If you have ever changed the battery in a mobile phone, you know that this job is simple, easy and does not require any special skills. On a submarine the principle is basically the same. With one small exception: the battery on  a submarine consists of two hundred and twenty-seven iron square cans with a volume of one hundred litres each, figures are approximate. There is a battery, in a special hold of the ship called the battery room. Also, above it are mounted rails. A cart on small wheels moves along the rails as electricians,  who lie on their stomachs, measure the density of the battery electrolyte. We call them guys with an ignition in their ass. :-). And any of these guys is immediately noticeable: from time to time holes appear on his uniform,  burned by the battery electrolyte. In order to replace the battery on a submarine, we must disassemble half of the compartments by opening the hatches - starting from the hold and ending with the pressure hull. Actually, once I was even lucky enough to take part in such an operation - once upon a time when I was commander of division number three.
“Eduard”, the commander said menacingly at the meeting before the start of the battery reloading operation, “I understand that the battery reloading hatch is under the control of the mining officer, but I personally instruct you to open it with your group. Report tomorrow. “

”Roger, we’ll do it”, it’s not a big problem to open the loading hatch.
“Vova”, a little later I came to the team sergeant and joyfully took one of his jacket lapels and said, “please, open the battery loading hatch, lubricate everything by using soft fabrics and then wipe it down with the aid of ladders. Now! “

“But Anatolich, it’s not our problem! This hatch belongs to the miner's command!”

“Vova, fuck!?!!”

“Oki-doki. Don’t worry. I understand. Now, it’s our problem. :-). Ok, we'll do it. It’s not a big problem to open that fucking hatch.”

I made a glass of tea for myself and took another book which was written by my lovely author Pokrovskij. At that moment I was thinking that, while my brave men were doing that work, I could read a couple of interesting stories. Also I thought that my guys could  show the miner group their fine skills for opening hatches. :-). After drinking four glasses of tea and reading half of the book, I began to think that there must be some difficulties. At that moment my phone rang.
“Say something”, I said annoyingly through the phone handset.
“Anatolich, that fucking hatch isn't opening. Fuck! It's a real fucker, fuck!”
“Vova, you are the commander of the ship haul group! You are the hope of the Russian democracy, you are the guarantee of private life for people of different sexual identities. I was going to give you another rank because you are a bloody fine sailor. However, you rang me and told me bullshit  about opening the fucking hatch!”
“Anatolich, don’t give up on me. “I want to say why we couldn't open that bloody hatch.”   

“Okay. Stand there and worry - Uncle Edik is coming out now and he'll show you how it's done.”

 Oh, how foolishly I bragged! The hatch for loading the batteries is a regular hatch with a rack, supposed to open with the twist of a red knob from the outside. And since the battery on a submarine is reloaded once every hundred years, this hatch, therefore, has never been opened since the submarine was built. And the bastard got stuck there like a slug. Two days. For two days we soaked that hatch from all sides with all kinds of oils and rust-proofing agents, used sledgehammers and swore. We used crowbars shaped like levers with fulcrums, sliding stops, and Northern dances with  tambourines which are popular amongst voodoo priests also. The hatch wouldn't budge. On the third day, out of boredom and a burning desire to help a comrade (a tradition on submarines), the division commander, Kolya from the city  Nikolaev, joined my brigade. He was born in this city on the Black Sea coast where there are a lot of ship repair yards and  services for maintaining special equipment on the ships. 

"Edik, have you tried turbine oil?" Kolya said from afar.

"Kolya, why don't you go fuck yourself?" I immediately made my position on the practical advice clear.

"Oh, come on, Edik, there's no way the hatch won't open! Come on, here, we'll get it done!"

In a couple of hours, Kolya and I had broken a sledgehammer, bent a crowbar, pinched Kolya's finger, and invented a bunch of new swear words.
“Fuck! It’s a real fucking hatch!”, Kolya was actually speaking to the hatch with these words, “Two brave sailor officers are bowing before you, fucking hatch. However, you didn’t open. Fucking bitch! Fuck! ”

Then we were squatting at that hatch, smoking our cigarettes and spitting overboard because there is a tradition not to spit on the ship’s deck.  Suddenly at that very moment we saw another brave sailor with a simple Russian name: Vitjya Moroz. He is working as midshipman of Kolya’s turbine group and he went to the deck for a breath of fresh air. 

