Forwarded from Перекличка г.Донецка Петровский и Кировский районы 🤍💙❤️ (СОФА)
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Последствия обстрела Трудовских, в результате которого ранен мирный житель
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Памяти отца протоиерея Андрея Немыкина. 3,5 года...
"Чеченская кампания. На третий день после гибели группы Яфарова. С нами был священник отец Андрей Немыкин, который разложил на столе продырявленные пулями каски, окровавленные бронежилеты погибших ребят. В каждое отверстие батюшка поставил зажженную свечу. Этот своеобразный памятник (куча железа - всё, что осталось о наших боевых товарищей) простоял три дня. К вечеру третьего произошло то, чего ничем кроме мистики не объяснишь. Вдруг завыл кот, сидевший под столом, у него шерсть встала дыбом. Мы все повернулись в ту сторону… С двух сторон стола на землю стекала с бронежилетов свежая кровь! Этому чуду, а иначе не скажешь, было много свидетелей, а я заснял его на видеокамеру."
P.S. На 38-й минуте - кадры чуда с отцом протоиереем Андреем Немыкиным, служившем панихиду по погибшим воинам спецназа при штурме Комсомольского.
Отец Иоанн
"Чеченская кампания. На третий день после гибели группы Яфарова. С нами был священник отец Андрей Немыкин, который разложил на столе продырявленные пулями каски, окровавленные бронежилеты погибших ребят. В каждое отверстие батюшка поставил зажженную свечу. Этот своеобразный памятник (куча железа - всё, что осталось о наших боевых товарищей) простоял три дня. К вечеру третьего произошло то, чего ничем кроме мистики не объяснишь. Вдруг завыл кот, сидевший под столом, у него шерсть встала дыбом. Мы все повернулись в ту сторону… С двух сторон стола на землю стекала с бронежилетов свежая кровь! Этому чуду, а иначе не скажешь, было много свидетелей, а я заснял его на видеокамеру."
P.S. На 38-й минуте - кадры чуда с отцом протоиереем Андреем Немыкиным, служившем панихиду по погибшим воинам спецназа при штурме Комсомольского.
Отец Иоанн
Forwarded from Slavyangrad (Gleb Bazov)
Russell “Texas” Bentley.
ETERNAL MEMORY TO YOU, DEFENDER OF DONBASS. Our Defender.
To be a warrior is to live forever.
I am forever in your debt, and so are we all, Russell.
GB
ETERNAL MEMORY TO YOU, DEFENDER OF DONBASS. Our Defender.
To be a warrior is to live forever.
I am forever in your debt, and so are we all, Russell.
GB
Forwarded from Russians With Attitude (Kirill)
A story about “Texas” from someone who knew him.
The radio blared. It seemed to vie with the gunfire strafing Donetsk airport's runway.
- What's he yelling for? Everything's clear. They attack; we cover.
"Givi" shouted curses non-stop over the radio. His tanks were targeting the middle floors of the "new terminal". The fire points "Monastery" and "Stripes" kept up suppressive fire, preventing the Ukrainian forces from moving their equipment within direct shooting range.
- Wake everyone in the armory. Bring ammo. There's going to be a lot of work.
The soldier ran down the stairs to the first floor. Just past the third door down the corridor was an ammo storage, and several militiamen were sleeping there.
After shoving them aside and grabbing several loaded machine gun belts, crates of ammo, and rifles, the soldiers spread out.
The main firing points were on the staircase landings of the women's monastery. It was called "The Three" simply because it had three floors. Due to constant tank shelling, the thick walls had formed convenient firing positions.
The blond-haired soldier took his place between the first and second floors.
He was indifferent to what exactly was being shouted over the radio. He didn't speak Russian. Only a few commands and strong curses, which practically replaced all the necessary words in war, were familiar to him. The blond-haired soldier was an American citizen.
It was strange to see an American methodically unloading magazine after magazine from a Kalashnikov rifle towards the fighters of a country supported by the USA. But the fact remained. He had come to Donbass to defend the Russians.
A ringing started in his ears. It was a hit near the monastery, by the south entrance. Everyone flinched. That's where one of the observation posts was located.
- Run there. Check where it hit and if everyone's alive?
Inhaling the frosty air, our soldier and the blond-haired American ran down the corridor. Bricks were falling from the ceiling. Artillery was firing at them. A strong wind blew through gaping holes. Fingers turned into icy phalanges. Faces began to pale. But an order was an order.
