The problem of preserving the memory of the war. “All three Germans were from the Belgrade garrison...” (according to K
Why is it important to preserve the memory of the dead? What is the significance of war monuments? These and other questions are raised by K. M. Simonov, reflecting on the problem of preserving the memory of the war
Discussing this problem, the author talks about an incident that occurred during the Great Patriotic War. The Russian battery, led by Captain Nikolaenko, examines and prepares to fire at the observation post in which three Germans are hiding.
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An important role in the episode is played by Lieutenant Prudnikov, who once studied at the Faculty of History and is aware of the importance of historical monuments. It is he who recognizes the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at the observation post. The writer focuses on the fact that, despite the captain’s misunderstanding and indifference, Prudnikov tries to explain to Nikolaenko what the significance of the monument is: “One soldier, who was not identified, was buried instead of everyone else, in their honor, and now it is like a memory for the whole country " The captain, turning out to be not a stupid person, although not very educated, feels the power of his subordinate’s words. In the rhetorical question asked by Nikolaenko, the morally correct conclusion sounds: “What kind of unknown is he, when he is Serbian and fought with the Germans in that war?”, and the captain orders the fire to be put off.
The author believes that it is very important to preserve the memory of those killed in the war, and it is unacceptable to treat war monuments with disdain. The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier is not just an old burial ground, but a national monument that must be protected.
It is difficult to disagree with the author's position. Indeed, military monuments are the most important part of the cultural heritage of mankind. They are the ones who help future generations always remember the exploits and heroism of their great-grandfathers, and how terrible war really is.
Many writers have thought about the importance of preserving the memory of those killed in the war. In his story “And the Dawns Here Are Quiet,” B. Vasiliev talks about five young girls: Zhenya Komelkova, Rita Osyanina, Lisa Brichkina, Sonya Gurvich and Gala Chetvertak. Fighting on an equal basis with men, they show true endurance and real courage. Girl anti-aircraft gunners die a heroic death, defending their homeland and fighting enemies until their last breath. However, their commander, Fedot Vaskov, remains alive. Throughout the rest of his life, Vaskov preserves the memory of the girls’ heroic deed. And in fact, together with his adopted son, Fedot comes to the graves of the anti-aircraft gunner heroines and pays tribute to them.
However, it is important to preserve the memory of wars not only of recent centuries. In “The Tale of the Massacre of Mamai” S. Ryazanets tells about the battle on the Kulikovo field, where the troops of Grand Duke Dmitry Donskoy and Khan of the Golden Horde Mamai clashed. Written with incredible factual accuracy, this work is a true literary and historical monument. Only thanks to the legend we have the opportunity to learn about the cunning and invented tactics of Dmitry Donskoy, about his feat and about the courage of the Moscow soldiers.
Indeed, preserving the memory of those killed in the war, of their true heroism, is one of the most important tasks of modern society. It is necessary to recognize the value of national monuments, and the desire to teach the younger generation to treat them with care should become one of the main priorities of humanity.
(442 words)
Updated: 2018-02-18
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This happened at the end of July 1944. Units of General Kreiser's 51st Army, recently regrouped from the south to the 1st Baltic Front, launched an offensive on the territory of the Shavelsky district of the former Kovno province near the border with Courland.
The 9th Guards Molodechensk Mechanized Brigade of the Guard, Lieutenant Colonel Sergei Vasilyevich Stardubtsev, acted in the vanguard of the 3rd Guards Mechanized Corps of Lieutenant General Obukhov.
On July 27, Lieutenant Colonel Starodubtsev sent a reconnaissance group under the command of Guard Captain Grigory Galuza behind enemy lines. The task of the group was to pave the way for the advance detachment of the guard of Lieutenant Colonel Sokolov. The group included twenty-five soldiers in three BA-64 armored vehicles, two T-80 tanks and three German SdKfz-251 armored personnel carriers. These armored personnel carriers were driven by German drivers, along with whom the vehicles were taken as trophies on July 5, 1944 in the Belarusian city of Molodechno, for the capture of which the 9th Brigade received the honorary name of Molodechno.
Once in our captivity, these Germans not only shouted “Hitler - kaputt” in unison, but also declared that they had been secret anti-fascists all their adult lives. Taking this into account, our command, instead of sending the captured drivers to camps, left them at the front in their previous positions as Sonderkraftfarzug driver-mechanics.
Most of our scouts dressed in German uniforms, and Balkan beam crosses were applied to the BA-64 and T-80 so that the Germans would mistake them for captured vehicles in German service.
The scouts left the brigade's location in Meshkucai at nightfall and at half past 12 at night they moved along the Siauliai-Riga highway in the direction of Mitau. We walked at top speeds. The scouts rammed any enemy vehicles they came across and threw them into a ditch.
Having traveled 37 miles along the German rear, at 2 a.m. on July 28, the reconnaissance group approached the former town of Janishki, which received the status of a city in 1933 in independent Lithuania.
In the city there was the 15th SS Panzer-Grenadier Brigade (3866 people) under the command of Standarten Fuehrer von Bredow, the 62nd Wehrmacht Infantry Battalion, the 3rd Company of the 4th Engineer Regiment, two artillery and three mortar batteries. The number of these forces was about five thousand people. General command of the troops assembled in the city was exercised by Police General Friedrich Jeckeln.
In February-April 1943, Jeckeln led the punitive anti-partisan operation “Winter Magic” in northern Belarus. During the operation, Latvian, Lithuanian and Ukrainian collaborators shot and burned several thousand civilians, more than ten thousand were taken to work in Germany.
The Germans turned two former synagogues into tank hangars. The night guard was carried out by Lithuanian policemen from the Libau police team under the command of the Latvian captain Elsh. Among these policemen was, they say, local native Juozas Kiselyus, the future father of the famous Soviet film actor. The Germans themselves mostly slept at home, setting up only a small checkpoint at the entrance to Janishki.
The Germans, it seemed, had nothing to fear - the front was almost 40 kilometers from Janishki, and their units were in reserve.
As they approached Janishki, the column was hailed by German sentries. When asked about the password, the German driver of the captured SdKfz-251 replied that their group had just escaped from Russian encirclement and did not know any passwords. Believing this answer, the non-commissioned sergeant on duty ordered the barrier to be opened, and our reconnaissance group entered the city without hindrance.
Silently killing the policemen guarding the tanks with cold steel, the scouts brought in seven Tigers and attacked the enemy right from the city center. The effect of surprise did its job: part of the German soldiers and Baltic legionnaires, including SS Standartenführer von Bredow, retreated to Kurzeme. Most of the enemy soldiers were captured by the group of Lieutenant Colonel Sokolov, which arrived half an hour later. We also got the bridge on the Presentation River undamaged.
Leaving the Tigers to the approaching main forces of the 9th Brigade, the reconnaissance group and the advance detachment continued to move. At 4.30 in the morning the reconnaissance group began to fire at a German armored train. This happened between the Dimzas and Platone railway stations. An armored personnel carrier under the command of junior lieutenant Martyanov went ahead and did not come under fire, and the armored personnel carrier in which Captain Grioriy Galuza was located was shot at point-blank range and fell into a deep ditch. The commander of the armored personnel carrier, senior sergeant Pogodin, and the German driver with the old Prussian surname Krotoff died from a direct hit.
Sergeant Samodeev and Captain Galuza himself were seriously injured. Command of the reconnaissance group was taken over by technical lieutenant Ivan Pavlovich Chechulin. Under his command, a reconnaissance group, pursuing the retreating enemy, overtook a column of vehicles with infantry, overtook the column and set up an ambush, the reconnaissance group destroyed 17 vehicles and up to 60 Germans and their Lithuanian and Latvian accomplices with machine gun fire and grenades. Chechulin personally destroyed three cars with grenades. Three tractor-trailers, a gun and five motorcycles were captured.
At half past five in the morning the group reached the outskirts of Mitava (now Jelgava), where, by order of the command, it went on the defensive in anticipation of the approach of the main forces. In total, during the raid, the reconnaissance group covered 80 kilometers behind enemy lines. Its commanders, Grigory Galuza and Ivan Chechulin, received heroic titles in March 1945. Chechulin did not live to receive the award - on February 2, 1945, he died in battle near the city of Priekuli.
Galuza lived to this day and died in Balashikha, near Moscow, on December 8, 2006. The former commander of the garrison, General Jeckeln, was captured by Soviet troops on May 2, 1945. At the trial in Riga for war crimes, Jeckeln was sentenced to death by the military tribunal of the Baltic Military District and was publicly hanged on February 3, 1946 in Riga.
Russian Soviet writer and poet K. M. Simonov in his text raises the problem of preserving historical monuments.
To draw readers' attention to this problem, the author talks about saving the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The Great Patriotic War. The battery of the protagonist, Captain Nikolaenko, was preparing to fire at an enemy observation post.
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Nearby was the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The captain had never seen such a structure before and did not know about its great significance, so he gives the order to bombard the area. However, the captain’s ward, Lieutenant Prudnikov, who was a student of the history department before the war, recognized the grave and tried to stop its destruction. Prudnikov explained to Nikolayenko that the grave is a “national monument,” a symbol of all those who died for their Motherland. An unidentified Yugoslav soldier is buried there, who also fought against the Germans in the First World War. The captain, for whom “everything became clear,” gave the order to hold off the fire. This is how the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier was saved.
K. M. Simonov believes that it is necessary to preserve historical monuments so that descendants will always remember the history of their Motherland and the cost of victory in the war.
To prove this position, I will give an example from foreign literature. In Ray Bradbury's dystopian novel Fahrenheit 451, the reader is presented with a terrible picture of a society in which all books are burned. Books are also historical monuments, since they store experience and knowledge accumulated by previous generations. By burning them, humanity breaks the connection with its ancestors. Such ignorance leads to the degradation of society. This is what Ray Bradbury proves with his dystopia.
As a second argument, I will cite historical facts. During World War II, German invaders occupied Gatchina, the hometown of many people. The Germans burned and looted the main historical monument - the Gatchina Palace. It was in terrible condition, but most of it still survived. After the end of the war, historians, together with restoration artists, worked for many years on the restoration of the Gatchina Palace. Now it hosts various excursions and exhibitions. I am proud that in our country such an important monument for Gatchina was restored, since thanks to this we managed to preserve the most valuable thing - our history.
Thus, K. M. Simonov in his text calls on us to preserve historical monuments, because there is nothing more valuable in the world than the memory of our ancestors who sacrificed their lives for a bright future.
Updated: 2018-03-31
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Transcript
1 VISITORS' BOOK The tall, pine-forested hill on which the Unknown Soldier is buried is visible from almost every street in Belgrade. If you have binoculars, then, despite the distance of fifteen kilometers, at the very top of the hill you will notice some kind of square elevation. This is the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. If you drive east from Belgrade along the Pozarevac road and then turn left from it, then along a narrow asphalt road you will soon reach the foot of the hill and, going around the hill in smooth turns, you will begin to climb to the top between two continuous rows of centuries-old pine trees, the bases of which are entangled bushes of wolfberries and ferns. The road will lead you to a smooth asphalt area. You won't get any further. Directly in front of you, a wide staircase made of roughly hewn gray granite will rise endlessly upward. You will walk along it for a long time past gray parapets with bronze torches until you finally reach the very top. You will see a large granite square, bordered by a powerful parapet, and in the middle of the square, finally, the grave itself is also heavy, square, lined with gray marble. Its roof on both sides, instead of columns, is supported on the shoulders of eight bent figures of weeping women, sculpted from huge pieces of the same gray marble. Inside, you will be struck by the austere simplicity of the tomb. Level with the stone floor, worn by countless feet, there is a large copper board. There are only a few words carved on the board, the simplest ones imaginable: THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER IS BURIED HERE AND THE DATE: And on the marble walls to the left and right you will see faded wreaths with faded ribbons, laid here at different times, sincerely and insincerely, by ambassadors of forty states That's all. Now go outside and from the threshold of the grave look in all four directions of the world. Perhaps once again in your life (and this happens many times in life) it will seem to you that you have never seen anything more beautiful and majestic. In the east you will see endless forests and copses with narrow forest roads winding between them. In the south you will see the soft yellow-green outlines of the autumn hills of Serbia, the green patches of pastures, the yellow stripes of stubble, the red squares of rural tiled roofs and the countless black dots of herds wandering across the hills. To the west you will see Belgrade, battered by bombing, crippled by battles, and yet beautiful Belgrade, whitening among the faded greenery of fading gardens and parks. In the north, you will be struck by the mighty gray ribbon of the stormy autumn Danube, and behind it the rich pastures and black fields of Vojvodina and Banat.
