This is a touching and tragic date for every family of our great people.
The cruel and terrible events in which our grandfathers and great-grandfathers took part go far into history.
Fighting soldiers on the battlefield. In the rear, both young and old worked hard for the Great Victory.
And how many children have defended their homeland on a par with adults? What feats did they perform?
Tell and read stories, stories, books for children about the Great Patriotic War of 1941-1945.
Our descendants should know who protected them from fascism. Know the truth about the terrible war.
On MAY 9, visit a monument or monument in your city, lay flowers. It will be touching if you and your child mark the event with a minute of silence.
Draw your child's attention to the awards of war veterans, which are getting smaller and smaller every year. Congratulate the veterans from the bottom of your heart on the Great Victory Day.
It is important to remember that each of their gray hairs keeps all the horror and wounds of this terrible war.
"Nobody is forgotten and nothing is forgotten"
Dedicated to the Great Victory!
ANDsecond: Ilgiz Garayev
I was born and raised in a peaceful land. I know well how spring thunderstorms make noise, but I have never heard the thunder of guns.
I see new houses being built, but I had no idea how easily houses are destroyed under a hail of bombs and shells.
I know how dreams end, but I find it hard to believe that ending a human life is as easy as a fun morning dream.
Fascist Germany, violating the non-aggression pact, invaded the territory of the Soviet Union.
And in order not to end up in fascist slavery, for the sake of saving the Motherland, the people entered into a battle, into a mortal battle with an insidious, cruel and merciless enemy.
Then the Great Patriotic War for the honor and independence of our Motherland began.
Millions of people rose to defend the country.
Infantrymen and artillerymen, tankmen and pilots, sailors and signalmen - soldiers of many and many combat specialties, entire regiments, divisions of ships for the heroism of their soldiers were awarded with military orders, received honorary titles - fought and won in the war.
When the flames of war raged, together with the entire Soviet people they rose to defend the Motherland of the city and the village, the farm and the village. Anger and hatred for the vile enemy, an indomitable desire to do everything to defeat him filled the hearts of people.
Every day of the Great Patriotic War at the front and in the rear is a feat of boundless courage and resilience of the Soviet people, loyalty to the Motherland.
"Everything for the front, everything for Victory!"
In the harsh days of war, children stood next to the adults. Schoolchildren earned money for the defense fund, collected warm clothes for front-line soldiers, were on duty on rooftops during air raids, gave concerts in front of wounded soldiers in hospitals. Fascist barbarians destroyed and burned 1,710 cities and more than 70 thousand villages and villages, destroyed 84 thousand schools, displaced 25 million people.
The death camps became an ominous symbol of the bestial appearance of fascism.
In Buchenwald, 56 thousand people were killed, in Dachau - 70 thousand, in Mauthausen - more than 122 thousand, in Majdanek - the number of victims was about 1 million 500 thousand people, in Auschwitz more than 4 million people died.
If the memory of everyone who died in World War II was honored with a minute of silence, it would have taken 38 years.
The enemy did not spare either women or children.
May day 1945. Familiar and unfamiliar people hugged each other, gave flowers, sang and danced right in the streets. It seemed that for the first time, millions of adults and children raised their eyes to the sun, for the first time enjoying the colors, sounds, smells of life!
It was a common holiday for all our people, for all mankind. It was a holiday for every person. Because the victory over fascism marked the victory over death, reason over madness, happiness over suffering.
In almost every family, someone died, went missing, died of wounds.
Every year the events of the Great Patriotic War go deeper and deeper into history. But for those who fought, who drank with a full cup both the bitterness of retreat and the joy of our great victories, these events will never fade from memory, they will forever remain alive and close. It seemed that it was simply impossible to survive in the midst of a heavy fire, not to lose your mind at the sight of the death of thousands of people and monstrous destruction.
But the strength of the human spirit turned out to be stronger than metal and fire.
That is why with such deepest respect and admiration we look at those who went through the hell of war and retained the best human qualities - kindness, compassion and mercy.
66 years have passed since Victory Day. But we have not forgotten about those 1418 days and nights that the Great Patriotic War lasted.
She claimed almost 26 million Soviet lives. During these endlessly long four years our long-suffering land was washed by streams of blood and tears. And if we could gather together the bitter maternal tears shed for the lost sons, then the sea of \u200b\u200bSorrow would form, and the river of Suffering would flow from it to all corners of the planet.
The future of the planet is dear to us, the modern generation. Our task is to protect the world, to fight so that people are not killed, shots do not rattle, human blood does not flow.
The sky should be blue, the sun should be bright, warm, kind and affectionate, people's lives should be safe and happy.
Party dress
This was before the start of the war with the Nazis.
Katya Izvekova was given a new dress by her parents. The dress is smart, silk, weekend.
Katya did not have time to update the gift. War broke out. The dress is left to hang in the closet. Katya thought: the war will end, so she will put on her dress.
Fascist planes continuously bombed Sevastopol from the air.
Sevastopol went underground, into the rocks.
Military warehouses, headquarters, schools, kindergartens, hospitals, repair shops, even a cinema, even hairdressing salons - all this crashed into stones and mountains.
Sevastopol and two military factories were organized underground.
Katya Izvekova began to work at one of them. The plant produced mortars, mines, grenades. Then he began to master the production of aviation bombs for the Sevastopol pilots.
Everything was found in Sevastopol for such production: explosives and metal for the case, even fuses were found. Only one is missing. The gunpowder, with the help of which the bombs were detonated, had to be poured into bags sewn from natural silk.
They began to look for silk for the bags. We contacted various warehouses.
For one:
No natural silk.
On the second:
No natural silk.
We went to the third, fourth, fifth.
There is no natural silk anywhere.
And suddenly ... Katya appears. They ask Katya:
Well, did you find it?
Found it, - Katya answers.
Right, the girl has a package in her hands.
Unfolded Katya's package. Look: in the package - a dress. The same thing. Day off. Made from natural silk.
That's how Katya!
Thanks, Kate!
The dress was cut at the Katino factory. Sewed the bags. We filled up the gunpowder. They put bags in bombs. Bombs were sent to the pilots at the airfield.
Following Katya, other workers brought their weekend dresses to the factory. Now there are no interruptions in the work of the plant. The bomb is ready for the bomb.
The pilots rise into the sky. Bombs hit the target exactly.
Bul-bul
The battles in Stalingrad are not abating. Fascists are torn to the Volga.
Sergeant Noskov was angered by some fascist. Our trenches and the Nazis passed here side by side. Speech is heard from the trench to the trench.
The fascist sits in his hiding place, shouts out:
Rus, tomorrow is a blast!
That is, he wants to say that tomorrow the Nazis will break through to the Volga, throw the defenders of Stalingrad into the Volga.
Rus, tomorrow bul-bul. - And he clarifies: - Bul-bul at Volga.
This "bul-bul" gets on the nerves of Sergeant Noskov.
Others are calm. Some of the soldiers even chuckle. And Noskov:
Eka, damn Fritz! Show yourself. Let me see you at least.
The Nazi just leaned out. Noskov looked, the other soldiers looked. Reddish. Ospovat. Ears upright. The cap on the crown of the head miraculously keeps.
The fascist leaned out and again:
Boole-boole!
Some of our soldiers grabbed a rifle. He threw up, took aim.
Don't touch! - Noskov said sternly.
The soldier looked at Noskov in surprise. Shrugged. I put my rifle away.
Until the evening, the eared German croaked: “Rus, tomorrow bul-bul. Volga's tomorrow. "
By evening, the fascist soldier fell silent.
“I fell asleep,” they understood in our trenches. Our soldiers gradually began to doze off. Suddenly they see someone began to crawl out of the trench. They are watching - Sergeant Noskov. And behind him is his best friend, Private Turyanchik. Friends-friends got out of the trench, clung to the ground, crawled to the German trench.
The soldiers woke up. They are perplexed. Why did Noskov and Turyanchik suddenly go to visit the fascists? The soldiers look to the west, their eyes break in the dark. The soldiers began to worry.
But here someone said:
Brothers, crawling back.
The second confirmed:
So it is, they are returning.
Soldiers peered - right. Friends are crawling huddled on the ground. Not two of them. Three. The fighters took a closer look: the third soldier was fascist, the same one - "bul-bul". Only he does not creep. Noskov and Turyanchik are dragging him. Soldier's mouth gag.
Friends brought the screamer into the trench. They rested and went on to the headquarters.
However, they fled to the Volga on the road. They grabbed the fascist by the arms, by the neck, and dunked him into the Volga.
Bul-bul, bul-bul! - shouts Turyanchik mischievously.
Bul-bul, - the fascist blows bubbles. Shakes like an aspen leaf.
Do not be afraid, do not be afraid, - said Noskov. - Russian does not hit a lying person.
The soldiers handed over the prisoner to the headquarters.
Noskov waved goodbye to the fascist.
Bul-bul, - said Turyanchik saying goodbye.
Special assignment
The assignment was unusual. It was called special. The commander of the Marine Brigade, Colonel Gorpishchenko, said so:
The task is unusual. Special. - Then he asked: - Got it?
I see, Comrade Colonel, - answered the foreman-infantryman - the senior over the group of scouts.
He was summoned to the colonel alone. He returned to his comrades. I chose two to help, said:
Get ready. The task fell to us special.
However, what was special until the foreman spoke.
It was a new year, 1942. It is clear to the scouts: on such and such a night, of course, the task is super special. The scouts are following the foreman, talking:
Maybe a raid on the fascist headquarters?
Take it higher, - the foreman smiles.
Maybe we will capture the general?
Higher, higher, - the elder laughs.
The scouts crossed into the territory occupied by the Nazis at night and advanced inland. They walk carefully, stealthily.
Scouts again:
Maybe we are going to blow up the bridge like partisans?
Maybe we will sabotage at the fascist airfield?
They look at the elder. Smiling senior.
Night. Darkness. Dumbness. Deafness. Scouts are walking in the fascist rear. Descended from the steep. We climbed the mountain. We entered a pine forest. Crimean pines grabbed the stones. It smelled pleasantly of pine needles. The soldiers remembered childhood.
The foreman approached one of the pines. I walked around, looked, even felt the branches with my hand.
Is it good?
Good, the scouts say.
I saw another nearby.
This one is better?
Surrenders, better, - the scouts nodded.
Fluffy?
Fluffy.
Slim?
Slim!
Well - to the point, - said the foreman. He took out an ax and cut down a pine tree. “That's all,” said the foreman. He put a pine tree on his shoulders. - So we have completed the task.
Here are those on, - the scouts burst out.
The next day, the scouts were released to the city for a New Year's tree to the children in the underground kindergarten.
There was a pine tree. Slim. Fluffy. Balls, garlands, colorful lanterns are hanging on a pine tree.
You may ask: why a pine tree, not a tree? Trees do not grow in those latitudes. And in order to get a pine tree, it was necessary to get to the rear of the Nazis.
Not only here, but also in other places of Sevastopol, New Year trees were lit in that difficult year for children.
Apparently, not only in the brigade of marines from Colonel Gorpishchenko, but also in other units, the task for the scouts on that New Year's Eve was special.
Gardeners
It was not long before the Battle of Kursk. Replenishment arrived in the rifle unit.
The foreman walked around the fighters. Steps along the line. The corporal is walking by. Holds a pencil and notebook in his hands.
The foreman looked at the first of the fighters:
Can you plant potatoes?
The fighter was embarrassed and shrugged.
Can you plant potatoes?
I can! the soldier said loudly.
Two steps forward.
The soldier is out of order.
Write to the gardeners, - said the foreman to the corporal.
Can you plant potatoes?
Have not tried it.
I didn't have to, but if necessary ...
Enough, said the foreman.
The fighters came forward. The soldier Anatoly Skurko was also in the ranks of those who can. The soldier Skurko wonders: where are they who know how? “To plant potatoes is so late in time. (Summer is already in full swing.) If you dig it, then it's very early in time. "
Soldier Skurko wonders. And other fighters are wondering:
To plant potatoes?
