Anatoly Mityaev "Long gun. Anatoly Mityaev Sixth-incomplete (collection) A Mityaev stories
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Anatoly Mityaev
THE FEAT OF A SOLDIER
stories
Dear friend!
I'll tell you about the war with the Nazis. I'll tell you quite a bit - six cases from the life of soldiers at the front. These cases are only drops in the endless sea of soldier's exploits, because millions of Soviet people fought against the Nazis, and everyone put their military labor into victory.
The Great Patriotic War began in the summer of 1941 and ended in the spring of 1945. During this time, the starlings flew away from us four times to warm lands and four times returned to their native birdhouses. The children who entered the first grade in the first military year finished primary school by the end of the war. And all this long, long time, bloody battles, fierce battles did not subside. The enemy was strong. He managed to go far to our land. The greatest courage was needed, military skill was needed, and selfless labor was needed to throw the invaders out of the borders of the Motherland and finally finish them off on their own land.
We all - both adults and children - are indebted to those who did not return from the war, who gave their lives for the Motherland to live. How can this debt be paid? There is only one answer to this question - love for the Motherland, readiness to defend it from any enemy, constant work for the benefit of the Motherland. You, my little friend, know this and grow up as an honest, hardworking, courageous person worthy of your country.
triangular letter
The division of heavy guards mortars stopped in an oak forest until a new order. The oak forest was young, the trees were sparse, enemy bombers could notice the cluster of cars. Therefore, the mortars immediately began to dig shelters for cars and mask them with branches. Finished work late at night. It was still visible, and the soldier Boris Mikhailov took up the letter. He tried to write more often, he knew that his mother worries about him every day and every hour.
"Dear mommy! Boris wrote. - I'm alive and well. They feed well. The weather is warm. We are standing in the forest. Don't worry about me. We are resting now. I hug you tightly and kiss you tightly. Your Borya.
Boris did not have an envelope. Much was missing during the war. Bread, such as salt. And such simple things as envelopes. They somehow learned to do without them ... Boris folded a paper sheet along the upper corner - it turned out to be an oblique sail, bent the sail - it turned out to be a house with a roof; he also bent the lower corners of the house and tucked it under the roof - it turned out a triangle, a letter and an envelope together ...
It was too late to go to the clerk who sent the mail. Boris put the letter in the pocket of his tunic - until the morning, lay down on his overcoat under a bush, wrapped himself up with his head so that mosquitoes would not bite, and sleep immediately came to him.
The dream was short. As soon as dawn broke, the division was alerted.
A column of cars with launchers and eres - rockets, leaving the oak forest, moved through an open field. The sun was rising behind the column. Big, red. Dust covered it. But the sun rose above the dusty cloud, as if it wanted to see where the guards mortarmen were going.
The front line was ahead. From there, because of this line, a projectile flew. Boris in the cab of the truck did not hear his whistle, so he was not afraid, but surprised when the black earth shot up in the field. The cars picked up speed. Shells exploded either in the field or on the road. Fortunately, the road descended into a ravine. Enemy observers now did not see cars, and the shelling stopped.
The ravine was wide, deep, with steep walls. Through it, as if through a safe tunnel, soldiers walked to the front line, cars drove - with guns, with shells, with kitchens and bread. In the opposite direction, the tractor was dragging a tank with a downed turret. A horse harnessed to a buggy carried two wounded, they lay motionless, their heads were wrapped in bandages.
“Now, if they wound me like that or kill me? ..” thought Boris. “When my mother finds out that I was killed, she will cry for a long time.”
Low over the ravine, with the roar of an engine and the sound of machine guns, a Messerschmitt, a German fighter, swept by. Our machine guns, disguised on the slope, fired at him. Immediately a fighter with red stars appeared. Chased after the enemy.
So the mortars went. Without accidents. Artillery shelling, shelling from an airplane is a common thing in a war.
We stopped in a lowland overgrown with bushes.
From the lowland began the ascent to a wide hillock. The slope of the hillock was a yellow wheat field. From the top, frequent shooting, booming explosions were heard. There was a fight going on.
The mortarmen unanimously removed the launchers from the trucks. They put it on the ground. Eres uploaded. They dragged them, heavy, to the machines. When the last truck left, the Guards mortars were ready to fire.
The battle on the hillock then calmed down, judging by the shooting, then flared up again. What was there and how? The sun saw what and how. It rose quite high.
It was hot. Not a breath of wind. But suddenly the wheat at the far end of the field swayed. It was as if the wind had blown over there. He blew, pumped the wheat harder and harder. Peering, Boris saw the discordant lines of foot soldiers. It was they, and not the wind, that shook the wheat, descending from the hillock lower and lower. "Retreat!" Boris guessed and was frightened of his guess.
The infantrymen had already withdrawn to the middle of the field, when fiery jets roared, escaping from the eres. Drawing smoky arcs, rocket shells flew over the hillock. It blew over the hillock - the first eres, the fastest, the most impatient, crashed down on the Nazis. Another one followed. And thrashed, pounded on the ground.
The foot soldiers stopped. They looked at the sky, surprised. Someone shouted. Someone threw up a cap. And everyone ran to the hillock, to its peak, which had just been abandoned.
Not seeing who was nearby, but feeling his comrades, the soldier Mikhailov ran, skirting the bushes, jumping over the bumps. He flew into the wheat, got tangled in it with his boots. But he soon got used to it, pushed it apart, like a bather in water. In those moments, he forgot everything. He only knew that he had to run and run forward. And he had no fear of anything.
When Boris ran to the top of the mound, there were no infantrymen there. They went down another slope, chasing the enemies. Only one - young, like Boris - was sitting on the edge of the trench.
“The Guardsmen are with us… The Guardsmen are with us…” he repeated quietly.
Boris thought that the soldier had been left to thank them for their help. But suddenly he realized that the soldier was wounded, and he shouted or whispered the words “the guardsmen are with us” when the infantry stopped in the wheat and saw traces of formidable eres above them.
- Where did you hurt? Boris asked. - Hurt?
- Shoulder. Hurt! answered the infantryman.
Boris Mikhailov had never bandaged the wounded before and was surprised at the dexterity with which he cut the tunic and exposed his injured shoulder.
He quickly tore open the individual bag and bandaged the gauze pad to the soldier's shoulder. Then a girl appeared with a sanitary bag. She straightened the bandage and led the soldier to where the wounded gathered.
- Let's go, honey! Let's go, you're good! she said to the wounded man.
... The division moved to a new parking lot, to a grove. The sun was going down. It again looked after the column from behind the dusty cloud. Not hot, not bright, as if praising everyone who won the battle for the hillock, but in a military way - in the battle for the height.
This time the enemy's guns did not fire on the road.
All around was calm. The Nazis, having fled from a height, also fled from neighboring areas.
