Read stories about war and exploits. Stories about the Great Patriotic War

The Brest Fortress stands on the border. The Nazis attacked it on the very first day of the war.

The Nazis could not take the Brest Fortress by storm. Passed her left and right. She remained with the enemies in the rear.

The Nazis are coming. Fights are going on near Minsk, near Riga, near Lvov, near Lutsk. And there, in the rear of the Nazis, he does not give up, the Brest Fortress is fighting.

It's hard for heroes. Bad with ammunition, bad with food, especially bad with water for the defenders of the fortress.

Around the water - the Bug River, the Mukhovets River, branches, channels. There is water all around, but there is no water in the fortress. Under fire water. A sip of water here is more valuable than life.

- Water! - rushes over the fortress.

There was a daredevil, rushed to the river. Rushed and immediately collapsed. The enemies of the soldier were killed. Time passed, another brave rushed forward. And he died. The third replaced the second. The third one did not survive.

A machine gunner lay not far from this place. He scribbled, scribbled a machine gun, and suddenly the line broke off. The machine gun overheated in battle. And the machine gun needs water.

The machine gunner looked - the water evaporated from the hot battle, the machine gun casing was empty. He looked to where the Bug, where the channels are. Looked left, right.

- Oh, it wasn't.

He crawled towards the water. He crawled in a plastunsky way, snuggled up to the ground like a snake. He is closer to the water, closer. It's right next to the coast. The machine gunner grabbed his helmet. He scooped up water like a bucket. Snake crawls back again. Closer to their own, closer. It's quite close. His friends took over.

- Bring water! Hero!

The soldiers are looking at the helmet, at the water. From thirst in the eyes of muddied. They do not know that the machine gunner brought water for the machine gun. They are waiting, and suddenly a soldier will treat them now - at least a sip.

The machine gunner looked at the fighters, at the withered lips, at the heat in his eyes.

“Come on,” said the machine gunner.

The fighters stepped forward, but suddenly ...

“Brothers, it would not be for us, but for the wounded,” someone’s voice rang out.

The soldiers stopped.

- Of course, the wounded!

- That's right, drag it to the basement!

The soldiers of the fighter were detached to the basement. He brought water to the basement where the wounded lay.

“Brothers,” he said, “voditsa ...

“Take it,” he handed the mug to the soldier.

The soldier reached for the water. I already took a mug, but suddenly:

“No, not for me,” said the soldier. - Not for me. Bring the children, dear.

The fighter carried water to the children. And it must be said that Brest Fortress along with adult fighters were women and children - the wives and children of military personnel.

The soldier went down to the basement where the children were.

“Well, come on,” the fighter turned to the guys. “Come, stand,” and, like a magician, he takes out his helmet from behind his back.

The guys look - there is water in the helmet.

The children rushed to the water, to the soldier.

The fighter took a mug, carefully poured it on the bottom. See who to give. He sees a baby with a pea next to him.

“Here,” he said to the kid.

The kid looked at the fighter, at the water.

“Papka,” said the kid. He's there, he's shooting.

- Yes, drink, drink, - the fighter smiled.

“No,” the boy shook his head. - Folder. “I never took a sip of water.”

And others refused him.

The fighter returned to his own. He told about the children, about the wounded. He gave the water helmet to the machine gunner.

The machine gunner looked at the water, then at the soldiers, at the fighters, at his friends. He took a helmet, poured water into the metal casing. Came to life, earned, zastrochit machine gun.

The machine gunner covered the fighters with fire. The daredevils have been found again. To the Bug, towards death, they crawled. The heroes returned with water. Drink the children and the wounded.

The defenders of the Brest Fortress fought bravely. But there were fewer and fewer of them. Bombed them from the sky. Cannons fired direct fire. From flamethrowers.

The fascists are waiting - just about, and people will ask for mercy. That's it, and the white flag will appear.

They waited and waited - the flag was not visible. Nobody asks for mercy.

For thirty-two days the battles for the fortress did not cease. “I am dying, but I do not give up. Farewell, Motherland! one of her last defenders wrote on the wall with a bayonet.

These were words of goodbye. But it was also an oath. The soldiers kept their oath. They did not surrender to the enemy.

The country bowed to the heroes for this. And stop for a minute, reader. And you bow low to the heroes.

The war is on fire. The earth is on fire. A grandiose battle with the Nazis unfolded over a vast area from the Baltic to the Black Sea.

The Nazis attacked in three directions at once: Moscow, Leningrad and Kyiv. Unleashed the deadly fan.

The city of Liepaja is a port of the Latvian Soviet Republic. Here, on Liepaja, one of the fascist strikes was directed. Enemies believe in easy success:

Liepaja is in our hands!

The Nazis are coming from the south. They go along the sea - a straight road. The fascists are coming. Here is the village of Rutsava. Here is Lake Papes. Here is the river Barta. The city is getting closer and closer.

Liepaja is in our hands!

They're coming. Suddenly a terrible fire blocked the road. The Nazis stopped. The Nazis entered the battle.

They fight, they fight, they never break through. Enemies from the south cannot break through to Liepaja.

The Nazis then changed direction. Bypass the city now from the east. Bypassed. Here the city smokes in the distance.

Liepaja is in our hands!

As soon as they went on the attack, Liepaja bristled again with a flurry of fire. Sailors came to the aid of the soldiers. Workers came to the aid of the military. They took up arms. Together with the fighters in the same row.

The Nazis stopped. The Nazis entered the battle.

They fight, they fight, they never break through. The Nazis will not advance here, from the east either.

Liepaja is in our hands!

However, even here, in the north, the brave defenders of Liepaja blocked the way for the Nazis. Fights with the enemy Liepaja.

Days go by.

The second pass.

Third. Fourth is out.

Don't give up, keep Liepaja!

Only when the shells ran out, there were no cartridges - the defenders of Liepaja retreated.

The Nazis entered the city.

Liepaja is in our hands!

But the Soviet people did not reconcile. Gone underground. They went to the partisans. A bullet awaits the Nazis at every step. A whole division is held by the Nazis in the city.

Liepaja fights.

Liepaja was remembered for a long time by the enemies. If they failed in something, they said:

- Liepaja!

We did not forget Liepaja either. If someone steadfastly stood in battle, if someone fought with enemies with great courage, and the fighters wanted to celebrate this, they said:

- Liepaja!

Even having fallen into slavery to the Nazis, she remained in combat formation - our Soviet Liepaja.

CAPTAIN GASTELLO

It was the fifth day of the war. Pilot Captain Nikolai Frantsevich Gastello with his crew led the aircraft on a combat mission. The plane was large, twin-engine. Bomber.

The plane left for the intended target. Bombed off. Fulfilled combat mission. Turned around. Started going home.

And suddenly a shell burst from behind. It was the Nazis who opened fire on the Soviet pilot. The most terrible thing happened, the shell pierced the gas tank. The bomber caught fire. Flames ran along the wings, along the fuselage.

Captain Gastello tried to put out the fire. He banked the plane sharply on its wing. Made the car seem to fall on its side. This position of the aircraft is called slip. The pilot thought he would go astray, the flames would subside. However, the car continued to burn. Dumped Gastello bomber on the second wing. The fire does not disappear. The plane is on fire, losing altitude.

At this time, a fascist convoy was moving under the plane below: tanks with fuel in the convoy, motor vehicles. The Nazis raised their heads, watching the Soviet bomber.

These are stories about the exploits of ordinary soldiers during the Great Patriotic War, about the exploits of pilots. Stories for home reading. Stories to read at school.

Gorovets. Author: Sergey Alekseev

A squadron of Soviet fighters was completing a sortie. Pilots covered our ground units south of Kursk from the air. And now they were returning to their base.

Lieutenant Alexander Gorovets was the last to fly in the ranks. Everything is fine. The motor is running properly. The arrows of the instruments froze at the right marks. Gorovets is flying. He knows that there is only a moment's rest ahead. Landing. Refueling. And again in the air. Not easy aviation these days. The battle is not only thundering on the ground - it has risen floors into the air.

Gorovets is flying, he will look at the sky, he will check the earth with his eyes. Suddenly he sees - planes are flying: a little behind, a little to the side. I looked closely - fascist bombers.

The pilot began to shout to his own. None of us answered. The pilot spat in annoyance. Angrily looked at the radio. Does not work, the radio is silent.

Fascist bombers are heading towards our ground positions. There they will bring down a deadly load.

Lieutenant Gorovets thought for a second. Then he turned the plane and rushed towards the enemies.

The pilot crashed into the fascist system. The first attack went to the leader. The blow was swift. Second. Second. Hooray! The leader flared up with a candle.

Lieutenant Gorovets turned around, rushed at the second fascist. Hooray! And this one collapsed.

Rushed to the third. The third falls.

The fascist system was upset. Attacks enemies Gorovets. Again entry and again.

The fourth fell fascist.

A fifth popped up.

The fascists are leaving.

But that's not all. Do not let go of enemies Gorovets. Rushed after. Here is the eighth plane in sight. Here he smoked like a torch. Second. Second. And the ninth plane was shot down.

The fight of the pilot Gorovets was unique, unrepeatable. Many feats were accomplished by Soviet pilots in the sky. They shot down three, four, five and even six fascists in one flight. But to nine! No. There was no such thing. Not to Gorovets. Not after. Neither we. None of the other warring armies. Lieutenant Gorovets became a Hero of the Soviet Union.

Lieutenant Alexander Konstantinovich Gorovets did not return from the flight. Already on the way back to the airfield, four fascist fighters attacked the hero.

Lieutenant Gorovets died.

But the feat lives on. And stories about him go like a true story, like a fairy tale.

Three feats.

In the spring of 1942, in heavy battles on the North-Western Front in dogfight one of Soviet pilots was badly wounded and his plane shot down. The pilot landed on the territory occupied by the enemy. He was alone in the wilderness. The pilot became facing east and began to make his way to his own. He walked through snowdrifts, alone, without people, without food.

The sun was setting and rising.

And he walked and walked.

Wounds hurt. But he overcame the pain.

He walked and walked.

When his strength left, he continued to crawl.

Meter by meter. Centimeter by centimeter.

He didn't give up.

The sun rose and set.

And he walked and walked.

He accomplished a feat and reached his own.

On the eighteenth day, exhausted and frostbitten, he was picked up by partisans. He was taken by plane to the hospital. And here the most terrible thing is the inexorable verdict of the doctors: an operation is necessary. The pilot is frozen.

The pilot lost his legs.

But the pilot wanted to fly. I wanted to continue to beat the hated enemy.

And now he accomplishes his second feat. The pilot was given prostheses. He started training to walk with crutches, and then... without crutches.

Now he begged the doctors to let him get on the plane. He was persistent, and the doctors gave in. The pilot is back on the airfield. Here he is in the cockpit. He's up in the air again.

And again training, training, countless training.

It was checked by the most captious examiners and allowed to fly.

“Only in the rear,” they said to the pilot.

The pilot begged to be sent to the front.

The pilot begged to entrust him with a fighter.