Sow carrots?
Cucumbers for the staff canteen?
The sergeant major looked at the soldier.
Well then, said the foreman. - From now on you will be in miners, - and hands the mines to the soldiers.
The dashing foreman noticed that the one who knows how to plant potatoes puts mines faster and more reliably.
The soldier Skurko smiled. Other soldiers could not help smiling either.
The gardeners got down to business. Of course, not immediately, not at the same moment. Planting mines is not an easy task. The soldiers underwent special training.
For many kilometers to the north, to the south, to the west of Kursk, miners stretched minefields and barriers. On the first day of the Battle of Kursk alone, more than a hundred Nazi tanks and self-propelled guns were blown up on these fields and screens.
Miners are coming.
Well, gardeners?
Complete order in everything.
Evil last name
The soldier was ashamed of his surname. He was unlucky at birth. Trusov is his name.
War time. The surname is catchy.
Already at the military registration and enlistment office, when a soldier was drafted into the army, the first question was:
Surname?
Trusov.
How how?
Trusov.
Y-yes ... - drawn the recruiting office workers.
The fighter got into the company.
What's the last name?
Private Trusov.
How how?
Private Trusov.
Y-yes ... - drawled the commander.
The soldier took many troubles from the surname. All around jokes and jokes:
Looks like your ancestor was not a hero.
To the train with such a name!
Field mail will be brought. The soldiers will gather in a circle. The distribution of the letters arrived. Names are given:
Kozlov! Sizov! Smirnov!
It's okay. Soldiers come up, take their letters.
Will shout out:
Trusov!
The soldiers are laughing all around.
The surname does not fit with wartime somehow. Woe to the soldier with this name.
As part of his 149th Separate Rifle Brigade, Private Trusov arrived at Stalingrad. The soldiers were transported across the Volga to the right bank. The brigade entered the battle.
Well, Trusov, let's see which one of you is a soldier, - said the squad leader.
Trusov does not want to disgrace himself. He tries. Soldiers are going to attack. Suddenly from the left an enemy machine gun shot down. Trusov turned around. From the machine he gave a turn. The enemy machine gun fell silent.
Well done! - the squad leader praised the soldier.
The soldiers ran a few more steps. The machine gun hits again.
Now on the right. Trusov turned. I got close to the machine gunner. Threw a grenade. And this fascist died down.
Hero! - said the squad leader.
The soldiers lay down. They are shooting with the Nazis. The fight is over. The soldiers of the killed enemies were counted. Twenty people turned out to be at the place from which Private Trusov was firing.
Oh! - burst out from the squad leader. - Well, brother, your wicked name. Wicked!
Trusov smiled.
For his courage and decisiveness in battle, Private Trusov was awarded a medal.
The medal "For Courage" hangs on the hero's chest. Whoever meets them will squint their eyes at the award.
The first question for the soldier is now:
What was awarded for, hero?
No one will ask again for the surname. Nobody giggles now. With malice he will not quit.
From now on it is clear to the soldier: not in the name of the soldier's honor - the deeds of a person are beautiful.
Unusual operation
Mokapka Zyablov was amazed. Something incomprehensible was happening at their station. There lived a boy with his grandfather and grandmother near the town of Sudzhi in a small working village at the Lokinskaya station. He was the son of a hereditary railroad worker.
Mokapka loved to spin around the station for hours. Especially these days. Echelons come here one by one. Military equipment is brought up. Mokapka knows that our troops beat the Nazis near Kursk. Drive enemies west. Though small, but smart Mokapka sees - trains are coming here. He understands that it means that a further offensive is planned here, in these places.
Echelons are going, steam locomotives are puffing. Soldiers are unloading military cargo.
Mokapka was spinning somehow next to the tracks. He sees: a new echelon has arrived. Tanks are on platforms. A lot of. The boy began to count the tanks. Looked closely - and they are wooden. How can you fight them ?!
The boy rushed to his grandmother.
Wooden - whispers - tanks.
Really? - the grandmother threw up her hands. He rushed to his grandfather:
Wooden, grandfather, tanks. He raised his old eyes to his grandson. The boy rushed to the station. Looks: the train is going again. The composition stopped. Mokapka looked - the guns are on the platforms. A lot of. Not less than there were tanks.
Mokapka took a closer look - after all, the guns, too, are wooden! Instead of trunks - rounds stick out.
The boy rushed to his grandmother.
Wooden, - whispers, - cannons.
Really? .. - the grandmother threw up her hands. He rushed to his grandfather:
Wooden, grandfather, guns.
Something new, - said the grandfather.
A lot of incomprehensible things were going on at the station then. Somehow boxes with shells arrived. Mountains have grown of these boxes. Satisfied with Mokapka:
Ours will give the fascists great!
And suddenly he finds out: the boxes are empty at the station. “Why are such and such whole mountains ?!” - the boy wonders.
And here is something completely incomprehensible. Troops are coming here. A lot of. The column hurries after the column. They walk openly, come before dark.
The boy has an easy character. I immediately got acquainted with the soldiers. Darkness was spinning around. In the morning he runs to the soldiers again. And then he finds out: the soldiers left these places at night.
Mokapka is standing, wondering again.
Mokapka did not know that ours used military cunning under Sudzha.
Fascists are conducting reconnaissance for Soviet troops from aircraft. They see: echelons come to the station, bring tanks, bring guns.
The fascists also notice the mountains of boxes with shells. They notice that troops are moving here. A lot of. There is a column behind the column. The Nazis see how the troops are approaching, but the enemies do not know that they are leaving here unnoticed at night.
It is clear to the fascists: this is where a new Russian offensive is being prepared! Here, under the city of Suzha. They pulled the troops under the Suja, weakened their forces in other sectors. Just pulled - and then a blow! However, not under Suja. In another place, ours hit. Again they defeated the fascists. And soon they were completely defeated in the Battle of Kursk.
Vyazma
Free fields near Vyazma. Hills run towards the sky.
You couldn't throw out the words. Near the city of Vyazma, a large group of Soviet troops was surrounded by the enemy. The fascists are happy.
Hitler himself, the leader of the Nazis, calls the front:
Surrounded?
That's right, our Fuhrer, - the fascist generals report.
Have you laid down your arms?
The generals are silent.
Have you laid down your arms?
Here is a brave one found.
No. I dare to report, my Fuhrer ... - The General wanted to say something.
However, Hitler was distracted by something. The speech was interrupted in mid-sentence.
For several days, being surrounded, Soviet soldiers have been fighting stubborn battles. They chained the fascists. The fascist offensive is thwarted. Enemies got stuck near Vyazma.
Hitler calls again from Berlin:
Surrounded?
That's right, our Fuhrer, - the fascist generals report.
Have you laid down your arms?
The generals are silent.
Have you laid down your arms?
A terrible abuse rushed out of the tube.
I dare to report, my Fuhrer, - trying to say something that bold. - Our Frederick the Great also said ...
Days go by again. The battles near Vyazma do not cease. The enemies got stuck, got stuck near Vyazma.
Vyazma knits them, knits. I took it by the throat!
In a great anger Fuhrer. Another call from Berlin.
Have you laid down your arms?
The generals are silent.
Have laid down their arms ?!
No, - the brave is responsible for everyone.
A stream of bad words spattered again. The membrane danced in the tube.
The general was quiet. Waited out. I caught a minute:
I dare to report, my Fuhrer, our great, our wise King Frederick said ...
Listens to Hitler:
Well, well, what did our Frederick say?
Frederick the Great said, ”the general repeated,“ the Russians must be shot twice. And then also push, my Fuhrer, so that they fall.
The Fuhrer muttered something indistinct into the receiver. Berlin wire disconnected.
For a whole week near Vyazma, the fighting did not subside. This week was invaluable for Moscow. During these days, the defenders of Moscow managed to gather their strength and prepared convenient lines for defense.
Free fields near Vyazma. Hills run towards the sky. Here, in the fields, on the hills near Vyazma, hundreds of heroes lie. Here, defending Moscow, the Soviet people performed a great feat of arms.
Remember!
Keep the bright memory of them!
General Zhukov
General of the Army Georgy Konstantinovich Zhukov was appointed commander of the Western Front - the front, which included most of the troops defending Moscow.
Zhukov arrived at the Western Front. Staff officers report the combat situation to him.
Fights are taking place near the town of Yukhnov, near Medyn, near Kaluga.
The officers find on the Yukhnov map.
Here, - they report, - near Yukhnov, west of the city ... - and they report where and how the fascist troops are located near the city of Yukhnov.
No, no, not here they are, but here, - Zhukov corrects the officers and himself indicates the places where the fascists are at this time.
The officers looked at each other. They look at Zhukov in surprise.
Here, here, exactly in this place. Do not hesitate, says Zhukov.
The officers continue to report the situation.
Here, - they find the city of Medyn on the map, - to the north-west of the city, the enemy concentrated large forces - and they list what forces: tanks, artillery, mechanized divisions ...
So, so, right, - says Zhukov. - Only the forces are not here, but here, - Zhukov specifies on the map.
Again the officers look at Zhukov in surprise. They forgot about the further report, about the map.
The staff officers again bent over the map. They report to Zhukov what the combat situation is near the city of Kaluga.
Here, the officers say, south of Kaluga, the enemy pulled up the motorized equipment. Here at this moment they are standing.
No, - objected Zhukov. - They are not in this place now. This is where the pieces have been moved - and shows the new location on the map.
The staff officers were dumbfounded. They look at the new commander with undisguised surprise. Zhukov caught the mistrust in the eyes of the officers. He grinned.
Do not doubt. That's exactly how it is. You are great - you know the situation, Zhukov praised the staff officers. - But mine is more accurate.
It turns out that General Zhukov has already visited Yukhnov, Medyn, and Kaluga. Before going to headquarters, I went straight to the battlefield. That's where the exact information comes from.
General, and then Marshal of the Soviet Union Georgy Konstantinovich Zhukov, an outstanding Soviet commander, hero of the Great Patriotic War, took part in many battles. It was under his leadership and under the leadership of other Soviet generals that Soviet troops defended Moscow from enemies. And then in stubborn battles and defeated the Nazis in the Great Moscow Battle.
Moscow sky
This was before the start of the Moscow battle.
Hitler was dreaming in Berlin. Wondering what to do with Moscow? Suffering to make such an unusual, original. I thought, I thought ...
Hitler came up with this. I decided to flood Moscow with water. Build huge dams around Moscow. Fill the city and all living things with water.
Everything will die at once: people, houses and the Moscow Kremlin!
He closed his eyes. He sees: in place of Moscow, a bottomless sea splashes!
Descendants will remember me!
Then I thought: "Uh, while the water comes running ..."
Wait ?!
No, he does not agree to wait long.
Destroy now! This very minute!
Hitler thought, and here is the order:
Bomb Moscow! Destroy! Shells! Bombs! Send squadrons! Send armada! Leave no stone unturned! Raise it to the ground!
He threw his hand forward like a sword:
Destroy! Raise it to the ground!
That's right, to raze it to the ground, - the fascist generals froze in readiness.
On July 22, 1941, exactly one month after the start of the war, the Nazis carried out the first air raid on Moscow.
Immediately 200 planes were sent to this raid by the Nazis. The motors are humming insolently.
The pilots collapsed in their seats. Moscow is getting closer, closer and closer. The fascist pilots reached out to the bomb levers.
But what is it ?! Powerful searchlights crossed in the sky with knife-swords. Red-star Soviet fighters rose to meet the air robbers.
The Nazis did not expect such a meeting. The formation of enemies was upset. Only a few planes then broke through to Moscow. And they were in a hurry. Throwing bombs wherever it is necessary, as soon as possible to drop them and escape from here.
The harsh Moscow sky. The uninvited guest is severely punished. 22 aircraft were shot down.
Y-yes ... - drawled the fascist generals.
Thinking. Now they decided to send planes not all at once, not in a general heap, but in small groups.
The Bolsheviks will be punished!
The next day, 200 planes again fly to Moscow. They fly in small groups - three, four cars each.