As soon as they arrived at the place, Boris went to the headquarters dugout to the clerk - to give the letter. He stopped in front of the dugout, unfolded the little triangle, and reread it:
"Dear mommy! I'm alive and well. They feed well. The weather is warm. We are standing in the forest. Don't worry about me. We are resting now. I hug you tightly and kiss you tightly. Your Borya.
Boris always, from an early age, told his mother only the truth. And, having reread the letter, I thought that it was necessary to rewrite it. But, if you tell everything that happened during the day, mom will be very alarmed, will not calm down until the next letter. And he gave the triangle to the clerk - without amendments. And there was no lie in the letter, after all. They, the guards, were actually resting in the forest now, and the evening was warm. And he, Boris, is really alive and well.
Donkey earrings
The Marines held the defense in the mountains. One squad settled down very smoothly: it took its place among the sheer cliffs. It was almost impossible for the Nazis to climb these rocks from below. True, a bomber often flew to the rocks and threw bombs. But the soldiers were hiding in a cave. And the bombs did no harm, only crushed the stone. A cloud of rock dust hovered over the squad's position for hours. It was difficult to breathe stone dust, it creaked on the teeth, clogged the eyes. But this is not the hardest thing in the war. This can be tolerated and had to be tolerated. After all, the department, under the fire of their weapons, kept the road along which the Nazis moved. And many enemies overtook death there.
It was a good position. One thing was bad there - no stream, no fontanel. And in the hot summer, when the sun heats the rocks so that the stone burns, oh, how you want to drink! Soldiers valued water worth its weight in gold. Yes, that's gold! If a person is not greedy, not vain, he lives perfectly well without gold. But you can't live without water. The water in the rocks was measured with a strict measure. And only for drinking. For washing - not a drop.
However, after some time, it got better with water. Once the sailor Shalva Davizhba, who went to the economic company for groceries, saw a donkey not far from its location. The donkey stood in the shade of a thick tree, kicked its legs, wagged its tail, shook its ears - it drove away the flies. It turned out that he had nothing else to do. He is nobody. Left because of the war without a master. Davizhba led the donkey to the kitchen and fed it so deliciously, so satisfyingly, as the donkey never dreamed of. Then he loaded two thermoses with spring water on him, heaved a bag of food on his back. And both walked along the narrow path up into the rocks.
The entire squad, led by the commander, rejoiced at the appearance of the assistant. And Shalva Davizhba said that these are still flowers. Berries will be ahead. It is only necessary not to be stingy and feed the donkey in the department no worse than he ate in the economic company. Nobody understood Shalva's mysterious advice, but the sailors were generous. And the donkey, lying down in the shade of a large stone, showed with all appearance that he likes it here.
By evening, when the heat began to subside, Shalva Davizhba loaded empty thermoses on the donkey and led him down the path to the household company. There, although the burden was light this time, the donkey again received delicious food.
All night the donkey was grazing by the stream. And in the morning the sailor again loaded him with water, again led him into the rocks ... It's just that they say that donkeys are stupid. In any case, that donkey soon realized: for each flight he will receive a considerable reward. And he began alone, without an escort, as the most diligent worker, to carry water to the rocks and return with empty thermoses to the economic company.
The sailors loved the donkey. They named him Yasha.
In war, everything changes. Today is good, but tomorrow something bad will happen. One day Yasha came to the rocks with a bloodied head. The sailors quickly took off his luggage. A medical officer came running with a medical bag. It turned out that there was no dangerous wound. Both ears were shot through with a rifle bullet. From these wounds, blood flowed onto the head. The medical instructor bandaged Yasha's ears with bandages. The sad donkey lay near the stone. He was weak from loss of blood, and his ears hurt.
By evening, when the time came to descend from the rocks to the household company, Davizhba brought food to the donkey so that Yasha would stay in place. The donkey ate a little, and then went to the thermoses and stood up, waiting to be loaded.
- Well, Yashka! the Marines were surprised and moved. - You and the wounded do not leave the battlefield!
- What to do? - Shalva Davizhba asked the squad leader. - Tie him? Or let him go?
“Let him go,” the commander said. - But first, let Ivan Rubakhin go on the trail. It was a German sniper who shot at Yasha. A sharp shooter, but Yasha is not visible because of the stones on the path. But in some place his ears stuck out. They leaned out for a minute, but he still managed to make a hole in them. Now the fascist will not rest until he shoots the donkey.
Ivan Rubakhin was a Siberian hunter. He shot just fine and knew how to sneak up on the beast so carefully that the beast did not know about him. Our sniper examined the path and the protective wall made of stones along the path, and found the place where Yasha's ears stuck out. After that, he examined the mountains through binoculars and determined where he could shoot from, where the enemy sniper was hiding.
Three places seemed suspicious. Ivan Rubakhin prepared for the duel. The sun shone in the back of our sailor's head, in the face of the enemy. As soon as the enemy touches his rifle, the glass of his optical sight will flash under the sunbeam. This is how the enemy will give himself away.
Ivan Rubakhin listened to Yasha's hooves tapping on the stones. Here they are rattling behind him. In a second or two, the donkey will be at a dangerous place. Part of his head will be visible to the German. A second has passed. In the distance, in a low bush, glass gleamed in the sun. Rubakhin pulled the trigger...
The shot did not frighten the donkey. But he stopped, as if bewildered. He pricked up his ears in white bandages. Ivan Rubakhin rose to his full height, approached the donkey, and patted his neck:
- Well, friend, go easy. He won't shoot again...
Yasha's ears healed, freed from bandages. But there were holes in them. Once someone decorated Yasha's ears with daisies, inserted a flower into the holes.
The Marines joked:
- Yasha is a fashionista. He purposely put his ears under the shot, so that there were holes where to hang the earrings.
- And what, sailors, can you get more expensive jewelry for Yasha?
“Won’t the Marine Corps thank Yasha properly?”
- The Marine Corps was not and will not be a debtor. Wait, Yasha, a gift.
After such conversations, a little time passed, and the sailors kept their promise.
The Nazis had special troops - mountain rangers. They climbed rocks, descended into abysses, walked on glaciers like real climbers. And so two mountain rangers, two fascist climbers, began to climb a completely sheer rock to throw grenades at our fighters. The enemies did not know that the sailors had already discovered them, they were watching them. They all climbed up. When both rangers were hanging on a rope high above the abyss, Ivan Rubakhin appeared from behind the stones with a sniper rifle and ordered in German:
- Throw the weapon into the abyss. Continue climbing by yourself.
Jaegers carried out the order implicitly.
Both captives had iron crosses - fascist orders. The prisoners were taken to the headquarters of the regiment. And the sailors made earrings for the donkey from iron crosses.