2 And only when you look around all four corners of the world from here, you will understand why the Unknown Soldier is buried here. He is buried here because from here a simple eye can see the entire beautiful Serbian land, everything that he loved and for which he died. This is what the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier looks like, which I am talking about because it will be the setting for my story. True, on the day in question, both fighting sides were least interested in the historical past of this hill. For the three German artillerymen left here as forward observers, the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier was only the best observation point on the ground, from which, however, they had twice unsuccessfully radioed for permission to leave, because the Russians and Yugoslavs were beginning to approach the hill ever closer. All three Germans were from the Belgrade garrison and knew very well that this was the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and that in case of artillery shelling the grave had thick and strong walls. This was, in their opinion, good, and everything else did not interest them at all. This was the case with the Germans. The Russians also considered this hill with a house on top as an excellent observation post, but an enemy observation post and, therefore, subject to fire. What kind of residential building is this? It’s something wonderful, I’ve never seen anything like it, said the battery commander, Captain Nikolaenko, carefully examining the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier through binoculars for the fifth time. And the Germans are sitting there, that’s for sure. Well, have the data for firing been prepared? Yes sir! The young platoon commander, Lieutenant Prudnikov, who was standing next to the captain, reported. Start shooting. We shot quickly, with three shells. Two dug up the cliff right under the parapet, raising a whole fountain of earth. The third hit the parapet. Through binoculars one could see fragments of stones flying. Lo and behold, it splashed! Nikolaenko said. Go to defeat. But Lieutenant Prudnikov, who had previously been peering through his binoculars for a long time and intensely, as if remembering something, suddenly reached into his field bag, pulled out a German captured map of Belgrade and, putting it on top of his two-layout paper, began hastily running his finger over it. What's the matter? Nikolaenko said sternly. There is nothing to clarify, everything is already clear. Allow me, one minute, comrade captain, muttered Prudnikov. He quickly looked several times at the plan, at the hill, and again at the plan, and suddenly, resolutely burying his finger in some point he had finally found, he raised his eyes to the captain: Do you know what this is, comrade captain? What? What about both the hill and this residential building? Well?
3 This is the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. I kept looking and doubting. I saw it somewhere in a photograph in a book. Exactly. Here it is on the plan, the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. For Prudnikov, who once studied at the history department of Moscow State University before the war, this discovery seemed extremely important. But captain Nikolaenko, unexpectedly for Prudnikov, did not show any responsiveness. He answered calmly and even somewhat suspiciously: What other unknown soldier is there? Let's fire. Comrade captain, allow me! Prudnikov said, looking pleadingly into Nikolaenko’s eyes. What else? You may not know... This is not just a grave. This is, as it were, a national monument. Well... Prudnikov stopped, searching for words. Well, a symbol of all those who died for their homeland. One soldier, who was not identified, was buried instead of everyone else, in their honor, and now it is like a memory for the whole country. Wait, don’t chatter, said Nikolaenko and, wrinkling his brow, thought for a whole minute. He was a great-hearted man, despite his rudeness, a favorite of the entire battery and a good artilleryman. But, having started the war as a simple fighter-gunner and rising through blood and valor to the rank of captain, in his labors and battles he never had time to learn many things that perhaps an officer should have known. He had a weak understanding of history, if it did not involve his direct accounts with the Germans, and of geography, if the question did not concern the settlement that needed to be taken. As for the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, this was the first time he had heard about it. However, although now he did not understand everything in Prudnikov’s words, he felt with his soldier’s soul that Prudnikov must be worried for good reason and that we were talking about something really worthwhile. Wait, he repeated again, releasing the wrinkles. Just tell me whose soldier he fought with, so tell me what! The Serbian soldier is, in general, Yugoslavian, Prudnikov said. He fought with the Germans in the last war of 1914. Now it's clear. Nikolaenko felt with pleasure that now everything was really clear and the right decision could be made on this issue. Everything is clear, he repeated. It's clear who and what. Otherwise you are weaving God knows what, “unknown, unknown.” How unknown is he when he is Serbian and fought with the Germans in that war? Put down the fire! Call me Fedotov with two fighters. Five minutes later, Sergeant Fedotov, a taciturn Kostroma resident with bearish habits and an impenetrably calm, wide, pockmarked face, appeared before Nikolaenko. Two more scouts came with him, also fully equipped and ready. Nikolaenko briefly explained to Fedotov his task of climbing the hill and removing the German observers without unnecessary noise. Then he looked with some regret at the grenades hanging in abundance from Fedotov’s belt and said:
4 This house on the mountain has a historical past, so don’t play around with grenades in the house itself, that’s how they picked it. If anything happens, remove the German from the machine gun, and that’s it. Is your task clear? It’s clear, said Fedotov and began to climb the hill, accompanied by his two scouts. * * * The old Serbian man, the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, had not found a place for himself all that day since the morning. The first two days, when the Germans appeared at the grave, bringing with them a stereo tube, a walkie-talkie and a machine gun, the old man, out of habit, hovered upstairs under the arch, swept the slabs and brushed dust from the wreaths with a bunch of feathers tied to a stick. He was very old, and the Germans were very busy with their own business and did not pay attention to him. Only in the evening of the second day, one of them came across an old man, looked at him in surprise, turned him by the shoulders with his back to him and, saying: “Get out,” jokingly and, as it seemed to him, slightly kicked the old man in the butt with his knee. The old man, stumbling, took a few steps to maintain his balance, went down the stairs and never went back up to the grave. He was very old and lost all four of his sons during that war. That is why he received this position as a guard, and that is why he had his own special, hidden from everyone, attitude towards the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Somewhere in the depths of his soul it seemed to him that one of his four sons was buried in this grave. At first this thought only occasionally flashed through his head, but after he had spent so many years constantly visiting the grave, this strange thought turned into confidence in him. He never told anyone about this, knowing that they would laugh at him, but to himself he became more and more accustomed to this thought and, left alone with himself, only thought: which of the four? Driven away from the grave by the Germans, he slept poorly at night and loitered around the parapet below, suffering from resentment and from breaking his long-term habit of going up there every morning. When the first explosions were heard, he calmly sat down, leaning his back against the parapet, and began to wait for something to change. Despite his old age and life in this remote place, he knew that the Russians were advancing on Belgrade and, therefore, must eventually come here. After several explosions, everything was quiet for two whole hours, only the Germans were noisily fiddling around up there, shouting something loudly and quarreling among themselves. Then suddenly they started shooting downwards with a machine gun. And someone below was also firing a machine gun. Then close, right under the parapet, there was a loud explosion and
5 silence. And a minute later, just ten steps from the old man, a German jumped head over heels from the parapet, fell, quickly jumped up and ran down to the forest. This time the old man did not hear the shot, he only saw how the German, not reaching the first trees a few steps, jumped, turned and fell face down. The old man stopped paying attention to the German and listened. Upstairs, near the grave, someone's heavy footsteps could be heard. The old man stood up and moved around the parapet towards the stairs. Sergeant Fedotov, because the heavy steps the old man heard above were precisely his steps, making sure that, apart from the three killed, there were no more Germans here, he waited at the grave for his two scouts, who were both slightly wounded in the shootout and were now still climbing the mountain. Fedotov walked around the grave and, going inside, looked at the wreaths hanging on the walls. The wreaths were funeral, it was from them that Fedotov realized that this was a grave, and, looking at the marble walls and statues, he thought about whose rich grave it could be. He was caught doing this by an old man who entered from the opposite direction. From the look of the old man, Fedotov immediately drew the correct conclusion that this was the guard at the grave, and, taking three steps towards him, patted the old man on the shoulder with his hand free from the machine gun and said exactly that reassuring phrase that he always said in all such cases: Nothing, dad . There will be order! The old man did not know what the words “there will be order!” meant, but the broad, pockmarked face of the Russian lit up with such a reassuring smile at these words that the old man also involuntarily smiled in response. And what they tinkered with a little, Fedotov continued, not caring in the least whether the old man understood him or not, what they tinkered with, it’s not one hundred and fifty-two, it’s seventy-six, it’s a couple of trifles to fix. And a grenade is also a trifle, but there was no way for me to take them without a grenade, he explained as if standing in front of him was not an old watchman, but Captain Nikolaenko. That's the thing, he concluded. It's clear? The old man nodded his head; he didn’t understand what Fedotov said, but the meaning of the Russian’s words, he felt, was as reassuring as his wide smile, and the old man wanted, in turn, to tell him something good and significant in response. My son is buried here, unexpectedly for the first time in his life, he said loudly and solemnly. My son, the old man, pointed to his chest, and then to the bronze plate. He said this and looked at the Russian with hidden fear: now he won’t believe it and will laugh. But Fedotov was not surprised. He was a Soviet man, and it could not surprise him that this poorly dressed old man had a son buried in such a grave. “So, father, this is it,” thought Fedotov. The son was probably a famous person, maybe a general.” He remembered Vatutin’s funeral, which he had attended in Kyiv, his old parents, simply dressed in peasant clothes, walking behind the coffin, and tens of thousands of people standing around.
6 I see, he said, looking sympathetically at the old man. It's clear. Rich grave. And the old man realized that the Russian not only believed him, but was not surprised at the extraordinary nature of his words, and a grateful feeling for this Russian soldier filled his heart. He hastily felt for the key in his pocket and, opening the iron cabinet door set into the wall, took out a leather-bound book of honored visitors and an eternal pen. Write, he told Fedotov and handed him a pen. Having placed the machine gun against the wall, Fedotov took the eternal pen in one hand and leafed through the book with the other. It was full of magnificent autographs and ornate strokes of royalty unknown to him, ministers, envoys and generals, its smooth paper shone like satin, and the sheets, connecting with each other, folded into one shining golden edge. Fedotov calmly turned over the last scribbled page. Just as he was not surprised before that the old man’s son was buried here, he was not surprised that he had to sign this book with a gold edge. Having opened a blank sheet of paper, he, with a sense of self-esteem that never left him, in his large, firm handwriting, like a child’s, slowly wrote down the surname “Fedotov” across the entire sheet and, closing the book, gave the eternal pen to the old man. Fedotov! came the voice from outside of one of the fighters who had finally climbed the mountain. Here am I! Fedotov said and went out into the air. For fifty kilometers in all directions the earth was open to his gaze. In the east stretched endless forests. In the south, the autumn hills of Serbia turned yellow. In the north, the stormy Danube meandered like a gray ribbon. In the west lay Belgrade, which had not yet been liberated, whitening among the fading greenery of forests and parks, over which the smoke of the first shots smoked. And in the iron cabinet next to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier lay a book of honorary visitors, in which the last one, written with a firm hand, was the name of the Soviet soldier Fedotov, unknown to anyone here yesterday, who was born in Kostroma, retreated to the Volga and now looked down from here to Belgrade, to which he walked three thousand miles to free him. 1944
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Third Adjutant
Story
1942
The Commissioner was firmly convinced that the brave were killed less often than the cowards. He liked to repeat this and got angry when people argued with him.
The division loved and feared him. He had his own special way of accustoming people to war. He recognized the person as he walked. He took him to the division headquarters, to the regiment and, without letting him go a single step, walked with him all day, wherever he had to go that day.
If he had to go on the attack, he took this person with him to the attack and walked next to him.
If he passed the test, the commissioner met him again in the evening.
What's the last name? - he suddenly asked in his abrupt voice.
The surprised commander called his name.
And mine is Kornev. We walked together, lay on our stomachs together, now we’ll know each other.
In the first week after arriving at the division, two of his adjutants were killed.
The first one got cold feet and left the trench to crawl back. He was cut down by a machine gun.
In the evening, returning to headquarters, the commissar indifferently walked past the dead adjutant, without even turning his head in his direction.
The second adjutant was wounded through the chest during the attack. He lay in a broken trench on his back and, gasping widely for air, asked for a drink. There was no water. Ahead, behind the parapet, lay the corpses of Germans. There was a flask lying near one of them.
The Commissioner took out his binoculars and looked for a long time, as if trying to see whether it was empty or full.
Then, heavily carrying his heavy, middle-aged body over the parapet, he walked across the field with his usual leisurely gait.
It is unknown why, the Germans did not shoot. They began to shoot when he reached the flask, picked it up, shook it and, holding it under his arm, turned around.
He was shot in the back. Two bullets hit the flask. He closed the holes with his fingers and walked on, carrying the flask in his outstretched arms.
Jumping into the trench, he carefully, so as not to spill, handed the flask to one of the soldiers:
Give me something to drink!
What if they got there and it was empty? - someone asked interestedly.
But he would come back and send you to look for another, complete one! - The commissioner said, looking angrily at the questioner.
He often did things that, in essence, he, the division commissar, did not need to do. But I remembered that this was not necessary only later, after I had already done it. Then he was angry with himself and with those who reminded him of his action.
It was the same now. Having brought the flask, he no longer approached the adjutant and seemed to have completely forgotten about him, busy observing the battlefield.
Fifteen minutes later he suddenly called out to the battalion commander:
Well, they sent you to the medical battalion?
You can’t, Comrade Commissar, you’ll have to wait until dark.
He will die before dark.” And the commissar turned away, considering the conversation over.
Five minutes later, two Red Army soldiers, ducking under bullets, carried the motionless body of the adjutant back across the hummocky field.
And the commissar calmly watched as they walked. He measured the danger equally for himself and for others. People die - that's what the war is for. But the brave die less often.