Having reached the observation point, the soldiers plunged into a fog of dust and snow. Everything was demolished. It was nearly impossible to understand what was where.
Having ascertained by some incredible stroke of luck that the post was empty, they prepared to leave. But the ground shifted under their feet again. Their ears rang. Their bodies wouldn't respond.
After gathering their strength, the duo returned to their commander. The American was again placed by a hole in the wall. His task was to lay down suppressive fire. His fingers refused to obey his brain's signals. Concussion and cold made themselves felt in full measure.
- Focus all artillery on the tower.
Again, the radio yelled. Again, "Givi's" voice penetrated every soldier's consciousness.
The control tower was directly opposite the “Three". Our soldiers shifted their fire there. The American's eyes lit up with flashes from his AK. Right now, he was a Russian lad, a communist, a man who believed in truth.
- "Everest", our first group’s in. Need to send more.
- Who entered?
- My guys. "Sparta". 40 strong.
"Motorola" burst into the airwaves. That meant everything was going well. That meant everything was according to plan.
The fight lasted another four days. At best, sleep came a few hours at a time. The soldiers were wounded, shell-shocked, and frozen to the core, but they completed their orders. During the storming of the new terminal of the Donetsk airport, not a single enemy armored personnel carrier reached the landing area intact.
It was Christmas 2015. A few days later, the American, Russell "Texas" Bentley, would end up in the hospital with severe pneumonia and concussion, and during an attempted tank breakthrough by the Ukrainian forces (January 17), his comrades, Igor Yudin (Bulgarian), Yevgeny Belyaev (Squirrel), and Yevgeny Krasnoschekin (Friday), would die right there, between the first and second floors of the monastery.
The radio blared. It seemed to vie with the gunfire strafing Donetsk airport's runway.
- What's he yelling for? Everything's clear. They attack; we cover.
"Givi" shouted curses non-stop over the radio. His tanks were targeting the middle floors of the "new terminal". The fire points "Monastery" and "Stripes" kept up suppressive fire, preventing the Ukrainian forces from moving their equipment within direct shooting range.
- Wake everyone in the armory. Bring ammo. There's going to be a lot of work.
The soldier ran down the stairs to the first floor. Just past the third door down the corridor was an ammo storage, and several militiamen were sleeping there.
After shoving them aside and grabbing several loaded machine gun belts, crates of ammo, and rifles, the soldiers spread out.
The main firing points were on the staircase landings of the women's monastery. It was called "The Three" simply because it had three floors. Due to constant tank shelling, the thick walls had formed convenient firing positions.
The blond-haired soldier took his place between the first and second floors.
He was indifferent to what exactly was being shouted over the radio. He didn't speak Russian. Only a few commands and strong curses, which practically replaced all the necessary words in war, were familiar to him. The blond-haired soldier was an American citizen.
It was strange to see an American methodically unloading magazine after magazine from a Kalashnikov rifle towards the fighters of a country supported by the USA. But the fact remained. He had come to Donbass to defend the Russians.
A ringing started in his ears. It was a hit near the monastery, by the south entrance. Everyone flinched. That's where one of the observation posts was located.
- Run there. Check where it hit and if everyone's alive?
Inhaling the frosty air, our soldier and the blond-haired American ran down the corridor. Bricks were falling from the ceiling. Artillery was firing at them. A strong wind blew through gaping holes. Fingers turned into icy phalanges. Faces began to pale. But an order was an order.
Having reached the observation point, the soldiers plunged into a fog of dust and snow. Everything was demolished. It was nearly impossible to understand what was where.
Having ascertained by some incredible stroke of luck that the post was empty, they prepared to leave. But the ground shifted under their feet again. Their ears rang. Their bodies wouldn't respond.
After gathering their strength, the duo returned to their commander. The American was again placed by a hole in the wall. His task was to lay down suppressive fire. His fingers refused to obey his brain's signals. Concussion and cold made themselves felt in full measure.
- Focus all artillery on the tower.
Again, the radio yelled. Again, "Givi's" voice penetrated every soldier's consciousness.
The control tower was directly opposite the “Three". Our soldiers shifted their fire there. The American's eyes lit up with flashes from his AK. Right now, he was a Russian lad, a communist, a man who believed in truth.
- "Everest", our first group’s in. Need to send more.
- Who entered?