Yasha wore trophy jewelry before our victory in the mountains. There were other donkeys in other divisions. And Yasha was the most famous.
long gun
Gleb Ermolaev went to war as a volunteer. Of his own free will, he applied to the draft board and asked to be sent to the front as soon as possible to fight the Nazis. Gleb was not eighteen years old. He could have lived at home for six months or a year, with his mother and sisters. But the Nazis were advancing, and our troops were retreating; in such a dangerous time, Gleb believed, one should not hesitate, one must go to war.
Like all young soldiers, Gleb wanted to get into intelligence. He dreamed of making his way behind enemy lines, taking "tongues" there. However, in the rifle platoon, where he arrived with replenishment, he was told that he would be an armor-piercer. Gleb hoped to get a pistol, a dagger, a compass and binoculars - intelligence equipment, but he was given an anti-tank rifle - heavy, long, awkward.
The soldier was young, but he understood how bad it was if you did not like the entrusted weapon. Gleb went to the platoon commander, a lieutenant with a not very good surname Krivozub, and told everything frankly.
Lieutenant Krivozub was only three years older than the soldier. His hair was black, curly, his face swarthy, and his mouth was full of white, even teeth.
“So, you mean intelligence?” the lieutenant asked and, smiling, showed his beautiful teeth. - I think about intelligence myself. Let's rename the rifle platoon into a reconnaissance platoon and all move to the rear of the Nazis. I,” said Krivozub in a whisper, “would have done it long ago, but I just can’t figure out who will defend this site instead of us. Do you know by any chance?
“I don’t know,” Gleb answered in a whisper, too. He was offended by the lieutenant for such a conversation and blushed with resentment.
“Brave people are needed not only in intelligence,” the lieutenant said after a pause. - You got a difficult job, soldier Ermolaev. Oh, how difficult! You and your PTR will sit in the very front trench. And you will certainly knock down the enemy tank. Otherwise, he will approach the trench where the platoon is defending, and will crush everyone with caterpillars. While we are quiet, an experienced armor-piercer will deal with you, beginners. Then you get an assistant. You are the first number in the calculation, he will be the second. Go...
It was really quiet on that sector of the front at that time. Somewhere the earth shook from explosions, somewhere people died, but here, on a flat dry meadow enclosed between two groves, only grasshoppers chirped. With stubborn zeal, they extracted monotonous sounds from their withered little bodies - without a break, without stopping. The grasshoppers did not know what kind of tornado would sweep over the meadow, they did not know how hot and tight the blast wave was. If they knew, if they knew, they would hasten with high jumps - through sagebrush bushes, over hummocks - away from these places.
Soldier Gleb Ermolaev did not hear grasshoppers. He worked diligently with a shovel - dug his trench.
The place for the trench had already been chosen by the commander. Resting, when his hands were weakening, Gleb tried to imagine where the Nazi tank would go. It turned out that the tank would go where the commander had intended - along a hollow that stretched across the entire meadow to the left of the trench. A tank, like a person, also tries to hide in some kind of recess - to make it harder to get into it. And our guns disguised in groves will shoot at the tank. The trench is away from the hollow. When the tank is on the same line with the trench, the soldier Ermolaev will slam an armor-piercing incendiary bullet into his side. It's hard to miss at that distance. The bullet will pierce the armor, fly into the tank, hit the gas tank, or the projectile, or the engine - and the job is done.
But what if there are two or three tanks? What then?
Imagine how he would fight with three tanks, Gleb could not. But he could not allow in his thoughts that the enemy vehicles would pass to the trench. “The cannons will kill,” he reassured himself and, reassured, again began to pound the hardened clay with a shovel.
By evening the trench was ready. So deep that one could stand upright in it, Gleb liked it. Gleb believed in the reliability of the shelter, and for another hour he was busy making it better. I dug a niche for cartridges in the side wall. I also dug a hole for a water bottle. Several times he carried away clay in a raincoat - away from the trench, so that the brown spot would not betray his shelter to the enemies. For the same purpose, he poked the embankment in front of the trench with branches of wormwood.
The second number - the assistant promised by the lieutenant, came to Gleb only at dusk. Together with a platoon, he was also engaged in earthworks - the soldiers deepened the trenches, dug communications.
The second number was three times older than Gleb. His unshaven face shone with mischievous blue eyes. The reddish nose stuck out like an awl. The lips were stretched forward, as if constantly blowing into an invisible pipe. He was small in stature. His legs seemed very short to Gleb - in shoes and windings. No, the armor-piercer Ermolaev was waiting for such a comrade. He was waiting for an experienced fighter, whom he would obey with respect and joy, whom he would obey in everything. And for the first time in the whole week that he was at the forefront, Gleb became alarmed. He felt sad, there was a premonition of something bad, irreparable.
- Semyon Semyonovich Semyonov, - the second number called himself.
He sat down on the edge of the trench, put his feet down and tapped his heels against the clay wall.
- Strong ground. It won't collapse," he said knowingly. But very deep. I can only see the sky from this trench, and we are not supposed to shoot at planes - at tanks. You overdid it, Ermolai Glebov.
- I dug according to my height. My name is Gleb Ermolaev. You mixed up your first and last name.
“I got it mixed up,” the second number agreed very willingly. “And my nickname is very convenient. Replace the surname with the patronymic, the patronymic with the given name - it will still be correct.
Semyon Semyonovich looked into the distance, to where at the end of the meadow a country road could be seen as a gray obscure stripe, and said:
- You have a long gun, but you should have even longer. To get through the meadow to the road. Tanks will go from there ... Or bend the barrel - with the letter G. Sat down in the trench - and shoot safely ... However, - then Semyon Semyonovich's voice became strict, - you, Gleb Yermolaev, made another mistake - you dug a trench for one. Should I lie in the meadow? No shelter? To kill me in the first minute?
Gleb blushed, as in a conversation about intelligence with Lieutenant Krivozub.
- That's it! You are number one, Commander. I am number two, subordinate. And I have to teach you. Well, all right, - Semyon Semyonovich finished generously, - tomorrow we'll dig a hole for me too. Not great work. I'm not big...
The last words touched Gleb. At night he could not sleep for a long time. Through an overcoat laid on the ground, either pebbles or hard roots were pricked. He turned to make himself more comfortable, listened to the sentry walking along the trench, and thought about Semyon Semyonovich. “He is indeed a kind person. They will definitely get along. And Gleb will finish the trench himself. Let Semyon Semyonovich rest. He is also old. He is small. It’s hard for him in the war!”
It was not possible to dig a trench. There were explosions at dawn.
Planes dived into the groves and dropped bombs. Worse than the explosions was the howl of dive-bombers. The lower the plane glided to the ground, the more unbearable the roar of its engines and sirens became. It seemed that with this heartbreaking scream the plane would crash into the ground and it would shatter like glass. But the plane above the ground itself came out of the dive, steeply climbed into the sky. And the earth did not shatter like glass, it trembled, black waves of lumps and dust swelled on it. On the crests of those waves, birches, uprooted, swayed and tumbled.