The Red Army soldiers walked boldly, did not fall, did not throw themselves on the ground. They did not forget that they were carrying a wounded man. And that’s why Kornev believed that they would get there.
At night, on the way to headquarters, the commissar stopped at the medical battalion.
Well, how is he getting better, have he been cured? - he asked the surgeon.
It seemed to Kornev that in war everything could and should be done equally quickly - delivering reports, launching attacks, treating the wounded.
And when the surgeon told Kornev that the adjutant had died from loss of blood, he looked up in surprise.
Do you understand what you are saying? - he said quietly, taking the surgeon by the belt and drawing him to him. - People carried him for two miles under fire so that he would survive, but you say he died. Why did they carry it?
Kornev said nothing about how he went under fire to get water.
The surgeon shrugged.
And without saying goodbye, he went to the car.
The surgeon looked after him. Of course, the commissioner was wrong. Logically speaking, he just said something stupid. And yet there was such strength and conviction in his words that for a minute it seemed to the surgeon that, indeed, the brave should not die, and if they do die, it means he is not doing a good job.
Nonsense! - he said out loud, trying to get rid of this strange thought.
But the thought did not go away. It seemed to him that he saw two Red Army soldiers carrying a wounded man across an endless, hummocky field.
Mikhail Lvovich,” he suddenly said, as if something had long been decided, to his assistant, who had gone out onto the porch to smoke. “In the morning, we will have to move two more dressing stations with doctors further forward...
The commissioner reached headquarters only at dawn. He was not in a good mood and, calling people to him, today he was especially quick to send them away with short, mostly grumpy parting words. This had its own calculation and cunning. The Commissioner loved it when people left him angry. He believed that a person can do anything. And he never scolded a person for what he could not do, but always only for what he could and did not do. And if a person did a lot, the commissar reproached him for not doing even more. When people are a little angry, they think better. He liked to cut off a conversation mid-sentence, so that the person understood only the main thing. It was in this way that he ensured that his presence was always felt in the division. After being with the person for a minute, he tried to make sure that he had something to think about before the next date.
In the morning he was given a summary of yesterday's losses. Reading it, he remembered the surgeon. Of course, telling this old experienced doctor that he was doing a bad job was tactless on his part, but nothing, nothing, let him think, maybe get angry and come up with something good. He didn't regret what he said. The saddest thing was that the adjutant died. However, he did not allow himself to remember this for a long time. Otherwise, during these months of war, too many would have to grieve. He will remember this later, after the war, when unexpected death becomes a misfortune or an accident. In the meantime, death is always unexpected. There is no other way now, it’s time to get used to it. And yet he was sad, and somehow he especially dryly told the chief of staff that his adjutant had been killed and he needed to find a new one.
The third adjutant was a small, fair-haired, blue-eyed boy who had just graduated from school and was at the front for the first time.
When, on the very first day of their acquaintance, he had to walk next to the commissar forward, to the battalion, across a frozen autumn field, where mines often exploded, he did not leave the commissar a single step. He walked alongside: such was the duty of an adjutant. In addition, this big, heavy man with his leisurely gait seemed invulnerable to him: if you walk next to him, then nothing could happen.
When the mines began to explode especially often and it became clear that the Germans were hunting for them, the commissar and adjutant began to lie down occasionally.
But before they had time to lie down, before the smoke from the nearby explosion had time to clear, the commissar was already getting up and moving on.
Forward, forward,” he said grumpily. “There’s nothing for us to wait here.”
Almost at the very trenches they were covered by a fork. One mine exploded in front, the other behind.
The Commissioner stood up, dusting himself off.
“You see,” he said, pointing to a small crater behind as he walked. “If you and I had been cowardly and waited, it would have come just for us.” You always need to move forward faster.
Well, if we walked even faster, then... - and the adjutant, without finishing, nodded towards the crater that was in front of them.
“Nothing of the kind,” said the commissar. “They hit us here - it’s an undershoot.” And if we had already been there, they would have aimed there and again there would have been an undershoot.
The adjutant involuntarily smiled: the commissar, of course, was joking. But the commissioner's face was completely serious. He spoke with complete conviction. And faith in this man, faith that arises instantly in war and remains once and for all, gripped the adjutant. For the last hundred steps he walked next to the commissar, very closely, elbow to elbow.
This is how their first acquaintance took place.
A month has passed. The southern roads either froze or became sticky and impassable.
Somewhere in the rear, according to rumors, armies were preparing for a counter-offensive, but in the meantime the thinned division was still fighting bloody defensive battles.
It was a dark southern autumn night. The commissar, sitting in the dugout, placed his mud-spattered boots on the iron stove closer to the fire.
This morning the division commander was seriously wounded. The chief of staff, placing his wounded hand tied with a black scarf on the table, quietly drummed his fingers on the table. The fact that he could do this gave him pleasure: his fingers began to obey him again.
“Okay, you’re a stubborn man,” he continued the interrupted conversation, “well, let Kholodilin be killed because he was afraid, but the general was a brave man - what do you think?”
It wasn’t, but it is. And he will survive,” said the commissioner and turned away, believing that there was nothing more to talk about.
But the chief of staff pulled him by the sleeve and said very quietly, so that no one else could hear his sad words:
Well, he will survive, well - hardly, but well. But Mironov will not survive, and Breeders will not survive, and Gavrilenko will not survive. They died, but they were brave people. What about your theory?
“I don’t have a theory,” the commissar said sharply. “I just know that under the same circumstances, the brave die less often than the cowards.” And if the names of those who were brave and still died never leave your tongue, it is because when a coward dies, they forget about him before they bury him, but when a brave man dies, they remember him, they say and write. We only remember the names of the brave. That's all. And if you still call it my theory, it’s your choice. A theory that helps people not be afraid is a good theory.
The adjutant entered the dugout. His face had darkened over the past month and his eyes had become tired. But otherwise, he remained the same boy as the commissar saw him on the first day. Clicking his heels, he reported that everything was in order on the peninsula from which he had just returned, only the battalion commander, Captain Polyakov, was wounded.
Who should take his place? - asked the commissioner.
Lieutenant Vasiliev from the fifth company.
And who is in the fifth company?
Some sergeant.
The Commissioner thought for a moment.
Are you very cold? - he asked the adjutant,
To be honest - a lot.
Drink some vodka.
The commissar poured half a glass of vodka from the kettle, and the lieutenant, without taking off his overcoat, only hastily opened it, drank in one gulp.
“Now go back,” said the commissioner. “I’m worried, you know?” You should be there on the peninsula through my eyes. Go.
The adjutant stood up. He fastened the hook of his coat with the slow movement of a man who wants to stay warm for another minute. But, having buttoned it up, he did not hesitate any longer. Bending low so as not to touch the ceiling, he disappeared into the darkness. The door slammed.
“He’s a good guy,” said the commissar, following him with his eyes. “I believe in those like him that nothing will happen to them.” I believe that they will be safe, and they believe that a bullet will not kill me. And this is the most important thing. Is that right, Colonel?
The chief of staff slowly drummed his fingers on the table. A naturally brave man, he did not like to base any theories on either his own or others’ bravery. But now it seemed to him that the commissioner was right.
Yes, he said.
The logs were crackling in the stove. The commissar was sleeping with his face on the ten-verst square and his arms spread out on it so widely, as if he wanted to take back all the land marked on it.
In the morning the commissioner himself went to the peninsula. Then he did not like to remember this day. At night, the Germans suddenly landed on the peninsula and, in a fierce battle, killed the leading fifth company - all of them, to the last man.
During the day, the commissar had to do something that he, the division commissar, in essence, was not supposed to do at all. In the morning he gathered everyone who was at hand and led them into the attack three times.
The rattling sand, touched by the first frosts, was blasted into craters and covered in blood. The Germans were killed or captured. Those who tried to swim to their shore drowned in the icy winter water.
Having handed over the now unnecessary rifle with a bloody black bayonet, the commissar walked around the peninsula. Only the dead could tell him what happened here at night. But the dead can talk too. Between the corpses of the Germans lay the dead Red Army soldiers of the fifth company. Some of them lay in the trenches, stabbed with bayonets, clutching broken rifles in their dead hands. Others, those who could not stand it, lay in an open field in the frozen winter steppe: they fled and here the bullets overtook them. The commissar slowly walked around the silent battlefield and peered into the poses of the dead, into their frozen faces: he guessed how the fighter behaved in the last minutes of his life. And even death did not reconcile him with cowardice. If it were possible, he would bury the brave and the cowards separately. Let there be a line between them after death, as during life.
He peered intensely into the faces, looking for his adjutant. His adjutant could not escape and could not be captured; he must be somewhere here, among the dead.
Finally, behind, far from the trenches where people were fighting and dying, the commissar found him. The adjutant lay on his back, one arm awkwardly tucked under his back and the other extended with the revolver clutched to death in it. There was blood dried on the chest of his tunic.
The commissar stood over him for a long time, then, calling one of the commanders, ordered him to lift his tunic and see what the wound was.
He would have looked for himself, but his right arm, wounded in the attack by several fragments of a grenade, hung powerlessly along his body. He looked with irritation at his tunic cut off to the shoulder, at the bloody, hastily wound bandages. It was not so much the wound and pain that angered him, but the very fact that he was wounded. He, who was considered invulnerable in the division! The wound was inappropriate; it should have been healed and forgotten.
The commander, leaning over the adjutant, lifted his tunic and unbuttoned his underwear.
“Bayonet,” he said, raising his head, and again bent over the adjutant and for a long time, for a whole minute, fell to the motionless body.
When he stood up, there was surprise on his face.
“He’s still breathing,” he said.
The Commissioner did not show his excitement in any way.
Two, here! - he ordered sharply. “In your arms, and quickly to the dressing station.” Maybe he will survive.
“Will he survive or not?” - he confused this question with others: how did he behave in battle? why did he end up behind everyone else, in the field? And involuntarily all these questions were connected into one thing: if everything is fine, if he behaved bravely, then he will survive, he will certainly survive.
And when a month later the adjutant came from the hospital to the division command post, pale and thin, but still with the same fair hair and blue eyes, looking like a boy, the commissar did not ask him anything, but only silently extended his left, healthy hand to shake.
But then I never reached the fifth company,” said the adjutant, “I got stuck at the crossing, there were still a hundred steps left when...
“I know,” the commissar interrupted him, “I know everything, don’t explain.” I know that well done, glad that you survived.
He looked with envy at the boy, who a month after the fatal wound was alive and well again, and, nodding at his bandaged hand, said sadly:
But the colonel and I have not had the same years. The second month does not heal. And he has a third one. This is how we rule the division - with both hands. He is right, and I am left...
Simonov Konstantin Mikhailovich
Infantrymen
Story
1943
It was the seventh or eighth day of the offensive. At four o'clock in the morning it began to get light, and Savelyev woke up. He slept that night, wrapped in a raincoat, at the bottom of a German trench that had been recaptured late the night before. It was drizzling, but the walls of the trench protected from the wind, and although it was wet, it was not that cold. In the evening it was not possible to advance further, because the entire ravine ahead was covered with enemy fire. The company was ordered to dig in and spend the night here.
We settled down in the dark, around eleven o’clock in the evening, and Senior Lieutenant Savin allowed the soldiers to sleep in turns: one soldier was sleeping, and the other was on duty. Savelyev, a patient person by nature, liked to save the best “for last” and therefore conspired with his comrade Yudin so that he would sleep first. For two hours, until half past one in the morning, Savelyev was on duty in the trench, and Yudin slept next to him. At half past two he pushed Yudin, he got up, and Savelyev, wrapped in a raincoat, fell asleep. He slept for almost two and a half hours and woke up when it began to get light.
Is it getting light, or what? - he asked Yudin, looking out from under his raincoat not so much to check whether it was really dawn, but to find out whether Yudin had fallen asleep.
But there was no need to sleep. Their platoon commander, Sergeant Major Yegorychev, walked through the trench and ordered them to get up.
Savelyev stretched several times, still not getting out from under the raincoat, then jumped up at once.
The company commander, Senior Lieutenant Savin, came; he had been visiting all the platoons in the morning. Having assembled their platoon, he explained the task of the day: we must pursue the enemy, who had retreated probably two or even three kilometers during the night, and we must overtake him again. Savin usually spoke of the Germans as “Krauts,” but when he explained the task of the day, he invariably spoke of them only as an enemy.
The enemy, he said, must be overtaken in the next hour. We'll be leaving in fifteen minutes.
Standing in the trench, Savelyev carefully adjusted his equipment. And he had on him, if you count the machine gun, and a disk, and grenades, and a spatula, and an emergency supply in the bag, almost a pound, and maybe even a pound. He didn’t weigh himself on the scales, he just weighed it on his shoulders every day, and, depending on his fatigue, it seemed to him either less than a pound or more.
When they set out, the sun had not yet appeared. It was drizzling. The grass in the meadow was wet, and the muddy earth squelched beneath it.
Look what a lousy summer! - Yudin said to Savelyev.
Yes,” Savelyev agreed. “But the autumn will be good.” Indian summer.
We still have to finish the war before this Indian summer,” said Yudin, a brave man when it came to battle, but prone to gloomy thoughts.
