UAV Similar To Iranian Shahed-136 Spotted In Ukraine

I read the confession of a US Army officer, and decided to translate and share. =====

Confessions of a US Army Officer: We will never defeat the Russians.

… in one American newspaper almost the confession of US Marine Corps Lieutenant Michael Fogetti was published. It described the events of his life, which took place more than 40 years ago in the course of “one small but dirty war waged by the United States, Algeria, Ethiopia and Somalia.” Fogetti’s text itself must, however, be preceded by a brief explanation: the events described are unfolding in the now infamous Gulf of Aden. “Tankist”, aka “bearded captain” – Major Nikolai Ignatievich Eremenko, commander of a separate battalion of the 104th TB attached to the UN mission.

And here are the memoirs of Michael Fogetti.

My name is Michael Fogetti and I am a retired Captain in the United States Marine Corps. Recently I saw in a magazine a photograph of a Russian monument from Treptow Park in Berlin and remembered one of the episodes of my service. My platoon, after performing a special operation, received an order to wait for evacuation at a given point, but we could not get to this point.

In the area of ​​the Golden Horn, as always, it was hot in every sense of the word. One revolution was clearly not enough for the locals. They needed at least three of them, a couple of civil wars and, in addition, one religious conflict. We completed the task and now hurried to the rendezvous point with the boat, on which we were supposed to arrive at the place of evacuation.

But a surprise awaited us. On the outskirts of a small seaside town, we were met by bustling groups of armed men. They looked askance at us, but did not touch us, because a column of five jeeps, bristling with the trunks of M-16 and M-60, aroused respect. Cars with traces of shelling and obvious looting periodically came across along the street, but it was these objects that aroused the main interest of the peizans, and armed looters had a clear priority over unarmed ones.

When we noticed several corpses of obvious Europeans near the walls of the houses, I ordered to be ready, but without an order not to open fire. At that moment, a white woman with a girl in her arms ran out of a narrow lane, three local nigers followed her with laughter (sorry, “Afro-Africans”). We are not up to political correctness. A woman with a child was instantly dragged into a jeep, and her pursuers were yelled at and unequivocally threatened with a machine gun barrel, but intoxication with impunity and shed blood played a bad joke on the scoundrels. One of them raised his G-3 and obviously prepared to shoot at us, Marine Colone automatically pressed the trigger of the machine gun, and then we were already rushing under ever-increasing fire. It’s good that these freaks did not know how to shoot accurately. We flew up the hill, on which, in fact, the city was located, and below we saw a panorama of the port, the most striking fragment of which was a steamship burning at the pier.

More than 1,000 European civilian specialists and their families have gathered in the port. Considering that independence and jihad had been declared in the adjacent area, they all longed for a speedy evacuation. As mentioned above, the ship on which the refugees were to be evacuated was merrily on fire in the roadstead, crowds of insurgents were concentrated on the outskirts of the city, and from the friendly forces there was only my platoon with six machine guns and a sour radio (walkie talkies do not count).

We had a watercraft ready to go and a beautifully camouflaged boat, but only we could fit there. We had no right to leave women and children to the mercy of fate. I described the situation to the guys and said that I was staying here and had no right to order any of them to stay with me, and that the order for our evacuation was in force and the boat was on the move.

But, to the credit of my guys, all remained. I counted the available forces: 29 Marines, including myself, 7 demobilized French legionnaires and 11 sailors from the sunken ship, two dozen volunteers from the civilian contingent. During the Second World War, the port was a transshipment base, and several dozen stone warehouses, surrounded by a solid wall with turrets and other architectural excesses of the last century, as if descended from the pages of Kipling and Boussenard, looked quite solid and suitable for defense.

It was this complex that served us as the new Alamo Fort. Plus, warehouses with UN humanitarian aid were placed in these warehouses, there were also old barracks in which both water supply and sewerage worked. Of course, the toilets were not enough for so many people, not to mention the shower, but it’s better than nothing. By the way, half of one of the warehouses was filled with cases of good whiskey. Apparently, one of the UN officials made their own small gesheft here. That is, the whole situation, in addition to the military one, was normal, and the military situation was as follows …

More than 3,000 insurgents, consisting of the revolutionary guard, irregular formations and just a rabble who wanted to rob, armed, fortunately for us, with only light weapons – from Mauser-98 and Stormtroopers to Kalashnikov assault rifles and “Sten” – periodically attacked our perimeter. The locals had three old French cannons, from which they managed to sink the unfortunate steamer, but the legionnaires were able to capture the battery and blow up the guns and ammunition.

At the moment, we could counter them with 23 M-16 rifles, 6 M-60 machine guns, 30 Chinese Kalashnikovs and five terrible Chinese-made machine guns with 50-caliber cartridges. They primarily helped us to keep the enemy at a proper distance, but the cartridges for them ran out downright with a terrifying speed.