- In places! In places! shouted Lieutenant Krivozub. He stood at the trench, looked at the sky, trying to determine whether the Nazis would bomb the platoon, or drop all the bombs on those who were defending along the edges of the groves.
The planes took off. The lieutenant turned, looked around at the soldiers, who had fallen silent in their places. Directly in front of him, he saw Gleb with an anti-tank rifle and Semyon Semyonovich.
- Well, what are you? Go! he said softly. - There will be an attack...
- I'm alone. Number two stay in the trench! shouted Gleb, climbing out onto the parapet. And he added, explaining his decision: - We have a trench for only one ...
Gleb was worried that he would not have time to prepare to repel the attack. He hurriedly set up the bipod of an anti-tank rifle, loaded the gun, straightened the sagebrush branches in front of the trench - so as not to interfere with looking and shooting, took off the flask from the belt, put it in the hole ...
And there were no enemies. Then he looked back at the platoon trench, and did not see it - either it was so cleverly disguised, or it was very far away. Gleb felt sad. It seemed to him that he was alone in this bare meadow and everyone forgot about him - both Lieutenant Krivozub and Semyon Semyonovich. I wanted to run away to check if the platoon was in place? This desire was so strong that he began to get out of the trench. But here - both close and far - mines began to burst with a formidable crack. The Nazis fired at the position of the platoon. Gleb crouched down in his trench, listened to the explosions and thought - how to look out of the trench to look around? If you stick your head out, it will kill you with a shrapnel! And it’s impossible not to look out - maybe the enemies are already very close ...
And he looked out. A tank rolled across the meadow. Behind a rare chain, bending down, ran submachine gunners.
The most unexpected and therefore very terrible thing was that the tank did not move along a hollow, as the lieutenant assumed, not away from the trench, but directly into the trench of the armor-piercer. Lieutenant Krivozub reasoned correctly: the tank would have driven along the hollow if it had been shot at from the cannon groves. But our guns did not fire, they died under the bombardment. And the Nazis, being careful that the hollow was mined, went directly. Gleb Ermolaev was preparing to shoot at the side of the Nazi tank, where the armor is thin, but now he had to shoot at the frontal armor, which not every projectile would take.
The tank approached, rattling its tracks, swaying as if bowing. Forgetting about the submachine gunners, the armor-piercer Ermolaev squeezed the butt of the gun into his shoulder, took aim at the driver's viewing slot. And then a machine gun suddenly struck from behind in a long burst. Bullets whistled next to Gleb. Without having time to think about anything, he released the anti-tank rifle from his hands and sat down in the trench. He was afraid that his machine gunner would catch him. And when Gleb realized that the machine gunner and the platoon shooters were hitting the fascist machine gunners in order to keep them from reaching the Glebov trench, that they knew perfectly well where his trench was, it was already too late to shoot at the tank. It became dark in the trench, as at night, and breathed with heat. The tank ran into a trench. Rumbling, spinning in place. He buried the armor-piercer Ermolaev in the ground.
As if from deep water, Gleb rushed out of his covered trench. The fact that he was saved, the soldier realized, inhaling air through his mouth clogged with earth. He immediately opened his eyes and saw in the blue gasoline smoke the stern of the outgoing tank. And I saw my gun. It lay half-buried, with the butt to Gleb, the barrel towards the tank. That's right, the PTR got between the tracks, spinning along with the tank over the trench. In these difficult moments, Gleb Ermolaev became a real soldier. He jerked the anti-tank rifle towards him, took aim, fired out of resentment for his oversight, expiating his guilt before the platoon.
The tank smoked. Smoke came not from the exhaust pipes, but from the body of the tank, finding cracks to exit. Then dense, black clubs entwined with ribbons of fire broke out from the sides and from the stern. "Killed!" - still not believing in complete luck, Gleb said to himself. And he corrected himself: “I didn’t knock it out. I set it on fire."
Behind the cloud of black smoke that drifted across the meadow, nothing could be seen. Only shooting could be heard: the platoon soldiers completed the fight with an enemy tank. Soon, Lieutenant Krivozub jumped out of the smoke. He ran with a machine gun to the hollow, where the enemy machine gunners took refuge after the death of the tank. Soldiers followed the leader.
Gleb didn't know what to do. Also run to the hollow? With an anti-tank rifle, you can’t really run, the thing is heavy. And he couldn't run. He was so tired that his legs could barely support him. Gleb sat down on the parapet of his trench.
The last to emerge from the smoke screen was a small soldier. It was Semyon Semyonovich. For a long time he could not climb the embankment in front of the trench and fell behind. Semyon Semyonovich rushed about in the meadow - he rushed to the hollow after everyone, then rushed towards Gleb, seeing him sitting on the ground. I thought that the first number of the armor-piercing crew was wounded and needed dressing, and ran to him.
- Not injured? Not? Semyon Semyonovich asked and calmed down. - Well, Ermolai Glebov, you hit him hard ...
“Yes, I’m not Yermolai,” said Gleb with annoyance. When will you remember this?
- I remember everything, Gleb! So I say this out of embarrassment. We both had to beat him. And you, you see, left me in the trench...
- And rightly so, the trench was for one.
- That's right, but not really. Two would be more fun...
Gleb from these words and from everything that happened, it became so good that he almost cried.
- Close. The Nazis jumped out of it directly to us on rifles.
... A few more anxious days passed - with bombings, with artillery and mortar shelling, and then everything calmed down. The Nazi offensive failed. On quiet days, Gleb Ermolaev was summoned to the headquarters of the regiment. Lieutenant Krivozub told me how to get there.
At the headquarters of the regiment, in a ravine overgrown with thick bushes, a lot of people had gathered. It turned out that these were fighters and commanders who distinguished themselves in recent battles. From them, Gleb learned what was happening to the right and left of his platoon: the Nazis were advancing in a strip of several kilometers and nowhere did they manage to break through our defenses.
From the staff dugout, dug in the slope of the ravine, came the regiment commander. The brave men were already lined up. They were called according to the list, they went out in turn and received awards.
They called out Gleb Ermolaev.
The colonel, a strict man, but judging by his eyes, and cheerful, seeing a very young soldier in front of him, went up to Gleb and asked how a father asks his son:
- Was it scary?
“It’s scary,” Gleb replied. - I got scared.
- He's the one who got scared! the colonel suddenly shouted in a fervent voice. - A foxtrot tank danced on it, and he endured the dances and mutilated the car for the Germans, like a god a turtle. No, tell me straight, don't be modest - you weren't afraid, were you?
“He was afraid,” Gleb said again. - I hit the tank by accident.
- Here, do you hear? the colonel shouted. - Well done! Who would have believed you if he had said he was not a coward. How not to be afraid when such a thing climbs on you alone! But you're wrong about randomness, son. You knocked him out right. You overcame your fear. He drove his fear into his shoes under his heels. Then he aimed boldly and fired boldly. For the feat you are entitled to the Order of the Red Star. Why didn't you pierce the hole in the gymnast? Keep in mind, as soon as you burn the tank, so pierce a hole - there will be another order.