They calmly crossed the same meadow that it was impossible to cross yesterday. Now it was completely quiet over this entire long meadow, no one was firing at it, and only frequent small craters from mines, every now and then encountered on the road, washed out and filled with rain water, reminded that yesterday there was a battle here.
About twenty minutes later, having passed through a meadow, they reached a forest, at the edge of which there was a line of trenches left by the Germans at night. There were several cans of gas masks lying in the trenches, and where the mortars were, there were half a dozen boxes of mines.
“They still quit,” said Savelyev.
Yes,” agreed Yudin. “But they drag away the dead.” Or maybe we didn't kill anyone yesterday?
It can’t be,” Savelyev objected. “They killed me.”
Then he noticed that the trench nearby was filled with fresh earth, and a foot in a German boot with wide iron caps on the sole was sticking out from under the ground, and said:
They don’t drag you away, but they bury you to bury him,” and nodded towards the filled-in trench where his leg was sticking out.
They both felt satisfaction that Savelyev was right. Having captured German positions and suffered casualties in the process, it would have been a shame not to see a single enemy dead. And although they knew that the Germans had killed, they still wanted to see this with their own eyes.
They walked through the woods carefully, fearing an ambush. But there was no ambush.
When they reached another edge of the forest, an open field lay before them. Savelyev saw: ahead, half a kilometer away, there was reconnaissance. But the Germans could have noticed her and missed her, and then hit the entire company with mines. Therefore, having entered the field, the soldiers, on the orders of Senior Lieutenant Savin, turned around in a sparse chain.
They moved silently, without talking. Savelyev expected that the shelling was about to begin. Hills were visible about two kilometers ahead. It was a convenient position, and the Germans would certainly be sitting there.
In fact, when the reconnaissance went another kilometer ahead, Savelyev first saw and then heard several mines explode at once where the scouts were. And then our artillery hit the hills. Savelyev knew that until our artillery managed to suppress these German mortars or force them to change their place, they would not stop shooting. And they will probably endure the fire and shoot at their company.
In order to go as far as possible by this moment, Savelyev and all the other fighters walked forward faster, almost ran. And although until now the duffel bag had been weighing down Savelyev’s shoulders, now, under the influence of the excitement of the battle that had begun, he almost forgot about it.
They walked for another three or four minutes. Then, somewhere nearby behind Savelyev, a mine exploded, and someone to his right, about forty steps away, screamed and sat down on the ground.
Savelyev turned around and saw how Yudin, who was at the same time a fighter and a nurse, first stopped and then ran to the wounded man.
The next mines hit very close. The soldiers lay down. When they jumped up again, Savelyev managed to notice that no one was hit.
So they lay down several times, got up, ran across and walked a kilometer to small hills. Intelligence is lurking here. Everyone in it was alive. The enemy fired alternately - sometimes mortar fire, sometimes machine gun fire. Savelyev and his neighbors were lucky: where they lay down, there were not just trenches, but something like them (the Germans probably started digging them here and then abandoned them). Savelyev lay down in the trench he had started, unfastened his shovel, dug up some earth and piled it in front of him.
Our artillery was still hitting the hills hard. The German mortars fell silent one after another. Savelyev and his neighbors lay there, ready every minute to move on on command. There were about five hundred meters left to the hills where the Germans were in a completely open place. About five minutes after they lay down, Yudin returned.
Who was hurt? - Savelyev asked.
“I don’t know his last name,” Yudin answered. “This little one who arrived yesterday with a new addition.”
Was it seriously hurt?
Not really, but he was out of action.
At this time, Katyusha shells passed over their heads, and immediately the hills on which the Germans had settled were covered in continuous smoke. Apparently, Senior Lieutenant Savin, warned by his superiors, was waiting for this moment. As soon as the volley rang out, he transmitted the order to rise along the chain.
Savelyev looked with regret at the wet trench and removed the belt of his machine gun from his neck. For several minutes Savelyev, like the others, ran without hearing a single shot. When there were only two hundred meters left to the hills, or even less, machine guns immediately struck from there, first one from the left, and then two others from the middle. Savelyev rushed to the ground with a flourish and only then felt that he was completely suffocated from the heavy running and his heart was pounding as if he was hitting the ground directly. Someone behind (Savelyev couldn’t make out who in his fever), who didn’t have time to lie down, screamed in a voice that was not his own.
First one, then another shell passed over Savelyev’s head. Without looking up from the ground, running his cheek over the wet grass, he turned his head and saw that behind, about a hundred and fifty steps away, our light guns were standing and firing at the Germans right from the open field. Another shell whistled. The German machine gun, which was firing from the left, fell silent. And at the same moment Savelyev saw how foreman Yegorychev, who was lying four people to the left of him, without rising, waved his hand, pointed it forward and crawled on his belly. Savelyev followed him. It was difficult to crawl, the place was low and wet. When he pulled himself forward and grabbed the grass, it cut his fingers.
As he crawled, the cannons continued to fire shells over his head. And although the German machine guns ahead also did not stop, these cannon shots made it seem to him that it was easier to crawl.
Now the Germans were just a stone's throw away. Machine-gun bursts stirred the grass, now from behind, now from the sides. Savelyev crawled another ten steps and, probably, just like the others, felt that now or a minute later he would need to jump up and run the remaining hundred meters at full speed.
The cannons behind fired several more times separately, then fired in one gulp. Ahead, earth shot up from the parapet of the trenches, and at the same second Savelyev heard the company commander’s whistle. Throwing his duffel bag off his shoulders (he thought that he would come for it later, when they took the trenches), Savelyev jumped up and fired a burst from his machine gun as he ran. He stumbled into an invisible hole, hit the ground, jumped up and ran again. At these moments he had only one desire: to quickly run to the German trench and jump into it. He did not think about how the German would greet him. He knew that if he jumped into the trench, then the worst would be over, at least as many Germans as you wanted were sitting there. And the worst thing is these remaining meters, when you need to run forward with your open chest and have nothing to cover yourself with.
When he stumbled, fell and got up again, his comrades on the left and right overtook him, and therefore, jumping onto the parapet and diving down, he saw there an already killed German lying face down, and in front of him - the tunic of a soldier wet from the rain, running further along the line of communication . He started to run after the fighter, but then turned left along the trench and came across a German who jumped out to meet him. They collided in a narrow trench, and Savelyev, who was holding a machine gun in front of him, did not shoot, but poked the German in the chest with the machine gun, and he fell. Savelyev lost his balance and also fell to his knee. He rose with difficulty, leaning his hand on the slippery, wet wall of the trench. At this time, from the same place where the German jumped out, Sergeant Major Yegorychev appeared, who must have been chasing this German. Yegorychev had a pale face and angry, sparkling eyes.
Killed? - he asked, colliding with Savelyev and nodding at the one lying down.
But the German, as if refuting Yegorychev’s words, muttered something and began to rise from the bottom of the trench. He couldn’t do this, because the trench was slippery, and the German’s hands were raised up.
Get up! Get up, you! Hyundai niht,” Savelyev said to the German, wanting to explain that he could give up.
But the German was afraid to give up and kept trying to get up. Then Yegorychev picked him up by the collar with one hand and placed him in the trench between himself and Savelyev.
“Take him to the senior lieutenant,” said Yegorychev, “and I’ll go,” and disappeared around the bend of the trench.
Having difficulty missing the German in the trench and pushing him, Savelyev led the prisoner in front of him. They passed the trench where the dead German lay sprawled, whom Savelyev saw when he jumped into the trench, then they turned into the direction of communication, and Savelyev’s eyes were revealed to the results of the Katyusha rockets.
Everything, both in the course of the message and at its edges, was burned and covered with gray ash; The corpses of Germans were scattered at some distance from each other in the trench and above. One lay with his head and arms hanging into the trench.
“Probably he wanted to jump, but didn’t have time,” thought Savelyev.
Savelyev found company headquarters near a half-broken German dugout dug right there, next to the trenches. Like everything here, it was done hastily: the Germans must have dug it only yesterday. In any case, it was in no way reminiscent of the previous strong German dugouts and neat trenches that Savelyev saw on the first day of the offensive, when the main line of German defense was broken through. “They can’t keep up,” he thought with pleasure. And, turning to the company commander, he said:
Comrade senior lieutenant, foreman Yegorychev ordered the prisoner to be delivered.
“Okay, deliver,” said Savin.
In the passage of the dugout stood three more captured Germans, who were guarded by a machine gunner unfamiliar to Savelyev.
Here’s another Fritz for you, brother,” said Savelyev.
Sergeant! - the senior lieutenant of the machine gunner called out at that moment. - When everyone gathers to you, take with you another lightly wounded person and lead the prisoners to the battalion.
Then Savelyev saw that the machine gunner’s left hand was bandaged and he was holding the machine gun with one right hand.
Savelyev went back along the trenches and a minute later found Yegorychev and several more of his own. In the recaptured trenches, everything was already in order, and the soldiers arranged places for comfortable shooting.
Where is Yudin, Comrade Sergeant Major? - Savelyev asked, worried about his friend.
He went back and bandaged the wounded there.
And for the tenth time these days, Savelyev thought what a difficult position Yudin had: he does the same thing as Savelyev, and even goes to pull out the wounded and bandages them. “Maybe he’s so grouchy because he’s tired,” Savelyev thought about Yudin.
Egorychev showed him a place, and he, pulling out a spatula, began to expand his cell in order to adapt everything more conveniently, just in case.
There weren’t that many of them here,” said Yegorychev, who was installing a machine gun next to Savelyev. “Did you see how they were covered with Katyushas?”
“I saw it,” said Savelyev.
As soon as the Katyushas were covered, there were very few of them left. It was truly wonderful and amazing what covered them! - Yegorychev repeated.
Savelyev had already noticed that Yegorychev had the habit of saying “wonderful-amazing” in a patter, in one word, but he said this occasionally, when something particularly delighted him.
Savelyev was throwing an earthen parapet with a shovel, and all the time he thought how nice it would be to smoke. But Yudin still did not return, and he was ashamed to smoke alone. However, he barely had time to make himself a “visor” when Yudin returned.
Shall we light a cigarette, Yudin? - Savelyev was delighted.
Has it dried out?
“It should dry out,” Savelyev responded cheerfully and began to unscrew the cap of a captured oil can, which he had found in a trench the day before and adapted for tobacco.
Comrade Sergeant Major, would you like to have a smoke? - he turned to Yegorychev.
What, do you have shag?
Yes, but it's damp.
“Come on,” Yegorychev agreed.
Savelyev took two small pinches and poured one each on Yegorychev and Yudin, who had already prepared the pieces of paper. Then he took the third pinch for himself. There was a howl of a shell and an explosion near the trench itself. The earth rushed up above their heads, and all three of them squatted down.
Say please! - Yegorychev was surprised. “Didn’t you spill the makhorka?”
No, they didn’t wake up, Comrade Sergeant Major! - Yudin responded.
Having sat down in the trench, they began to roll cigarettes, and Savelyev, looking at his hands with grief, saw that all the tobacco that was on his piece of paper was spilling to the ground. He looked down: there was water there, and the shag had completely disappeared. Then, opening the oil can, he regretfully poured himself another pinch; he thought there were two wraps left, but now it turned out that there was only one left.
They barely had time to light a cigarette when shells began to explode again. Sometimes clods of earth fell directly into the trench, into the water at the bottom.
“They probably took aim in advance,” said Yegorychev. “They figured they wouldn’t be able to hold out here.”
A new shell exploded in the very trench, close, but around the bend. They didn't hurt anyone. Savelyev looked beyond the parapet of the trench and looked in the German direction: no movement was noticeable there.
Yegorychev took his watch out of his pocket, looked at it and silently hid it back.
What time is it, Comrade Sergeant Major? - Savelyev asked.
Well, which one? - in turn, asked Yegorychev.
Savelyev looked at the sky, but it was difficult to determine anything from the sky: it was completely gray, and it was still drizzling.
Yes, it will be about ten in the morning,” he said.
What do you think, Yudin? - asked Yegorychev.
“It’s probably noon,” said Yudin.
“Four hours,” said Yegorychev.
And although on days like this, Savelyev was always wrong about the time and evening always came unexpectedly, nevertheless, he was once again surprised at how quickly time flies.
Is it really four hours? - he asked again.
“So there you have it,” Yegorychev answered. “Within minutes.”
The German artillery continued to fire for quite some time, but to no avail. Then again in the trench itself, but now one shell exploded at a distance, and from there they immediately called Yudin. Yudin stayed there for about ten minutes. Suddenly a shell whistled again, and an explosion was heard where Yudin was. Then it became quiet again, the Germans didn’t shoot anymore.
A few minutes later, Yudin approached Savelyev. His face was completely pale, not a trace of blood.
What are you saying, Yudin? - Savelyev was surprised.
“Nothing,” Yudin said calmly. “It hurt me.”
Savelyev saw that the sleeve of Yudin’s tunic was cut to its full length, his hand was tucked into his belt and bandaged to his body. Savelyev knew that this was done in case of serious injuries.