Vitya, I'll tell you, was a very interesting character. In your boring civilian life, you probably would have called him "stupid”, but we called him "simple”. Vitya was tall, thin, and strong, like Arnold Schwarzenegger, Chuck Norris, Jackie Chan, or who knows who. He never carried a turbine tool bag with a set of wrenches, and he unscrewed all the bolts and nuts always just with his fingers. When he tightened them, people yelled at him not to tighten them too much, because then it was impossible to unscrew them at all. When Vitya ran up to you to joyfully hug you and pat you on the back, the best thing to do was run away. Vitya always had a frown and a pout; he never told jokes or joked, but always laughed last, and usually just for company. I once told a joke about a wife turning off her husband's bathroom light, and he thought his eyes had popped. Vitya came to me two days later and reported that he'd figured out what was going on—the bathroom had suddenly gone dark, and the man had apparently been straining at the toilet. Yes, Vitya was logical to the point of being ridiculous, he simply thought  of cause and effect in his own roundabout way.

"What are you doing?" Vitya asked us, curious, like all real submariners.

"We're fucking," Kolya snapped.

"Do you want it for real?" anyone else would have asked, but not Vitya.

"What kind of hatch is this?" Vitya asked instead.

"For loading the battery," I answered.

"Oh, so this is where we'll be reloading the battery?" Vitya clarified, bending down and grabbing the knob with his fingers. I love to use collocation and colorful adjectives, of course, and I really wanted to write something like, "Vitya's forehead veins bulged, his arms grew corded, and beads of sweat appeared on his Roman nose," but none of that happened. Vitya simply and effortlessly turned the rack and pinched the hatch, opened it, and leaned down.

"Ooooh, this is interesting!" Vitya boomed from the hatch.

Kolya picked up the sledgehammer with the handle we'd broken off and suggested,

"Edik, let's hit him over the head and throw him into the bay, otherwise the whole division will be laughing at us."

"No, Kolya, that's not an option. We'll have to endure the shame, because it's bright and there are a ton of witnesses."

"So, they say you're having some kind of problems, maybe I can help?" " asked Vitya, poking his head back out of the hatch into the light.

"Vitya, fuck! Why aren't you wearing a hat?" Kolya asked him sternly.

"But Nikolayich, I was just out for a stroll!"

"Vitya, fuck! You're a submariner and can only stroll around on vacation on the Historical Boulevard in Sevastopol. Now you're on duty, so you're just wandering around aimlessly. And by wandering around on the upper deck without a hat, you're brazenly trampling on a sailor's most sacred book! The Ship's Regulations! I gave you the order to correct the logbooks—the combat number. Vitya. Have you corrected the logbooks—the combat number of your crew?

"But the deadline is tomorrow."

"Well? Tomorrow has  already been, Vitya! If you don't show me the logbooks by tomorrow, I'll make sure that you get to feel  pretty fucking bad, Vitya!"  However, I wasn't   soft, warm, and cozy about it -  fuck it - but hard, dry, and cold - like shoving it up your ass hole right up to your vareniki, which you call ears!

- Oh, Nikolaich, you're always babbling like a samovar. I'll do your books, so why are you making a big deal out of it?

- Vitya!

- What?

- Get out of my sight while I'm still kind!

- Oh, come on! - Vitya probably pouted in offense, but we didn't notice, since his lips were always protruding anyway, and he went below.

Of course, Vitya didn't finish proofreading his books on time—a real shitty job —because paperwork was hated by all submariners to the very depths of their souls and was always put off until time ran out. That's also a tradition. However, Kolya didn't punish him, of course—Vitya helped us, after all.

Mutual assistance is also a tradition in the submarine fleet. Unless, of course, you're carrying out routine work loading missiles or hydraulics, then nobody will rush to help you in groups. However, during crunch times or when problems arise (including personal ones), they always do, sometimes even despite your active resistance. "The crew is a family" is not only a beautiful poet's phrase, but also the highest level of team unity, which, when achieved, makes you feel calm and confident, even when everything around you is a fucking mess.

Translate by Иван Чубаров (РФ) Alex O'Brien (Australia), Jason Clark (UK)