About how we went to war

 

Sorry, but the title is a bit misleading. His situation is exactly like the jokes about Radio Yerevan – everything seems to add up, but not entirely...

I didn't go anywhere, but Irka was the only one who joined the army. He spent a full six months in the barracks, indulging in various games and outdoor activities, while his friendly superiors dictated the pace of these merry festivities with their shouts.

Irka's farewell was rather intimate. All the band members squeezed into our studio apartment in the Old Town. We spent half the night reminiscing about our past glory and cherishing the hope that better days would still come. And soon. And at the crack of dawn, we sang some wistful farewell song together – I forget the title because everyone was already seasoned, pearly and final.

And the next day, Irka boarded the train and left.

I didn't hear from him for two whole days. And when he finally called, he said these words:

"Dear friend!

I knew him too well to not know what that meant. As usual, it was some small, friendly favor.

" "What happened?" I asked cautiously.

"Oh, nothing special," he replied carelessly. "I was given a green uniform and shaved. But that's not the point...

" "What's the point?

" "I left some... hmm... unresolved business there.

" "What's her name?" I asked, sensing what was to come.

"Iveta," Irka cleared his throat, "because you see, my dear friend... there's a certain suspicion that Iveta's condition... hmm... isn't entirely normal...

" "You're being very circumspect."

"Because I'm not sure... In short: the woman is supposedly pregnant, and I have no idea who it's with. And my skin crawls at the thought that I could be the happy father...

" "It's very nice that our population will increase," I laughed maliciously, "but what do I have to do with it?"

"A lot," Irka tried to sound serious, "as my tried and true friend and faithful companion..."

"Get to the point, get to the point! Let's skip the preamble!

" "Well," Irka cleared his throat, embarrassed, "the point is that you should chat privately with the lovely Iveta, assess the situation, and, to the best of your ability, determine the origins of the new citizen...

" "Do you have any plans or hopes for her?" I asked matter-of-factly.

"Absolutely!" my friend denied vehemently, "none!" Now you understand why I have a right to be a little nervous...

- I'll see what I can do...

- I have faith in your diplomatic talents!

- And you won't send me to hell if I bring you bad news?

- Never in my life! - my friend assured me. - Besides, I don't know how to shoot yet.

That was very comforting and gentle of him.

That was the end of the conversation, and the next day I set out to find the lovely Iveta.

The house at the address I'd given turned out to be a sizable villa with a beautiful, carefully manicured garden. I forced open the gate and politely knocked on the door.

There were shuffles, cracks, and grunts, and a moment later, the door was flung open. A mustachioed man with a sagging belly stood on the threshold, clad only in a shabby undershirt of indeterminate color.

Before I could introduce myself or even make a gesture, the man turned around and yelled questioningly,

"Iveeeeeetaaaaaa?! Is that the one?"

And without waiting for a response, he roared again,

"Puszek! Get him! Puszek!"

I heard a loud barking, and a tarry beast with fierce eyes and large fangs appeared on the threshold.

I had an exceptionally well-developed instinct for self-preservation, and before the gloomy dog ​​had time to recover, I had already leaped over the gate.

"Come back here, you rascal!" yelled Iveta's mustachioed companion.

I moved forward, kicking my feet briskly.

It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon, and people from the surrounding houses were flocking onto the lawns, their pale bodies exposed to the sun.

It was lazy, sleepy, and pleasant, and I had disturbed their peace.

Fluffy chased after me, tongue hanging out, making uninviting sounds.

The scene was capped off by Iveta's father hurling the most vile insults at me, and Iveta herself, in her nightgown, rushing to the gate, shrieking shrilly:

"That's the wrong daddy! That's nooooooooooooooooo!"

After much effort, I finally managed to lose the beast and lose the trail of the pursuers. These damned diplomatic maneuvers left me quite out of breath, for which I felt a great reproach to my friend.

I called the barracks, waiting patiently for the dispatcher to connect me with all the appropriate authorities; finally, something crackled in the receiver, and I heard a familiar voice:

"Excuse me?

" "Ruffian!" I gasped. "They were armed! They set a dog the size of a pig on me!

" "Something like that!" – I thought Irka chuckled with amusement – ​​but you managed to get away in time?

– I did, you bastard! But you know how much I hate running!

– And did you catch any useful news while running?

– I didn't catch anything! – I growled – but I pity you for having such a father-in-law!

– Let's be optimistic – Irka grunted, seriously concerned.

Whatever one might say, my friend was born under a lucky star. It turned out that Iveta, as women sometimes do, was a bit hasty with the good news and caused Irka unnecessary grief and extra jogging lessons for me.

A month passed before Irka spoke again.

"I've had enough," he declared in a pained voice. "It's boring as hell here! Nothing but waking up, marching out, and

pea soup! Day after day! Is there any way to get away from here? There were probably ways, but I had no idea which one would be the best or most effective. So I went to seek advice from the rest of the company. We spent a long evening over mugs, and at the crack of dawn, having received detailed instructions, I knew what to do.