“Perhaps it was interrupted,” thought Savelyev.
How did it happen? - he asked Yudin.
Vorobyov was wounded there,” Yudin explained. “I was bandaging him, and it hit him exactly.” Vorobyov was killed, and me... you see... He sat down in the trench before leaving.
Light a cigarette on the path,” Savelyev suggested.
He again took out his trophy oiler and at first wanted to divide the pinch that remained there into two, but he was ashamed of his thought, rolled up a large cigarette from all the tobacco and handed it to Yudin. He took a cigarette with his left, healthy hand and asked for light.
The Germans didn't shoot at all. There was silence.
Well, as long as they don’t shoot, I’ll go, buddy,” Yudin said and stood up.
Holding a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, he extended his healthy hand to Savelyev.
“You’re this...” Savelyev said and fell silent, because he thought: suddenly Yudin’s hand would be taken away.
What is this"?
Get better and come back.
“No,” said Yudin. “If I recover, I’ll end up in a different unit.” You have my address. If you pass through Ponyri after the war, get off and come in. And so - goodbye. We'll hardly see each other during the war.
He shook hands with Savelyev. He couldn’t find anything to say to him, and Yudin, awkwardly helping himself with one hand, climbed out of the trench and, slightly stooping, slowly walked back across the field.
“I’m probably used to him,” Savelyev thought, looking after him, not yet understanding that he was not used to Yudin, but fell in love with him.
To pass the time, Savelyev decided to chew a cracker. But only then did he remember that he had abandoned his duffel bag before reaching the trenches. He asked Yegorychev for permission, climbed out of the trench and went to where, according to his calculations, the duffel bag lay. Yudin's figure was visible ahead, but Savelyev did not call out to him. What else could he tell him?
About five minutes later he found his bag and went back.
Suddenly he saw what the observer sitting in the trench below him saw a few seconds later. Ahead, to the left of the line lying on the horizon, were German tanks, about ten or twelve. Seeing the tanks, although they had not yet fired, Savelyev wanted to quickly run to the trench and jump down. Before he had time to do this, the tanks opened fire - not at him, of course, but it seemed to Savelyev that it was at him. Out of breath, he jumped into the trench, where Yegorychev was already ordering the preparation of grenades.
Soldier Andreev, a lanky armor-piercing man from their platoon, was making his large “tar gun” more comfortable in the trench. Savelyev unfastened an anti-tank grenade from his belt and placed it on the parapet in front of him; He only had one; the other one, five days ago, in a rush of passion, he threw at a German tank when it was still a hundred meters away from him. And, of course, the grenade exploded completely in vain, without causing any harm to the tank. That time, noticing Savelyev’s mistake, Yegorychev scolded him, and Savelyev himself was embarrassed, because it looked like he was chickening out, but he knew in himself that he wasn’t really chickening out, but was just getting excited. And now, unfastening the grenade from his belt, he decided that if the tank went in his direction, he would throw the grenade only when the tank was very close.
The main thing is to sit and wait,” said senior lieutenant Savin, passing by, who was walking around the trenches and telling everyone this. “Sit and wait and throw after him when he passes.” You will sit quietly, he will not take anything from you.
German tanks fired continuously as they moved. Their shells whistled overhead, then to the left. Savelyev rose slightly above the trench. One tank was coming from the left, the other was heading straight towards him. Savelyev again dived into the trench. And although the tank that was coming on the left was larger - it was a “tiger” - and the one that was heading towards Savelyev was an ordinary medium tank, but because it was closer, it seemed to Savelyev that it was the largest. He lifted a grenade from the parapet and rested it on his hand. The grenade was heavy, and this made him feel somehow calmer.
At this time, Andreev’s armor-piercing gun began shooting from the side.
When Savelyev looked out again, the tank was already twenty paces away. He barely had time to take cover at the bottom of the trench when the tank rumbled right over his head, a foreign smell, burning and smoke smelled from above, and earth fell from the edges of the trench. Savelyev pressed the grenade to himself, as if he was afraid that it would be taken away.
The tank crossed the trench. Savelyev jumped up, pulled himself up on his hands, lay down on his stomach on the edge of the trench, then jumped out completely and threw a grenade after the tank, aiming for the track. He threw the grenade with all his might and, unable to resist, fell forward to the ground. And then, closing his eyes, he turned and jumped into the trench. Lying in the trench, he could still hear the roar of the tank and thought that he must have missed. Then he was overcome with curiosity; although it was scary, he stood up and looked out of the trench. The tank, rattling, turned on one caterpillar, and the second, like a flattened iron track, dragged behind it. Savelyev realized that he was in trouble.
At that moment, two shells whistled over his head, one after another. As soon as Savelyev took refuge in the trench again, there was a deafening explosion.
Look, it's burning! - shouted Andreev, who, having risen in the trench, turned his armor-piercing gun in the direction where the tank was. - It’s burning! - he shouted again.
Savelyev, rising above the trench, saw that the tank had burst into flames and was all on fire.
The other tanks were far to the left; one was burning, the rest were walking, but at that moment Savelyev could not say whether they were going forward or backward. When he threw the grenade and when the tank exploded, everything in his head was confused.
“You knocked out a caterpillar track for him,” Andreev said for some reason in a whisper. “He stopped, and she’s going to hit him!”
Savelyev realized that Andreev meant an anti-tank gun.
The remaining tanks went completely somewhere to the left and disappeared from sight. German mortars began to hit the trenches heavily.
This went on for an hour and a half and finally stopped. Senior Lieutenant Savin came to the trench along with Captain Matveev, the battalion commander.
“He knocked out a fascist tank,” said the company commander, stopping near Savelyev.
Savelyev was surprised by his words: he had never told anyone that he had knocked out a tank, but the senior lieutenant already knew about it.
Well, let’s imagine,” said Matveev. “Well done!” - and shook Savelyev’s hand. “How did you knock him out?”
He walked right over me, I jumped out and threw a grenade at his track,” Savelyev said.
Well done! - Matveev repeated.
“He still deserves a medal for the old things,” said the senior lieutenant.
“And I brought it,” said Captain Matveev. “I brought you four medals to the company.” Order the soldiers and the platoon commander to come.
The senior lieutenant left, and the captain, sitting down in the trench next to Savelyev, rummaged in the pocket of his tunic, took out several certificates with seals and took one away. Then he took out a box from another pocket and a medal from it. A senior lieutenant and a sergeant major approached them.
Savelyev stood up and, as if he were in formation, froze, as if on the command “at attention.”
Red Army soldier Savelyev,” Captain Matveev addressed him, “on behalf of the Supreme Council and the command, as a reward for your military valor, I present you with the medal “For Courage.”
I serve the Soviet Union! - Savelyev answered.
He took the medal with trembling hands and almost dropped it.
Well,” said the captain, either not knowing what else to say, or considering further words unnecessary. “Congratulations and thank you.” Fight! - And he went further along the trench, to the neighboring platoon.
“Listen, foreman,” Savelyev said when everyone else had left.
Screw it on.
Yegorychev took a penknife on a chain from his pocket, slowly opened it, unbuttoned the collar of Savelyev’s tunic, reached up with his hand, pierced the pocket with a knife and attached the medal to Savelyev’s wet, sweaty, mud-splattered tunic.
It’s a pity, there’s nothing to smoke for this occasion! - said Yegorychev.
It’s okay, it will work out that way,” said Savelyev.
Yegorychev reached into his pocket, pulled out a tin cigarette case, opened it, and Savelyev saw a little tobacco dust at the bottom of the cigarette case.
“I won’t regret it for this time,” said Yegorychev. “In case of emergency, I’ll go to the shore.”
They each rolled a cigarette and lit a cigarette.
What is it, it's quiet? - said Savelyev.
“It’s quieted down,” Yegorychev agreed. “Come on, chew some crackers.” We need everyone to eat, I will give the order. Otherwise, maybe we’ll just go.” And he walked away from Savelyev.
Somewhere ahead, on the left, there was still heavy shooting, but here it was quiet - either the Germans were preparing something, or had retreated.
Savelyev sat for a minute, then, remembering the foreman’s words that maybe they would really start moving, he pulled out a cracker from the bag and, although he didn’t feel like eating, began to gnaw on it.
In fact, something was happening that neither Savelyev nor Egorychev knew.
The Germans did not fire because they were heavily pressed on the left flank and retreated three kilometers behind a small swampy river. At the moment when Savelyev was sitting in silence and gnawing on a cracker, the regiment had already given orders to the battalion to move forward and go to the river itself in order to cross it at night.
Fifteen minutes passed, and Senior Lieutenant Savin raised his company. Savelyev, like the others, put his duffel bag back, threw it over his shoulders, left the trench and walked. We reached the fishing line safely. It was already starting to get dark. When we crossed the grove and came out to its edge, Savelyev first saw a burnt-out German tank, and about a hundred paces from it ours, also burnt out. They passed this tank very close, and Savelyev distinguished the number “120”. “One hundred and twenty, one hundred and twenty,” he thought. It seemed that he had recently seen this figure in front of him. And suddenly he remembered how the day before yesterday, when they, tired, got up for the fifth time and walked forward, they came across tanks standing in shelters and on one of the tanks there was the number “120”. Yudin, who had an evil tongue, said as he walked to the tankers leaning out of the hatch:
Well, let's go on the attack together?
One of the tankers shook his head and said:
Now is not the time for us.
OK OK! - Yudin said angrily. “This is how we’ll enter the city, so you drive in there like proud tank crews, and let the girls give you flowers...
Passing by a burnt tank, he remembered this conversation with grief and thought that they were alive, and the tankers sitting in their armor had probably died in battle. And Yudin is probably going, if he hasn’t already, to the medical battalion with a broken arm wrapped in his belt.
“This is a war,” thought Savelyev, “you can’t touch people with offensive words. Today you will offend, but tomorrow it’s too late to ask for forgiveness.”
In the darkness they came out onto a low meadow that turned into a swamp. The river was very close.
As Senior Lieutenant Savin said, it was necessary to concentrate by 24.00 and then cross the river. Savelyev, together with the others, was already walking through the swamp itself, carefully so as not to make noise as he stepped into the quagmire that appeared under his feet. He had not reached the shore a little when suddenly the first mine howled over his head and hit the mud somewhere far behind him. Then another howled and hit closer. They lay down, and Savelyev began to quickly dig into the wet soil. And the mines kept plopping and plopping into the swamp, now from the left, now from the right.
The night was dark. Savelyev lay silently, he wanted to cross the river as quickly as possible at all costs.
All the events of that day came to his mind amid the whistling of mines and the squelching of water. He remembered Yudin, who might still be walking along the road, then the burnt-out tank, whose crew they had once offended, then the caterpillar of the German tank he had knocked out, spread out like a snake, then, finally, platoon commander Yegorychev and the last tobacco dust at the bottom of his cigarette case. There was no chance of smoking again today.
It was cold, uncomfortable and I really wanted to smoke. If it had occurred to Savelyev to count the days that he was fighting, he would have easily counted that the eight hundredth day of the war ended today.
Simonov Konstantin Mikhailovich
Immortal surname
Story
1944
Last fall, back on the Desna, when we were driving along its left bank, our Jeep's ramp went down, and while the driver pumped it up, we had to lie for half an hour, waiting, almost on the very bank. As usually happens, the tire went flat in the most unfortunate place - we got stuck near a temporary bridge that was being built across the river.
During the half hour that we sat there, German planes appeared twice in groups of three or four and dropped small bombs around the crossing. The first time the bombing went off as usual, that is, as always, and the sappers working at the crossing lay down wherever they could and waited out the bombing lying down. But the second time, when the last of the German planes, left alone, continued, buzzing annoyingly, endlessly spinning over the river, the little dark-haired sapper major, who commanded the construction, jumped up and began to curse fiercely.
“They’ll keep spinning like that all day,” he shouted, “and you’ll just lie there, and the bridge will still stand!” After the war we will build a railway here. In places!
The sappers rose one after another and, with an eye to the sky, continued their work.
The German circled in the air for a long time, then, seeing that one of his buzzing had stopped working, he dropped the last two small bombs he had left and left.
- So he left! - the major rejoiced loudly, dancing on the edge of the bridge, so close to the water that it seemed that he was about to fall into it.
I probably would have forgotten forever about this little episode, but certain circumstances later reminded me of it. In late autumn I was again at the front, in approximately the same direction, first on the Dnieper, and then beyond the Dnieper. I had to catch up with the army that had gone far ahead. On the road, one name caught my eye, constantly, here and there, a repeated surname, which seemed to be an indispensable companion of the road. Either it was written on a piece of plywood nailed to a telegraph pole, then on the wall of a hut, or in chalk on the armor of a destroyed German tank: “No mines. Artemyev,” or: “The road has been explored. Artemyev,” or: “Detour to the left. Artemyev,” or: “The bridge has been built. Artemyev,” or, finally, just “Artemyev” and an arrow pointing forward.