And again they were met by Soviet anti-aircraft gunners, again they were driven away by red-star fighters.
For the third time, the Nazis sent planes to Moscow. Hitler's generals were not stupid and inventive. The generals came up with a new plan. The planes must be sent in three tiers, they decided. Let one group of planes fly low from the ground. The second is slightly higher. And the third - and at high altitude, and a little late. The first two groups will distract the attention of the defenders of the Moscow sky, the generals argue, and at this time, at a high altitude, the third group will approach the city imperceptibly, and the pilots will drop bombs right on target.
And here again fascist planes are in the sky. The pilots collapsed in their seats. The motors are humming. The bombs froze in the hatches.
There is a group. The second is behind her. And a little behind, at a high altitude, the third. The very last plane to fly is a special one, with cameras. He will take pictures of how the Nazi planes will be destroyed in Moscow, will bring them for show to the generals ...
The generals are waiting for news. So the first plane is returning. The motors died. The screws have stopped. The pilots came out. Pale, pale. They are barely on their feet.
Fifty planes were lost that day by the Nazis. The photographer did not return either. Knocked him down on the way.
The Moscow sky is inaccessible. It punishes its enemies severely. The insidious calculation of the fascists collapsed.
The fascists and their demoniac Fuhrer dreamed of destroying Moscow to the core, to the stone. What happened?
Red Square
The enemy is near. Soviet troops left Volokolamsk and Mozhaisk. In some sectors of the front, the Nazis approached Moscow and even closer. The battles are going on at Naro-Fominsk, Serpukhov and Tarusa.
But as always, on this dear day for all citizens of the Soviet Union, a military parade took place in Moscow, on Red Square, in honor of the great holiday.
When the soldier Mitrokhin was told that the unit in which he served would take part in the parade on Red Square, the soldiers did not believe at first. I decided that I was mistaken, misheard, misunderstood something.
Parade! - the commander explains to him. - Solemn, on Red Square.
That's right, the parade, - Mitrokhin answers. However, there is disbelief in the eyes.
And then Mitrokhin froze in the ranks. It stands in Red Square. And the troops are on his left. And the troops are on the right. Party leaders and members of the government at Lenin's Mausoleum. Everything is exactly like in the old peacetime.
Only a rarity for this day - the snow is white all around. The frost struck early today. Snow fell all night until morning. Whitewashed the Mausoleum, lay down on the walls of the Kremlin, on the square.
8 am. The hands of the clock on the Kremlin tower converged.
Chimes beat off time.
Minute. Everything was quiet. The parade commander issued the traditional report. The host of the parade congratulates the troops on the anniversary of the Great October Revolution. Everything was quiet again. Another minute. And at first, quietly, and then louder and louder, the words of the Chairman of the State Defense Committee, Supreme Commander-in-Chief of the USSR Armed Forces, Comrade Stalin, are heard.
Stalin says that it is not the first time that enemies have attacked us. That there were more difficult times in the history of the young Soviet Republic. That we met the first anniversary of the Great October Revolution with the invaders surrounded on all sides. That 14 capitalist states fought against us then and we lost three-fourths of our territory. But the Soviet people believed in victory. And they won. They will win now.
The words reach Mitrokhin at you, the whole world looks at you as a force capable of destroying the predatory hordes of German invaders.
The soldiers froze in the ranks.
The great liberation mission fell to your lot - words fly through the frost. - Be worthy of this mission!
Mitrokhin pulled himself up. The face became more severe, more serious, more severe.
The war you are waging is a war of liberation, a just war. - And after that Stalin said: - May the courageous image of our great ancestors - Alexander Nevsky, Dmitry Donskoy, Kuzma Minin, Dmitry Pozharsky, Alexander Suvorov, Mikhail Kutuzov - inspire you in this war! Let the victorious banner of the great Lenin overshadow you!
Bits are fascists. Moscow stands and blooms as before. It grows prettier from year to year.
The case at the crossing
We had one soldier in our company. Before the war, he studied at a music institute and played the button accordion so wonderfully that one of the fighters once said:
Brothers, this is an incomprehensible deception! There must be some clever mechanism hidden in this box! I would like to see ...
Please, - answered the accordionist. - I just have to glue the bellows.
And in front of everyone, he took apart the instrument.
Tyu-yu, - the soldier drawled in disappointment. - Empty, as in a spent cartridge case ...
Inside the button accordion, between two wooden boxes connected by leather accordion fur, it was really empty. Only on the side plates, where buttons-buttons are located outside, there were wide metal plates with holes of different sizes. A narrow copper petal strip is hidden behind each hole. As the fur is stretched, air passes through the holes and vibrates the copper petals. And they sound. Thin - high. Thicker - lower, and thick petals seem to sing in a bass. If the musician stretches the bellows strongly, the records sound loud. If the air is pumped weakly, the records vibrate slightly, and the music is quiet, quiet. That's all miracles!
And the fingers of our accordion player were a real miracle. He played amazingly, you won’t say anything!
And this amazing skill has helped us more than once in a difficult life at the front.
Our accordion player will raise the mood in time, and warm it in the cold - it makes you dance, and it inspires cheerfulness in the depressed, and will make you remember your pre-war happy youth: your native land, mothers and loved ones. And one day ...
One evening, by order of the command, we changed combat positions. It was ordered not to engage in battle with the Germans under any circumstances. On our way there was a not very wide, but deep river with a single ford, which we used. The commander and the radio operator remained on the other side, they were finishing the communication session. It was them that were cut off by the suddenly appeared fascist submachine gunners. And although the Germans did not know that ours were on their shore, they kept the crossing under fire, and there was no way to cross the ford. And when night fell, the Germans began to illuminate the ford with rockets. Needless to say - the situation seemed hopeless.
Suddenly our button accordion player, without saying a word, takes out his button accordion and starts playing "Katyusha".
The Germans were at first taken aback. Then they came to their senses and brought down a heavy fire on our shore. And the accordion player suddenly broke the chord and fell silent. The Germans stopped firing. Some of them yelled happily: "Rus, Rus, kaput, boyan!"
But no kaput happened to the accordion player. Luring the Germans, he crawled along the coast away from the crossing and again played the perky Katyusha.
The Germans accepted this challenge. They began to pursue the musician, and therefore left the ford without flares for several minutes.
The commander and the radio operator immediately realized why our accordion player had started a "musical" game with the Germans, and, without hesitation, slipped ford to the other side.
These are the cases that happened to our soldier-button accordion player and his friend button accordion, by the way, named in honor of the ancient Russian singer B on.
These are stories about the exploits of ordinary soldiers during the Great Patriotic War, about the exploits of pilots. Home reading stories. Stories to read at school.
Gorovets. Author: Sergey Alekseev
A squadron of Soviet fighters was completing a combat mission. Our ground units covered the pilots from the air south of Kursk. And now they were returning to their base.
Lieutenant Alexander Horovets flew last in the ranks. All is well. The motor hums regularly. The instrument arrows are frozen at the desired marks. Gorovets is flying. Knows - there is only a minute's rest ahead. Landing. Refueling. And again into the air. Aviation is not easy these days. The battle not only thunders on the ground - it has risen in floors into the air.
Horovets flies, glances over the sky, checks the ground with a glance. Suddenly he sees - planes are flying: a little behind, a little to the side. Looked closely - fascist bombers.
The pilot began to shout to his own. None of ours answered. The pilot spat in annoyance. Evil looked at the radio. Not working, the radio went off.
Fascist bombers are heading towards our ground positions. There they will bring down the deadly load.
Lieutenant Horovets thought for a second. Then he turned the plane and rushed to meet the enemies.
The pilot crashed into the fascist system. The first attack went to the host. The blow was swift. Second. Second. Hooray! The presenter flashed a candle.
Lieutenant Gorovets turned around, rushed to the second fascist. Hooray! And this one collapsed.
I rushed to the third. The third falls.
The system of the fascists was upset. Horovets attacks enemies. Again and again.
The fourth fell fascist.
The fifth broke out.
Fascists are leaving.
But that's not all. Horovets does not let go of enemies. He rushed after. Here is the eighth plane in sight. So he began to smoke like a torch. Second. Second. And the ninth plane was shot down.
The battle of the pilot Gorovets was unique, unrepeatable. Soviet pilots performed many feats in the sky. They shot down three, four, five and even six fascists in one flight. But nine! No. This was not the case. Not to Horovets. Not after. Not with us. In none of the other warring armies. Lieutenant Gorovets became a Hero of the Soviet Union.
Lieutenant Alexander Konstantinovich Gorovets did not return from flight. Already on the way back to the airfield, four fascist fighters attacked the hero.
Lieutenant Horovets was killed.
And the feat lives on. And stories about him go like reality, like a fairy tale.
Three feats.
In the spring of 1942, in heavy battles on the North-Western Front in an air battle, one of the Soviet pilots was seriously wounded, and his plane was shot down. The pilot landed on the territory occupied by the enemy. He found himself alone in the wilderness. The pilot stood facing east and began to make his way to his own. He walked through the snowdrifts, alone, without people, without food.
The sun went down and up.
And he walked and walked.
The wounds hurt. But he overcame the pain.
He walked and walked.
When his strength was gone, he continued to crawl.
Meter by meter. Centimeter by centimeter.
He didn't give up.
The sun rose and went down.
And he walked and walked.
He accomplished the feat and reached his own.
On the eighteenth day, exhausted and frostbitten, he was picked up by the partisans. He was taken to the hospital by plane. And here the most terrible thing is the inexorable verdict of doctors: an operation is necessary. The pilot is frostbitten.
The pilot lost his legs.
But the pilot wanted to fly. I wanted to keep hitting the hated enemy.
And so he accomplishes his second feat. The pilot got prostheses. He began to practice walking with crutches, and then ... without crutches.
Now he begged the doctors to allow him to board 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 in the air again.
And again training, training, countless training.
It was checked by the most picky examiners and allowed to fly.
- Only in the rear, - said the pilot.
The pilot begged to send him to the front.
The pilot begged to entrust him with the 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 very first battles, he shot down three enemy aircraft.
This pilot is known throughout the country. His name is Alexey Petrovich Maresiev. He is a Hero of the Soviet Union. A wonderful book has been written about him. Its author is the writer Boris Polevoy. "The Story of a Real Man" - this book is called.
Sofya 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 war drum, badly worn from the sides, but still strong. The 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, grandparents entered the room. In their hands they carried a round parcel wrapped in brown paper.
“Asleep,” said the grandmother.
- Well, where should we hang it? - said the grandfather, pointing to the bundle.
“Over the bed, over his bed,” whispered the grandmother.
But grandfather looked at the old war drum and said:
- No. We will hang it under the drum of our Larik. This is a good place.
They unrolled the package. And what? It contained a new yellow drum with two wooden sticks.
Grandpa hung it under a 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 closer to the wall, climbed onto it and picked up the drumsticks.
At first, he gently hit the drum with just one stick. And the drum responded cheerfully: tram-there!
Then he struck with the second stick. The drum answered even more cheerfully: tram-there-there!
What a glorious drum it was!
And suddenly the boy looked up at a large military drum. Earlier, when he did not have these strong wooden sticks, he could not even touch the big drum from the chair. And now?
The boy stood on tiptoe, reached up and hit the big drum hard with his stick. And the drum hummed in response to him quietly and sadly ...
It was a long, long time ago. Then the grandmother was still 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 player in the townships, the fastest skater, and he was also the best student.
In early spring, the workers of the city where Larik lived began to gather a detachment to go to 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 to the squad. I will also go to fight the whites.
- And how old are you? The commander asked.
- Fifteen! - Larik answered without blinking.
- What? The commander asked. And he repeated again: - What?
- 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 shiny brass rim and tight skin. Two wooden sticks were lying side by side.
Larik stopped, looked at the drum and said:
- I can play the drum ...
- Really? - the commander was delighted. - And try it!
Larik threw the drum straps over his shoulder, picked up the sticks and hit one of them on the tight top. The wand bounced off like a spring, and the drum answered with a cheerful bass:
Larik hit with another stick.