The whole thing hinged on preparing and sending a carefully crafted letter to my friend—I was confident that its contents would quickly become known to Irka's commanders. The army, like almost every hierarchical institution, was passionate about prying into the private affairs of its members.

I spent an hour pensively chewing on the handle of my pen, crafting a message.

And when the work was finished, I affixed a stamp and waited for the next one.

Irka later described the whole event to me as follows:

"Every morning, after drill and other equally unpleasant activities, there was the ceremony of delivering the mail. The postman was a certain Corporal Zdenek Blecharz, a nasty and malicious creature, and we, the recipients, stood meekly in line, waiting our turn.

Blecharz would pull the letter from his capacious bag, glance at the envelope, and bellow the unfortunate man's name in a loud voice, in a tone at least as if inviting him to the scaffold. The culprit would step out of line, closely observed by the corporal, take the letter, and shrink under his gaze, then rush back to his place.

The day your postcard arrived, Corporal Blecharz was in an exceptionally foul mood.

He would shout my name with obvious disgust, and before I managed to run up and salute him, and he dutifully read what you wrote. His face lengthened, and he passed the postcard to me with two fingers, with a rather disgusted expression, which amused me greatly. From what I understand, the officers later discussed me in the canteen. And the next day, I was summoned to the barracks doctor, who examined me thoroughly and questioned me about my lifestyle and sexual preferences."

That's Irka's account.

You're probably just curious about what I wrote to him?

Not much – it went something like this:

"Dear Jiri! I remember with great longing the moments we spent together and our tender embraces. I hope you will remain faithful to me and resist the charms of an entire army of handsome soldiers and officers as well. And don't catch any French filth on me!

Loving

Pavel."

The army decided to give Irka one more chance – the commanders unanimously agreed to keep him under discreet observation. But my faithful friend didn't rest in his tracks and decided to act on his own.

One day, quite fortunately, he was assigned to a very important and high-priority convoy. The convoy was carrying some super-important, super-secret, and super-combat missile from point A to point B. The success of the entire, large-scale, international maneuvers depended on the speed and efficiency of the shipment's delivery.

Seven men, a military truck, a huge missile jutting out from the cab, and a forest all around.

They stopped at a crossroads, unfolded a map, and stared at it helplessly.

"I know where we are, gentlemen!" Irka exclaimed joyfully at one point. "Look here! These bushes around here are green, and everything on the map is green too! We're in a forest!

" "Very funny!" "—snarled Franta, the most senior officer and directly responsible for the success of the entire operation. "Concentrate better and orient yourself topographically instead of making silly jokes!" They

took a long time to orient themselves, smacking their lips expertly and examining the map from all sides. Finally, they decided it would be best to go straight. And they got completely lost.

After two hours, they parked the truck in a clearing and went out for a cigarette. The situation was stalemate, and the command waited in vain for their super-dangerous missile.

Within another hour, they managed to reach a populated area. They reached some remote village: they parked in front of a local inn and, with the cleverness of an Ulanka, pierced its roof with the tip of a rocket. They jumped out of the cab and climbed inside.

It was early afternoon, yet the inn was already full of locals, who greeted the approaching army with joyful shouts.

"Good morning! Welcome!" Franta brushed aside the drunken peasants.

"Are you going to war, boys?

" "Actually..." the unit commander grunted in embarrassment. "We're still looking for our meeting point... Can you help us a bit?"

He pulled out a top-secret map, which half the inn was bent over.

Opinions were divided: some sent them south, others north, and someone even advised them to storm Vienna. Finally, an old man, held in obvious respect by those present, pushed his way to the table, licked his pencil, and drew on their top-secret map how to reach their top-secret point B.

They thanked them and, joyfully bid farewell by the community, set off on their wanderings.

They arrived at the training ground two hours later – the command greeted them with a grim look but said nothing: the presence of officials and foreign ministers prevented any departure from the bounds of courtesy.

It wasn't until the next day that all hell broke loose.

All seven of them showed up for a punitive roll call, and the superiors of various ranks shouted at them one by one, and in groups, threatening them with imprisonment and execution.

When the last of the commanders began to lose his voice, Irka, with his usual nonchalance, stepped forward and asked with an innocent expression:

"And if we promise it won't happen again, will you forgive us?"

That was the last straw. My friend had been summarily kicked out of the army, his file being smeared with unflattering remarks.

For me, however, thanks to a crucial missile, a pleasant surprise awaited me.

I was stretching in bed, yawning widely, when someone knocked on the door.

I unraveled my pajamas and went to answer.

Irka stood on the threshold—shaven and somewhat haggard, but undoubtedly my friend himself.

"The maneuvers are over?" I asked. "Did we win?"

"Oh, no," he replied with a sly smile, "but next time it will be better. I promise!

We fell into each other's arms and hugged each other warmly. Friendship is a beautiful thing, isn't it?"