He arrived at Kursk shortly before the start of the Battle of Kursk. At the first alarm, he took to the air.

Here, near Kursk, he accomplished his third feat. In the first battles, he shot down three enemy aircraft.

This pilot is known throughout the country. His name is Alexey Petrovich Maresyev. He is a Hero of the Soviet Union. A wonderful book has been written about him. Its author is the writer Boris Polevoy. "The Tale of a Real Man" is the title of this book.

Only from fragments of letters and from the recollections of soldiers can we imagine how the Germans fed Russian children, how they actually treated the Jews, how they were buried alive in the ground and how they were called nothing more than “geeks”. Only by short stories veterans, which, alas, are becoming less and less every year, we can imagine what impression Molotov's speech made on the first day of the war on Soviet citizens, how our grandfathers and great-grandfathers perceived Stalin's speech. Only from stories (whether they are small or large) can we imagine how Leningraders day and night dreamed of breaking the blockade, Victory and the imminent restoration of the country.

An artistic story about the war can give a modern young man the opportunity, at least in his head, to draw what our people had to endure.

Stories about the heroes of the Great Patriotic War

In war, everyone is a hero. And it's not the number of stars on shoulder straps and not the rank. It's just that every schoolboy who picks up a shovel and goes to dig trenches is a hero. Most of the guys and girls went to the front from graduation. They weren't afraid to wear military uniform and look the enemy in the eye, so they are heroes.

In fact, a big Victory consists of small victories of individuals: a soldier, a partisan, a tanker, a sniper, a nurse, orphans; all participants in the war. Each of them contributed to the common Victory.

Remembering the works about the war, the following works immediately come to mind: “The Dawns Here Are Quiet” by Boris Vasilyev about the girls at the front who did not allow the Kirovskaya to be blown up railway, “Not listed” by the same author about the defender of the Brest Fortress Nikolai Pluzhnikov, “Survive Until Dawn” by Vasily Bykov about Lieutenant Igor Ivanovsky, who blew himself up with a grenade to save his comrades, “The war does not female face» Svetlana Aleksievich about the role of women in the war and many other books. These are not stories, but large novels and novellas, so reading them is even more difficult. Everything that is written in them is probably remembered by someone's grandfather, a veteran.

On our site "Literary Salon" there are a lot of works about the war by modern authors. They write emotionally, piercingly, complexly, relying on the same letters and eyewitness accounts, on films, on the legendary Katyusha and Cranes. If you like some verse or story on our portal, you can always comment on it, ask a question about the plot and communicate directly with the author. In addition, we try to keep up with the times, so we have organized several unique sections on our resource. For example, we have a format of literary fights. These are such battles of authors on different topics. Now the topic of the Great Patriotic War is the most relevant. There are "competitions" called "Memory of the Victory" (prose), "What do we know about the war?" (prose), "Song of Victory" (poetry), "Long World War II" (poetry), "Short stories about the war for children" (prose), etc.

The second interesting format, which is presented on our website, is implemented in the "Places" section. Thanks to this section, the communication of writers can be taken beyond the Internet. The site has a map where you can select your area and see which of the authors is near you. If you are interested in someone's thoughts, you can meet him in a cafe to drink delicious coffee and talk about your literary preferences. You can also subscribe to a newsletter about new authors who appear on the site.

Stories about the Great Patriotic War for children

If driven into search engine query “stories about the Great Patriotic War for schoolchildren” we will get a lot of different results - texts aimed at different ages. It is necessary to talk with schoolchildren about the war as early as possible. Teachers today agreed that it is possible to start introducing stories about the Second World War into the program already in the first grade. Of course, these texts should be written in a simple and understandable language on topics that are understandable to the child. In stories for children, themes of cruelty in concentration camps or such complex psychological aspects as the crippled fates of disabled soldiers and their wives. In fact, there are a lot of so-called taboo topics here, since war is the most cruel thing that mankind has ever seen.

Teenagers in high school can try to show popular Soviet films about the war. For example, “The Dawns Here Are Quiet”, “The Fate of a Man”, etc. But returning to the kids, it is worth noting that the stories about the war for them should be based on an accessible description of the main battles. So, literature in this version will be combined with history and a short story will give the child a lot of new knowledge.

The site "Literary Salon" has a lot of children's stories about the war from contemporary authors. These texts are very interesting, informative and at the same time adapted for understanding by children. Come to our impromptu literary salon, choose the desired topic and evaluate the quality yourself children's stories about the Great Patriotic War.

We have collected for you the best stories about the Great Patriotic War of 1941-1945. First-person stories, not invented, living memories of front-line soldiers and witnesses of the war.

A story about the war from the book of the priest Alexander Dyachenko "Overcoming"

I was not always old and infirm, I lived in a Belarusian village, I had a family, very good husband. But the Germans came, my husband, like other men, went to the partisans, he was their commander. We women supported our men in any way we could. The Germans became aware of this. They arrived at the village early in the morning. They drove everyone out of their houses and, like cattle, drove to the station in a neighboring town. The wagons were already waiting for us there. People were stuffed into carts so that we could only stand. We drove with stops for two days, we were not given water or food. When we were finally unloaded from the wagons, some of us were no longer able to move. Then the guards began to drop them to the ground and finish them off with rifle butts. And then they showed us the direction to the gate and said: "Run." As soon as we ran half the distance, the dogs were released. The strongest ones ran to the gate. Then the dogs were driven away, all who remained were lined up in a column and led through the gate, on which it was written in German: "To each his own." Since then, boy, I can't look at the tall chimneys.

She bared her arm and showed me a tattoo of a row of numbers on the inside of the arm, closer to the elbow. I knew it was a tattoo, my dad had a tank inked on his chest because he was a tanker, but why inject numbers?

I remember that she also talked about how our tankers liberated them and how lucky she was to live to this day. About the camp itself and what happened in it, she did not tell me anything, probably, she felt sorry for my childish head.

I learned about Auschwitz only later. I learned and understood why my neighbor could not look at the pipes of our boiler room.

My father also ended up in the occupied territory during the war. They got it from the Germans, oh, how they got it. And when ours drove the Germans, those, realizing that the grown-up boys were tomorrow's soldiers, decided to shoot them. They gathered everyone and took them to the log, and then our plane saw a crowd of people and gave a queue nearby. The Germans are on the ground, and the boys are in all directions. My dad was lucky, he ran away, shot through his hand, but he ran away. Not everyone was lucky then.

My father entered Germany as a tanker. Their tank brigade distinguished itself near Berlin on the Seelow Heights. I saw pictures of these guys. Youth, and the whole chest in orders, several people -. Many, like my dad, were drafted into the army from the occupied lands, and many had something to avenge on the Germans. Therefore, perhaps, they fought so desperately bravely.

They marched across Europe, liberated the prisoners of concentration camps and beat the enemy, finishing off mercilessly. “We rushed into Germany itself, we dreamed of how we would smear it with the tracks of our tank tracks. We had a special part, even the uniform was black. We still laughed, no matter how they confused us with the SS men.

Immediately after the end of the war, my father's brigade was stationed in one of the small German towns. Or rather, in the ruins that were left of him. They themselves somehow settled in the basements of buildings, but there was no room for a dining room. And the commander of the brigade, a young colonel, ordered to knock down tables from shields and set up a temporary dining room right on the square of the town.

“And here is our first peaceful dinner. Field kitchens, cooks, everything is as usual, but the soldiers are not sitting on the ground or on the tank, but, as expected, at the tables. They had just begun to dine, and suddenly German children began to crawl out of all these ruins, cellars, cracks like cockroaches. Someone is standing, and someone is already unable to stand from hunger. They stand and look at us like dogs. And I don’t know how it happened, but I took the bread with my shot hand and put it in my pocket, I look quietly, and all our guys, without raising their eyes from each other, do the same.

And then they fed the German children, gave away everything that could somehow be hidden from dinner, the very children of yesterday, who quite recently, without flinching, were raped, burned, shot by the fathers of these German children on our land they captured.

The brigade commander, Hero of the Soviet Union, a Jew by nationality, whose parents, like all other Jews of a small Belarusian town, were buried alive by the punishers, had every right, both moral and military, to drive away the German "geeks" from their tankers with volleys. They ate his soldiers, lowered their combat effectiveness, many of these children were also sick and could spread the infection among the personnel.

But the colonel, instead of firing, ordered an increase in the rate of consumption of products. And German children, on the orders of a Jew, were fed along with his soldiers.

Do you think what kind of phenomenon is this - Russian Soldier? Where does such mercy come from? Why didn't they take revenge? It seems that it is beyond any strength to find out that all your relatives were buried alive, perhaps by the fathers of these same children, to see concentration camps with many bodies of tortured people. And instead of "breaking away" on the children and wives of the enemy, they, on the contrary, saved them, fed them, treated them.

Several years have passed since the events described, and my dad, having finished military school in the fifties, again passed military service in Germany, but already an officer. Once, on the street of one city, a young German called him. He ran up to my father, grabbed his hand and asked:

Don't you recognize me? Yes, of course, now it’s hard to recognize in me that hungry ragged boy. But I remember you, how you then fed us among the ruins. Believe us, we will never forget this.

This is how we made friends in the West, by force of arms and the all-conquering power of Christian love.

Alive. We will endure. We will win.

THE TRUTH ABOUT WAR

It should be noted that the speech of V. M. Molotov on the first day of the war did not make a convincing impression on everyone, and the final phrase aroused irony among some soldiers. When we, doctors, asked them how things were at the front, and we lived only for this, we often heard the answer: “We are draping. Victory is ours… that is, the Germans!”

I can't say that JV Stalin's speech had a positive effect on everyone, although the majority felt warm from him. But in the darkness of a long line for water in the basement of the house where the Yakovlevs lived, I once heard: “Here! Brothers, sisters became! I forgot how I was put in jail for being late. The rat squeaked when the tail was pressed! The people remained silent. I have heard similar statements many times.

Two other factors contributed to the rise of patriotism. Firstly, these are the atrocities of the Nazis on our territory. Newspaper reports that in Katyn near Smolensk the Germans shot tens of thousands of Poles captured by us, and not us during the retreat, as the Germans assured, were perceived without malice. Everything could be. “We couldn’t leave them to the Germans,” some argued. But the population could not forgive the murder of our people.

In February 1942, my senior operating nurse A.P. Pavlova received a letter from the liberated banks of Seliger, which told how, after the explosion of hand fans in the German headquarters hut, they hanged almost all the men, including Pavlova's brother. They hung him on a birch near his native hut, and he hung for almost two months in front of his wife and three children. The mood of this news in the entire hospital became formidable for the Germans: Pavlova was loved by both the staff and the wounded soldiers ... I made sure that the original letter was read in all the wards, and Pavlova's face, yellowed from tears, was in the dressing room before everyone's eyes ...