- Boom! The drum answered again,
And even then Larik began to drum with two sticks.
Wow, how they danced in his arms! They just didn't know the restraint, they just couldn't stop. They beat off such a beat that I wanted to get up, straighten up and step forward!
One or two! One or two! One or two!
And Larik remained in the detachment.
The next morning the detachment left the city. When the train moved off, Larik's merry song was heard from the open doors of the teplushka:
Bam-bar-bam-bam,
Bam-bam-bam!
In front of everyone is the drum
Commander and drummer.
The larik and the drum immediately became comrades. In the morning they woke up earlier than anyone else.
- Great, buddy! - Larik said to his drum and lightly slapped it with his palm.
- Hello! The drum buzzed in response. And they got to work.
The detachment did not even have a forge. Larik with a drum were the only musicians. In the morning they played the wake-up call:
Bam-bar-bam,
Bam-bam-bam!
Good morning,
Bam-bar-bam!
It was a glorious morning song!
When the detachment was marching, they had another song in store. Larik's hands never got tired, and the drum's voice did not stop all the way. It was easier for the soldiers to walk along the muddy autumn roads. Singing along to their drum, they walked from halt to halt, from halt to halt ...
And in the evening there was work at the drum halts too. Only for him alone, of course, it was difficult to cope.
He was just getting started:
Eh! Bam-bar-bam,
Bam-bar-bam!
More fun than all
They immediately picked up wooden spoons:
And we also hit it dexterously,
Bim-biri-bom,
Bim-biri-bom!
Then four combs entered:
We will not leave you alone,
Beam-bam, beam-bam!
And already the last began to harmonicas.
That was fun!
You could listen to such a wonderful orchestra even all night long.
But the drum and Larika had one more song. And this song was the loudest and most needed. Wherever the fighters were, they immediately recognized their drum voice from a thousand other drum voices. Yes, if necessary, Larik knew how to sound the alarm ...
Winter has passed. Spring has come again. Larik was already fifteen years old.
The Red Guard detachment returned to the city where Larik grew up. The Red Guards marched as scouts in front of a large strong army, and the enemy fled, 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 railway track.
- For a whole year I have not seen my father, mother and little sister, - said Larik to the commander. “I don’t even know if they’re alive. May I visit them? They live behind that line.
“Well, go,” said the commander.
And Larik went.
He walked and whistled barely audibly. Water gurgled underfoot in shallow spring pools. It was light from the moon. Behind Larik's back hung his comrade-in-arms - a military drum.
Do they recognize him at home? No, the little sister, of course, will not find out. He fumbled for two pink gingerbread cookies in his pocket. He had saved this present for her long ago ...
He went to the edge. How good it was here! The forest was quiet, still, all silvered by moonlight.
Larik stopped. A shadow fell from the tall spruce. Larik stood, covered by this black shadow.
Suddenly a dry branch clicked softly.
One on the right. Another on the left. Behind the back...
People came to the edge. There were many of them. They walked in a long line. Rifles at the ready. The two stopped almost next to Larik. On the shoulders of the White Guard shoulder straps. One officer said to another very quietly:
- Some of the soldiers are walking from the side of the forest. The other is along the railway line. The rest come in from the rear.
“We will enclose them in a ring and destroy them,” said the second.
And, stealthily, they passed by.
They were enemies.
Larik took a deep breath. He stood in the shadows. He was not noticed.
Larik rubbed his hot forehead with his palm. All clear. This means that some of the soldiers are coming from the forest. Others come in from the rear. Part - along the railroad bed ...
White wants to enclose their squad in a ring and destroy.
We need to run there, to our own, to the red ones. Need to warn, and as soon as possible.
But will he be in time? They can get ahead of him. They can catch him on the way ...
And Larik turned his battle drum towards him, took out wooden sticks from his belt and, swinging his arms widely, hit the drum.
It sounded like a shot, like a thousand short rounds of rifle.
The whole forest responded, hummed, drummed with a loud echo, as if a brave little drummer stood near each tree and beat a battle drum.
Larik stood under the spruce and saw how enemies rushed towards him from all sides. But he did not move. He only beat, beat, beat the drum.
This was their last song - a battle alert song.
And only when something hit Larik in the temple, and he fell, the drumsticks fell out of his hands by themselves ...
Larik could no longer see how the red fighters rushed towards the enemy with rifles at the ready, and how the defeated enemy fled both from the forest, and from the city, and from there, where the thin lines of the railroad track glittered.
In the morning the forest became quiet again. The trees, shaking off the 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.
This is what the old war drum told the boy.
The boy quietly got off the chair and tiptoed back to bed. He lay for a long time with his eyes open, and it seemed to him as if he was walking along a wide, beautiful street and pounding hard on his new yellow drum. The drum's voice is loud, bold, and together they sing their beloved
larik's song:
Bam bar-bam
Bam bar bam!
In front of everyone is the drum
Commander and drummer.
Arkady Gaidar "Hike"
Little story
At night, the Red Army soldier brought a summons. And at dawn, when Alka was still asleep, his father kissed him hard and left for the war - on the campaign.
In the morning, Alka got angry why they hadn't woken him up, and immediately announced that he wanted to go on a hike too. He probably would have screamed, cried. But quite unexpectedly, his mother allowed him to go on a campaign. And so, in order to gain strength before the road, Alka ate without a whim a full plate of porridge, drank milk. And then she and her mother sat down to prepare the camping equipment. His mother sewed pants for him, and he, sitting on the floor, cut his saber out of the board. And right there, at work, they practiced marching marches, because with such a song as "A Christmas tree was born in the forest", you can't go far. And the motive is not the same, and the words are not like that, in general, this melody is completely inappropriate for a fight.
But now it was time for the mother to go on duty at work, and they postponed their affairs until tomorrow.
And so, day after day, Alcoy was prepared for a long journey. They sewed pants, shirts, banners, flags, knitted warm stockings, mittens. There were already seven wooden sabers on the wall next to the gun and the drum. And this reserve is not a problem, for in a hot battle the life of a ringing saber is even shorter than that of a rider.
And for a long time, perhaps, it would have been possible to go on a hike to Alke, 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 was patiently waiting for the warm sun. But then the sun came back. The melted snow turned black. And if only, just start getting ready, as the bell rang. And with heavy steps, the father, who had returned from the campaign, entered the room. His face was dark, chapped, and his lips were chapped, but his gray eyes were cheerful.
He hugged his mother, of course. And she congratulated him on his victory. He, of course, kissed his son hard. Then he examined all Alkino's camping equipment. And, smiling, he ordered his son: to keep all these weapons and ammunition in perfect order, because there will be many heavy battles and dangerous campaigns ahead on this earth.
Andrey Platonov "Little Soldier"
Not far from the front line, inside the surviving station, the Red Army soldiers snored sweetly on the floor; the happiness of relaxation was etched on their weary faces.
On the second path, the boiler of a hot steam locomotive on duty quietly hissed, as if a monotonous, soothing voice was singing from a house long abandoned. But in one corner of the station, where a kerosene lamp was burning, people occasionally whispered soothing words to each other, and then they fell into silence.
There stood two majors, similar to each other, not in outward signs, but in the general kindness of wrinkled, tanned faces; each of them held the boy's hand in his own, and the child looked imploringly at the commanders. The child did not let go of the hand of one major, and then pressed his face to it, and from the hand of the other he carefully tried to free himself. The child looked about ten years old, and he was dressed like a seasoned fighter - in a gray overcoat, worn out and pressed against his body, in a cap and boots, sewn, apparently, to the size of a child's leg. His small face, thin, weather-beaten, but not emaciated, adapted and already accustomed to life, was now turned to one major; the child's bright eyes clearly bared 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 happened to be the major.
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 are parting for a short time. The boy believed him, however, the truth itself could not comfort his heart, attached to only one person and wishing to be with him constantly and close, and not far away. The child already knew what the distance of distance and the time of war is - 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, being alone, it would die. And in his last request and hope, the boy looked at the major, who must leave him with a stranger.
“Well, Seryozha, goodbye bye,” said the major whom the child loved. - You don't try to fight especially, you grow up, then you will. Do not climb on the German and take care of yourself, so that I can find you alive, whole. Why are you, what are you - hold on, soldier!
Seryozha began to cry. 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 I had left.
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 drew him to himself as best he could.
The major, who replaced the departed, admonished the silent child for a long time, but the child, true to one feeling and one person, remained aloof.
Antiaircraft guns began to hit not far from the station. The boy listened attentively to their booming dead sounds, and excited interest appeared in his gaze.
- Their scout is coming! He said quietly, as if to himself. - He walks high, and the anti-aircraft guns will not take him, a fighter must be sent there.
- They will send, - said the major. - They are watching over there.
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 laden sack. "How tired I am 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, therefore they took their only son to them so that he would live with them and grow up in the army. Seryozha was now in his tenth year; he took the war and his father's work to heart and already began to understand truly what war was for. And then one day he heard his father talking in the dugout with one officer and was worried that the Germans would definitely blow up the ammunition of his regiment when they left. The regiment had previously left the German coverage, well, with haste, of course, and left its warehouse with ammunition with the Germans, and now the regiment had to go ahead and return the lost land and its goods on it, and ammunition, too, which was needed. “They have probably brought the wire to our warehouse — they know that they will have to leave,” said the colonel, Serezha's father. Sergei listened attentively and realized what his father was concerned about. The boy knew the location of the regiment before the retreat, and so he, small, thin, cunning, crawled at night to our warehouse, cut the explosive closing wire and remained there for a whole day, a watchman, so that the Germans did not repair the damage, and if they fix it, then again cut the wire. Then the colonel drove the Germans out of there, and the whole warehouse passed into his possession.
Soon this little boy made his way to the rear of the enemy; there he recognized by signs where the command post of the regiment or battalion was, walked around the three batteries at some distance, remembered everything exactly - the memory was not tainted by anything - and when he returned home, he showed his father on the map how it was and where it was. The father thought, gave his son to the orderly for constant observation of him and opened fire on these points. Everything turned out right, the son gave him the correct serifs. He is small, this Seryozha, the enemy took him for a gopher in the grass: let him move, they say. And Seryozhka, probably, did not stir the grass, walked without a sigh.
The boy also deceived the orderly, or, so to speak, seduced him: since he took him somewhere, and together they killed a German - it is not known which of them - and Sergei found the position.
So he lived in the regiment with his father and mother and with the soldiers. The mother, seeing such a son, could no longer tolerate his uncomfortable position 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, his father's deputy, Savelyev, who had just left, that he would not go to the rear, but would rather hide in captivity to the Germans, learn from them everything he needed, and would return to his father's unit again when his mother knew him. miss you. And he would have done, perhaps, 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, the colonel, was seriously wounded, although the battle, they say, was weak, and he died two days later in a field hospital. The mother, too, fell ill, she froze - she had been mutilated by two shrapnel wounds, one was in the cavity - and a month after her husband she also died; maybe she still missed her husband ... Sergei 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 his relatives - the whole person. The boy also answered him 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 front headquarters. 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 arrives back ... And when will Volodya return and where he will be sent! Well, it will be seen there ...
Major Bakhichev dozed off and fell asleep. Seryozha Labkov was snoring in his sleep like an adult, an old man, and his face, now moving away from sorrow and memories, became calm and innocently happy, showing the image of a holy childhood, from where the war had taken him away. I also fell asleep, taking advantage of unnecessary time so that it would not be wasted.
We woke up at dusk, at the very end of a long June day. There were now two of us on three beds - Major Bakhichev and I, but Serezha Labkov was not there. The major was worried, but then decided that the boy had gone off 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 crowds of the war.
The next morning, Seryozha Labkov did not return to us either, and God knows where he went, tormented by the feeling of his childish heart for the person who left him - maybe, following him, maybe, back to his father's regiment, where the graves of his father and mother were.
Konstantin Paustovsky "Buoykeeper"
All day I had to walk along overgrown meadow roads. Only in the evening did I go out to the river, to the hut of the beacon Semyon.