Gleb Ermolaev was embarrassed by the commander's praise. However, having received a box with an order, he did not forget to say.
The soldier most often had to fight far from home.
His house is in the mountains in the Caucasus, and he is fighting in the steppes in Ukraine. The house is in the steppe, and he is fighting in the tundra, by the cold sea. The place where to fight, no one chose for himself. However, it happened that a soldier defended or recaptured his native city, his native village from the enemy. Vasily Plotnikov also ended up in his native land. After the battle ended and the Nazis retreated, the soldier asked the commander for permission to go to the village of Yablontsi. There is his house. There was a wife with a little daughter and an old mother. Only a dozen kilometers to Yablontsy.
"Very well," said the commander, "I give you, Private Plotnikov, four hours' leave." Come back without delay. It is now eleven, and at fifteen trucks will arrive and take us in pursuit of the Nazis.
Plotnikov's comrades brought their food supplies - canned food, crackers, sugar. Everything was put in a duffel bag for him. Let him feed the family. Gifts are not great, but from the bottom of my heart! They were a little jealous of Plotnikov. It's no joke - I haven't seen my relatives for two years, I didn't know anything about the family, and now we have a quick date. True, the soldiers also thought that Plotnikov's wife, and little daughter, and old mother could die in fascist captivity. But sad thoughts were not expressed aloud.
And Vasily Plotnikov himself thought about it. And so his joy was unsettling. He said only one word to his comrades: “Thank you!”, put the straps of a duffel bag on his shoulders, hung a machine gun around his neck and walked straight across the field, through the woods to Yablontsy.
The village of Yablontsy was small, but very beautiful. She often dreamed of the soldier Plotnikov. Under the tall old willows, as under a green tent, in the cool shade stood strong houses with carved porches, with clean benches in front of the windows. Gardens were behind the houses. And everything grew in these gardens: yellow turnips, red carrots, pumpkins that looked like leather balls, sunflowers that looked like brass, polished to a shine basins in which they boiled jam. And beyond the gardens were gardens. Ripe apples in them - whatever you want! Sweet and sour pears, honey-sweet terentievkas and the best Antonov apples in the whole world. In autumn, when they soaked Antonovka in barrels, when they put it in boxes for winter storage, lining the layers with rye straw, everything in Yablontsy smelled of apples. The wind, flying over the village, was saturated with this smell and carried it far around the district. And people - whether passers-by, travelers, whose path was away from the Yablons - turned off the road, went in, drove there, ate plenty of apples, and took them with them. The village was generous, kind. How is she now?
Vasily Plotnikov was in a hurry. The sooner he reaches the village, the more time he will have to visit his relatives. All paths, all paths, all ravines and hillocks were known to him from childhood. And after an hour or so, he saw from a high place Yablontsa. Saw. Has stopped. I looked.
There was no green tent over the Yablons. Instead, a black tattered web was stretched across the sky:
the leaves on the high willows were burned, the branches were also burned, and the branches were charred, they lined the sky with a black cobweb.
The heart of the soldier Vasily Plotnikov sank and ached. With all his strength, he ran to the village. As if he wanted to help his Yablon people in some way. And there was nothing to help. Yablontsy became ashes. The calcined earth was covered with ashes, gray as road dust, and strewn with firebrands. Among this ashes were smoked stoves with tall chimneys. It was unusual and eerie to see brick chimneys of such a height. Previously, they were covered with roofs, and no one saw them like that. The furnaces seemed like living beings, some kind of huge birds, stretching their long necks into the empty sky. The birds wanted to take off at a terrible moment, but did not have time and remained, petrified, in place.
Vasily Plotnikov's house stood in the middle of the village before the fire. The soldier easily found and recognized his stove. Whitewash shone through the soot. He himself whitewashed the stove before leaving for the war. Then he did a lot of other work around the house, so that his wife, mother and daughter could live easier. “Where are they now? What happened to them?
“The village perished in the fire,” Vasily Plotnikov reasoned. “If it had been bombed or shelled, some furnaces would certainly have collapsed, pipes would have collapsed ...” And he had a hope that the inhabitants of Yablons had escaped, gone somewhere either in the woods.
He walked through the ashes, looking for the iron remains of the house - doorknobs, hooks, large nails. He found all this, covered with brown scale, took it in his hands, looked at it - as if asking about the fate of the owners. There was no answer.
Plotnikov imagined how a team of fascists, a special team, had descended on Yablontsi. They jumped out of trucks with cans of gasoline. They doused the walls with gasoline. And then came the fascist torch-bearer. And set the houses on fire, one by one. From beginning to end, set fire to the entire village. And at the same time, or maybe a little earlier or a little later, an enemy tank drove through the gardens, breaking apple trees, crushing them into the ground ... Thousands of villages were destroyed by the Nazis in a similar way during the retreat.
The soldier gathered a pile of bricks, blew the ashes off them, and sat down. And so, sitting, without taking off his duffel bag and machine gun, he thought a bitter thought. He did not immediately feel that someone was touching the top of his boot. Rather, he felt light tremors, but did not pay attention, because there was not a living soul around. And when I looked at the boots, I saw a cat - gray with a white chest, my cat Dunyushka.
- Dunyushka! Where are you from, Dunyushka?
He took her under the stomach with his outstretched hand, put her on his knees and began to stroke.
Dunyushka clung closer to her master, closed her eyes, and purred. She murmured softly, calmly. She slowly repeated monotonous sounds as she inhaled and exhaled, as if rolling peas. And it seemed to Plotnikov that the cat knew how hard it was for people in the war, how heavy his heart was. She also knows where the soldier's wife, daughter and mother are. They are alive, they took refuge in the forest from the Nazis, and their main sadness is not about the burnt house, but about it. Is he alive, soldier Vasily Plotnikov? If alive, then they will live. They will see that there are no fascists, that the Soviet Army drove them away, and they will come from the forest to the village. They dig a dugout for the winter. They will patiently wait for the end of the war, the return of the soldiers. The soldiers will return, build everything new. And gardens will be planted...
“Where were you, Dunyushka, when the Yablontsy burned?” And how much do you love your house if you don’t leave it, burned down?
As time went. It was time to return to the unit. The soldier crumbled some bread into a piece of earthenware bowl for the cat. I put the duffel bag with food in the stove and closed it with a damper. Then he scratched on the stove with a burnt nail:
"I'm alive. Didn't find you at home. Write.
Field mail 35769. V. Plotnikov.