The second thing that made everyone happy was reconciliation with the church. Orthodox Church showed true patriotism in her preparations for the war, and he was appreciated. Government awards rained down on the patriarch and the clergy. With these funds, air squadrons and tank divisions with the names "Alexander Nevsky" and "Dmitry Donskoy" were created. They showed a film where a priest with the chairman of the district executive committee, a partisan, destroys atrocious fascists. The film ended with the old bell ringer climbing the bell tower and sounding the alarm, before that he crossed himself widely. It sounded directly: “Autumn yourself with the sign of the cross, Russian people!” The wounded spectators and the staff had tears in their eyes when the lights were turned on.

On the contrary, the huge sums of money contributed by the chairman of the collective farm, it seems, Ferapont Golovaty, evoked malicious smiles. “Look how he stole from hungry collective farmers,” said the wounded peasants.

The activities of the fifth column, that is, internal enemies, also caused enormous indignation among the population. I myself saw how many of them there were: German planes were signaled from the windows even with multi-colored rockets. In November 1941, in the hospital of the Neurosurgical Institute, they signaled from the window in Morse code. The doctor on duty, Malm, who was completely drunk and declassed, said that the alarm came from the window of the operating room where my wife was on duty. The head of the hospital, Bondarchuk, said at a five-minute morning meeting that he vouched for Kudrin, and two days later they took the signalmen, and Malm himself disappeared forever.

My violin teacher Yu. A. Aleksandrov, a communist, although a secretly religious, consumptive person, worked as a fire chief of the Red Army House on the corner of Liteiny and Kirovskaya. He was chasing a rocket launcher, obviously an employee of the House of the Red Army, but he could not see him in the dark and did not catch up, but he threw the rocket launcher at Aleksandrov's feet.

Life at the institute gradually improved. The central heating began to work better, the electric light became almost constant, there was water in the plumbing. We went to the movies. Films such as "Two Soldiers", "Once upon a time there was a girl" and others were watched with an undisguised feeling.

At "Two Fighters" the nurse was able to get tickets to the cinema "October" for a session later than we expected. When we arrived at the next screening, we learned that a shell hit the courtyard of this cinema, where visitors from the previous screening were let out, and many were killed and wounded.

The summer of 1942 passed through the hearts of the townsfolk very sadly. The encirclement and defeat of our troops near Kharkov, which greatly increased the number of our prisoners in Germany, brought great despondency to everyone. The new offensive of the Germans to the Volga, to Stalingrad, was very hard for everyone to experience. The mortality of the population, especially increased in the spring months, despite some improvement in nutrition, as a result of dystrophy, as well as the death of people from air bombs and artillery shelling, was felt by everyone.

In mid-May, my wife and her ration cards were stolen from my wife, which is why we were again very hungry. And it was necessary to prepare for the winter.

We not only cultivated and planted kitchen gardens in Rybatsky and Murzinka, but received a fair amount of land in the garden near the Winter Palace, which was given to our hospital. It was excellent land. Other Leningraders cultivated other gardens, squares, the Field of Mars. We planted even a dozen or two potato eyes with an adjacent piece of husk, as well as cabbage, rutabaga, carrots, onion seedlings, and especially a lot of turnips. Planted wherever there was a piece of land.

The wife, fearing a lack of protein food, collected slugs from vegetables and pickled them in two large jars. However, they were not useful, and in the spring of 1943 they were thrown away.

The coming winter of 1942/43 was mild. Transport no longer stopped, all the wooden houses on the outskirts of Leningrad, including the houses in Murzinka, were demolished for fuel and stocked up for the winter. The rooms had electric lights. Soon, scientists were given special letter rations. As a candidate of sciences, I was given a letter ration of group B. It included 2 kg of sugar, 2 kg of cereals, 2 kg of meat, 2 kg of flour, 0.5 kg of butter and 10 packs of Belomorkanal cigarettes every month. It was luxurious and it saved us.

My fainting has stopped. I even easily kept watch with my wife all night, guarding the garden at the Winter Palace in turn, three times during the summer. However, despite the guards, every single head of cabbage was stolen.

Art was of great importance. We began to read more, to go to the cinema more often, to watch film programs in the hospital, to go to amateur concerts and to the artists who came to visit us. Once my wife and I were at a concert of D. Oistrakh and L. Oborin who arrived in Leningrad. When D. Oistrakh played and L. Oborin accompanied, it was cold in the hall. Suddenly a voice said softly, “Air raid, air raid! Those who wish can go down to the bomb shelter!” In the crowded hall, no one moved, Oistrakh smiled gratefully and understandingly at us all with his eyes alone and continued to play, not for a moment stumbling. Although the explosions pushed at my feet and I could hear their sounds and the yelping of anti-aircraft guns, the music absorbed everything. Since then, these two musicians have become my biggest favorites and fighting friends without knowing each other.

By the autumn of 1942, Leningrad was very empty, which also facilitated its supply. By the time the blockade began, up to 7 million cards were being issued in a city overflowing with refugees. In the spring of 1942, only 900 thousand of them were issued.

Many were evacuated, including part of the 2nd medical institute. All other universities left. But still, they believe that about two million people were able to leave Leningrad along the Road of Life. So about four million died (According to official data in besieged Leningrad about 600 thousand people died, according to others - about 1 million. - ed.) figure much higher than the official one. Not all the dead ended up in the cemetery. The huge ditch between the Saratov colony and the forest leading to Koltushi and Vsevolozhskaya took in hundreds of thousands of the dead and was leveled to the ground. Now there is a suburban vegetable garden, and there are no traces left. But the rustling tops and cheerful voices of the harvesters are no less happiness for the dead than the mournful music of the Piskarevsky cemetery.

A little about children. Their fate was terrible. Almost nothing was given on children's cards. I remember two cases particularly vividly.

In the most severe part of the winter of 1941/42, I wandered from Bekhterevka to Pestel Street to my hospital. Swollen legs almost did not go, his head was spinning, each cautious step pursued one goal: to move forward and not fall at the same time. On Staronevsky I wanted to go to the bakery to buy two of our cards and warm up at least a little. The frost cut to the bone. I stood in line and noticed that a boy of seven or eight years old was standing near the counter. He leaned over and seemed to shrink. Suddenly he snatched a piece of bread from the woman who had just received it, fell down, huddled up in a bag with his back up, like a hedgehog, and began to greedily tear the bread with his teeth. The woman who lost her bread screamed wildly: probably, a hungry family was waiting impatiently at home. The line got mixed up. Many rushed to beat and trample the boy, who continued to eat, a padded jacket and a hat protected him. "Man! If only you could help,” someone called out to me, apparently because I was the only man in the bakery. I was shaken, my head was spinning. “You beasts, beasts,” I croaked and, staggering, went out into the cold. I couldn't save the child. A slight push was enough, and I would certainly have been taken by angry people for an accomplice, and I would have fallen.

Yes, I am a layman. I did not rush to save this boy. “Do not turn into a werewolf, a beast,” our beloved Olga Berggolts wrote these days. Wonderful woman! She helped many to endure the blockade and preserved in us the necessary humanity.

On behalf of them, I will send a telegram abroad:

“Alive. We will endure. We'll win."

But the unwillingness to share the fate of a beaten child forever remained a notch on my conscience ...

The second incident happened later. We have just received, but already for the second time, a letter ration, and together with my wife we ​​carried it along Liteiny, heading home. Snowdrifts were quite high in the second blockade winter. Almost opposite the house of N. A. Nekrasov, from where he admired the front entrance, clinging to the grate immersed in snow, was a child of four or five years old. He moved his legs with difficulty, huge eyes on his withered old face peered in horror at the world. His legs were tangled. Tamara pulled out a large, double, lump of sugar and handed it to him. At first he did not understand and shrank all over, and then suddenly grabbed this sugar with a jerk, pressed it to his chest and froze in fear that everything that had happened was either a dream or not true ... We went on. Well, what more could barely wandering inhabitants do?

BREAKTHROUGH THE BLOCCADE

All Leningraders spoke daily about breaking the blockade, about the upcoming victory, peaceful life and the restoration of the country, the second front, that is, about the active inclusion of the allies in the war. On the allies, however, little hope. “The plan has already been drawn, but there are no Roosevelts,” the Leningraders joked. They also recalled the Indian wisdom: "I have three friends: the first is my friend, the second is the friend of my friend and the third is the enemy of my enemy." Everyone believed that the third degree of friendship only unites us with our allies. (So, by the way, it turned out that the second front appeared only when it became clear that we could liberate the whole of Europe alone.)

Rarely did anyone talk about other outcomes. There were people who believed that Leningrad after the war should become a free city. But everyone immediately cut them off, remembering both “Window on Europe”, and “The Bronze Horseman”, and historical meaning for Russia access to the Baltic Sea. But they talked about breaking the blockade every day and everywhere: at work, on duty on the roofs, when they “fought off planes with shovels”, extinguishing lighters, for meager food, getting into a cold bed and during unwise self-service in those days. Waiting, hoping. Long and hard. They talked either about Fedyuninsky and his mustache, then about Kulik, then about Meretskov.

In the draft commissions, almost everyone was taken to the front. I was sent there from the hospital. I remember that I gave liberation only to a two-armed man, surprised by the wonderful prostheses that hid his defect. “Don't be afraid, take it with a stomach ulcer, tuberculous. After all, all of them will have to be at the front for no more than a week. If they don’t kill them, they will wound them, and they will end up in the hospital,” the military commissar of the Dzerzhinsky district told us.

Indeed, the war went on with great bloodshed. When trying to break through to communication with the mainland, piles of bodies remained under Krasny Bor, especially along the embankments. "Nevsky Piglet" and Sinyavinsky swamps did not leave the tongue. Leningraders fought furiously. Everyone knew that behind his back his own family was dying of hunger. But all attempts to break the blockade did not lead to success, only our hospitals were filled with crippled and dying.

With horror, we learned about the death of an entire army and the betrayal of Vlasov. This had to be believed. After all, when they read to us about Pavlov and other executed generals Western front, no one believed that they were traitors and "enemies of the people", as we were convinced of this. They remembered that the same was said about Yakir, Tukhachevsky, Uborevich, even Blucher.

The summer campaign of 1942 began, as I wrote, extremely unsuccessfully and depressingly, but already in the fall they began to talk a lot about our stubbornness at Stalingrad. The fighting dragged on, winter approached, and in it we hoped for our Russian strength and Russian endurance. Good news about the counteroffensive at Stalingrad, the encirclement of Paulus with his 6th Army, Manstein's failures in trying to break through this encirclement gave Leningraders new hope on New Year's Eve, 1943.

I met New Year together with my wife, having returned by 11 o’clock to the closet where we lived at the hospital, from the bypass of the evacuation hospitals. There was a glass of diluted alcohol, two slices of bacon, a piece of bread 200 grams and hot tea with a piece of sugar! A whole feast!

Events were not long in coming. Almost all of the wounded were discharged: some were commissioned, some were sent to convalescent battalions, some were taken to the mainland. But we did not long wander around the empty hospital after the bustle of unloading it. A stream of fresh wounded went straight from their positions, dirty, often bandaged with an individual bag over their overcoat, bleeding. We were both a medical battalion, a field hospital, and a front-line hospital. Some began to sort, others - to operating tables for permanent operation. There was no time to eat, and there was no time for food.