The guardhouse was on the other side. I shouted to Semyon to give me the boat, and while Semyon was untiing it, rattling the chain and walking to fetch the oars, three boys approached the shore. Their hair, eyelashes and panties were straw-colored.
The boys sat down by the water, over the cliff. Immediately, swifts began to fly out from under the cliff with such a whistle, like 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 replied, and said that they were pioneers from a neighboring town, they came to the forest to work, they have been sawing firewood for three weeks now, and sometimes they come to the river to swim. Semyon transports them to the other side, to the sand.
“He’s only grumpy,” said the smallest boy. - Everything is not enough for him, everything is not enough. Do you know him?
- I know. Long.
- He is good?
- Very good.
- Only now everything is not enough for him, - the thin boy in a cap sadly confirmed. - Nothing will please him. Swears.
I wanted to ask the boys what, in the end, is not enough for Semyon, but at that time he himself rode up in a boat, got out, held out a rough hand to me and the boys and said:
- Good guys, but they don't understand much. You can 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, getting into the boat. - I told you!
Semyon rarely rowed, unhurriedly, as buoy-keepers and carriers always row on all our rivers. Such rowing does not interfere with speaking, and Semyon, an old man with many words, immediately started a conversation.
“Just don’t think,” he said to me. “They are not mad at me. I've got them so much into their heads - passion! How to cut a tree - you also need to know. Let's say which way it falls. Or how to hide, so that the butt does not kill. Now I suppose 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 youngest boy.
- Well, that's it! Only this science is not tricky. Empty science! This is not enough for a person. The other must be known.
- What? The third boy, all in freckles, asked anxiously.
- And the fact that now there is a war. You need to know about this.
- We know.
“You don’t know anything. The other day you brought me the newspaper, but what is written in it you cannot really define.
- What is it written in it, Semyon? I asked.
- I'll tell you now. Do you smoke?
We rolled the paper over a crumpled tobacco cigarette. 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 it right?
- Correctly.
- And what is it - love for the homeland? So ask them, boys. And to see that they do not know anything.
The boys were offended:
- We don’t know!
- And if you know, explain it to me, you old fool. Wait, don't jump out, let me finish. For example, you go into battle and think: "I am going for my native land." So tell me: what are you going for?
“I'm going for a free life,” said the little boy.
- Not enough of this. You can't live one free life.
“For their cities and factories,” said the freckled boy.
“To my school,” said the boy in the cap. - And for their people.
“And for your people,” said the little boy. - So that he has a working and happy life.
“You’re all right,” said Semyon, “but this is not enough for me.
The boys looked at each other and frowned.
- Offended! - said Semyon. - Oh, you judges! And, say, you don't want to fight for a quail? Protect him from ruin, from death? AND?
The boys were silent.
“So I see that you don’t understand everything,” Semyon began. - And I must, old, explain to you. And I have enough of my own: to check the buoys, hang tags on the posts. I also have a delicate matter, a state matter. Because - this river is also trying to win, carries steamers, and I seem to be a pestun with it, as a guardian, so that everything is in good order. This is how it turns out that all this is correct - freedom, cities, and, say, rich factories, and schools, and people. So it is not for this alone that we love our native land. Not for one thing, is it?
- And what else? The freckled boy asked.
- Listen. So you walked here from the Laskovo forest along the broken road to Lake Tish, and from there through meadows to the Island and here to me, to the ferry. Wasn't he walking?
- Here you go. Did you look at your feet?
- I looked.
- And to see something and did not see. But we ought to have a look, but notice, and stop more often. Stop, bend over, pick any flower or grass - and move on.
- And then, that in every such grass and in every such flower there is great beauty. Take clover, for example. You call it Kashka. 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 her with a boot. And the lungwort? Or dream grass. She sleeps at night, bends her head, grows heavy with dew. Or bought. You probably don't know her. The leaf is wide, hard, and under it flowers are like white bells. You are about to touch - and they will ring. That's it! This plant is inflow. It heals the disease.
- What does supply mean? The boy in the cap asked.
- Well, medicinal or something. Our disease is bone aches. From dampness. The pain subsides from the purchase, you sleep better and work becomes easier. Or calamus. I sprinkle them on the floors in the gatehouse. Come to me - my air is Crimean. Yes! Here go, look, take note. There is a cloud over the river. You don't know that; and I hear - it pulls a rain from him. Mushroom rain - spurious, not very noisy. This rain is worth more than gold. From him the river warms up, the fish plays, he grows all our wealth. I often, in the late afternoon, sit at the gatehouse, weaving baskets, then I will look back and forget about all sorts of baskets - what is this! A cloud in the sky stands of hot gold, the sun has already left us, and there, above the ground, it still glows with warmth, glows with light. And it will go out, and the corncrake will begin to creak in the grasses, and the jerks will pull, and the quails will whistle, and then, you see, 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. That's it, guys! You will look at all this and think: we have not enough life allotted, we have to live two hundred years - and that will not be enough. Our country is so lovely! For this charm, we also have to fight with the enemies, protect it, protect it, not let it be defiled. Am I correct? All make noise, "homeland", "homeland", but here it is, homeland, behind the haystacks!
The boys were silent, thoughtful. Reflecting in the water, the heron flew slowly.
- Eh, - said Semyon, - people are going to war, but we, the old ones, have been forgotten! You shouldn't have forgotten, believe me. The old man is a strong, good soldier, his blow is very serious. They would have let us, old people, - here the Germans would also scratch themselves. “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 people you will lose the last ports. This, brother, are you kidding! "
The boat hit its bow on the sandy shore. Little sandpipers hurriedly ran away from her along the water.
- That's it, guys, - said Semyon. - Again, I suppose you will complain about grandfather - everything is not enough for him. Some kind of incomprehensible grandfather.
The boys laughed.
“No, understandable, completely understandable,” said the little boy. - Thank you, grandfather.
- Is this for transportation or for something else? - Semyon asked and narrowed his eyes.
- For something else. And for the transportation.
- Well, that's it!
The boys ran to the sand spit to swim. Semyon looked after them and sighed.
“I’m trying to teach them,” he said. - Teach respect to the native land. Without this, a person is not a person, but rubbish!
Vladimir Zheleznikov "In an old tank"
He was 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 - apparently, it was a battle tank, and he
so I didn't want to leave him right away. I put the suitcase near the track, climbed onto the tank, tried the tower hatch to see if it opened. The hatch opened easily.
Then he climbed inside and sat in the driver's seat. It was a narrow, cramped place, he barely got there without habit, and even when he climbed, he scratched his hand.
He pressed the gas pedal, touched 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 all this was so unusual for him that he did not even hear how someone approached the tank, climbed onto it and bent over the tower. And then he raised his head, because the one above had blocked his light.
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 here one of his comrades, with whom he could play, and here on you, an adult stranger.
The boy already wanted to tell him something sharp, that, they say, there was nothing to climb into someone else's tank, but then he saw the eyes of this man and saw that his fingers trembled a little when he raised the cigarette to his lips, and said nothing.
But it is impossible to be silent without end, and the boy asked:
- Why are you here?
“Nothing,” he replied. - I decided to sit. And what not?
- You can, - said the boy. - Only this tank is ours.
- Whose is yours? - he asked.
“The guys in our yard,” said the boy.
They were silent again.
- Will you sit here for a long time? - asked the boy.
- I'll be leaving soon. He looked at his watch. “I'm leaving your city in an hour.
“Look, it's raining,” the boy said.
- 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 raining, otherwise I would have to leave. And he could not leave yet, something kept him in this tank.
The boy somehow nestled 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 raised his eyes, he saw his neighbor quickly turn away.
“Actually, old frontline tanks are my weakness,” he said.
“This tank is a good thing. The boy expertly patted the armor with his palm. - They say he liberated our city.
“My father was a tanker in the war,” he said.
- And now? - asked the boy.
“And now he's gone,” he replied. - Didn't come back from the front. In 1943 he disappeared without a trace.
It was almost dark in the tank. A thin strip made its way through a narrow viewing slot, and then the sky was covered with a thundercloud and 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. And it is not known how he died.
- Can't even this be found out? - the boy was surprised. - He was not alone there.
“Sometimes it doesn't work,” he said. - And the tankers are brave guys. For example, there was a guy sitting here during a battle: there is nothing to the world, you can see the whole world only through this gap. And enemy shells hit the armor. I've seen the potholes! The head could burst from the impact of these shells on the tank.
Thunder struck somewhere in the sky, and the tank rang dully. The boy shuddered.
- Are you afraid? - he asked.
“No,” the boy replied. - This is from surprise.
“I recently read about a tanker in the newspaper,” 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 general, he was captured. And suddenly one day he was put in a car and brought to an artillery range. At first the tanker did not understand anything: he saw there was 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 pass the entire range on it, sixteen kilometers, and our soldiers will shoot at you from cannons. If you drive the tank to the end, then you will live, and personally I will give you freedom. Well, if you don't cheat, you will die. In general, war is like war. "
And he, our tanker, is still quite young. Well, maybe he was twenty-two. Now these guys still go to institutes! And he stood in front of the general, an old, thin, long as a stick, a fascist general, who did not care about this tanker and did not care that he had lived so little that his mother was waiting for him somewhere - it did not matter. It's just that this fascist really liked the game he came up with with this Soviet one: he decided to test a new sighting device on anti-tank guns on a Soviet tank.
"Have you chickened out?" The general asked.
The tanker did not answer, turned and walked towards 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 to him, when he breathed in the familiar, familiar smell of engine oil, his head was spinning with happiness. And, believe me, he cried. He burst into tears with joy, he never dreamed that he would sit in his favorite tank again. That will again be on a small piece, on a small island of the dear, sweet Soviet land.
For a minute, the tanker bowed his head and closed his eyes: he remembered the distant Volga and the high city on the Volga. But then they gave him a signal: they launched a rocket. This means: went ahead. He was in no hurry, carefully looked into the viewing slot. Nobody, the officers hid in the ditch. He carefully pressed 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 to failure forward, the second back, full throttle, and suddenly the tank spun like mad in place at one hundred and eighty degrees - for this maneuver he always received an A to the school - and suddenly rushed swiftly towards the hurricane fire of this battery.
“War is like war! He suddenly shouted to himself. “That’s what your general said.” He jumped with a tank on these enemy guns and scattered them in different directions.
Not a bad start, he thought. "Not bad at all."
Here they are, the Nazis, very close, but it is protected by armor, forged by skilled blacksmiths in the Urals. No, now they can't take it. War is like war!
He again made his famous turn and nestled to the observation slot: the second battery fired a volley at the tank. And the tanker threw the car aside; making turns to the right and left, he rushed forward. Once again, the entire battery was destroyed. And the tank was already rushing on, and the guns, forgetting all order, began to lash shells at the tank. But the tank was like a madman: it was spinning like a top on one or the other track, changing direction and crushing these enemy guns. It was a glorious fight, a very fair fight. And the tankman 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 headed east at high speed. German rockets flew after him, demanding to stop. The tanker did not notice anything. Only to the east, his path led to the east. Only to the east, at least a few meters, at least a few tens of meters towards the distant, dear, dear land ...
- And he was not caught? - asked the boy.
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 tanker, 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 is 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 invented this whole game. He was led across the range to a group of officers by two machine gunners. His tunic was torn apart. He walked along the green grass of the polygon and saw a field daisy under his feet. He bent down and tore it off. And then all the fear really left him. He suddenly became himself: a simple Volga boy, small in stature, well, like our astronauts. The general shouted something in German, and a lone shot rang out.
- Maybe it was your father ?! - asked the boy.
“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 will now make every effort to find out who this tanker was, and maybe it really turns out to be his father. He will raise his entire courtyard for this business, why is there a courtyard - his entire class, but that there is a class - his entire school!
They parted in different directions.
The boy ran to the guys. He ran and thought about this tanker and thought that he would find out everything about him, and then write to this man ...