The cat ate the bread. Picked up food to the last crumb. Sitting by the crock of earth, she began to wash herself—licking her paw with her pink tongue, rubbing her muzzle with her paw. “Good omen,” the soldier thought, “This is for guests. The cat washes away the guests. And who are the guests? Of course, the wife, daughter and mother are the mistresses of the burnt house.” That thought made the soldier feel better. And other thoughts came: how he and his comrades would get into the truck, how they would catch up with the Nazis and start a new battle. He will shoot from a machine gun, throw grenades, and if the ammunition runs out, he will kill the fascist with a simple fist ...
Current page: 1 (total book has 1 pages)
Anatoly Mityaev
DUGOUT
Dugout
All night the artillery battalion raced along the highway to the front. It was frosty. The moon illuminated the sparse woods and fields along the edges of the road. Snow dust swirled behind the cars, settled on the rear sides, covered the cannon covers with growths. The soldiers dozing in the truck under the tarpaulin hid their faces in the prickly collars of their overcoats and clung closer to each other.
Soldier Mitya Kornev was driving in one car. He was eighteen years old and had not yet seen the front. This is not an easy task: during the day to be in a warm city barracks far from the war, and at night to be at the front among the frosty snows.
The night was quiet: no guns fired, no shells exploded, no rockets burned in the sky.
Therefore, Mitya did not think about battles. And he thought about how people can stay all winter in the fields and forests, where there is not even an inferior hut to warm up and spend the night! This worried him. He felt like he was going to freeze.
Dawn has come. The division turned off the highway, drove through a field and stopped at the edge of a pine forest. Cars, one after another, slowly made their way between the trees into the depths of the forest. The soldiers ran after them, pushed them if the wheels were slipping. When a German reconnaissance aircraft appeared in the brightened sky, all the machines and guns were under the pines. Pine trees sheltered them from the enemy pilot with shaggy branches.
The foreman came to the soldiers. He said that the division would be here for at least a week, so dugouts had to be built.
Mitya Kornev was entrusted with the simplest task: to clear the site of snow. The snow was shallow. Cones, fallen needles, green, as if in summer, lingonberry leaves fell on Mitya's shovel. When Mitya hit the ground with a shovel, the shovel glided over it like over a stone.
“How can you dig a hole in such stone ground?” Mitya thought.
Then a soldier came with a pickaxe. He dug grooves in the ground. Another soldier pushed a crowbar into the grooves and, leaning on it, picked out large icy pieces. Under these pieces, like a crumb under a hard crust, there was loose sand.
The foreman walked around and looked to see if everything was being done correctly.
“Don’t throw sand far away,” he said to Mitya Kornev, “a fascist reconnaissance aircraft will fly by, see yellow squares in a white forest, call bombers on the radio ... Get it for nuts!”
When the wide and long hole became Mitya waist-deep, they dug a ditch in the middle - a passage. On both sides of the passage turned out bunks. Poles were placed at the edges of the pit, a log was nailed to them. Together with other soldiers, Mitya went to cut surveillance.
Surveillance was placed with one end on a log, with the other on the ground, just like a hut is made. Then they were thrown with spruce branches, frozen earthen blocks were placed on the spruce branches, the blocks were covered with sand and powdered with snow for masking.
- Go for firewood, - said the foreman to Mitya Kornev, - prepare more. You hear, the frost is getting stronger! Yes, cut only alder and birch - they burn well even raw ...
Mitya was chopping wood, his comrades at that time covered the bunks with small soft spruce branches, rolled an iron barrel into the dugout. There were two holes in the barrel, one at the bottom for putting firewood, the other at the top for the chimney. The pipe was made from empty cans. So that the fire could not be seen at night, a visor was strengthened on the pipe.
The first front-line day of Mitya Kornev passed very quickly. It got dark. The frost has intensified. The snow crunched under the guards' feet. The pines stood as if petrified. Stars twinkled in the blue glass sky.
And it was warm in the dugout. Alder firewood burned hot in an iron barrel. Only the hoarfrost on the cape, which hung the entrance to the dugout, reminded me of the bitter cold. The soldiers spread out their overcoats, put duffel bags under their heads, covered themselves with overcoats and fell asleep.
“How good it is to sleep in a dugout!” thought Mitya Kornev, and fell asleep too.
But the soldiers had little sleep. The division was ordered to immediately go to another sector of the front: heavy fighting began there. The night stars were still trembling in the sky, when cars with guns began to drive out of the forest onto the road.
The division raced along the highway. Snow dust swirled behind cars and cannons. Soldiers were sitting in the bodies on boxes with shells. They pressed closer to each other and hid linden trees in the prickly collars of their overcoats so that they would not burn so much with frost.
Bag of oatmeal
That autumn there were long cold rains. The ground was soaked with water, the roads became muddy. On the country roads, bogged down along the very axis in the mud, there were military trucks. With the supply of food became very bad.
In the soldiers' kitchen, the cook cooked only cracker soup every day: he poured cracker crumbs into hot water and seasoned with salt.
On such and such hungry days, the soldier Lukashuk found a sack of oatmeal. He was not looking for anything, just leaned his shoulder against the wall of the trench. A block of damp sand collapsed, and everyone saw the edge of a green duffel bag in the hole.
- What a find! the soldiers rejoiced. There will be a mountain feast ... Let's cook porridge!
One ran with a bucket for water, others began to look for firewood, and still others had already prepared spoons.
But when it was possible to fan the fire and it was already beating at the bottom of the bucket, an unfamiliar soldier jumped into the trench. He was thin and red. Eyebrows above blue eyes are also red. Overcoat worn, short. On the legs are windings and trampled shoes.
- Hey brother! he shouted in a hoarse, cold voice. - Get the bag over here! Do not put - do not take.
He simply stunned everyone with his appearance, and the bag was given to him immediately.
And how could you not give up? According to the front-line law, it was necessary to give. Duffel bags were hidden in trenches by soldiers when they went on the attack. To make it easier. Of course, there were bags left without an owner: either it was impossible to return for them (this is if the attack was successful and it was necessary to drive the Nazis), or the soldier died. But since the owner came, the conversation is short - to give.
The soldiers watched in silence as the redhead carried the precious sack over his shoulder. Only Lukashuk could not stand it, he quipped:
- He's skinny! They gave him an extra ration. Let it burst. If it doesn't break, it might get fatter.
The cold has come. Snow. The earth froze, became solid. The delivery has improved. The cook cooked cabbage soup with meat, pea soup with ham in the kitchen on wheels. Everyone forgot about the red-haired soldier and his oatmeal.
A big offensive was being prepared.
Long lines of infantry battalions marched along hidden forest roads and ravines. At night, tractors were dragging guns to the front line, tanks were moving.
The soldier Lukashuk and his comrades were also preparing for the offensive.
It was still dark when the guns opened fire. Airplanes hummed in the sky. They threw bombs on Nazi dugouts, fired machine guns at enemy trenches.
The planes took off. Then the tanks roared. Behind them, the infantrymen rushed to the attack. Lukashuk and his comrades also ran and fired from a machine gun. He threw a grenade into the German trench, wanted to throw more, but did not have time: the bullet hit him in the chest. And he fell.