Judging by the contents of the inscriptions, it was not difficult to guess that this was the name of one of the sapper commanders who marched here along with the advanced units and cleared the way for the army. But this time the inscriptions were especially frequent, detailed and, most importantly, always corresponded to reality.
Having traveled a good two hundred kilometers, accompanied by these inscriptions, at the twentieth or thirtieth of them I remembered that dark-haired “little major” who commanded the construction of a bridge on the Desna under bombs, and it suddenly seemed to me that maybe he was this mysterious Artemyev, as a sapper guardian angel, walking ahead of the troops.
In winter, on the banks of the Bug, during a muddy season, we spent the night in a village where a field hospital was located. In the evening, we gathered around the fire with the doctors, sat and drank tea. I don’t remember why, I started talking about these inscriptions.
“Yes, yes,” said the head of the hospital. “We’ve been following these inscriptions for almost half a thousand kilometers.” Famous surname. So famous that it even drives some women crazy. Well, well, don’t be angry, Vera Nikolaevna, I’m joking!
The head of the hospital turned to the young female doctor, who made an angry protest gesture.
“There’s nothing to joke about here,” she said and turned to me: “You’ll go further forward, won’t you?”
- Yes.
- They laugh at my, as they say, superstitious premonition, but I, too, am Artemyeva, and it seems to me that these inscriptions on the roads are left by my brother.
- Brother?
- Yes. I lost track of him since the beginning of the war; we broke up in Minsk. Before the war, he was a road engineer, and for some reason it still seems to me that this is exactly him. Moreover, I believe in it.
“He believes,” the head of the hospital interrupted her, “and is even angry that the one who left these inscriptions did not add initials to his last name.”
“Yes,” Vera Nikolaevna simply agreed, “it’s very offensive.” If only there was an inscription “A. N. Artemyev” - Alexander Nikolaevich, I would be completely sure.
- Do you even know what you did? - the head of the hospital interrupted again. “She once added to such an inscription below: “Which Artemyev? Not Alexander Nikolaevich? His sister Artemyeva, field post zero three ninety “B” is looking for him.
- Is that really what they wrote? - I asked.
- That’s what I wrote. Only everyone laughed at me and assured me that someone, and sappers rarely go back according to their own marks. This is true, but I still wrote... When you go forward,” she continued, “ask in the divisions, just in case, if you suddenly come across it.” And here I will write you the number of our field post office. If you find out, do me a favor and write me two lines. Fine?
- Fine.
She tore off a piece of newspaper and, writing her mailing address on it, handed it to me. While I was hiding this piece of paper in my tunic pocket, she followed it with her gaze, as if trying to look into the pocket and make sure that this address was there and did not disappear.
The offensive continued. Beyond the Dnieper and on the Dniester I still came across the name “Artemyev”: “The road has been explored. Artemyev”, “The crossing has been established. Artemyev”, “The mines have been neutralized. Artemyev." And again just “Artemyev” and an arrow pointing forward.
In the spring in Bessarabia, I ended up in one of our rifle divisions, where, in response to a question about a surname that interested me, I suddenly heard unexpected words from the general:
- Well, of course, this is my commander of the sapper battalion - Major Artemyev. A wonderful sapper. What are you asking? Probably, the surname often came across?
- Very often.
- Of course. Not only for the division, for the corps - for the army he scouts the road. The whole path is ahead. There is a famous surname throughout the army, although few have seen him, because he always leads the way. A famous, one might even say immortal, surname.
I again remembered the crossing of the Desna, about the little dark-haired major, and told the general that I would like to see Artemyev.
- Just wait. If we have some kind of temporary stop - then. You won't see him now - somewhere ahead with reconnaissance units.
- By the way, Comrade General, what is his name? - I asked.
- What's your name? Name is Alexander Nikolaevich. And what?
I told the general about the meeting at the hospital.
“Yes, yes,” he confirmed, “from the reserve.” Although now he’s such a warrior, it’s as if he’s been serving in the army for a hundred years. He's probably the one.
At night, rummaging in the pocket of my tunic, I found a piece of newspaper with the postal address of the hospital and wrote a few words to the doctor Artemyeva that her premonition was confirmed, soon a thousand kilometers, as she was following in the footsteps of her brother.
A week later I had to regret this letter.
It was on the other side of the Prut. The bridge had not yet been built, but two serviceable ferries, working like a good clockwork, moved monotonously and continuously from one bank to the other. While still approaching the left bank of the Prut, I saw a familiar inscription on the shield of a broken German self-propelled gun: “There is a crossing. Artemyev."
I crossed the Prut on a slow ferry and, going ashore, looked around, involuntarily searching with my eyes for the same familiar inscription. Twenty paces away, on the very cliff, I saw a small, freshly poured mound with a carefully made wooden pyramid, where at the top, under a tin star, a square plank was nailed.
“Here is buried,” it was written on it, “Major A. N. Artemyev, who fell a glorious death as a sapper while crossing the Prut River.” And below it is written in large red letters: “Forward, to the west!”
A photograph was inserted on the pyramid under the square glass. I peered at her. The photograph was old, with frayed edges, probably lying in the pocket of his tunic for a long time, but it was still possible to make out: it was the same little major whom I saw last year at the crossing of the Desna.
I stood at the monument for a long time. Various feelings worried me. I felt sorry for my sister who lost her brother before, perhaps, even receiving a letter saying that she had found him. And then another feeling of loneliness came over me. It seemed that something would be wrong further on the roads without this familiar inscription “Artemyev”, that my unknown noble companion, who had been guarding me all the way, had disappeared. But what to do. In war, willy-nilly, you have to get used to death.
We waited until our cars were unloaded from the ferry and drove on. Fifteen kilometers later, where deep ravines descended on both sides of the road, we saw on the side of the road a whole pile of German anti-tank mines piled on top of each other, looking like huge cakes, and on a lonely telegraph pole a plywood board with the inscription: “The road has been explored. Artemyev."
This, of course, was no miracle. Like many units in which the commander did not change for a long time, the engineer battalion got used to calling itself Artemyev’s battalion, and its people honored the memory of the deceased commander, continuing to open the way for the army and inscribe his name where they passed. And when, following this inscription, after another ten, another thirty, another seventy kilometers I again met the same immortal surname, it seemed to me that someday, in the near future, at the crossings across the Neman, across the Oder, across the Spree I Again I will see a plywood board with the inscription: “The road has been explored. Artemyev."
Simonov Konstantin Mikhailovich
Visitor book
Story
The tall, pine-forested hill on which the Unknown Soldier is buried is visible from almost every street in Belgrade. If you have binoculars, then, despite the distance of fifteen kilometers, at the very top of the hill you will notice some kind of square elevation. This is the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
If you drive east from Belgrade along the Pozarevac road and then turn left from it, then along a narrow asphalt road you will soon reach the foot of the hill and, going around the hill in smooth turns, you will begin to climb to the top between two continuous rows of centuries-old pine trees, the bases of which are entangled bushes of wolfberries and ferns.
The road will lead you to a smooth asphalt area. You won't get any further. Directly in front of you, a wide staircase made of roughly hewn gray granite will rise endlessly upward. You will walk along it for a long time past gray parapets with bronze torches until you finally reach the very top.
You will see a large granite square, bordered by a powerful parapet, and in the middle of the square, finally, the grave itself - also heavy, square, lined with gray marble. Its roof on both sides, instead of columns, is supported on the shoulders of eight bent figures of weeping women, sculpted from huge pieces of the same gray marble.
Inside, you will be struck by the austere simplicity of the tomb. Level with the stone floor, worn by countless feet, there is a large copper board.
There are only a few words carved on the board, the simplest ones imaginable:
AN UNKNOWN SOLDIER IS BURIED HERE
And on the marble walls to the left and right you will see faded wreaths with faded ribbons, laid here at different times, sincerely and insincerely, by ambassadors of forty states.
That's all. Now go outside and from the threshold of the grave look in all four directions of the world. Perhaps once again in your life (and this happens many times in life) it will seem to you that you have never seen anything more beautiful and majestic.
In the east you will see endless forests and copses with narrow forest roads winding between them.
In the south you will see the soft yellow-green outlines of the autumn hills of Serbia, the green patches of pastures, the yellow stripes of stubble, the red squares of rural tiled roofs and the countless black dots of herds wandering across the hills.
To the west you will see Belgrade, battered by bombing, crippled by battles, and yet beautiful Belgrade, whitening among the faded greenery of fading gardens and parks.
In the north, you will be struck by the mighty gray ribbon of the stormy autumn Danube, and behind it the rich pastures and black fields of Vojvodina and Banat.
And only when you look around all four corners of the world from here, you will understand why the Unknown Soldier is buried here.
He is buried here because from here a simple eye can see the entire beautiful Serbian land, everything that he loved and for which he died.
This is what the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier looks like, which I am talking about because it will be the setting for my story.
True, on the day in question, both fighting sides were least interested in the historical past of this hill.
For the three German artillerymen left here as forward observers, the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier was only the best observation point on the ground, from which, however, they had twice unsuccessfully radioed for permission to leave, because the Russians and Yugoslavs were beginning to approach the hill ever closer.
All three Germans were from the Belgrade garrison and knew very well that this was the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and that in case of artillery shelling the grave had thick and strong walls. This was, in their opinion, good, and everything else did not interest them at all. This was the case with the Germans.
The Russians also considered this hill with a house on top as an excellent observation post, but an enemy observation post and, therefore, subject to fire.
What kind of residential building is this? It’s something wonderful, I’ve never seen anything like it,” said the battery commander, Captain Nikolaenko, carefully examining the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier through binoculars for the fifth time. “And the Germans are sitting there, that’s for sure.” Well, have the data for firing been prepared?
Yes sir! - the young Lieutenant Prudnikov, who was standing next to the captain, reported.
Start shooting.
We shot quickly, with three shells. Two dug up the cliff right under the parapet, raising a whole fountain of earth. The third hit the parapet. Through binoculars one could see fragments of stones flying.
Look, it splashed!” said Nikolaenko. “Go to defeat.”
But Lieutenant Prudnikov, who had previously been peering through his binoculars for a long time and intensely, as if remembering something, suddenly reached into his field bag, pulled out a German captured map of Belgrade and, putting it on top of his two-layout paper, began hastily running his finger over it.
What's the matter? - Nikolaenko said sternly. “There is nothing to clarify, everything is already clear.”
Allow me, one minute, comrade captain,” Prudnikov muttered.
He quickly looked several times at the plan, at the hill, and again at the plan, and suddenly, resolutely burying his finger in some point he had finally found, he raised his eyes to the captain:
Do you know what this is, Comrade Captain?
And that’s all - both the hill and this residential building?
This is the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. I kept looking and doubting. I saw it somewhere in a photograph in a book. Exactly. Here it is on the plan - the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
For Prudnikov, who once studied at the history department of Moscow State University before the war, this discovery seemed extremely important. But captain Nikolaenko, unexpectedly for Prudnikov, did not show any responsiveness. He answered calmly and even somewhat suspiciously:
What other unknown soldier is there? Let's fire.
Comrade captain, allow me!” Prudnikov said, looking pleadingly into Nikolaenko’s eyes.
What else?
You may not know... This is not just a grave. This is, as it were, a national monument. Well... - Prudnikov stopped, choosing his words. - Well, a symbol of all those who died for their homeland. One soldier, who was not identified, was buried instead of everyone else, in their honor, and now it is like a memory for the whole country.
“Wait, don’t jabber,” Nikolaenko said and, wrinkling his brow, thought for a whole minute.
He was a great-hearted man, despite his rudeness, a favorite of the entire battery and a good artilleryman. But, having started the war as a simple fighter-gunner and rising through blood and valor to the rank of captain, in his labors and battles he never had time to learn many things that perhaps an officer should have known. He had a weak understanding of history, if it did not involve his direct accounts with the Germans, and of geography, if the question did not concern the settlement that needed to be taken. As for the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, this was the first time he had heard about it.
However, although now he did not understand everything in Prudnikov’s words, he felt with his soldier’s soul that Prudnikov must be worried for good reason and that we were talking about something really worthwhile.
“Wait,” he repeated once again, loosening his wrinkles. “Tell me exactly whose soldier he fought with, who he fought with—that’s what you tell me!”
The Serbian soldier, in general, is Yugoslav,” said Prudnikov. “He fought with the Germans in the last war of 1914.”
Now it's clear.
Nikolaenko felt with pleasure that now everything was really clear and the right decision could be made on this issue.
“Everything is clear,” he repeated. “It’s clear who and what.” Otherwise you are weaving God knows what - “unknown, unknown.” How unknown is he when he is Serbian and fought with the Germans in that war? Put down the fire! Call me Fedotov with two fighters.
Five minutes later, Sergeant Fedotov, a taciturn Kostroma resident with bearish habits and an impenetrably calm, wide, pockmarked face, appeared before Nikolaenko. Two more scouts came with him, also fully equipped and ready.
Nikolaenko briefly explained to Fedotov his task - to climb the hill and remove the German observers without unnecessary noise. Then he looked with some regret at the grenades hanging in abundance from Fedotov’s belt and said:
This house on the mountain is a historical past, so don’t play around with grenades in the house itself, that’s how they picked it. If anything happens, remove the German from the machine gun, and that’s it. Is your task clear?