It was not the first time that such streams came to us, but this one was too painful and tiring. All the time, the hardest combination of physical work with mental, moral human experiences with the clarity of the dry work of a surgeon was required.

On the third day, the men could no longer stand it. They were given 100 grams of diluted alcohol and sent to sleep for three hours, although the emergency room was littered with the wounded in need of urgent operations. Otherwise, they began to operate badly, half-asleep. Well done women! Not only did they endure the hardships of the blockade many times better than men, they died much less often from dystrophy, but they also worked without complaining of fatigue and clearly fulfilling their duties.

In our operating room, they went on three tables: behind each - a doctor and a nurse, on all three tables - another sister, replacing the operating room. Personnel operating and dressing nurses all assisted in operations. The habit of working for many nights in a row in Bekhterevka, the hospital. On October 25, she helped me out on the ambulance. I passed this test, I can proudly say, like women.

On the night of January 18, a wounded woman was brought to us. On this day, her husband was killed, and she was seriously wounded in the brain, in the left temporal lobe. A shard with fragments of bones penetrated into the depths, completely paralyzing her both right limbs and depriving her of the ability to speak, but while maintaining an understanding of someone else's speech. Female fighters came to us, but not often. I took her on my table, laid her on my right, paralyzed side, anesthetized the skin and very successfully removed the metal fragment and bone fragments that had penetrated into the brain. “My dear,” I said, finishing the operation and getting ready for the next one, “everything will be fine. I took out the shard, and speech will return to you, and the paralysis will completely disappear. You will make a full recovery!"

Suddenly, my wounded free hand from above began to beckon me to her. I knew that she would not soon begin to speak, and I thought that she would whisper something to me, although it seemed incredible. And suddenly, wounded with her healthy naked, but strong hand of a fighter, she grabbed my neck, pressed my face to her lips and kissed me hard. I couldn't take it. I did not sleep for the fourth day, almost did not eat, and only occasionally, holding a cigarette with a forceps, smoked. Everything went haywire in my head, and, like a man possessed, I ran out into the corridor in order to at least for one minute come to my senses. After all, there is a terrible injustice in the fact that women - the successors of the family and softening the morals of the beginning in humanity, are also killed. And at that moment he spoke, announcing the breakthrough of the blockade and the connection Leningrad front with Volkhovsky, our loudspeaker.

It was a deep night, but what started here! I was standing bloodied after the operation, completely stunned by what I had experienced and heard, and sisters, nurses, soldiers ran towards me ... Some with a hand on an “airplane”, that is, on a splint that abducted a bent arm, some on crutches, some still bleeding through a recently applied bandage . And so began the endless kissing. Everyone kissed me, despite my frightening appearance from spilled blood. And I stood, missed 15 minutes of the precious time for operating on other wounded in need, enduring these countless hugs and kisses.

The story of the Great Patriotic War of a front-line soldier

1 year ago, on this day, a war began that divided the history of not only our country, but the whole world into before And after. The participant of the Great Patriotic War Mark Pavlovich Ivanikhin, chairman of the Council of Veterans of War, Labor, Armed Forces and Law Enforcement Agencies of the Eastern Administrative District, tells.

– – this is the day when our life was broken in half. It was good bright sunday, and suddenly declared war, the first bombings. Everyone understood that they would have to endure a lot, 280 divisions went to our country. I have a military family, my father was a lieutenant colonel. A car immediately came for him, he took his “alarming” suitcase (this is a suitcase in which the most necessary things were always ready), and together we went to the school, I as a cadet, and my father as a teacher.

Everything changed immediately, it became clear to everyone that this war would be for a long time. Disturbing news plunged into another life, they said that the Germans were constantly moving forward. That day was clear and sunny, and in the evening mobilization had already begun.

These are my memories, boys of 18 years old. My father was 43 years old, he worked as a senior teacher at the first Moscow Artillery School named after Krasin, where I also studied. It was the first school that released officers who fought on the Katyusha into the war. I fought in the Katyusha throughout the war.

- Young inexperienced guys went under the bullets. Was it certain death?

“We still did a lot. Even at school, we all needed to pass the standard for the TRP badge (ready for work and defense). They trained almost like in the army: they had to run, crawl, swim, and they also taught how to bandage wounds, apply splints for fractures, and so on. Although we were a little ready to defend our Motherland.

I fought at the front from October 6, 1941 to April 1945. I took part in the battles for Stalingrad, and from the Kursk Bulge through Ukraine and Poland reached Berlin.

War is a terrible ordeal. It is a constant death that is near you and threatens you. Shells are exploding at your feet, enemy tanks are coming at you, flocks of German aircraft are aiming at you from above, artillery is firing. It seems that the earth turns into a small place where you have nowhere to go.

I was a commander, I had 60 people under my command. All these people need to be held accountable. And, despite the planes and tanks that are looking for your death, you need to control yourself and keep the soldiers, sergeants and officers in the hands. This is difficult to do.

I can't forget the Majdanek concentration camp. We liberated this death camp, we saw emaciated people: skin and bones. And I especially remember the kids with cut hands, they took blood all the time. We saw bags of human scalps. We saw the chambers of torture and experiments. What to hide, it caused hatred for the enemy.

I still remember that we went into a recaptured village, saw a church, and the Germans set up a stable in it. I had soldiers from all cities Soviet Union, even from Siberia, many fathers died in the war. And these guys said: “We will reach Germany, we will kill the Fritz families, and we will burn their houses.” And so we entered the first German city, the soldiers broke into the house of a German pilot, saw a Frau and four small children. Do you think someone touched them? None of the soldiers did anything bad to them. The Russian person is outgoing.

All the German cities that we passed remained intact, with the exception of Berlin, where there was strong resistance.

I have four orders. Order of Alexander Nevsky, which he received for Berlin; Order of the Patriotic War of the 1st degree, two Orders of the Patriotic War of the 2nd degree. Also a medal for military merit, a medal for the victory over Germany, for the defense of Moscow, for the defense of Stalingrad, for the liberation of Warsaw and for the capture of Berlin. These are the main medals, and there are about fifty of them in total. All of us who survived the war years want one thing - peace. And so that the people who won the victory were valuable.

Photo by Yulia Makoveychuk

Sofia Mogilevskaya "The Tale of the Loud Drum"

The drum hung on the wall between the windows, just opposite the bed where the boy slept.

It was an old military drum, badly worn on the sides, but still strong. His skin was taut, and there were no sticks. And the drum was always silent, no one heard his voice.

One evening, when the boy went to bed, the grandfather and grandmother entered the room. In their hands they carried a round bundle wrapped in brown paper.

"Sleeping," Grandma said.

Well, where do we put this? said grandfather, pointing to the bundle.

“Over the bed, over his bed,” Grandma whispered.

But grandfather looked at the old military drum and said:

- Not. We will hang it under the drum of our Larik. This is a good place.

They unwrapped the package. And what? It contained a new yellow drum with two wooden sticks.

Grandfather hung it under the big drum, they admired it, and then left the room...

And then the boy opened his eyes.

He opened his eyes and laughed, because he was not sleeping at all, but pretending.

He jumped off the bed, ran barefoot to where the new yellow drum hung, pulled a chair close to the wall, climbed on it and picked up the drumsticks.

At first, he softly struck the drum with only one stick. And the drum cheerfully responded: tram-there!

Then he struck with the second stick. The drummer answered even more cheerfully: tram-there-there!

What a glorious drum it was!

And suddenly the boy looked up at the big military drum. Before, when he didn't have those strong wooden sticks, he couldn't even touch the bass drum from his chair. And now?

The boy stood on his tiptoes, reached up and struck the bass drum hard with his stick. And the drum hummed to him in response, softly and sadly ...

It was a very, very long time ago. Grandmother was then a little girl with thick pigtails.

And my grandmother had a brother. His name was Larik. He was a cheerful, handsome and brave boy. He was the best at gorodki, he was the fastest skater, and he also studied the best.

In early spring, the workers of the city where Larik lived began to gather a detachment to go fight for Soviet power.

Larin was then thirteen years old.

He went to the commander of the detachment and said to him:

Sign me up for the squad. I'll go fight the whites too.

- And how old are you? the commander asked.

- Fifteen! Larik replied without blinking.

- Like? the commander asked. And he repeated again: - As if?

“Yes,” said Larik.

But the commander shook his head.

No, you can't, you're too young...

And Larik had to leave with nothing. And suddenly near the window, on a chair, he saw a new military drum. The drum was beautiful, with a gleaming copper rim, and the leather was tightly stretched. Two wooden sticks lay side by side.

Larik stopped, looked at the drum and said:

— I can play the drum...

— Really? the commander rejoiced. - Try it!

Larik slung the drum straps over his shoulder, picked up the sticks and struck one of them against the tight top. The stick bounced off like a spring, and the drum answered in a cheerful bass voice:

Larik hit with another wand.

— Boom! the drum answered again,

And even then Larik began to drum with two sticks.

Oh, how they danced in his hands! They just didn't know how to stop, they just couldn't stop. They beat off such a fraction that I wanted to get up, straighten up and step forward!

One-two! One-two! One-two!

And Larik remained in the detachment.

The next morning the detachment left the city. When the train started, open doors Larik's cheerful song was heard:

Bam-bara-bam-bam

Bam bam bam!

Ahead of all the drum,

Commander and drummer.

Larik and the drum immediately became comrades. They woke up earlier in the morning.

- Hello, buddy! - Larik said to his drum and lightly slapped it with his palm.

- Great! the drum boomed in response. And they got to work.

The detachment did not even have a forge. Larick with a drum were the only musicians. In the morning they played a wake-up call:

Bam-bara-bam

Bam bam bam!

Good morning,

Bam-bar-bam!

It was a great morning song!

When the detachment was marching, they had another song in store. Larik's hands never got tired, and the voice of the drum did not stop all the way. It was easier for the fighters to walk along the swampy autumn roads. Singing along to their drum, they went from halt to halt, from halt to halt ...

And in the evening, there was also work on the halts for the drum. It was difficult for him alone, of course, to cope.

He just started:

Eh! Bam-bara-bam

Bam-bar-bam!

More fun than everyone

Wooden spoons were immediately picked up:

And we also deftly beat,

Bim-biri-bom,

Bim-beery-bom!

Then four scallops entered:

We will not leave you

Beams-bams, beams-bams!

And already the last began harmonicas.

Now that was fun!

Such a wonderful orchestra could be listened to at least all night long.

But the drum and Larik had one more song. And this song was the loudest and most needed. Wherever the fighters were, they immediately recognized the voice of their drum from a thousand other drum voices. Yes, if necessary, Larik knew how to sound the alarm ...

The winter has passed. Spring has come again. Larik was in his fifteenth year.

The Red Guard detachment again returned to the city where Larik grew up. The Red Guards were scouts ahead of the big strong army, and the enemy ran away, hiding, hiding, striking from around the corner.

The detachment approached the city late in the evening. It was dark, and the commander ordered to stop for the night near the forest, not far from the railroad tracks.

