drunken goat will inadvertently blow up them. Without thinking, Bambus ran into the yard, looping like a hare and trying not to step on mines and stretches in flower bushes. The comrades fled after him, the enemy came to his senses and opened fire, but Bambus was already in the dead zone. But then over his head, the smoke rustled a grenade, hit the wall of the house. And fleeing from the explosion, Bambus flew into the window of the house, directly into the astonished submachine-gunner of the enemy. A half-minute later, Bambus looked out the window: the buzzing prapor burned himself, firing from the grenade launcher two paces from the wall of the building, one comrade lying with his head shot close to the very house. Another was found in a neighboring apartment, badly wounded with fragments. Bambus was without a single scratch ...