Lukashuk lay in the snow and did not feel that the snow was cold. Some time passed, and he stopped hearing the roar of battle. Then the light ceased to see - it seemed to him that a dark still night had come.
When Lukashuk regained consciousness, he saw an orderly.
The orderly bandaged the wound, put Lukashuk in a boat - such plywood sledges.
The sleigh glided and swayed in the snow. This quiet swaying made Lukashuk dizzy. And he didn't want to be dizzy - he wanted to remember where he had seen this orderly, red-haired and thin, in a well-worn overcoat.
- Hold on, brother! Do not be shy - you will live! .. - he heard the words of the orderly.
It seemed to Lukashuk that he had known this voice for a long time. But where and when he had heard it before, he could not remember either.
Lukashuk regained consciousness when he was transferred from the boat to a stretcher to be taken to a large tent under the pines: here, in the forest, a military doctor was pulling out bullets and shrapnel from the wounded.
Lying on a stretcher, Lukashuk saw the sled-boat on which he was taken to the hospital. Three dogs were tied to the sled with straps. They lay in the snow. Icicles are frozen on the wool. The muzzles were overgrown with frost, the eyes of the dogs were half closed.
The nurse approached the dogs. In his hands was a helmet full of oatmeal. Steam poured from her. The orderly stuck his helmet into the snow to cool it down - hot dogs are harmful. The orderly was thin and red-haired. And then Lukashuk remembered where he had seen him. It was he who then jumped into the trench and took the bag of oatmeal from them.
Lukashuk smiled at the orderly with his lips, and, coughing and panting, said:
- And you, redhead, never got fat. One ate a bag of oatmeal, but still thin.
The orderly also smiled and, poking the nearest dog with his hand, answered:
They ate oatmeal. But they got you on time. And I recognized you right away. As I saw in the snow, I found out ... - And he added with conviction: - You will live! Don't be shy!..
rocket projectiles
Everyone saw military rockets: some saw them at the parade, some in the movies, some in the picture. The rockets are huge - some are as tall as a tree. And the current rockets began with eres - rocket shells. They were fired by Katyushas.
At the beginning of the war, no one knew anything about these first missiles. They were kept secret so that the Nazis could not make themselves the same. Our soldier, sapper Kuzin, did not know about them either.
That's what happened to him once.
From the very evening, as it got dark, the commander sent Kuzin to lay mines in the hollow. So that enemy tanks could not get close to our trenches along this hollow.
Planting mines is no easy task. The Germans launch flares into the sky. One rocket burns out, another flares up. And everything around - even a piece of wormwood sticking out of the snow - can be seen as during the day. Cousin was saved from German observers by a camouflage suit. Over wadded trousers and a padded jacket, the sapper wore a white jacket with a hood and white trousers.
The sapper laid mines, covered them with snow and crawled back into the trenches to the infantrymen. There he told where the mines were, even made a drawing so that ours would not run into our own mines, and went to his unit.
He walked through the night forest. It was quiet in the forest, only occasionally snowballs plopped down from the branches. The air was unwinterly warm—spring was approaching. Kuzin was in a good mood. He placed the mines successfully: the infantrymen are happy. And he also knew that his comrades were waiting for him in the dugout, worrying about him, keeping the seagull hot on the stove.
At the time when Kuzin was covering the mines with snow, strange cars stopped not far from the sappers' dugout. On them, like ladders on fire trucks, light metal rails were raised. Then regular trucks pulled up. Rocket shells lay in their bodies. The soldiers removed the shells from the trucks and laid them on the rails of the combat vehicles. "Katyushas" - and these were they - were preparing to hit the fascist tanks.
The Nazis guessed that their tanks, lurking at the front line, would be hunted. They sent a plane to night reconnaissance. The plane flew over the forest once, twice. He did not find anything and, flying away, fired a machine-gun burst just in case. Kuzin saw a chain of red lights of luminous bullets sweep from the sky into the forest. The sapper thought that if he had walked a little faster, he would have hit those bullets just right. And now they, having knocked down several birch branches, went under the snow and dug into the frozen ground.
But it has to happen! One bullet hit a rocket projectile lying on the snow. She pierced the part where there was fuel. The fire flared up. And the projectile crawled. If it were aimed at the sky, it would immediately fly away.
But he lay on the snow and could only crawl.
With a roar, the shell crawled through the forest, bumping into trees, circling around them, burning the bark and branches with flame. Then, having climbed a hummock, he suddenly rushed forward through the air and again flopped into the snow a few steps from the sapper Kuzin.
The sapper had been under shelling and bombing more than once, never lost his presence of mind, and then he got so scared that he stood like a pillar.
The fuel in the rocket projectile ran out, and, after jumping up and down once or twice, he fell silent in the juniper bushes. And Kuzin, stealthily, moved away from him and rushed to run.
In the dugout, the sapper told his comrades what had happened to him. The comrades sympathized with Kuzin and scolded the incomprehensible frenzied thing with the last words. And the lieutenant of the sappers put on a short fur coat and went to find out what was the matter.
Soon he saw the Katyushas, found their commander and began to reprimand him.
– What is it that turns out? They scared their own soldier half to death ... They could have done trouble. Suddenly, the projectile would explode ...
“Please forgive us,” said the commander of the Katyushas, “only we are not to blame. It was the German who set fire to the eres. But he couldn't explode. It didn't have a fuse. Right now my soldiers are screwing in the fuses. Ten minutes will pass, and we will fire a volley of rockets at the Nazi tanks. Let's scare someone! Not half to death - to death. Tell your sapper - let him wait for sleep and watch how we shoot.
The sappers were standing at the dugout when, behind a thicket of trees, orange flames hit the snow. The air was filled with roar and roar. Fire trails slashed the black sky. Suddenly everything was quiet. And after some minutes, behind the line of our trenches and even further, where the enemy tanks were hiding, there was a roar and a pounding. It exploded eres - rocket shells.
Before going to bed, the sappers forced Kuzin to repeat the story of the meeting with eres. This time no one scolded the projectile. On the contrary, everyone praised.
Dear friend!
I'll tell you about the war with the Nazis. I'll tell you quite a bit - six cases from the life of soldiers at the front. These cases are only drops in the endless sea of soldier's exploits, because millions of Soviet people fought against the Nazis, and everyone put their military labor into victory.
The Great Patriotic War began in the summer of 1941 and ended in the spring of 1945. During this time, the starlings flew away from us four times to warm lands and four times returned to their native birdhouses. The children who entered the first grade in the first military year finished primary school by the end of the war. And all this long, long time, bloody battles, fierce battles did not subside. The enemy was strong. He managed to go far to our land. The greatest courage was needed, military skill was needed, and selfless labor was needed to throw the invaders out of the borders of the Motherland and finally finish them off on their own land.