- My guys. "Sparta". 40 strong.
"Motorola" burst into the airwaves. That meant everything was going well. That meant everything was according to plan.
The fight lasted another four days. At best, sleep came a few hours at a time. The soldiers were wounded, shell-shocked, and frozen to the core, but they completed their orders. During the storming of the new terminal of the Donetsk airport, not a single enemy armored personnel carrier reached the landing area intact.
It was Christmas 2015. A few days later, the American, Russell "Texas" Bentley, would end up in the hospital with severe pneumonia and concussion, and during an attempted tank breakthrough by the Ukrainian forces (January 17), his comrades, Igor Yudin (Bulgarian), Yevgeny Belyaev (Squirrel), and Yevgeny Krasnoschekin (Friday), would die right there, between the first and second floors of the monastery.
Telegram
Донецкий стрингер (Бородатый документалист)
Рация орала на максимальной громкости. Было ощущение, что она собиралась перекричать пулемет и автоматы, которые без остановки простреливали взлетно-посадочную полосу Донецкого аэропорта.
- Чего он орет? И так все видно. Они штурмуют, мы - прикрываем.
…
- Чего он орет? И так все видно. Они штурмуют, мы - прикрываем.
…
Forwarded from Slavyangrad (Andrei)
Having had time to come to grips with the reality, I would like to say this for Mr. Bentley.
I have never liked the man. We interacted only a few times and butted heads each time and disagreed on virtually every military matter. I would not have called myself and he friends.
But I have always had enormous respect for him as a man and as a soldier and continue to do so now.
Approaching ten years ago from from today he made a promise to remain in Donetsk until the end or until death. For almost ten years he kept that promise and now has kept it for eternity.
His word remains unbroken.
I would like to leave my farewell to the man with the following,
Watching old interviews from many years ago I can hear his native Texan accent begin to develop a Russian accent overtime as he learned the language fluently. This is rare. He did not simply learn Russian as a secondary language, but you can hear when he speaks that Russian has become his first language overtime.
Russel Bentley, «Техас», was not a foreigner fighting on behalf of Donbass and Russia.
He was Russian, found his home in Russia, vowed to die defending it, and fulfilled his duties and his vow.
He was there nearly from the beginning, he is there now as his brothers carry on the fight, and he will be there when his brothers in arms finish this fight.
Peaceful rest, memory eternal, and my gratitude for having ever exhanged words with such a man as he.
@Slavyangrad | ГГ👋
I have never liked the man. We interacted only a few times and butted heads each time and disagreed on virtually every military matter. I would not have called myself and he friends.
But I have always had enormous respect for him as a man and as a soldier and continue to do so now.
Approaching ten years ago from from today he made a promise to remain in Donetsk until the end or until death. For almost ten years he kept that promise and now has kept it for eternity.
His word remains unbroken.
I would like to leave my farewell to the man with the following,
Watching old interviews from many years ago I can hear his native Texan accent begin to develop a Russian accent overtime as he learned the language fluently. This is rare. He did not simply learn Russian as a secondary language, but you can hear when he speaks that Russian has become his first language overtime.
Russel Bentley, «Техас», was not a foreigner fighting on behalf of Donbass and Russia.
He was Russian, found his home in Russia, vowed to die defending it, and fulfilled his duties and his vow.
He was there nearly from the beginning, he is there now as his brothers carry on the fight, and he will be there when his brothers in arms finish this fight.
Peaceful rest, memory eternal, and my gratitude for having ever exhanged words with such a man as he.
@Slavyangrad | ГГ
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Though the mills of God grind slowly;
Yet they grind exceeding small;
Though with patience He stands waiting,
With exactness grinds He all.
(«Retribution», Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
https://www.tg-me.com/Slavyangrad/108773
Yet they grind exceeding small;
Though with patience He stands waiting,
With exactness grinds He all.
(«Retribution», Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
https://www.tg-me.com/Slavyangrad/108773
Хотя мельницы Божьи мелют медленно;
Но они мелют чрезвычайно мелко;
Хотя Он терпеливо стоит и ждет,
С точностью Он все перемалывает .
( «Возмездие», Генри Уодсворт Лонгфелло )
Но они мелют чрезвычайно мелко;
Хотя Он терпеливо стоит и ждет,
С точностью Он все перемалывает .
( «Возмездие», Генри Уодсворт Лонгфелло )
Forwarded from Working Brother
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