“I see,” said Fedotov and began to climb the hill, accompanied by his two scouts.
The old Serbian man, the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, had not found a place for himself all that day since the morning.
The first two days, when the Germans appeared at the grave, bringing with them a stereo tube, a walkie-talkie and a machine gun, the old man, out of habit, hovered upstairs under the arch, swept the slabs and brushed dust from the wreaths with a bunch of feathers tied to a stick.
He was very old, and the Germans were very busy with their own business and did not pay attention to him. Only in the evening of the second day, one of them came across an old man, looked at him in surprise, turned him by the shoulders with his back to him and, saying: “Get out,” jokingly and, as it seemed to him, slightly kicked the old man in the butt with his knee. The old man, stumbling, took a few steps to maintain his balance, went down the stairs and never went back up to the grave.
He was very old and lost all four of his sons during that war. That is why he received this position as a guard, and that is why he had his own special, hidden from everyone, attitude towards the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Somewhere in the depths of his soul it seemed to him that one of his four sons was buried in this grave.
At first this thought only occasionally flashed through his head, but after he had spent so many years constantly visiting the grave, this strange thought turned into confidence in him. He never told anyone about this, knowing that they would laugh at him, but to himself he became more and more accustomed to this thought and, left alone with himself, only thought: which of the four?
Driven away from the grave by the Germans, he slept poorly at night and wandered around the parapet below, suffering from resentment and from breaking his long-term habit of going up there every morning.
When the first explosions were heard, he calmly sat down, leaning his back against the parapet, and began to wait - something had to change.
Despite his old age and life in this remote place, he knew that the Russians were advancing on Belgrade and, therefore, must eventually come here. After several explosions, everything was quiet for two whole hours, only the Germans were noisily fiddling around up there, shouting something loudly and quarreling among themselves.
Then suddenly they started shooting downwards with a machine gun. And someone below was also firing a machine gun. Then, close, right under the parapet, there was a loud explosion and silence fell. And a minute later, just ten steps from the old man, a German jumped head over heels from the parapet, fell, quickly jumped up and ran down to the forest.
This time the old man did not hear the shot, he only saw how the German, not reaching the first trees a few steps, jumped, turned and fell face down. The old man stopped paying attention to the German and listened. Upstairs, near the grave, someone's heavy footsteps could be heard. The old man stood up and moved around the parapet towards the stairs.
Sergeant Fedotov - because the heavy steps the old man heard above were precisely his steps - having made sure that, except for the three killed, there were no more Germans here, he waited at the grave for his two scouts, who were both slightly wounded in the shootout and were now still climbing mountain
Fedotov walked around the grave and, going inside, looked at the wreaths hanging on the walls.
The wreaths were funeral ones - it was from them that Fedotov realized that this was a grave, and, looking at the marble walls and statues, he thought about whose rich grave it could be.
He was caught doing this by an old man who entered from the opposite direction.
From the look of the old man, Fedotov immediately drew the correct conclusion that this was the guard at the grave, and, taking three steps towards him, patted the old man on the shoulder with his hand free from the machine gun and said exactly that reassuring phrase that he always said in all such cases:
Nothing, dad. There will be order!
The old man did not know what the words “there will be order!” meant, but the broad, pockmarked face of the Russian lit up with such a reassuring smile at these words that the old man also involuntarily smiled in response.
And what they tinkered with a little,” Fedotov continued, not caring at all whether the old man understood him or not, “what they tinkered with, it’s not one hundred and fifty-two, it’s seventy-six, it’s a couple of trifles to fix.” And a grenade is also a trifle, but there was no way for me to take them without a grenade,” he explained as if standing in front of him was not an old watchman, but Captain Nikolaenko. “That’s the matter,” he concluded. “Is it clear?”
The old man nodded his head - he did not understand what Fedotov said, but the meaning of the Russian’s words, he felt, was as reassuring as his wide smile, and the old man wanted, in turn, to tell him something good and significant in response .
“My son is buried here,” he unexpectedly said loudly and solemnly for the first time in his life. “My son,” the old man pointed to his chest, and then to the bronze plate.
He said this and looked at the Russian with hidden fear: now he won’t believe it and will laugh.
But Fedotov was not surprised. He was a Soviet man, and it could not surprise him that this poorly dressed old man had a son buried in such a grave.
“So, father, that’s it,” thought Fedotov. “The son was probably a famous person, maybe a general.”
He remembered Vatutin’s funeral, which he had attended in Kyiv, his old parents, simply dressed in peasant style, walking behind the coffin, and tens of thousands of people standing around.
“I see,” he said, looking sympathetically at the old man. “I see.” Rich grave.
And the old man realized that the Russian not only believed him, but was not surprised at the extraordinary nature of his words, and a grateful feeling for this Russian soldier filled his heart.
He hastily felt for the key in his pocket and, opening the iron cabinet door set into the wall, took out a leather-bound book of honored visitors and an eternal pen.
“Write,” he told Fedotov and handed him a pen.
Having placed the machine gun against the wall, Fedotov took the eternal pen in one hand and leafed through the book with the other.
It was full of magnificent autographs and ornate strokes of royalty unknown to him, ministers, envoys and generals, its smooth paper shone like satin, and the sheets, connecting with each other, folded into one shining golden edge.
Fedotov calmly turned over the last scribbled page. Just as he was not surprised before that the old man’s son was buried here, he was not surprised that he had to sign this book with a gold edge. Having opened a blank sheet of paper, he, with a sense of self-esteem that never left him, in his large, firm handwriting, like a child’s, slowly wrote down the surname “Fedotov” across the entire sheet and, closing the book, gave the eternal pen to the old man.
Here am I! - said Fedotov and went out into the air.
For fifty kilometers in all directions the earth was open to his gaze.
In the east stretched endless forests.
In the south, the autumn hills of Serbia turned yellow.
In the north, the stormy Danube meandered like a gray ribbon.
In the west lay Belgrade, which had not yet been liberated, whitening among the fading greenery of forests and parks, over which the smoke of the first shots smoked.
And in the iron cabinet next to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier lay a book of honorary visitors, in which the last one, written with a firm hand, was the name of the Soviet soldier Fedotov, unknown to anyone here yesterday, who was born in Kostroma, retreated to the Volga and now looked down from here to Belgrade, to which he walked three thousand miles to free him.
Simonov Konstantin Mikhailovich
Before the attack
Story
1944
For many years they will not remember such a bad spring in these places. From morning to evening the sky is equally gray, and a fine cold rain comes and goes, interspersed with sleet. From dawn to dark you can't tell what time it is. The road either spills into black lakes of mud, or goes between two high walls of browned snow.
Junior Lieutenant Vasily Tsyganov lies on the bank of a stream swollen with spring water in front of a large village, the name of which - Zagreblya - he learned only today and which he will forget tomorrow, because today this village must be taken, and he will move on and will fight under another tomorrow the same village, the name of which he does not yet know.
He lies on the floor in one of the five huts located on this side of the stream, just above the bank, in front of the broken bridge.
Vasya, and Vasya? - Sergeant Petrenko, lying next to him, says to him. “Why are you silent, Vasya?”
Petrenko once studied with Tsyganov at the same seven-year school in Kharkov and, by a rare accident in war, ended up in the platoon of his old acquaintance. Despite the difference in rank, when they are alone, Petrenko still calls his friend Vasya.
Well, what are you silent? - Petrenko repeats again, who doesn’t like the fact that Tsyganov hasn’t said a word for half an hour.
Petrenko wants to talk, because the Germans are shooting at the huts with mortars, and while talking, time passes more unnoticed.
But Tsyganov still does not answer. He lies silently, leaning against the broken wall of the hut, and looks through binoculars through the gap outside, beyond the stream. As a matter of fact, the place where he lies can no longer be called a hut, it is only its skeleton. The roof was torn off by a shell, and the wall was half broken, and the rain, when the wind gusted, fell in small drops behind the collar of the greatcoat.
Well, what do you want? - finally looking up from the binoculars, Tsyganov turns his face to Petrenko. - What do you want?
Why are you so gloomy today? - says Petrenko.
No tobacco.
And, considering the question settled, Tsyganov again begins to look through binoculars.
In fact, he didn't tell the truth. His silence today is not because he doesn’t have tobacco, although that’s also unpleasant. He doesn’t want to talk because he suddenly remembered half an hour ago: today is his birthday, he turned thirty years old. And, remembering this, he remembered a lot more, which, perhaps, it would be better not to remember, especially now, when in an hour, with darkness, he had to go across the stream to attack. And you never know what else can happen!
However, he, angry with himself, still begins to remember his wife and son Volodka and the three-month absence of letters.
When they took Kharkov in August, their division passed ten kilometers south of the city, and he saw the city in the distance, but was never able to enter and only then, from letters, did he learn that his wife and Volodka were alive. It’s hard to even imagine what they are like now, what they look like.
And when he once again thinks about the fact that he hasn’t seen them for three years, he suddenly remembers that not only this, but also the last and the day before last birthdays were celebrated in the same way, at the front. He begins to remember: where did these birthdays find him?
Forty-second year. In 1942, in April, they stood near Gzhatsk, near Moscow, near the village of Petushki. And they attacked her either eight or nine times. He remembers the Cockerels and, with the regret of a man who has seen a lot since then, imagines with complete clarity that these Cockerels should not have been taken at all in the same way as they were taken then. But it was necessary to go ten kilometers to the right, beyond the neighboring village of Prokhorovka, and from there bypass the Germans, and then they themselves would have fallen out of these Petushki. Like today we will take the rake, and not like then - all head-on and head-on.
Then he begins to remember the year forty-three. Where was he then? On the tenth he was wounded, and then? Yes, that's right, then he was in the medical battalion. Although his leg was badly hurt, he begged to be left in the medical battalion so as not to leave the unit, otherwise the military registration and enlistment offices wouldn’t listen to a damn thing. You'll end up anywhere from there, just not to your unit. Yes. He was then in the medical battalion, and it was only seven kilometers to the front line. Heavy shells sometimes flew over my head. Fifty kilometers beyond Kursk. A year has passed. Then beyond Kursk, and now beyond Rivne. And suddenly, remembering all these names - Petushki, Kursk, Rovno, he suddenly smiles, and his gloomy mood disappears.
“They stomped a lot,” he thinks. “Of course, everyone walked the same way. But, say, tankers or artillerymen who are mechanically driven are not so noticeable to them, but, say, artillerymen who are horse-drawn are all the more noticeable because of how much they have gone through... And most noticeable is the infantry.”
True, three or four times they brought us up to do marches in cars, they threw us up. And then everything is kicked.
He tries to reconstruct in his mind how large this distance is, and for some reason he remembers the corner classroom of the seventh year, where a large geographical map hung in the wall between the windows. He estimates in his mind how far it is from Petushki to here. According to the map, it turns out to be one thousand and a half kilometers, no more, but it seems like ten thousand. I think, yes. On the map - not much, but from village to village - a lot.
He turns to Petrenko and says out loud:
Is that a lot"? - asks Petrenko.
We've come a lot.
Yes, my legs are still aching from yesterday’s march,” agrees Petrenko. “We’ve walked more than thirty kilometers, huh?”
This is not a lot... But in general it’s a lot... That’s interesting - from Petushkov...
What kind of cockerels?
There are such Petushki... I’ve been walking from Petushki to here for two years. And, let’s say, it will still take a long time to get to Germany, more than one month. But when the war ends, I get on the train, and it’s done, already in Kharkov. Well, maybe you can get by for a week, at the very least. It takes more than two years to come here, and a week to come back. That's when the infantry will travel... - he adds, completely daydreaming. - Trains will run. And we’ll get so far that we’ll be too lazy to even walk five kilometers. Let's say, a train is coming, passes by the village in which the fighter lives, he - once, pulls the Westinghouse - stopped the train and got off.
And the conductor? - asks Petrenko.
Conductor? Nothing. “We will then be given the right,” Tsyganov continues to fantasize, “on the occasion of our great labors, to stop the train for each person at his own village.
Well, we’re straight to Kharkov,” says Petrenko judiciously.
For us? - asks Tsyganov. - For now, you and I are right up to Zagreb. And then to Kharkov,” he adds after a pause.
Several mines fly over their heads and fall behind them on the field.
Zheleznoye must be crawling back,” Tsyganov says, turning in that direction.
How long ago did you send it?
It's been two hours already.
With a thermos?
With a thermos.
“Oh, I wish I had something hot to eat,” Petrenko says dreamily, as if about something unattainable.
Tsyganov looks through binoculars again.
Petrenko lies next to him, looks at him and tries to imagine what Tsyganov could be thinking about at that moment. He's restless. Everyone is probably figuring out how best to get across the stream. He watches everything for two hours. Expressing this thought out loud, Petrenko would pronounce the word “restless” with some annoyance, but it is precisely this quality of Tsyganov that he thinks about with respect.