And then the boy remembered that he did not recognize either the name or the address of this man, and almost cried out of resentment. Well, what can you do ...
And the man walked with a broad step, swinging his suitcase as he walked. He did not notice anyone and nothing, walked and thought about his father and the boy's words.
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 is very, very cheerful.
It's so good that he has 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 marks 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. - Recently, I have not been called at all.
And on Sunday morning everything was open. Mom climbed into my portfolio, took the diary and saw two.
“Yuri,” she said. - What does it mean?
“It’s by accident,” I replied. - The teacher called me in the last lesson, when Sunday almost began ...
- 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 she was in a very bad mood. I sat in my room and did not 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 a textbook on arithmetic. But before I could open it, someone called.
I thought that dad finally came. But on the threshold stood a tall, broad-shouldered stranger.
- Does Nina Vasilievna live here? - he asked.
“Here,” I replied. - Only mom is not at home.
- May I wait? - He held out his hand to me: - Sukhov, friend of your mother.
Sukhov went into the room, leaning heavily on his right leg.
“It's a pity, Nina isn't there,” said Sukhov. - How does she look? Is it still the same?
It was unusual for me that a stranger called my mother Nina and asked if she was the same or not. And what else can it be?
We were silent.
- And I brought her a photograph. I promised for a long time, but I brought it only now. Sukhov reached into his pocket.
The photograph showed a girl in a military suit: in soldiers' boots, in a tunic and a skirt, but without a weapon.
“Senior sergeant,” I said.
- Yes. Senior sergeant of the medical service. Haven't you met?
- No. I see it for the first time.
- How? Sukhov was surprised. - And this, my brother, is not an ordinary person. If not for her, I wouldn't be sitting with you now ...
We had been silent for about ten minutes, and I felt uncomfortable. I've noticed that adults always offer tea when they have nothing to say. I said:
- Would you like some tea?
- Tea? No. I'd rather tell you a story. It is good for you to know her.
- About this girl? - I guessed.
- Yes. About this girl. - And Sukhov began to tell: - It was during the war. I was badly 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 out of the battlefield and taken by bus to the hospital.
And then the enemy began to bomb the road. The driver in the front car was wounded and all the cars stopped. When the Nazi planes flew away, this very girl got on the bus, - Sukhov pointed to the photograph, - and said: "Comrades, get out of the car."
All the wounded got to their feet and began to leave, helping each other, hurrying, because somewhere not far away the roar of returning bombers was already heard.
I was left alone on the lower hanging bunk.
“Why are you lying? Get up now! - she said. "Hear, enemy bombers are returning!"
“Don't you see? I am seriously injured and cannot get up, ”I replied. - Come on, you yourself quickly from here.
And then the bombing began again. They bombed with special bombs, with a siren. I closed my eyes and pulled a blanket over my head so as not to damage the windows of the bus, which were shattered by the explosions. In the end, the blast wave knocked the bus on its side and hit me with something heavy on the shoulder. In the same second, the howling of falling bombs and explosions stopped.
"Are you in great pain?" - I heard and opened my eyes.
A girl was squatting in front of me.
“Our chauffeur was killed,” she said. - We need to get out. They say the Nazis broke through the front. All have already left on foot. Only we stayed. "
She pulled me out of the car and laid me on the grass. She got up and looked around.
"Nobody?" I asked.
“Nobody,” she replied. Then she lay down next to her, face down. "Now try to turn on your side."
I turned around and felt very sick with stomach pain.
“Lie on your back again,” the girl said.
I turned around and my back lay tight against hers. 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 got up and looked around again. "No one is like in the desert."
At this time, an airplane emerged from behind the forest, flew over us and gave a burst. I saw a gray trickle of dust from the bullets ten meters away from us. She went above my head.
Run! I shouted. "He'll turn around now."
The plane was heading towards us again. The girl fell. Whoo, whoo, whoo whistled again next to us. The girl raised her head, but I said:
“Don't move! Let him think that 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 round, missed again and flew away.
“He flew away,” I said. - Mazila.
“Here, brother, what girls are,” said Sukhov. “One wounded man took a picture of her for me. And we parted. I am to the rear, she is back to the front.
I took a photo and started looking. And suddenly I recognized this girl in a military suit as my mother: my mother's eyes, my mother's nose. Only mom was not the same as now, but quite a girl.
- Is that mom? I asked. - Was it my mom who saved you?
“Exactly,” answered 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’s not home,” I said.
- Where is she?
“I don’t know, she’s gone somewhere.
“It's strange,” Dad said. - It turns out that I was in a hurry.
“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. They sat down and were silent.
- And Comrade Sukhov told me how he and his mother were at the front.
- Yes? - Dad looked at Sukhov. - It's a pity, Nina is not. Now I would have fed him lunch.
“Lunch is nonsense,” Sukhov replied. - It's a pity that Nina is not there.
For some reason, my father's conversation with Sukhov did not work out. Sukhov soon got up and left, promising to come back another time.
- Will you have lunch? I asked dad. - Mom told me to have dinner, she will not come soon.
“I’m not going to dine without Mom,” Dad said, angry. - I could sit at home on Sunday!
I turned and walked into another room. Ten minutes later, dad came to me.
- I do not know. I dressed in a festive way and left. Maybe the theater, I said, or get a job. She said for a long time that she was tired of sitting at home and looking after us. We don't appreciate it anyway.
“Nonsense,” Dad said. - 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 that Sukhov had left and began to look at it.
- So, so, in a festive way, - dad repeated sadly. - What kind of photo do you have? - he asked. - Why, it's mom!
- That's right, Mom. Comrade Sukhov left this. Mom pulled him out from under the bombing.
- Sukhova? Our mother? Dad shrugged. - But he is twice as tall as mom and three times heavier.
- Sukhov himself told me. - And I repeated the story of this mom's photo to my dad.
- Yes, Yurka, we have a wonderful mother. And you and I do not appreciate it.
“I appreciate,” I said. - Only sometimes it happens to me ...
- So I don't appreciate it? Dad asked.
“No, you appreciate it too,” I said. - Only you, too, sometimes ...
Dad walked around the rooms, opened the front door several times and listened to if Mom was coming back.
Then he took the photograph again, turned it over and read aloud:
“To a dear medical sergeant on her birthday. From fellow soldier Andrey Sukhov. " Wait, wait, said Dad. - What date is it today?
- Twenty first!
- Twenty first! Mom's birthday. This was not enough yet! - Dad grabbed his head. - How did I forget? And she, of course, was offended and left. And you are good - 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 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 spreading lime tree and talking to an old woman.
I immediately guessed that my mother did not go anywhere. She was just offended by her dad and me for her birthday and left.
I ran home and shouted:
- Dad, I saw mom! She sits in our park and talks with an unfamiliar old woman.
- Aren't you wrong? - said dad. - Bring the razor briskly, I'll shave. Get out my new suit and clean my shoes. 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 flowers on the street?
“I haven’t seen it,” I replied.
“It's amazing,” Dad said. “You never notice anything.
It’s strange for my dad: I found my 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 square. But when dad saw mom, he immediately slowed down.
- You know, Yurka, - said dad, - for some reason I am worried and feel guilty.
“Why worry,” I replied. - Let's ask my mother for forgiveness, and that's it.
- How simple everything is. - Daddy took a deep breath, as if he was about to lift some weight, and said: - Well, go ahead!
We entered the square, walking toe-to-toe. We approached our mother.
She looked up and said:
- Well, finally.
The old woman who was sitting with my mother looked at us, and my mother added:
- These are my men.
Vasil Bykov "Katyusha"
The bombardment lasted all night - now weakening, it seems even stopping for a few minutes, then suddenly flaring up with renewed vigor. Mostly mortars were hit. Their mines with a shrill screech cut the air at the very zenith of the sky, the screeching gained maximum strength and was cut off by a sharp deafening explosion in the distance. They beat mostly in the rear, in the neighboring village, it was there that the screeching of mines rushed in the sky, and there the reflections of the explosions flashed every now and then. Right there, on the grassy hillock, where the submachine gunners had dug in in the evening, it was a little quieter. But this is probably because, thought the platoon commander Matyukhin, that the submachine gunners had occupied this hill, consider it at dusk, and the Germans had not yet found them here. However, they will find that their eyes are sharp-sighted, the optics too. Until midnight Matyukhin walked from one submachine gunner to another - forced to dig in. The submachine gunners, however, did not really lean on their shoulder blades - they ran over in a day and now, turning the collars of their greatcoats, they were preparing to go to the beach. But, it seems, have already run away. The offensive seemed to fizzle out, yesterday they took only a completely destroyed, burned-down village and settled on this hill. The authorities also stopped urging them on: no one came to them at night - neither from the headquarters, nor from the political department - during the week of the offensive, everyone was probably also exhausted. But the main thing is that the artillery fell silent: either they transferred it somewhere, or they ran out of ammunition. Yesterday the regimental mortars fired for a short time and fell silent. In the autumn field and the sky covered with dense clouds, German mines only squealed at all voices, with a bang, and their machine guns fired from afar, from the fishing line. From the sector of the neighboring battalion, our "maxims" sometimes answered them. The submachine gunners were more silent. Firstly, it was a bit far away, and secondly, they took care of the cartridges, of which God knows how many also remained. The hottest ones have one disc per machine. The platoon commissar hoped that they would give them a lift at night, but they didn’t, they must have fallen behind, got lost or got drunk on the rear, so now all hope remained with ourselves. And what will happen tomorrow - only God knows. Suddenly a German tramples on - what to do then? Fighting back with a bayonet and butt like Suvorov? But where is the submachine gunners' bayonet, and the stock is too short.
Overcoming the autumn cold, in the morning kimarnul Matyukhin in his hole-trench and platoon commander. 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 splinter of a German mine nevertheless cut him right across his belly; intestines fell out, it is not known whether the lieutenant will be rescued in the hospital. Last summer, Matyukhin was also wounded in the stomach, but not by a shrapnel - by a bullet. I also suffered pain and fear, but somehow dodged the koshchava. 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 back, and an hour later he was already in the medical battalion. And if like this, with the intestines dropped out, to drag across the field, every now and then falling under the ruptures ... The poor lieutenant has not yet lived twenty years.
That is why Matyukhin is so restless, he must watch everything himself, command a platoon and run on calls to the authorities, report and make excuses, listen to his obscene swearing. And nevertheless fatigue overcame anxiety and all worries, the senior sergeant dozed off to the screeching and explosions of mines. It's good that a young energetic submachine gunman Kozyr managed to dig in next to him, to whom the platoon commissar ordered to watch 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.
Imperceptibly falling asleep, Matyukhin saw himself as if at home, as if he had dozed off on the heap from some strange fatigue, and as if a neighboring pig with its cold snout was poking at his shoulder - was he going to catch it with his teeth. From an unpleasant sensation, the platoon commander woke up and immediately felt that, in fact, someone was shaking him hard, probably waking him up.
- What?
- Look, comrade platoon commander!
In the gray dawn sky, Kozyra's narrow-shouldered silhouette bent over the trench. The submachine gunner looked, however, not in the direction of the Germans, but in the rear, clearly interested in something there. Having habitually shaken off the morning sleepy chill, Matyukhin got up on his knees. On a hillock beside it, the bulky silhouette of a car with a slanting top, near which people fussed in silence, darkened.
- "Katyusha"?
Matyukhin understood everything and silently swore to himself: it was the Katyusha who was preparing for a salvo. And where did it come from here? To his submachine gunners?
- From now they will ask nemchure! From will ask! - Kozyra rejoiced like a child.