“I haven’t seen my father, mother, and younger sister for a whole year,” Larik told the commander. “I don't even know if they're alive. Can I visit them? They live behind that wood.

“Well, go ahead,” the commander said.

And Larik went.

He walked and whistled softly. Underfoot, water gurgled in shallow spring puddles. It was light from the moon. Behind Larik hung his comrade-in-arms - a military drum.

Will they recognize him at home? No, the younger sister, of course, will not know. He felt two pink gingerbread cookies in his pocket. This hotel he has long in store for her ...

He approached the edge. How good it was here! The forest was quiet, quiet, all silvered by moonlight.

Larik stopped. A shadow fell from a tall spruce. Larik stood, covered by this black shadow.

Suddenly, a dry branch clicked softly.

One on the right. The other one is on the left. Behind the back...

People came to the edge. There were many. They walked in a long line. Rifles up. Two stopped almost next to Larik. On the shoulders of the White Guard epaulettes. One officer said to another very quietly:

Some of the soldiers are coming from the side of the forest. The other is along the railway line. The rest come from behind.

“We will encircle them and destroy them,” said the second.

And, stealthily, they passed by.

These were enemies.

Larik took a deep breath. He stood in the shadows. He was not noticed.

Larik rubbed his hot forehead with his hand. All clear. This means that some of the soldiers are coming from the forest. Others come in from behind. Part - along the railroad track ...

The Whites want to encircle their detachment and destroy it.

You need to run there, to your own, to the Reds. You need to be notified, and as soon as possible.

But will he make it? They can get ahead of him. They might catch him on the way...

And Larik turned his battle drum towards him, took out wooden sticks from behind his belt and, waving his arms widely, struck the drum.

It sounded like a shot, like a thousand short shots from a rifle.

The whole forest responded, buzzed, drummed with a loud echo, as if a small brave drummer stood near each tree and beat a war drum.

Larik stood under the spruce and saw how enemies rushed towards him from all sides. But he didn't move. He just pounded, pounded, pounded the drum.

It was their last song - the song of combat alarm.

And only when something hit Larik in the temple, and he fell, the drumsticks fell out of his hands...

Larik could no longer see how the red fighters rushed towards the enemy with rifles at the ready and, like a defeated enemy, fled from the side of the forest, and from the side of the city, and from there, where the thin lines of the railway track shone.

In the morning it was quiet again in the forest. The trees, shaking off drops of moisture, raised their transparent tops to the sun, and only the old spruce had wide branches lying completely on the ground.

The soldiers brought Larik home. His eyes were closed.

The drum was with him. Only the sticks remained in the forest, where they fell from Larik's hands.

And the drum was hung on the wall.

He hummed for the last time - loudly and sadly, as if saying goodbye to his glorious comrade in arms.

That's what the old war drum told the boy.

The boy quietly climbed out of his chair and tiptoed back into bed. He lay for a long time open eyes, and it seemed to him as if he were walking along a wide beautiful street and beating hard on his new yellow drum. The voice of the drum is loud, bold, and together they sing their favorite

Larik's song:

Bam bar-bam

Bam bar-bam!

Ahead of all the drum,

Commander and drummer.

Arkady Gaidar "Campaign"

little story

At night, a Red Army soldier brought a summons. And at dawn, when Alka was still sleeping, his father kissed him warmly and went to war - on a campaign.

In the morning, Alka got angry why they didn’t wake him up, and immediately declared that he wanted to go camping too. He would probably scream, cry. But quite unexpectedly, his mother allowed him to go camping. And so, in order to gain strength before the road, Alka ate a full plate of porridge without a whim, and drank some milk. And then she and her mother sat down to prepare camping equipment. His mother sewed pants for him, and he, sitting on the floor, cut a saber out of the board. And right there, at work, they learned marching marches, because with such a song as “A Christmas tree was born in the forest”, you won’t walk far. And the motive is not the same, and the words are not the same, in general, this melody is completely inappropriate for a fight.

But now the time has come for the mother to go on duty to work, and they postponed their business until tomorrow.

And so, day after day, they prepared Alka for a long journey. They sewed pants, shirts, banners, flags, knitted warm stockings, mittens. Some wooden sabers next to the gun and the drum hung on the wall for seven pieces. And this reserve is not a problem, because in a hot battle a sonorous saber has an even shorter life than a rider.

And for a long time, perhaps, Alka could have gone on a campaign, but then a fierce winter came. And in such a frost, of course, it would not take long to catch a runny nose or a cold, and Alka patiently waited for the warm sun. But now the sun has returned. Blackened melted snow. And if only, just start to get ready, as the bell rang. And with heavy steps, the father, who had returned from the campaign, entered the room. His face was dark, weather-beaten, and his lips were chapped, but his gray eyes looked cheerful.

He, of course, hugged his mother. And she congratulated him on his victory. He, of course, kissed his son tightly. Then he examined all Alkino's camping equipment. And, smiling, he ordered his son: keep all these weapons and ammunition in perfect order, because there will be hard battles and dangerous campaigns and there are still many more ahead on this earth.

Andrey Platonov "Little Soldier"

Not far from the front line, inside the surviving railway station, the Red Army men who fell asleep on the floor were sweetly snoring; the happiness of rest was imprinted on their weary faces.

On the second track, the boiler of the hot steam locomotive on duty hissed softly, as if singing a monotonous, soothing voice from a long-abandoned house. But in one corner of the station building, where a kerosene lamp burned, people occasionally whispered soothing words to each other, and then they too fell into silence.

There stood two majors, resembling each other not in outward signs, but in the general goodness of their wrinkled, tanned faces; each of them held the boy's hand in his hand, and the child looked imploringly at the commanders. The child did not let go of the hand of one major, then clinging his face to it, and carefully tried to free himself from the hand of the other. The child looked about ten years old, and he was dressed like a seasoned fighter - in a gray overcoat, worn and pressed against his body, in a cap and in boots, sewn, apparently, to measure for a child's foot. His small face, thin, weathered, but not emaciated, adapted and already accustomed to life, was now turned to one major; the bright eyes of the child clearly revealed his sadness, as if they were the living surface of his heart; he longed to be separated from his father or an older friend, who must have been the major to him.

The second major drew the child by the hand to him and caressed him, comforting him, but the boy, without removing his hand, remained indifferent to him. The first major was also saddened, and he whispered to the child that he would soon take him to him and they would meet again for an inseparable life, and now they parted for a short time. The boy believed him, however, the truth itself could not console his heart, attached to only one person and wanting to be with him constantly and near, and not far away. The child already knew what the distance and the time of war are - it is difficult for people from there to return to each other, so he did not want separation, and his heart could not be alone, it was afraid that, left alone, it would die. And in his last request and hope, the boy looked at the major, who should leave him with a stranger.

“Well, Seryozha, goodbye for now,” said the major whom the child loved. “You don’t really try to fight, grow up, then you will.” Do not climb on the German and take care of yourself, so that I can find you alive, whole. Well, what are you, what are you - hold on, soldier!

Serezha cried. The major lifted him into his arms and kissed his face several times. Then the major went with the child to the exit, and the second major also followed them, instructing me to guard the things left behind.

The child returned in the arms of another major; he looked strangely and timidly at the commander, although this major persuaded him with gentle words and attracted him to himself as best he could.

The major, who replaced the departed one, exhorted the silent child for a long time, but he, true to one feeling and one person, remained aloof.

Not far from the station, anti-aircraft guns began to hit. The boy listened to their booming dead sounds, and excited interest appeared in his eyes.

"Their scout is coming!" he said quietly, as if to himself. - It goes high, and the anti-aircraft guns will not take it, you need to send a fighter there.

"They'll send," said the major. - They're looking at us.

The train we needed was expected only the next day, and all three of us went to the hostel for the night. There the Major fed the child from his heavily loaded sack. “How tired of him for the war, this bag,” said the major, “and how grateful I am to him!” The boy fell asleep after eating, and Major Bakhichev told me about his fate.

Sergei Labkov was the son of a colonel and a military doctor. His father and mother served in the same regiment, so they took their only son to live with them and grow up in the army. Serezha was now in his tenth year; he took the war and his father's cause close to his heart, and had already begun to truly understand what war was for. And then one day he heard his father talking in the dugout with one officer and taking care that the Germans, when retreating, would definitely blow up the ammunition of his regiment. The regiment had previously left the German coverage, well, with haste, of course, and left its ammunition depot with the Germans, and now the regiment had to go ahead and return the lost land and its property on it, and the ammunition, too, which was needed. "They've probably run a wire to our warehouse - they know that they will have to move away," the colonel, Serezha's father, said then. Sergey listened attentively and realized what his father cared about. The boy knew the location of the regiment before the retreat, and here he is, small, thin, cunning, crawled at night to our warehouse, cut the explosive closing wire and remained there for another whole day, watching that the Germans did not fix the damage, and if they fix it, then so that again cut the wire. Then the colonel drove the Germans out of there, and the entire warehouse passed into his possession.

Soon this little boy made his way further behind enemy lines; there he learned by signs where command post regiment or battalion, walked around three batteries at a distance, remembered everything exactly - the memory was not corrupted in any way - and when he returned home, he showed his father on the map how it is and where it is. The father thought, gave his son to the orderly for inseparable observation of him and opened fire on these points. Everything turned out right, the son gave him the right serifs. He is small, this Seryozhka, the enemy took him for a gopher in the grass: let him, they say, move. And Seryozhka, probably, did not move the grass, walked without a sigh.

The boy also deceived the orderly, or, so to speak, seduced him: since he led him somewhere, and together they killed the German - it is not known which of them - and Sergey found the position.

So he lived in the regiment with his father, mother and soldiers. The mother, seeing such a son, could no longer endure his uncomfortable situation and decided to send him to the rear. But Sergei could no longer leave the army, his character was drawn into the war. And he told that major, father's deputy, Savelyev, who had just left, that he would not go to the rear, but rather hide in captivity to the Germans, learn from them everything that was needed, and again return to his father's unit when his mother get bored. And he would probably do so, because he has a military character.

And then grief happened, and there was no time to send the boy to the rear. His father, a colonel, was seriously wounded, although the battle, they say, was weak, and he died two days later in a field hospital. The mother also fell ill, became exhausted - she had previously been maimed by two shrapnel wounds, one was in the cavity - and a month after her husband she also died; maybe she still missed her husband ... Sergey was left an orphan.

Major Savelyev took command of the regiment, he took the boy to him and became him instead of his father and mother, instead of relatives - the whole person. The boy answered him, too, with all his heart.

- And I'm not from their part, I'm from another. But I know Volodya Savelyev from a long time ago. And so we met here with him at the headquarters of the front. Volodya was sent to refresher courses, and I was there on another matter, and now I'm going back to my unit. Volodya Savelyev told me to take care of the boy until he comes back ... And when else will Volodya return and where will he be sent! Well, you'll see it there...

Major Bakhichev dozed off and fell asleep. Serezha Labkov snored in his sleep like an adult, an elderly person, and his face, now moving away from sorrow and memories, became calm and innocently happy, showing the image of a holy childhood, from which the war had taken him away. I also fell asleep, taking advantage of unnecessary time so that it would not pass in vain.