The French said that in 10-12 hours another steamer would come up, and even accompanied by a guard, but these hours had to be held out. And the besiegers had one big incentive in the form of warehouses with humanitarian aid and hundreds of white women. All kinds of these goods were highly valued here. If they think of attacking simultaneously from the south, and from the west, and from the north, then we will definitely beat off one attack, but there may not be enough ammunition for the second. Our walkie-talkie got a bullet when we were just approaching the port, and the walkie-talkie “hit” practically only for a few kilometers. I put Master Sergeant Smithy, our “radio god,” on the old lighthouse with a sniper. He made something out of two walkie-talkies there, but so far there was no particular sense from this.

The enemy did not have snipers, and this made me very happy. The city was located above the port, and from the roofs of some buildings the territory occupied by us was in full view, but the layout of the city also worked in our favor. Five straight streets descended exactly to the wall we defended and were easily shot from the turrets, gazebos and bay windows … And then another attack began. It was from two opposite directions and quite massive.

Previous failures had taught the insurgents something, and they kept our machine-gun emplacements under heavy fire. In five minutes, three machine gunners were wounded, and one more was killed. At that moment, the enemy struck at the central gate of the complex: they tried to knock out the gate with a truck. They almost succeeded. One door was partially knocked out, dozens of armed figures poured into the courtyard. Corporal Westheimer’s squad, the last reserve of defense, repulsed the attack, but lost three people wounded, including one seriously. It became clear that the next attack could be the last for us: we had two more gates, and there were enough heavy trucks in the city. We were lucky that the time for prayer approached, and we, taking advantage of the respite and mobilizing the maximum number of civilians, began to barricade the gates with all available means.

Suddenly, my walkie-talkie received a call from Smithy:

– Sir. I have some kind of incomprehensible call, and it seems from the Russians. They need a senior. Let me switch to you?

– And why did you decide that these are Russians?

– They said that “sunny Siberia” is calling us, and Siberia – it seems to be in Russia …

– Go ahead, – I said and heard in the earpiece English speech with a slight, but clearly Russian accent.

– Can I find out what the United States Marine Corps is doing in the territory entrusted to me? – followed question.

“Here is Marine First Lieutenant Michael Foghetti. With whom do I have honor? In turn, I asked.

– You have the honor to communicate, lieutenant, with the one who, the only one in this part of Africa, has tanks that can radically change the situation. And my name is “Tankist”.

I had nothing to lose. I outlined the whole situation, bypassing, of course, the question of our combat “power”. The Russian in response asked if my minor report was a request for help. Given that the shooting around the perimeter rose with renewed vigor, and it was clearly a massive attack by the besiegers, I recalled the old Winston, who once said that if Hitler invaded hell, then he, Churchill, would make an alliance against him with the devil himself , and answered the Russian in the affirmative. Which was followed by the following tirade:

– Mark enemy positions with red rockets and wait. When tanks appear in your line of sight, that will be us. But I warn you: if even one shot at my tanks follows, everything that the local Peisans want to do to you will seem like nirvana compared to what I will do to you.

When I asked for clarification on exactly when they would approach the line of sight, the Russian officer asked if I was from Texas, and after receiving a negative answer, expressed confidence that I knew that Africa was larger than Texas, and I was not at all offended by this.

I ordered to mark concentrations of enemy fighters with red rockets, not to lean out and not to shoot at the tanks if they appeared. And then it crashed. They beat at least a dozen barrels with a caliber of at least 100 mm. Part of the insurgents rushed to escape from the explosions in our direction, and we met them, no longer saving the last magazines and tapes. And in the gaps between the houses, on all the streets, the silhouettes of T-54 tanks, plastered with landing troops, simultaneously appeared.

War machines raced like fiery chariots. The fire was carried out by both turret machine guns and paratroopers. Quite recently, the army of the besiegers, which seemed formidable, dissipated like smoke. The paratroopers jumped off the armor and, scattered around the tanks, began to clear the nearby houses. Along the entire front of their offensive, short bursts of automatic weapons and muffled explosions of grenades in the premises were heard. A burst suddenly burst from the roof of one of the houses, three tanks immediately turned the towers towards the last refuge of the crazy jihad hero, and a built-in volley, which immediately turned into a built-in explosion, deprived the city of one of the architectural excesses.

I caught myself thinking that I would not want to be the target of a Russian tank attack, and even if the entire battalion with support units were with me, we would not be a serious obstacle to these swift armored monsters with red stars. And it was not at all the firepower of Russian combat vehicles. Through binoculars I saw the faces of Russian tankmen sitting on the turrets of their tanks: these faces had absolute confidence in victory over any enemy. And it is stronger than any caliber.