Other fighters from the nearby trenches, also, apparently, interested in the unexpected neighborhood, climbed to the surface. Everyone watched with interest as the gunners scurried about near the car, apparently setting up their famous salvo. "Damn them, with their volley!" - the platoon commissar got nervous, already well aware of the price of these volleys. Who knows what benefit, you won't see much beyond the field in the forest, but the alarms, look, they will cause ... Meanwhile, over the field and the forest that had darkened ahead, it began to gradually dawn. The gloomy sky above cleared, a fresh autumn wind was blowing, apparently gathering for rain. The platoon commissar knew that if the Katyushas worked, it would rain. Finally, there, near the car, the bustle seemed to have subsided, everyone seemed to stand still; several people ran away, behind the car, the muffled words of the artillery team were heard. And suddenly in the air overhead there was a sharp screeching, buzzing, grunting, fiery tails with a crash hit the ground behind the machine, rockets puffed over the heads of the machine gunners and disappeared in the distance. The clouds of dust and smoke, swirling in a tight white whirlwind, enveloped the Katyusha, part of the nearby trenches, and began to creep along the slope of the hillock. The rumble in my ears had not yet subsided when they had already given orders - this time with a sonorous, unhidden, with an 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 crept down the hill towards the village. At the same time ahead, behind the field and fishing line, there was a threatening crash - a series of rolling, prolonged echoes shook space for a minute. Black smoke slowly rose into the sky above the forest.
- Oh it gives, oh it gives the damned nemchure! - Kozyr's submachine gunner beamed with a young snub-nosed face. Others, having climbed to the surface or stood up in the trenches, watched with admiration the unprecedented spectacle of the field. Only the platoon commander Matyukhin, as if petrified, was kneeling in a shallow trench and, as soon as the rumble over the field broke off, he shouted with all his might:
- Take cover! Take cover, your mother! Kozyr, what are you ...
He even jumped to his feet to get out of the trench, but did not have time. One could hear a single explosion or a shot clicked somewhere behind the forest, and in the sky discordant howled, crackled ... Sensing danger, the submachine gunners, like peas from the table, poured into their trenches. In the sky howled, shook, rumbled. The first volley of German six-barreled mortars lay in flight, closer to the village, the other - closer to the hillock. And then everything around was mixed up in a continuous dusty mess of ruptures. Some of the mines burst closer, others farther, in front, behind and between the trenches. The entire hillock turned into a fiery-smoky volcano, which was carefully pushed, dug, shoveled by German mines. Stunned, covered with earth, Matyukhin writhed in his trench, fearfully waiting for when ... When, when? But this was when everything did not come, and the explosions gouged, shook the earth, which seemed to be about to split to the full depth, collapsing by itself and carrying everything else along with it.
But somehow everything gradually calmed down ...
Matyukhin looked out cautiously - first forward, into the field - aren't they going? No, it seems they haven't gone from there yet. Then he looked to the side, at the recent line of his submachine gunner platoon, and did not see him. The entire hillock was gaping with holes-funnels between the heap of clay blocks, clods of earth; sand and earth covered the grass around as if it had never been here. Not far off, Kozyra's long body was spread out, which, apparently, did not have time to reach his saving trench. The head and upper part of his body were covered with earth, his legs also, only polished metal joints glittered on the heels of his boots that were not yet trampled ...
- Well, it helped, it's called, - said Matyukhin and did not hear his own voice. A trickle of blood trickled down his dirty cheek from his right ear.
The Brest Fortress stands on the border. It was attacked by the Nazis on the very first day of the war.
Fascists could not take the Brest Fortress by storm. We walked around her to the left, to the right. She remained with the enemies in the rear.
The fascists are advancing. The battles are going on near Minsk, near Riga, near Lvov, near Lutsk. And there, in the rear of the Nazis, the Brest Fortress is fighting.
Difficult for heroes. Bad with ammunition, bad with food, especially bad with water for the defenders of the fortress.
All around the water - the Bug River, the Mukhovets River, branches, channels. There is water all around, but there is no water in the fortress. Water under fire. A sip of water is dearer than life here.
- Water! - rushes over the fortress.
There was a daredevil, rushed to the river. He rushed and immediately collapsed. The soldier was killed by the enemies. Time passed, another brave one rushed forward. And he died. The third replaced the second. The third was also dead.
A machine gunner lay not far from this place. I was scribbling, scribbling a machine gun, and suddenly the line was cut off. 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 cover was empty. I looked to where the Bug was, where the ducts were. Looked left, right.
- Eh, was not.
He crawled to the water. He crawled on his bellies, snake to the ground. He is getting closer to the water, closer. Right next to the shore. The machine gunner grabbed his helmet. Scooped up, like a bucket, water. Again creeping back like a snake. Closer to our own, closer. That's right next to it. His friends picked him up.
- I brought some water! Hero!
The soldiers are looking at the helmet, at the water. Thirsty in the eyes. They do not know that the machine gunner brought water for the machine gun. They are waiting, and suddenly a soldier will treat them - at least a mouthful.
The machine-gunner looked at the soldiers, at his dry lips, at the heat in his eyes.
- Come, - said the machine gunner.
The soldiers stepped forward, but suddenly ...
“Brothers, it wouldn't be for us, but for the wounded,” a voice rang out.
The fighters stopped.
- Of course, wounded!
- Right, take it to the basement!
Soldiers sent the soldier to the basement. He brought water to the basement where the wounded lay.
- Brothers, - said, - voditsa ...
- Get it, - he handed the soldier a mug.
The soldier was reaching for the water. I already took a mug, but suddenly:
“No, not me,” the soldier said. - Not for me. Bring the children, darling.
The fighter brought water to the children. And I must say that in the Brest Fortress, along with adult soldiers, there were women and children - the wives and children of military personnel.
The soldier went down to the basement where the children were.
- Come on, - the fighter turned to the guys. - Come, stand, - and, like a magician, he takes out his helmet from behind.
The guys are watching - there is water in the helmet.
Children rushed to the water, to the soldier.
The soldier took a mug and carefully poured it on the bottom. Looks at who to give. He sees a kid with a pea next to him.
- On, - held out to the kid.
The kid looked at the fighter, at the water.
“To the folder,” the kid said. - He's there, he shoots.
- Yes, drink, drink, - the soldier smiled.
- No, - the boy shook his head. - Folder. - I never drank a sip of water.
And others refused after him.
The fighter returned to his own. He talked about the children, about the wounded. He gave the helmet with water to the machine gunner.
The machine gunner looked at the water, then at the soldiers, at the soldiers, at his friends. He took the helmet and poured water into the metal casing. He revived, earned, shot a machine gun.
The machine gunner covered the soldiers with fire. The daredevils were found again. To the Bug, towards death, they crawled. The heroes returned with water. They gave the children and the wounded to drink.
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.
Fascists are waiting - just about, and people will ask for mercy. Just about, a white flag will appear.
Waited, waited - the flag was not visible. Nobody asks for mercy.
The battles for the fortress did not stop for thirty-two days. “I am dying, but I am not giving up. Goodbye, Motherland! " - wrote on the wall with a bayonet one of its last defenders.
These were the 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 you freeze for a minute, reader. And you bow low to the heroes.
War is marching with fire. The earth is burning with misfortune. In a vast area from the Baltic to the Black Sea, a grandiose battle with the Nazis unfolded.
The fascists attacked in three directions at once: to Moscow, Leningrad and Kiev. A deadly fan was dismissed.
Liepaja is a port of the Latvian Soviet Republic. One of the fascist strikes was directed here, to Liepaja. Enemies believe in easy success:
- Liepaja is in our hands!
Fascists are advancing from the south. They walk along the sea - a straight road. Fascists are coming. Here is the village of Rutsava. Here is Lake Papes. Here is the river Bart. The city is getting closer and closer.
- Liepaja is in our hands!
They are coming. Suddenly a terrible fire blocked the road. The fascists stopped. The fascists entered the battle.
They fight, they fight, they just can't break through. Enemies from the south cannot break through to Liepaja.
The fascists then changed the direction. The city is now bypassed from the east. We went around. The city is smoking in the distance.
- Liepaja is in our hands!
As soon as they went on the attack, Liepaja bristled again with a flurry of fire. The 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 fascists stopped. The fascists entered the battle.
They fight, they fight, they just can't break through. The fascists will not advance here, from the east either.
- Liepaja is in our hands!
However, here, in the north, the brave defenders of Liepaja blocked the way for the Nazis. Fights against the enemy of Liepaja.
The day goes by.
The second pass.
Still others. The fourth is running out.
Does not give up, Liepaja is holding on!
Only when the shells ran out, there were no cartridges - the defenders of Liepaja retreated.
The fascists entered the city.
- Liepaja is in our hands!
But the Soviet people were not reconciled. They went underground. They went to the partisans. A bullet awaits the Nazis at every step. The whole division is kept by the fascists in the city.
Liepaja is fighting.
Liepaja's enemies remembered for a long time. If they have a failure in something, they said:
- Liepaja!
We have not forgotten Liepaja either. If someone stood firm in battle, if someone was extremely courageous with the enemies, and the fighters wanted to celebrate this, they said:
- Liepaja!
Even having fallen into slavery by 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 plane on a combat mission. The plane was large, twin-engine. Bomber.
The plane went out to the intended target. Bombed. Completed a combat mission. Turned around. I began to go home.
And suddenly a shell burst from behind. It was the Nazis who opened fire on the Soviet pilot. The worst thing happened, the shell pierced the gas tank. The bomber caught fire. Flame ran along the wings, along the fuselage.
Captain Gastello tried to bring down the fire. He turned the plane abruptly onto the wing. Made the car kind of fall on its side. This position of the aircraft is called sliding. The pilot thought that the flame would go astray, the flame would die down. However, the car continued to burn. Dumped Gastello bomber on the second wing. The fire does not disappear. The plane is on fire, it is losing altitude.
At this time, a fascist convoy was moving under the plane below: tanks with fuel in the convoy, cars. The Nazis raised their heads, watching the Soviet bomber.
A collection of articles and materials dedicated to the village of Lyubosch and the places around it
LITTLE STORIES 0 BIG WAR
The world has died down long ago,
not one, even two worlds.
But, closing the textbooks,
i grieve not for the dead, but for the living.
I believe the medical genius will cope
with cancer, with any pestilence ulcer.
But will someone write a tutorial
after the third world war?
Much has been written about the war. Much has been written against the war. But the wars continue. Maybe because they continue in our hearts, in our thoughts?
In any war, one way or another, everyone is always involved. Especially in world wars. Especially in the last Second World War, most of all is written about the Second World War. Many children of this war are still alive. It still continues in them, in their deep memory. It continues in me. I dedicate these little stories to the children of the Second World War.
Oryol region. An occupation. Places that we associate with the Oryol-Kursk battle. Big village. Now she's gone. It was not destroyed by the invaders, but by the Russian reformers of the 60s and 80s. I am 5 years old. Our hut is extreme. Stands on a great (so it seemed in childhood) grief. A hut of two halves, on one animal, on the other - us. Doors (through) in the middle of the hut. I return in the afternoon from somewhere under the mountain. I approach the hut from the human side. A German is standing at the front door. He raises the rifle. And aims at me. Now he will shoot. In a second. And I will be gone. I'm running away. Round the corner and go out from the opposite side of the hut. The German is already standing there and again aiming at me. If it aims, then it will shoot. I have no way out. The end! But there is no shot. I run downhill and huddle under the mountain into a deep dark hole from where they took the clay. And before my eyes there is a German aiming at me ... I don't remember how long I sat in this clay pit, not moving. Grandpa found me there already after dark.
When this picture pops up in my memory, I always think - how many children were there, at whom all the guns and weapons of war were aiming then! And how many hammers were pulled! And how many murder weapons are now directed at children! In principle, it is directed to the childhood of humanity, for humanity begins from childhood. Kill childhood - kill humanity! How many children are being killed every day now? Are there such statistics? Maybe the UN knows these statistics? They kill someone's childhood, so they kill me too. They kill me every day. They continue to kill the childhood in me.
I walk through a summer meadow. If you only knew how beautiful the meadows in the Oryol region are at the time of herbage. What many herbs, many colors, what smells, colors! I am walking through this beautiful meadow. I'm a careless kid. Childhood is characterized by carelessness, that is, freedom, unconcern. Childhood has always focused its attention primarily on beauty, to the beauty around it. It's so natural.