We woke up at dusk, at the very end of a long June day. There were now two of us in three beds—Major Bakhichev and I—but Seryozha Labkov was not there. The major was worried, but then he decided that the boy had gone somewhere for a short time. Later, we went with him to the station and visited the military commandant, but no one noticed the little soldier in the rear of the war.

The next morning, Seryozha Labkov also did not return to us, and God knows where he went, tormented by the feeling of his childish heart for the man who left him - maybe after him, maybe back to his father's regiment, where the graves of his father and mother were.

Konstantin Paustovsky "Buker"

All day I had to walk along overgrown meadow roads. Only in the evening did I go out to the river, to Semyon's buoy-keeper's lodge.

The gatehouse was on the other side. I shouted to Semyon to give me a boat, and while Semyon was untying it, rattling the chain and walking behind the oars, three boys came up to the shore. Their hair, eyelashes and panties were burned to a straw color.

The boys sat down by the water, over the cliff. Immediately, swifts began to fly out from under the cliff with such a whistle as if shells from a small cannon; many swift nests were dug in the cliff. The boys laughed.

- Where are you from? I asked them.

“From the Laskovsky forest,” they answered and said that they were pioneers from a neighboring city, they had come to the forest to work, they had been sawing firewood for three weeks now, and sometimes they came to the river to swim. Semyon transports them to the other side, to the sand.

"He's only grouchy," said the smallest boy. Everything is not enough for him, everything is not enough. You know him?

- I know. For a long time.

- He is good?

- Very good.

“Only everything is not enough for him,” the thin boy in the cap confirmed sadly. “You can't please him. Swears.

I wanted to ask the boys what, after all, was not enough for Semyon, but at that moment he himself drove up in a boat, got out, extended his rough hand to me and the boys and said:

“Good guys, but they don’t understand much. You could say they don't understand anything. So it turns out that we, old brooms, are supposed to teach them. Am I right? Get on the boat. Go.

“Well, you see,” said the little boy, climbing into the boat. - I told you!

Semyon rarely rowed, slowly, as buoyers and carriers always row on all our rivers. Such rowing does not interfere with talking, and Semyon, a long-winded old man, immediately started a conversation.

“Just don’t think,” he said to me, “they are not offended by me. I have already injected so much into their heads - passion! How to cut a tree - you also need to know. Let's say which way it will fall. Or how to bury yourself so that the butt does not kill. Now do you know?

“We know, grandfather,” said the boy in the cap. - Thanks.

- Well, that's it! I suppose they didn’t know how to make a saw, wood splitters, workers!

“Now we can,” said the smallest boy.

- Well, that's it! Only this science is not cunning. Empty science! This is not enough for a person. Another thing to know.

- And what? a third boy, all freckled, asked anxiously.

“But now there is a war. Need to know about this.

— We know.

“You don't know anything. You brought me a newspaper the other day, but what is written in it you cannot really determine.

- What is written in it, Semyon? I asked.

- I'll tell you now. Is there smoking?

We rolled a shag cigarette from a crumpled newspaper. Semyon lit a cigarette and said, looking at the meadows:

- And it is written in it about love for the native land. From this love, one must think so, a person goes to fight. Did I say right?

- Right.

- And what is it - love for the motherland? So you ask them, boys. And it looks like they don't know anything.

The boys were offended

- We don't know!

- And if you know, then explain it to me, an old fool. Wait, don't jump out, let me finish. For example, you go into battle and think: "I'm going for my native land." So you say: what are you going for?

"I'm going for a free life," said the little boy.

- That's not enough. You can't live a free life alone.

“For their cities and factories,” said the freckled boy.

“For my school,” said the boy in the cap. And for my people.

“And for my people,” said the little boy. - To have a working and happy life.

“You are all right,” said Semyon, “only that is not enough for me.

The boys looked at each other and frowned.

- Offended! Semyon said. - Oh, you judges! And, let's say, you don't want to fight for a quail? Protect it from ruin, from death? BUT?

The boys were silent.

“So I see that you don’t understand everything,” Semyon began. “And I, the old one, must explain to you. And I have enough things to do: check buoys, hang marks on poles. I also have a delicate matter, a state matter. Because this river is also trying to win, it carries steamboats, and I’m with it like a nurse, like a guardian, so that everything is in good order. So it turns out that all this is right - and freedom, and cities, and, say, rich factories, and schools, and people. So not for this alone we love our native land. After all, not for one?

- And for what else? the freckled boy asked.

- And you listen. So you walked here from the Laskovsky forest along the beaten road to Lake Tish, and from there through the meadows to the Island and here to me, to the ferry. Was it walking?

- Here you go. Have you looked at your feet?

- Looked.

“But I didn’t see anything.” And we should look, and notice, and stop more often. You stop, bend down, pick any flower or grass - and move on.

- And then, that in each such grass and in each such flower there is a great charm. Here, for example, clover. You call him porridge. You pick it up, smell it - it smells like a bee. From this smell, an evil person will smile. Or, say, chamomile. After all, it is a sin to crush with a boot. And the honeysuckle? Or sleep grass. She sleeps at night, bows her head, grows heavy from the dew. Or bought. Yes, you don't seem to know her. The leaf is wide, hard, and under it are flowers like white bells. You're about to touch - and they will ring. That's it! This plant is tributary. It heals the disease.

- What does inflow mean? asked the boy in the cap.

- Well, medical, or something. Our disease is an ache in the bones. From dampness. From kupena the pain is quiet, you sleep better and the work becomes easier. Or air. I sprinkle them on the floors in the gatehouse. You come to me - my air is Crimean. Yes! Here, go, look, notice. There is a cloud over the river. You don't know it; and I hear - it pulls from the rain. Mushroom rain - disputable, not very noisy. This rain is more valuable than gold. From him the river warms up, the fish play, he grows all our wealth. Often, towards evening, I sit at the gatehouse, weaving baskets, then I look around and forget about all sorts of baskets - after all, what is it! A cloud in the sky is made of hot gold, the sun has already left us, and there, above the earth, it still radiates warmth, radiates light. And it will go out, and the corncrakes will begin to creak in the grasses, and the twitchers will pull, and the quail will whistle, otherwise, you look, how the nightingales will strike like thunder - on the vine, on the bushes! And the star will rise, stop over the river and stand until the morning - she looked, beauty, into the clear water. So, guys! You look at all this and think: we have little life allotted, we need to live two hundred years - and that will not be enough. Our country is a beauty! For this charm, we must also fight with enemies, protect it, protect it, and not let it be defiled. Am I saying right? All make noise, "motherland", "motherland", but here it is, the motherland, behind the haystacks!

The boys were silent, thoughtful. Reflecting in the water, a heron slowly flew by.

“Oh,” said Semyon, “people go to war, but we, the old ones, have been forgotten!” Forgotten in vain, trust me. The old man is a strong, good soldier, his blow is very serious. If they let us old people in, the Germans would also scratch themselves here. “Uh-uh,” the Germans would say, “it’s not the way for us to fight with such old people! Not the point! With such old men you will lose the last ports. You're kidding, brother!"

The boat hit the sandy shore with its bow. Small waders hurriedly ran away from her along the water.

"That's right, guys," said Semyon. - Again, I suppose you will complain about your grandfather - everything is not enough for him. An incomprehensible grandfather.

The boys laughed.

“No, understandable, quite understandable,” said the little boy. - Thank you, grandfather.

Is it for transportation or something else? Semyon asked and narrowed his eyes.

- For something else. And for transportation.

- Well, that's it!

The boys ran to the sandy spit to swim. Semyon looked after them and sighed.

“I try to teach them,” he said. - Respect to teach to the native land. Without this, a person is not a person, but dust!

Vladimir Zheleznikov "In the old tank"

He was already about to leave this city, did his business and was about to leave, but on the way to the station he suddenly came across a small square.

An old tank stood in the middle of the square. He went up to the tank, touched the dents from enemy shells - it was evident that it was a battle tank, and he

so I didn't want to leave right away. I put the suitcase near the caterpillar, climbed onto the tank, tried the turret hatch to see if it opens. The hatch opened easily.

Then he climbed inside and sat in the driver's seat. It was a narrow, cramped place, he could hardly get through without getting used to it, and even when he climbed, he scratched his arm.

He pressed the gas pedal, touched the handles of the levers, looked through the viewing slot and saw a narrow strip of the street.

For the first time in his life he was sitting in a tank, and it was all so unusual for him that he did not even hear someone approach the tank, climb on it and bend over the turret. And then he raised his head, because the one above blocked the light for him.

It was a boy. His hair looked almost blue in the light. They looked at each other in silence for a full minute. For the boy, the meeting was unexpected: he thought to find one of his comrades here with whom he could play, and here you are, an adult stranger man.

The boy was about to say something sharp to him, saying that there was nothing to get into someone else's tank, but then he saw the man's eyes and saw that his fingers trembled a little when he raised the cigarette to his lips, and said nothing.

But it is impossible to remain silent forever, and the boy asked:

- Why are you here?

“Nothing,” he replied. I decided to sit. And what not?

"Yes," said the boy. - Only this tank is ours.

- Whose is yours? - he asked.

“Children of our yard,” said the boy.

They were silent again.

- How long will you stay here? the boy asked.

- I'll be leaving soon. He looked at his watch. I'm leaving your city in an hour.

“Look, it’s raining,” said the boy.

- Well, let's crawl in here and close the hatch. We'll wait out the rain and I'll leave.

It's good that it started to rain, otherwise we would have to leave. And he still could not leave, something kept him in this tank.

The little boy snuggled up next to him. They sat very close to each other, and this neighborhood was somehow surprising and unexpected.

He even felt the boy's breath, and every time he looked up, he saw his neighbor turn away swiftly.

“Actually, old, front-line tanks are my weakness,” he said.

This tank is a good thing. The boy patted his armor knowingly. “They say he liberated our city.

“My father was a tanker in the war,” he said.

- And now? the boy asked.

“And now he’s gone,” he replied. — Did not return from the front. In forty-three, he went missing.

The tank was almost dark. A thin strip made its way through a narrow viewing slot, and then the sky was covered with a thundercloud, and it completely darkened.

- And how is it - "missing"? the boy asked.

- He went missing, which means he went, for example, to reconnaissance behind enemy lines and did not return. It is not known how he died.

“Is it even impossible to know? the boy was surprised. “He wasn't alone there.

“Sometimes it doesn't work,” he said. — And the tankers are brave guys. Here, for example, some guy was sitting here during the battle: the light is nothing at all, you can see the whole world only through this gap. And enemy shells hit the armor. I saw what potholes! From the impact of these shells on the tank, the head could burst.

Somewhere in the sky thunder struck, and the tank rang dully. The boy shuddered.

— Are you afraid? - he asked.

“No,” the boy replied. - It's out of surprise.