The commander of the Russians, my age, too tall for a tanker, a tanned and bearded captain, introduced himself with an unintelligible Russian surname for my poor hearing, shook my hand and pointed invitingly at his tank. We settled comfortably on the tower, when suddenly a Russian officer sharply pushed me to the side. He jumped up, tearing off his machine gun from his shoulder, something struck with a rustling whistle, again and again. The Russian twitched, a trickle of blood crawled across his forehead, but he raised his machine gun and fired somewhere in two short bursts, picked up by a clearly-sparse burst of a turret machine gun from a neighboring tank.

Then he smiled apologetically at me and pointed to the customs balcony overlooking the square in front of the port wall. There was the body of a man in a dirty burnous, and the barrel of an automatic rifle gleamed. I realized that my life had just been saved. A black-haired girl (Cuban, as well as part of the tankers and paratroopers) in a camouflage overalls, meanwhile, was bandaging my savior’s head, saying in Spanish that “senior captain always climbs under the bullets,” and in an unexpected impulse of my soul I took out a copy-duplicate from my inner pocket his Purple Heart, which he never parted with as a good luck talisman, and handed it to the Russian tanker. He accepted the unexpected gift in some confusion, then shouted something in Russian into the open hatch of his tank. A minute later, a hand stuck out from there, holding a huge plastic holster with a huge pistol. The Russian officer smiled and handed it to me.

And the Russian tanks had already deployed along the wall, pointing their guns at the city. Three cars entered the port area through the newly opened and unbarricaded gates, and I was on the armored front. Refugees poured out of the warehouses, women cried and laughed, children jumped and squealed, men in uniform and without yelled and whistled. The Russian captain leaned towards me and, over the noise, said: “That’s it, marine. Whoever has never entered a liberated city on a tank has never experienced a real holiday of the soul. It’s not for you to land from the sea.” And patted me on the shoulder.

Tankers and paratroopers were hugged, some presents and bottles were handed to them, and a girl of six years old approached the Russian captain and, smiling shyly, handed him a chocolate bar from humanitarian aid. The Russian tanker picked her up and carefully lifted her up, she put her arm around his neck, and I suddenly felt a sense of deja vu.

I remembered how a few years ago, on a tourist trip to West and East Berlin, we were shown a Russian monument in Treptow Park. Our guide, an elderly German woman with an annoyed face, pointed to the huge figure of a Russian soldier with a rescued child in her arms and snarled contemptuous phrases in bad English. She said that, they say, this is all a big communist lie, and that, apart from evil and violence, the Russians brought nothing to the land of Germany.

It was like a veil fell from my eyes. Before me stood a Russian officer with a rescued child in his arms. And it was a reality, and, therefore, that German woman in Berlin lied, and that Russian soldier from the pedestal in that reality also saved the child. So, maybe our propaganda that the Russians are sleeping and seeing how to destroy America is also lying? .. No, for a simple first lieutenant of the Marine Corps, such lofty matters are too complicated. I waved my hand at all this and clinked glasses with a Russian bottle of whiskey, unknown how it ended up in my hand.

On the same day, we managed to contact a French steamer, sailing here under the auspices of the UN and sailing at two o’clock in the morning. Loading was in progress until dawn, the steamboat set sail from the inhospitable shore when the sun was already high enough. And until the inhospitable shore disappeared into the haze, the little girl waved her handkerchief to the Russian tankmen who remained on the shore. And Master Sergeant Smithy, who was our famous philosopher, said thoughtfully:

– I would never want the Russians to seriously begin to fight with us. Let it be unpatriotic, but I feel that they will definitely kick our ass.

And after thinking he added:

– Well, they drink so cool, as we never dreamed of. To suck a bottle of whiskey out of the neck – and not in one eye … And after all, no one will believe us: they will say that even Davy Crocket will not invent such a thing.

I hope it will eliminate many nazi’s coke sniffers and mercenaries from the map.

TLDR, the source that claimed Iran sold drones to Russia were NATO, Zionists, and Wahhabis. They are fighting Russia and Iran for years, a clown would believe them.

None of them mentioned Iran sold M214 Geran-2s – Red flag 1.

There was no proof Iran selling any drones to Russia. Red flag 2.

The West/Zion/Wahhabi all the same time reported this fake claim. Red flag 3.

Remember SAA using chemecial weapons on civilians? Remember Nazis using soldiers in their report and claiming they were civilians? Remember when Ukraine killed 100 civilians that got aid/food from Russia and blame Russia after?

Same story here.

HAHAHAHAHAHA Nato getting murdered with NATO products PERFECTO!!!!

I have to laugh at western analysis that claim using Iranian and/or N.Korea supplies is a sign of desperation. Ukraine doesn’t produce anything, they are 100% reliant on the combined military arsenals of NATO.