We all - both adults and children - are indebted to those who did not return from the war, who gave their lives for the Motherland to live. How can this debt be paid? There is only one answer to this question - love for the Motherland, readiness to defend it from any enemy, constant work for the benefit of the Motherland. You, my little friend, know this and grow up as an honest, hardworking, courageous person worthy of your country.
triangular letter
The division of heavy guards mortars stopped in an oak forest until a new order. The oak forest was young, the trees were sparse, enemy bombers could notice the cluster of cars. Therefore, the mortars immediately began to dig shelters for cars and mask them with branches. Finished work late at night. It was still visible, and the soldier Boris Mikhailov took up the letter. He tried to write more often, he knew that his mother worries about him every day and every hour.
"Dear mommy! Boris wrote. - I'm alive and well. They feed well. The weather is warm. We are standing in the forest. Don't worry about me. We are resting now. I hug you tightly and kiss you tightly. Your Borya.
Boris did not have an envelope. Much was missing during the war. Bread, such as salt. And such simple things as envelopes. They somehow learned to do without them ... Boris bent a paper sheet along the upper corner - it turned out to be an oblique sail, bent the sail - it turned out to be a house with a roof; he also bent the lower corners of the house and tucked it under the roof - it turned out a triangle, a letter and an envelope together ...
It was too late to go to the clerk who sent the mail. Boris put the letter in the pocket of his tunic - until morning, lay down on his overcoat under a bush, wrapped himself up with his head so that mosquitoes would not bite, and sleep immediately came to him.
The dream was short. As soon as dawn broke, the division was alerted.
A column of cars with launchers and eres - rockets, leaving the oak forest, moved through an open field. The sun was rising behind the column. Big, red. Dust covered it. But the sun rose above the dusty cloud, as if it wanted to see where the guards mortarmen were going.
The front line was ahead. From there, because of this line, a projectile flew. Boris in the cab of the truck did not hear his whistle, so he was not afraid, but surprised when the black earth shot up in the field. The cars picked up speed. Shells exploded either in the field or on the road. Fortunately, the road descended into a ravine. Enemy observers now did not see cars, and the shelling stopped.
The ravine was wide, deep, with steep walls. Along it, as if through a safe tunnel, soldiers walked to the front line, cars drove - with guns, with shells, with kitchens and bread. In the opposite direction, the tractor was dragging a tank with a downed turret. A horse harnessed to a buggy carried two wounded, they lay motionless, their heads were wrapped in bandages.
“Now, if they wound me or kill me like that? .. - thought Boris. “When my mother finds out that I was killed, she will cry for a long time.”
Low over the ravine, with the roar of an engine and the sound of machine guns, a Messerschmitt, a German fighter, swept by. Our machine guns, disguised on the slope, fired at him. Immediately a fighter with red stars appeared. Chased after the enemy.
So the mortars went. Without accidents. Artillery shelling, shelling from an airplane is a common thing in a war.
We stopped in a lowland overgrown with bushes.
From the lowland began the ascent to a wide hillock. The slope of the hillock was a yellow wheat field. From the top, frequent shooting, booming explosions were heard. There was a fight going on.
The mortarmen unanimously removed the launchers from the trucks. They put it on the ground. Eres uploaded. They dragged them, heavy, to the machines. When the last truck left, the Guards mortars were ready to fire.
The battle on the hillock then calmed down, judging by the shooting, then flared up again. What was there and how? The sun saw what and how. It rose quite high.
It was hot. Not a breath of wind. But suddenly the wheat at the far end of the field swayed. It was as if the wind had blown over there. He blew, pumped the wheat harder and harder. Peering, Boris saw the discordant lines of foot soldiers. It was they, and not the wind, that shook the wheat, descending from the hillock lower and lower. "Retreat!" - Boris guessed and was frightened of his guess.
The infantrymen had already withdrawn to the middle of the field, when fiery jets roared, escaping from the eres. Drawing smoky arcs, rocket shells flew over the hillock. It blew over the hillock - the first eres, the fastest, the most impatient, crashed down on the Nazis. Another one followed. And thrashed, pounded on the ground.
The foot soldiers stopped. They looked at the sky, surprised. Someone shouted. Someone threw up a cap. And everyone ran to the hillock, to its peak, which had just been abandoned.
Not seeing who was nearby, but feeling his comrades, the soldier Mikhailov ran, skirting the bushes, jumping over the bumps. He flew into the wheat, got tangled in it with his boots. But he soon got used to it, pushed it apart, like a bather in water. In those moments, he forgot everything. He only knew that he had to run and run forward. And he had no fear of anything.
When Boris ran to the top of the mound, there were no infantrymen there. They went down another slope, chasing the enemies. Only one - young, like Boris - was sitting on the edge of the trench.
Guards with us... Guards with us... - he repeated quietly.
Boris thought that the soldier had been left to thank them for their help. But suddenly he realized that the soldier was wounded, and he shouted or whispered the words “the guardsmen are with us” when the infantry stopped in the wheat and saw traces of formidable eres above them.
"Congratulations to the woman" - You are the harmony of the Universe! And the famous men of Russia congratulate you. Keeper of the family hearth ... ... Loving wife, Dear women! You are an energy bud - Every extraordinary, Life-Setting TONE! Everything is blooming around you, Snow is melting, gardens are blooming, All nature comes to life And dreams come true! …Love.
"International Women's Day" - Second International Conference of Women Socialists. In Russia, Women's Day began to be celebrated annually since 1913. Roman women came to the temple of the goddess Vesta. March 8. The right to vote in elections. In the USSR, March 8 was a working day for a long time. Last Sunday in February. Clara Zetkin (1857-1933), German politician.
"Geography of a woman" - From 18 to 22 a woman is like Africa. The geography of the man is not defined. Half explored, half wild, abundant and naturally beautiful. Takes care of business. From 51 to 60 women are like Israel. 41 to 50 women are like Great Britain With a delightful past and great conquests. Reckless enterprise and thirst for spiritual knowledge.
"Script for March 8" - The script for the holiday on March 8. My dear mother. Look out the window, It's getting a little warmer there. All boys (in chorus) ... we congratulate you! When spring comes to us, Carrying warmth and affection.
"Games" March 8 "" - A lot of money. Matches. What not to do in class. Student. Simple game. Big game. Transport. Cellular telephone. Seasoning. Present. What do you associate March 8 with? Twos. The game is the opposite. Grandmothers.
“Since March 8, women” - Who is beautiful in dress, who is in person - Most are beautiful in soul. (Clew). "Ruslan and Ludmila". Today we dedicate our smiles, songs, poems to you, dear girls. I'm sitting on horseback, I don't know on whom, I'll meet a friend - I'll jump off, I'll welcome. Love". And even a stump on a spring day dreams of becoming Birch again. Two ends, two rings, Carnations in the middle.