“Recently I read in the newspaper about a tankman,” he said. - That was a man! You listen. This tanker was captured by the Nazis: maybe he was wounded or shell-shocked, or maybe he jumped out of a burning tank and they grabbed him. In short, he was captured. And suddenly one day they put him in a car and bring him to an artillery range. At first, the tanker did not understand anything: he sees a brand new T-34, and in the distance a group of German officers. They took him to the officers. And then one of them says:

“Here, they say, you have a tank, you will have to go through the entire range on it, sixteen kilometers, and our soldiers will shoot at you from cannons. If you see the tank through to the end, then you will live, and personally I will give you freedom. Well, if you don't, then you die. In general, in war as in war.

And he, our tanker, is still quite young. Well, maybe he was twenty-two. Now these guys go to college! And he stood in front of the general, an old, thin, long as a stick, fascist general, who didn’t give a damn about this tanker and didn’t give a damn that he had lived so little, that his mother was waiting for him somewhere - they didn’t give a damn about anything. It's just that this fascist really liked the game that he came up with with this Soviet one: he decided to test a new aiming device on anti-tank guns on a Soviet tank.

"Chorus?" the general asked.

The tanker didn’t answer, turned around and went to the tank... And when he got into the tank, when he climbed into this place and pulled the control levers, and when they easily and freely went towards him, when he breathed in the familiar, familiar smell of engine oil, his head was spinning with happiness. And believe me, he cried. He wept with joy, he never dreamed of getting into his favorite tank again. That again he will be on a small patch, on a small island of his native, dear Soviet land.

For a moment the tanker bowed his head and closed his eyes: he remembered the distant Volga and the lofty city on the Volga. But then he was given a signal: they launched a rocket. It means go ahead. He took his time, carefully looked through the viewing slot. No one, the officers hid in the moat. Carefully squeezed the gas pedal to the end, and the tank slowly moved forward. And then the first battery hit - the Nazis, of course, hit him in the back. He immediately gathered all his strength and made his famous turn: one lever forward to failure, the second back, full throttle, and suddenly the tank spun like crazy in one hundred and eighty degrees - for this maneuver he always got a five at the school - and unexpectedly quickly rushed towards the hurricane fire of this battery.

“In war as in war! he suddenly shouted to himself. "That's what your general seems to have said." He jumped like a tank on these enemy cannons and scattered them in different directions.

Not a bad start, he thought. “Not bad at all.”

Here they are, the Nazis, very close, but he is protected by armor forged by skilled blacksmiths in the Urals. No, they can't take it now. In war as in war!

He again made his famous turn and clung to the viewing gap: the second battery fired a volley at the tank. And the tanker threw the car aside; making turns to the right and to the left, he rushed forward. And again, the entire battery was destroyed. And the tank was already rushing on, and the guns, forgetting any order, began to whip shells at the tank. But the tank was like a mad one: it turned like a top on one or the other caterpillar, changed direction and crushed these enemy guns. It was a glorious fight, a very fair fight. And the tanker himself, when he went into the last frontal attack, opened the driver's hatch, and all the gunners saw his face, and they all saw that he was laughing and shouting something to them.

And then the tank jumped out onto the highway and went east at high speed. He was followed by German rockets, demanding to stop. The tanker didn't notice anything. Only to the east, his path lay to the east. Only to the east, at least a few meters, at least a few tens of meters towards our distant, dear, dear land ...

"And he wasn't caught?" the boy asked.

The man looked at the boy and wanted to lie, suddenly he really wanted to lie that everything ended well and he, this glorious, heroic tankman, was not caught. And the boy will then be so happy about it! But he did not lie, he simply decided that in such cases it was impossible to lie for anything.

“Caught,” the man said. The tank ran out of fuel and was caught. And then they brought me to the general who came up with this whole game. He was led along the training ground to a group of officers by two submachine gunners. His gymnast was torn. He walked along the green grass of the landfill and saw a field chamomile under his feet. He bent down and tore it off. And that's when all the fear really went away. He suddenly became himself: a simple Volga boy, small in stature, well, like our astronauts. The general shouted something in German, and a single shot rang out.

“Maybe it was your father?” the boy asked.

“Who knows, it would be nice,” the man replied. But my father is missing.

They got out of the tank. The rain is over.

“Goodbye, friend,” the man said.

- Bye...

The boy wanted to add that he would now make every effort to find out who this tankman was, and maybe it really would be his father. He will raise his whole yard for this cause, and what’s the yard - his entire class, and what’s the class - his entire school!

They parted in different directions.

The boy ran to the children. I ran and thought about this tanker and thought that he would find out everything, everything about him, and then he would write to this man ...

And then the boy remembered that he did not know either the name or the address of this person, and he almost burst into tears from resentment. Well, what can you do...

And the man walked with a wide step, waving his suitcase as he went. He did not notice anyone and nothing, he walked and thought about his father and about the words of the boy.

Now, when he remembers his father, he will always think about this tanker. Now for him it will be the story of his father.

So good, so infinitely good that he finally had this story. He will often remember her: at night, when he does not sleep well, or when it rains, and he becomes sad, or when he will be very, very cheerful.

It's so good that he got this story, and this old tank, and this boy...

Vladimir Zheleznikov "Girl in the military"

Almost a whole week went well for me, but on Saturday I got two deuces at once: in Russian and in arithmetic.

When I got home, my mother asked:

- Well, did they call you today?

“No, they didn’t,” I lied. “Lately, I haven’t been called at all.

And on Sunday morning everything opened. Mom climbed into my briefcase, took the diary and saw deuces.

"Yuri," she said. - What does it mean?

"That's by accident," I replied. - The teacher called me at the last lesson, when Sunday had almost begun ...

- You're just a liar! Mom said angrily.

And then dad went to his friend and did not return for a long time. And my mother was waiting for him, and her mood was very bad. I sat in my room and didn't know what to do. Suddenly my mother came in, dressed in a festive way, and said:

When dad comes, feed him lunch.

- Will you be back soon?

- I do not know.

Mom left, and I sighed heavily and took out my arithmetic book. But before I could open it, someone called.

I thought my dad had finally arrived. But on the threshold stood a tall, broad-shouldered unfamiliar man.

Does Nina Vasilievna live here? - he asked.

“Here,” I replied. “Mom isn’t at home.”

- May I wait? - He held out his hand to me: - Sukhov, your mother's friend.

Sukhov went into the room, leaning heavily on his right leg.

"It's a pity Nina is gone," said Sukhov. - How she looks like? Is everything the same?

It was unusual for me that a stranger called my mother Nina and asked if she was the same or not. What else could she be?

We were silent.

And I brought her a photograph. Promised for a long time, but brought just now. Sukhov reached into his pocket.

The photograph was of a girl in a military costume: in soldier's boots, in a tunic and skirt, but without a weapon.

“Sergeant Major,” I said.

- Yes. Senior Sergeant of the Medical Service. Didn't have to meet?

- Not. First time I see.

— Is that how? Sukhov was surprised. “And this, my brother, is not an ordinary person. If not for her, I would not be sitting with you now ...

We had been silent for ten minutes now, and I felt uncomfortable. I noticed that adults always offer tea when they have nothing to say. I said:

- Do you want tea?

- Tea? No. I'd rather tell you a story. It's good for you to know her.

- About this girl? I guessed.

- Yes. About this girl. - And Sukhov began to tell: - It was in the war. I was severely wounded in the leg and stomach. When you get hurt in the stomach, it hurts especially. It's scary to even move. I was dragged from the battlefield and taken to the hospital in a bus.

And then the enemy began to bomb the road. The driver in the front car was wounded, and all the cars stopped. When the fascist planes left, this very girl climbed into the bus, - Sukhov pointed to the photograph, - and said: "Comrades, get out of the car."

All the wounded rose to their feet and began to leave, helping each other, in a hurry, because somewhere not far away the roar of returning bombers was already heard.

Alone, I was left lying on the lower hanging bunk.

“What are you doing lying down? Get up now! - she said. “Listen, the enemy bombers are returning!”

“Don't you see? I am badly wounded and cannot get up,” I replied. "Get out of here as fast as you can."

And then the bombing started again. They bombed with special bombs, with a siren. I closed my eyes and pulled a blanket over my head to protect the windows of the bus, which were shattered by the explosions. In the end, the blast wave knocked the bus over on its side and something heavy hit me on the shoulder. At the same moment, the howl of falling bombs and explosions stopped.

"Are you in a lot of pain?" I heard and opened my eyes.

A girl was squatting in front of me.

“Our driver was killed,” she said. - We need to get out. They say the Nazis broke through the front. Everyone has already left on foot. We are the only ones left."

She pulled me out of the car and laid me on the grass. She got up and looked around.

"No one?" I asked.

“No one,” she replied. Then she lay down next to her, face down. “Now try turning on your side.”

I turned around and felt very sick from the pain in my stomach.

"Lie down on your back again," the girl said.

I turned and my back was firmly on her back. It seemed to me that she would not even be able to move, but she slowly crawled forward, carrying me on her.

“Tired,” she said. The girl stood up and looked back. “No one, like in the desert.”

At this time, a plane emerged from behind the forest, flew low over us and fired a burst. I saw a gray stream of dust from bullets ten meters away from us. She went over my head.

"Run! I shouted. "He's about to turn around."

The plane was coming towards us again. The girl fell. Phew, whew, whistle whistled again next to us. The girl raised her head, but I said:

“Don't move! Let him think he killed us."

The fascist flew right over me. I closed my eyes. I was afraid that he would see that my eyes were open. Only left a small slit in one eye.

The fascist turned on one wing. He gave another burst, missed again and flew away.

“Flew,” I said. - Mazila.

“Here, brother, what girls are like,” said Sukhov. “One wounded man took a picture of her for me as a keepsake. And we parted ways. I go to the rear, she goes back to the front.

I took a photo and began to look. And suddenly I recognized in this girl in a military suit my mother: mother's eyes, mother's nose. Only my mother was not the same as now, but just a girl.

- Is that mom? I asked. “Did my mother save you?”

"Exactly," replied Sukhov. - Your mother.

Dad came back and interrupted our conversation.

— Nina! Nina! Dad shouted from the hallway. He loved when his mother met him.

“Mom is not at home,” I said.

“Where is she?”

I don't know, she's gone somewhere.

“Strange,” Dad said. “Looks like I was in a hurry.

“And a front-line comrade is waiting for my mother,” I said.

Dad went into the room. Sukhov rose heavily to meet him. They looked at each other carefully and shook hands. Sit down, be quiet.

- And Comrade Sukhov told me how he and his mother were at the front.

- Yes? Papa looked at Sukhov. “Sorry, Nina is gone. Now I would feed you lunch.

"Dinner is nonsense," answered Sukhov. - And that Nina is not there, it's a pity.

For some reason, dad's conversation with Sukhov did not work out. Sukhov soon got up and left, promising to come back another time.

- Are you going to have lunch? I asked dad. - Mom said to have dinner, she will not come soon.

“I won’t dine without my mother,” my father got angry. — I could sit at home on Sunday!

I turned and went into another room. Ten minutes later, my father came to me.