I walk, careless, through a beautiful meadow. And from somewhere, from some heavenly space, an airplane appears. First comes the sound of this plane. Already in this very sound - hostility. I turn around. The plane is flying low-low. He approaches me. He's above me. There are two of us in the whole space of the sky and meadow - the plane and me. The plane needs me. My whole being understands why the plane needs me. And it fills me with horror. The plane is so big and I am so small and helpless. I run to the mountain where the bomb shelter has been dug. It is my salvation. I run with all my might, but it seems that I remain in place, as it happens in a dream. And above me is a plane. He covers me. He roars. It seems that the plane is right above my head. I run with all my superpowers. And I don't remember anything else. I'm just alive ...
When I watch TV and constantly see modern airplanes bombing various beautiful countries, I feel that I am again running through the meadow, and above me are airplanes (there are many, many) with their deadly cargo. And nowhere for me to hide.
Already during the battle on the Oryol-Kursk Bulge, the whole village: old men, women, children were loaded at Komarichi station into freight cars along with all our village belongings, even with horses and carts, and taken away. Where to? Did I know then - where? I now know that, we were taken to the Ukraine to work in the cadets' farms being created there. The carriages walked, airplanes roared over the carriages from time to time, as they once did over me, running through the meadow, but, I remember, they never bombed. We were brought to the station in the city of Smolensk. There we were supposed to be overloaded.
We settled down with all our village camp right next to the station. It was summer. We went to sleep under the carts. The horses were tied to carts. And at night the station was bombed. At the same time, our camp. Our Russian bombers were bombed. "I don't know my own." The bombing, as it seemed then, was long and terrible. It was the worst thing in my life. Dark night. Sudden columns of fire. In sequence. Right next to you. The horse rears up, torns. Everything around tears and groans. Everything in me breaks and groans. Inside there is one desire tearing me apart: to jump up and run without looking back, run, run, run. But my grandmother lay down on me and pressed me to the ground with her senile, also defenseless body. And that made it even worse ...
This night crushed me. In the morning, when dawn broke, the vision was murderous: everything was torn apart. And in the midst of this torn up chaos, those who were still human yesterday wandered. Half of the village remained forever at the station of the city of Smolensk.
When I think of Hell, I remember this night and this morning. Hell is not somewhere, far away, it is here on Earth, it is next to us, it is in us. We, people, gave birth to this earthly Hell ...
We are not only children of war, we are children of Hell.
Then we, the survivors, were brought to the right place. And then our advancing army liberated us. More precisely, we ourselves have freed ourselves. During the battle, apparently by conspiracy, under the bullets whistling around and under the explosions of shells, we ran across, or rather, moved to ours. We were transported on our old-fashioned ancient-pre-ancient carts. We (we are grandfather, grandmother and me) had a gig, a cart with two wheels. And a handsome horse, a brilliant black horse named Voronok. I don't know how fast we flew. And when they flew over some railway tracks, one wheel of our gig crumbled. But Funnel did not stop. and could not stop. Grandfather lashed our beautiful Funnel incessantly ... One wheel was spinning, and a fragment of the other plowed, plowed the ground. When we stopped, already liberated, the Funnel was covered in soap. He turned white-white. So people turn gray in an instant or in one night ...
Do you know how many gray-haired children are in the world?
Son of the regiment
And then there was a return on their own by the entire remaining village to their native places. Unforgettable pictures: on both sides of the road broken and abandoned military equipment, trenches, in some places uncleaned corpses, the smell of gunpowder and some kind of burning. An empty bucket tied to the back of the cart rattled. And it was very empty around. And the stomach is empty.
We drove through some villages. I remember a well on one of the streets. Well with a crane. A fence around the well and the inscription: "Mined!" As grandfather read.
Sometimes we stopped to rest. I remember the parking lot in the pine forest. Remembered for its beauty. An extraordinary warmth emanated from the pines. Some kind of love was poured in the pine forest and filled the body and soul ... There are many, many pine cones on the ground, and they also radiated warmth. They looked like little live hedgehogs.
And there, obviously, some tank unit was also located for rest. And there was a girl there, very beautiful, slim, in uniform. She liked me. And she asked grandfather and grandmother to give me to her. To become the son of the regiment. But they didn't give me up. Whether I now regret that I was not given to the sons of the regiment, I do not know. I only know that on that day I experienced my first love: for the sun, for pines, for cones, for this unknown girl ...
After the war, I ran an uncountable number of times with my peers to the film "The Son of the Regiment" based on the novel by Valentin Kataev. And each time we lived the same life with Vanya Solntsev, participating with all our being in that great war.
And then I studied at the technical school with a real former son of the regiment. And we were friends for a very long time.
This is a very short story. Once we stopped somewhere right in an open field. And somewhere in the middle of our caravan sat on a cart a boy Vanechka, Vanechka Shcherbakov. He was younger than me, quite small. And so everyone called him affectionately Vanechka-Snotty. And I saw Vanechka on the side of the road something attractive, shiny. And he asked to be served it. It was a testicle, but not a simple one, but ... a toy. And they gave it to Vanechka. Vanechka was delighted with the unexpected toy. And he began to play with her. And there was an explosion. And Vanya was gone. Childhood ended as soon as it began.
And then we rode on our gig alone, lagging more and more behind everyone. This is why it happened. We always rode in front of our cart caravan. Once we drove through the forest. And some people came out of the forest. They said they were partisans. And they took the Funnel from us. But they took pity on us and in return gave us some kind of frozen horse. So we ended up in the tail of the caravan, and then completely behind. But it was already close to home. Here is the city of Oryol. All in ruins, in ruins. The bridge over the Orlik River was blown up. It was restored. And they moved to the other side on a temporary pontoon bridge. We also moved. We went up to the high bank. Grandpa stopped the horse. He saw a well not far away, untied the bucket and went to him. And from the restored bridge they started shouting: "Mine!" They waved their hands, and shouted, shouted. And grandfather walked, he was deaf. We all heard and saw it, me and my grandmother. They were shouting from the bridge, my grandmother was yelling, my grandfather was walking to the mined well, and I was numb. There was already an explosion inside me. And grandfather was gone. The end of everything. And already some kind of endless sob rose in me, and was ready to break through. And grandfather was already next to the well ... But, literally one step away from the well, he stopped. Looked around. Saw shouting and waving from the bridge. Probably, he understood everything and returned. What force stopped him, I don't know. I often recall this terrible situation, and the lines from a poem by Alexander Blok come to my mind:
Go through dangerous years.
They lie in wait for you everywhere.
But if you come out safe - then
You will finally believe a miracle.
Ivan Kosoy
And now we are at home. We arrived in the afternoon. And in the evening the horse, which my grandfather, I remember, called Gray, died. They say about the horse - dead. But Gray is dead. Drove us and died. How well a man fulfilled his duty.
And then there was a hungry autumn. And a hungry winter. And even more hungry spring. In the spring they planted potatoes. And in the fall, grandfather and I were already harvesting this saving harvest. I still remember this great miracle: digging out of the ground a beautiful potato bush, the roots of which are densely covered with potatoes. All potatoes are alive, reminiscent of some kind of fabulous creatures, with a head, torso, arms and legs. And all potatoes are different. Like people. Then I have never seen such wonderful potatoes anywhere ...
My grandfather and I are digging potatoes. And Ivan Zaitsev comes up to us. He is a year older than me, but in childhood the difference of one year is very noticeable. Ivan is the ringleader in all our childish affairs. The Zaitsevs' hut not far from ours. Ivan has something in his hands. He shows this to his grandfather and says: "Here I found an airplane." Grandfather immediately understood what kind of toy it was: "This is not an airplane, Vanya, this is a mine." Before grandfather had time to do something, Ivan, frightened, turned away from us and threw this terrible toy on the ground. And a column of fire shot up. And maybe a second before the explosion my grandfather knocked me to the ground and fell on me, covered me with himself. And when the explosion thundered, Ivan turned to us. His face was covered in blood. It seemed to me that he was covered in blood. They called him later in the village - Ivan Kosoy. His eye was knocked out with mine fragments, one fragment pierced his lung, the other touched internal organs; and there were many small wounds on the body.
I read the journal “Ecology and Life” (No. 5, 2002): “According to experts, there are more than 100 million antipersonnel mines in the earth all over the planet” (p. 64). And how many mines exploded! And behind every mine I see a boy who looks like Ivan Kosoy. And those who stuff the earth with mines are detonators, child killers!
The story is not the last
And a peaceful life began. But she was not peaceful. Cows exploded on mines, tractors were blown up. The war continued. It continued in our children's games. We found a lot of live ammunition. A favorite pastime was: light a fire, quickly throw cartridges into the fire and quickly take cover, lie behind a hillock. And with a sinking heart to hear the shots and the whistle of bullets. As in the war. Much linear powder was left everywhere. We wrapped it in paper, fastened it and set one end on fire. It turned out a small rocket - a snake, it flew through the air in unpredictable ways, flopped to the ground, took off again, and we dodged it.
And homemade pistols! Primitive, wooden. Trigger - elastic band, impact firing pin-nail. One of these pistols exploded in the hands of my friend.
But the biggest tragedy happened in the summer, before Vanya Zaitsev found a mine. The boys found a warehouse with shells in one of the large dens. The adults were not told about this. Someone came up with the idea to unscrew the heads from all the shells, pour the gunpowder into one heap and set it on fire. It was late afternoon. I watered the lower vegetable garden, hurried to run to play with the guys. And suddenly there was a powerful explosion from the log where the boys were busy with shells. The whole village rushed there ... There was no one alive among the boys, relatives gathered their own in pieces, recognizing by some signs. My cousin also died in this ravine ...
When I wrote this, a message sounded on the radio: the guys found a combat grenade, it exploded, two boys were killed, eight were wounded. The war continues. What has man made the most on earth? Bread, potatoes, apples, shoes, hats? Most of all weapons on earth, the most diverse - from gas pistols to more and more modern weapons of mass destruction. Back in the 60s of the XX century, the following figure was announced: there are so many weapons accumulated on earth that they can hit all life on the planet 10 times. And how much now? ..
Go to children's stores, which are the most toys? Weapons! The war continues! Any war is a war against childhood. Two films of the great American director Stanley Kramer are involuntarily remembered: “This crazy, crazy, crazy world” and “On the last shore”.
But childhood is always childhood. Joy is inherent in childhood. A child is given joy, or he finds it himself, invents it, or joy finds the child itself. And in our military childhood, there were, of course, their joys, small and large. I will end my little story with the story of one such joy ...
In the first year after returning from Ukraine, we were very poor. They were simply begging. My grandmother and I went to the neighboring villages, near and far cities and asked for alms. We proceeded a lot. Much memorable remains in the heart. But one thing was especially imprinted, remembered forever. After several unsuccessful our campaigns, my grandmother decided to go to the neighboring Bryansk region to beg for alms. An old good friend of hers lived there in one of the villages.
We left early in the morning. And by lunchtime they came to that village. Our grandmother's friend greeted us cordially. I fed them with soup. It was a great joy to eat real soup, which I had heard something about, but did not know the taste ... However, the greatest joy was ahead. After dinner, my grandmother's friend's granddaughter and I were sent out into the yard to play in the garden. The garden was large. And there were many apple trees in the garden. It seemed that the whole sky was filled with apples. The beauty of these apples was striking, they were like magic, with different shades of blush on the sides. The girl was my age, somehow unusually clean, light, airy. Some kind of warmth and kindness emanated from her. This was so new after my many months of humiliating wanderings with my grandmother in search of a piece of bread.
I don't remember what we did in this Garden of Eden, what we played. I only remember the feeling of happiness very well. And I wanted it not to end ... And when we left this hospitable house, the girl scooped up a bag of apples for us, those same heavenly apples. I carried this bag of apples as my greatest jewel and secret.
At home, I put the apples in a large ammo box. Several times a day he opened the magic box and admired the apples. And I saw this girl in front of me. I never ate a single apple, I could not even think that such apples could be eaten.
V. A. Zhilkin
S.V.Kochevykh, 2011