- I do not know. I dressed up for the holidays and left. Maybe go to the theatre, I said, or get a job. She said for a long time that she was tired of sitting at home and taking care of us. We still don't appreciate it.

“Nonsense,” said Dad. - Firstly, there are no performances in the theater at this time. And secondly, they don't get a job on Sunday. And then, she would have warned me.

“But I didn’t warn you,” I replied.

After that, I took from the table my mother's photograph, which Sukhov had left, and began to look at it.

“So, so, in a festive way,” dad repeated sadly. - What is your photo? - he asked. - Yes, it's mom!

“That's right, mom. This Comrade Sukhov left. Mom pulled him out from under the bombing.

— Sukhova? Our mother? Dad shrugged. “But he is twice as tall as his mother and three times as heavy.

Sukhov himself told me. “And I repeated to my father the story of this mother’s photograph.

— Yes, Yurka, we have a wonderful mother. And we don't appreciate it.

“I appreciate it,” I said. It just happens to me sometimes...

- So I don't appreciate it? Dad asked.

“No, you appreciate it too,” I said. “But sometimes you too…”

Dad walked around the rooms, opened the front door several times and listened to see if mom was coming back.

Then he took the photograph again, turned it over and read aloud:

“To the dear Medical Sergeant on her birthday. From fellow soldier Andrei Sukhov. Wait, wait, said dad. - What is the date today?

- Twenty first!

- Twenty first! Mom's birthday. This is still not enough! Dad clutched his head. - How did I forget F6? She, of course, got offended and left. And you're good - I forgot too!

I got two deuces. She doesn't talk to me.

- Nice present! You and I are just pigs,” said dad. You know what, go to the store and buy your mom a cake.

But on the way to the store, running past our square, I saw my mother. She was sitting on a bench under a linden tree and talking to some old woman.

I immediately guessed that my mother had not gone anywhere. She just got offended with dad and me for her birthday and left.

I ran home and shouted:

- Dad, I saw mom! She sits in our park and talks to an unfamiliar old woman.

— Aren't you wrong? Dad said. - Quickly pull the razor, I'll shave. Get out my new suit and clean my boots. No matter how she left, dad was worried.

“Of course,” I replied. - And you sat down to shave.

"What do you think I should go unshaven?" Dad waved his hand. - You do not understand anything.

I also took and put on a new jacket, which my mother did not allow me to wear yet.

- Yurka! dad shouted. Have you seen that they don't sell flowers on the street?

"I didn't see it," I replied.

“It's amazing,” said Dad, “you never notice anything.

It’s strange for dad: I found mom and I don’t notice anything.

Finally we got out. Dad walked so fast that I had to run.

So we walked all the way to the park. But when dad saw mom, he immediately slowed down.

“You know, Yurka,” said dad, “for some reason I get worried and feel guilty.

“Why worry?” I replied. “Let’s ask mom for forgiveness, that’s all.

- How easy it is for you. - Dad took a deep breath, as if he was about to lift some weight, and said: - Well, go ahead!

We entered the square, stepping toe to toe. We approached our mother.

She looked up and said:

- Well, finally.

The old woman who was sitting with mother looked at us, and mother added:

These are my men.

Vasil Bykov "Katyusha"

The shelling lasted all night - then weakening, as if even stopping for a few minutes, then suddenly flaring up with renewed vigor. Mostly mortars fired. Their mines cut through the air at the very zenith of the sky with a piercing screech, the screeching gaining maximum strength and breaking off with a sharp, deafening explosion in the distance. Bili for the most part to the rear, in the nearest village, it was precisely there that the screech of mines rushed in the sky, and there the reflections of explosions flared up every now and then. Right there, on the grassy hillock, where machine gunners had dug in since the evening, it was a little quieter. But this is probably because, thought the platoon commander Matyukhin, that the machine gunners occupied this hillock, consider it at dusk, and the Germans had not yet found them here. However, they will find out that their eyes are keen, the optics too. Until midnight, Matyukhin went from one submachine gunner to another, forcing them to dig in. The submachine gunners, however, did not put much effort on their shoulder blades - they had run in during the day and now, having adjusted the collars of their overcoats, they were preparing to camouflage. But it looks like they've run away. The offensive seemed to be fizzling out, yesterday they only took a village that had been smashed to the ground, burned to the ground, and sat down on this hillock. The authorities also stopped urging them on: no one came to visit them at night, neither from the headquarters, nor from the political department, and during the week of the offensive, they were also probably exhausted. But the main thing is that the artillery fell silent: either they transferred it somewhere, or the ammunition ran out. Yesterday the regimental mortars fired for a short time and fell silent. In the autumn field and the sky covered with dense clouds, only squealed in all voices, with a crackling gasp, German mines, from a distance, from the fishing line, their machine guns fired. From the site of the neighboring battalion, our "maxims" sometimes answered them. The machine gunners were silent. Firstly, it was far away, and secondly, they took care of the cartridges, which God knows how many also remained. The hottest ones have one disk per machine. The platoon commander hoped that they would bring him up at night, but they didn’t, probably they fell behind, lost their way or got drunk on the rear, so now all hope remained on themselves. And what will happen tomorrow - only God knows. Suddenly the German will trample - what then to do? Suvorov-style to fight back with a bayonet and butt? But where is the bayonet of machine gunners, and the butt is too short.

Overcoming the autumn cold, in the morning, Matyukhin, the assistant platoon commander, kimarnul in his hole-trench. I didn't want to, but I couldn't resist. After Lieutenant Klimovsky was taken to the rear, he commanded a platoon. The lieutenant was very unlucky in the last battle: a fragment of a German mine cut him well across the stomach; the intestines fell out, it is not known whether the lieutenant will be saved in the hospital. Last summer, Matyukhin was also wounded in the stomach, but not by shrapnel, but by a bullet. He also suffered pain and fear, but somehow dodged the koschava. In general, then he was lucky, because he was wounded next to the road along which empty cars were going, he was thrown into the body, and an hour later he was already in the medical battalion. And if like this, with the guts falling out, dragged across the field, now and then falling under the explosions ... The poor lieutenant did not live even twenty years.

That is why Matyukhin is so restless, he has to inspect everything himself, command a platoon and run on calls to his superiors, report and justify himself, listen to his obscene swearing. Nevertheless, fatigue overcame anxiety and all worries, the senior sergeant dozed off under the screech and explosions of mines. It’s good that the young energetic submachine gunner Kozyra managed to dig in nearby, to whom the platoon commander ordered to observe and listen, to sleep - in no case, otherwise it’s a disaster. The Germans are also nimble not only during the day, but also at night. During the two years of the war, Matyukhin had seen enough of everyone.

Falling asleep imperceptibly, Matyukhin saw himself as if at home, as if he had dozed off on a mound from some strange fatigue, and as if the neighbor's pig was poking his shoulder with its cold snout - if he intended to grab him with his teeth. I woke up from the unpleasant sensation of the platoon commander and immediately felt that someone was really shaking him by the shoulder, probably waking him up.

- What's happened?

- Look, comrade of the platoon commander!

In the gray dawn sky, Kozyra's narrow-shouldered silhouette leaned over the trench. The submachine gunner looked, however, not in the direction of the Germans, but in the rear, obviously interested in something there. Habitually shaking off the morning sleepy chill, Matyukhin got up on his knees. On a hillock nearby, the bulky silhouette of a car with an obliquely set top was dark, near which people were silently fussing.

- "Katyusha"?

Matyukhin understood everything and swore silently to himself: it was the Katyusha preparing for a volley. And where did it come from? To his machine gunners?

“From now on they’ll give you a dumbass!” From ask! Kozyra rejoiced like a child.

Other fighters from the nearby trenches, also, apparently, interested in an unexpected neighborhood, crawled to the surface. Everyone watched with interest as gunners fussed around the car, seemingly setting up their famous volley. "Damn them, with their volley!" - the platoon commander became nervous, already knowing well the price of these volleys. Who knows what’s the use, you won’t see much beyond the field in the forest, but, look, alarms will set in ... Meanwhile, over the field and the forest that darkened ahead, it gradually began to get light. The gloomy sky above cleared up, a fresh autumn wind was blowing, apparently, it was going to rain. The platoon commander knew that if the Katyushas worked, it would definitely rain. Finally, there, near the car, the fuss seemed to subside, everyone seemed to freeze; several people ran away, behind the car, and heard the muffled words of the artillery team. And suddenly, in the air overhead, there was a sharp screech, a buzz, a grunt, fiery tails crackled behind the car into the ground, rockets jumped over the heads of submachine gunners and disappeared into the distance. Clouds of dust and smoke, swirling in a tight white whirlwind, enveloped the Katyusha, part of the nearby trenches, and began to spread along the slope of the hillock. The buzzing in my ears had not yet subsided, as they had already commanded - this time loudly, without hiding, with evil military determination. People rushed to the car, metal clinked, some jumped on its steps, and through the rest of the dust that had not yet settled, it crawled down from the hillock towards the village. At the same time ahead, beyond the field and the woods, there was a menacing roar—a series of rolling, drawn-out echoes shook the space for a minute. Clouds of black smoke slowly rose into the sky above the forest.

"Oh, give, oh give, damned nemchure!" Kozyr's submachine gunner beamed with his young snub-nosed face. Others, too, having climbed to the surface or stood up in the trenches, watched with admiration the unprecedented spectacle beyond the field. Only the platoon commander Matyukhin, as if petrified, was on his knees in a shallow trench, and as soon as the rumble behind the field broke off, he shouted with all his might:

- In cover! In hiding, your mother! Kozyra, what are you...

He even jumped to his feet to get out of the trench, but did not have time. One could hear how a single explosion or shot clicked somewhere behind the forest, and a discordant howl, crackle in the sky ... Sensing danger, machine gunners, like peas from the table, poured into their trenches. The sky howled, shook, rumbled. The first volley of German six-barreled mortars fell with a flight, closer to the village, the other - closer to the hillock. And then everything around was mixed up in a continuous dusty mess of gaps. Some of the mines were torn closer, others further, in front, behind and between the trenches. The whole hillock turned into a fiery-smoky volcano, which was diligently pushed, dug, and shoveled German mines. Stunned, covered with earth, Matyukhin writhed in his trench, fearfully waiting for when ... When, when? But this is when everything did not come, and the explosions gouged, shook the earth, which, it seemed, was about to split to the full depth, collapsing itself and dragging everything else with it.

But somehow everything gradually calmed down ...

Matyukhin peeped out apprehensively—first forward, into the field—are they coming? No, it looks like they haven't gone from there yet. Then he looked to the side, at the recent line of his platoon of submachine gunners, and did not see him. The whole hillock gaped with funnel holes between a heap of clay blocks, clods of earth; sand and earth covered the grass all around, as if it had never been there. Not far away, the long body of Kozyra sprawled, which, apparently, did not have time to reach his saving trench. The head and upper part of his torso were covered with earth, his legs as well, only polished metal joints shone on the heels of his shoes that had not yet been trampled down ...

- Well, she helped, they say, - said Matyukhin and did not hear his voice. A trickle of blood trickled down his dirty cheek from his right ear.