Here lies next to him Tsyganov, Vasya, with whom they studied together until the seventh grade, when he left school, and Tsyganov remained to study in the eighth... He lies and looks through binoculars... And this is not school, but war, and not Kharkov, but a village somewhere near the border. And it is no longer Vasya, but junior lieutenant Tsyganov, the commander of a platoon of machine gunners. He has a red mustache above his upper lip, which gives him an elderly look: one colonel even once asked him if he had participated in that German war.
Petrenko himself has only recently been at the front, about three months. And when he thinks about the fact that Tsyganov has been fighting for almost three years, and puts this on himself, then Tsyganov seems like a hero to him. In fact, how many people are already fighting! And everything goes on its own feet ahead of the battalion, the first one enters the village...
This is what he thinks, looking at Tsyganov, and Tsyganov, looking up from his binoculars for a while, in turn thinks about Petrenko. And his thoughts are completely different.
“The devil knows! - he thinks. - What if they didn’t deliver a kitchen to the battalion? He'll bring an empty iron thermos. Give this one something hot. He can handle it anyway, of course, he’s patient, but he wants something hot. He's been fighting for three months, it's hard for him. If, like me, it had been three years, then I would have gotten used to everything, it would have been easier. And then he got right into the machine gunners, and right into the attack. Difficult".
He looks through binoculars and notices a slight movement between the remains of a large barn standing on the other side of the stream, on the edge of the village,
Comrade Petrenko! - he addresses Petrenko using “you”. “Crawl down to Denisov, he’s there, near the third hut, lying in a hole.” Take the sniper rifle from him and bring it to me.
Petrenko crawls away. Tsyganov is left alone. He looks through the binoculars again and now thinks only about the German who is stirring in the barn. You have to hit him with a rifle, but don’t shoot him with a machine gun: you’ll scare him away. And immediately give it from a rifle and - there is no German.
The right bank is high and steep. “If you advance, as you did at Petushki, you can kill half the battalion,” thinks Tsyganov.
He looks at his watch. There were still thirty minutes left before dark. In the morning, the battalion commander, Captain Morozov, called him and explained the task. And now his soul suddenly feels lighter because he knows in advance how everything will be. That at twenty-thirty-one the company would take a roundabout route to the road outside the village, and he would noisily go straight ahead, and then the Germans would be ruined from all sides.
To the left, several machine gun bursts are heard in a row.
Zhmachenko hits,” he says, listening. “That’s right.”
Three hours ago, he ordered three of his machine gunners to give the Germans a crack every ten to fifteen minutes... so that they would not realize from the excessive silence that they were being bypassed.
Thinking about Zhmachenko, Tsyganov begins to remember all his machine gunners one by one. And those sixteen - alive, who are now lying with him here, in the settlements, and are waiting for an attack, and others - those who dropped out of the platoon: some were killed, some were wounded...
A lot of people have changed. A lot... He remembers the red-moustached, middle-aged Khromov, who once seduced him to grow the same mustache, and then in the battle near Zhitomir he saved him by shooting a German, and then, near Novograd-Volynsky, he died. They buried him in the winter, but it was also raining, and when they began to cover the grave, dirt fell from the shovels and it was somehow heavy and offensive that the earth - so dirty and wet - was falling on a familiar face. He jumped into the grave and covered Khromov’s face with his cap. Yes. And now it seems like it was a long time ago. Then they walked and walked...
Trying not to think about those who are not there, he remembers the living, those who are now with him. Zheleznov went to the battalion with a thermos. This one is like this: he will bleed, if there is even a spoonful of hot porridge in the camp kitchen, he will bring it. And Zhmachenko is lazy. He walks on his long legs, his padded jacket has no buttons, just a belt. Just as dirt sticks to the spoon of a machine gun, he carries it with him, and when he has to dig in, someone else will dug it out properly in half an hour, but he’s only half-hearted against everyone else.
Zhmachenko, and Zhmachenko, why don’t you regret your life?
That land, comrade lieutenant, is very dirty.
If you talk like that, they will kill you because of your laziness.
And in fact: for two years he went through all the attacks and not only was he not scratched, not even his overcoat was hit by a shrapnel.
After Zhmachenko, Tsyganov remembers Denisov, to whom he now sent Petrenko for a sniper rifle. He takes care of his weapon. He always carries a machine gun and a rifle with him. Where did he get it from - a sniper rifle? Who knows. And he follows well. And now I probably regretted that they demanded a rifle. Although the lieutenant demands, it’s still a pity to give it. Master...
He remembers a puny, pockmarked junior sergeant named Konyaga, whom he shouted at three times last week: he always trails behind, lags behind. He just stood up obediently and remained silent. And then on the fifth or sixth day, when he finally had to stop in the village for the night, Tsyganov, unexpectedly entering the hut where Konyaga was located, saw him, taking off his shoes, closing his eyes and quietly screaming in pain, tearing the footcloths from his feet. His legs were swollen and bloody, so there was no way for him to walk. But he still walked... And when Tsyganov saw him tearing off the foot wraps and called out to him, he jumped up and looked at the junior lieutenant in confusion, as if he was guilty of something.
My dear! - Tsyganov told him with unexpected affection. “Devil, what didn’t you say?”
But Konyaga, as usual, stood and was silent, and only when Tsyganov ordered him to sit down, and sat down next to him, and put his arm around his shoulder, did Konyaga explain why he did not want to talk: then he would have to go to medical battalion, and then, perhaps, he would not have gotten back to his own people.
And Tsyganov realized that Konyaga, a naturally quiet and shy man, was so accustomed to the comrades around him that parting with them seemed more terrible to him than walking day and night on his swollen legs. He remained in the platoon. The platoon managed to rest for a day, and the paramedic helped Konyaga.
There were other, different people in the platoon. Tsyganov did not have time to ask some of them in detail about their past, pre-war life, but he had already taken a closer look at all of them and, walking along the road, sometimes occupied himself with imagining who they could have been before, and was pleased when, Having asked them, he found out that he was not mistaken in his guesses.
Comrade Lieutenant!
In the last month in the platoon, since he was promoted from sergeant major to junior lieutenant, they called him simply “lieutenant,” partly for brevity, partly out of a desire to flatter him.
Comrade Lieutenant.
Tsyganov doesn’t turn around. He can already hear from the voice that it is Zheleznov who has returned from the battalion.
So what do you say? Has the kitchen arrived?
No, Comrade Lieutenant.
What are you doing?.. And I said, I’ll get it out of the ground!
“There will be a kitchen at night,” Zheleznov replies, “that’s what they said in the battalion.” The kitchen is out, but the mud is strong, two more horses have been harnessed, so it will be night. Once we take the village, they will bring the porridge straight there.
At night, that’s good,” says Tsyganov. “But if it’s not there now, it’s bad.”
But I brought you a present.
What kind of gift? Did you get the flask?
If only I had a flask! - Zheleznov clicks his tongue at the thought of vodka. - A gift from the captain. He told me: “Here, take it.”
Zheleznov takes off his earflaps and takes out a small wad of paper from behind the lapel. Tsyganov watches him with interest. It turns out there are two small brass stars wrapped in the paper.
The captain did it for himself, and he ordered it for you too.
Tsyganov extends his hand and, taking the stars in his palm, looks at them. He is pleased with the captain's attention and the fact that he now has stars that can be attached to his shoulder straps.
“And here are the shoulder straps,” says Zheleznov. “I personally already got them.”
And he, pulling it out of his pocket, hands Tsyganov a pair of brand new Red Army shoulder straps.
So these are the Red Army. There is no stripe.
And you attach stars to them and wear them, and I can draw stripes for you.
Petrenko crawls up to Tsyganov.
Did you bring it? - Tsyganov asks without taking his eyes off the binoculars and, without turning around, takes the sniper rifle from Petrenko’s hands.
Putting his binoculars aside, he spreads his legs wide to make it more comfortable and, pressing his elbows firmly into the ground, uses a telescopic sight to catch the corner of the ruins of the barn where the German he noticed is hiding. Now all that remains is to wait. There is no noticeable movement in the ruins.
Tsyganov waits patiently, completely focused on one thought about the upcoming shot. The rain continues to fall, drops fall down the collar of his overcoat, and Tsyganov, without taking his hands off the rifle, turns his head. Finally the German's head appears. Tsyganov presses the trigger. A short sound of a shot - and the German’s head there, in the ruins, disappears. Although it is impossible to be sure of this now, and later, when they take the village, there will be no time for that, but Tsyganov definitely feels that he has got it.
Pity for people lives in Tsyganov, a naturally kind person. Despite his habit, without showing it, he still shudders internally when he sees our killed soldiers; a piece of the horror of death brought up from childhood comes to life in him. But no matter how pitiful and torn apart the German dead may appear to his eyes, he is completely and unfeignedly indifferent to their death, they do not evoke in him any other feeling than a subconscious desire to count how many there are.
Tsyganov, sighing tiredly, says out loud:
And when will they all end?
Who? - asks Petrenko.
Germans. You sit here, and I’ll go around the position and come back.
Taking the machine gun, Tsyganov leaves the hut and, either running or crawling, looks in turn at all his machine gunners. German mines continue to explode all along the shore, and now that he is not lying behind a wall, but moving in an open place, their singing whistle becomes not only more terrible, but somehow more noticeable.
Tsyganov crawls from one machine gunner to another and for the last time shows everyone with his hand those crossings through the lowland and stream that he has long been eyeing for an attack.
How about straight cola, Comrade Lieutenant? - asks lazy Zhmachenko, true to himself. - Why go diagonally when you can swing straight?
Your head is stupid! - Tsyganov tells him. “There’s a sloping bank right there, and there, you see, a scallop, there, as if jumping onto the shore, there’s immediately a dead space.” Because of the comb, he won’t be able to reach you with fire.
And cola straight away, so shvidche,” Zhmachenko says, having listened carefully to Tsyganov.
In general, that’s it,” Tsyganov says, angry and already officially, at “you.” “Do, Comrade Zhmachenko, as you are ordered, and that’s all.” But when we take the village, you will eat porridge, then scoop it up with a spoon from the kettle.
Tsyganov comes to Konyaga. He lies, hiding behind an earthen embankment poured over a deep cellar, with his legs tucked under and a machine gun placed next to him.
In the doorway of the cellar, on the penultimate step, next to Konyaga sits an old woman tied with a black scarf. Apparently they were having a conversation, interrupted by the appearance of Tsyganov. Next to the old woman on the earthen step there is a half-empty jar of milk.
Maybe you can drink some milk? - instead of greeting, the old woman addresses Tsyganov.
“I’ll have a drink,” says Tsyganov and happily takes several large sips from the jug. “Thank you, mother.”
God bless you and stay healthy.
Are you the only ones left here, mom?
No, why alone? Everything is in the cellar. Only the old man drove the cow into the forest. I see your little boy is lying here,” she nods at Konyaga, “he’s so skinny, so I brought him some milk.” She looks at Konyaga with regret. “My two sons, too, who knows where, are fighting...
Tsyganov wants to tell her about Konyaga, that this thin little sergeant is a brave soldier and has been walking for days without complaining of pain in his swollen legs, and five days ago he shot two Germans.
But instead, Tsyganov pats Konyaga’s shoulder encouragingly and asks him:
How are your legs?
And Konyaga answers, as always:
It’s okay, they’re waiting, Comrade Lieutenant.
In the dark, the main thing is not to lose each other,” Tsyganov tells him. “You’re the last one, keep an eye on Zhmachenko and Denisov.” In which direction they go, so do you, so that you can go out to the village together.
“We’ve already agreed with Denisov,” Konyaga replies, “we’ll go through that ford and to the left.”
That’s right,” says Tsyganov, “that’s right, through the ford and to the left, that’s you right.”
He wants to tell Konyaga something firm, reassuring, that they will be in the village at night and that everything will be all right, everyone will probably be alive, except some will be wounded. But he doesn't say any of this. Because he doesn’t know this, but he doesn’t want to lie.
Tsyganov returns to his place. It was almost completely dark, and the Germans, afraid of the darkness, kept throwing mines along the slope. Tsyganov looks at his watch.
If there is no change at the last moment, then there are only a few minutes left before the attack. But Captain Morozov, the battalion commander, does not like change. Tsyganov knows that he himself went with his company to bypass Zagreb, and it must be, if there is at least some possibility, that now Morozov, drowning in the mud, has already walked around the village and even dragged the battalion guns there, as he wanted.
A few minutes... The thought of the impending mortal danger takes possession of Tsyganov. He imagines how they will run forward and how the German will shoot at them, especially from those houses - on the steepest slope. He imagines the whistling and splashing of bullets and someone screaming or groaning, because someone will certainly be wounded in this attack.
And an unpleasant cold of fear passes through his body. For the first time that day, he feels like he's cold, very cold. He shudders, straightens his shoulders, straightens his overcoat and tightens his belt one hole tighter. And it seems to him that it is no longer so cold and scary. He stubbornly tries to prepare himself for the difficult moment ahead, to forget about the wet, dirty ground, about the whistling of bullets, about the possibility of death. He forces himself to think about the future, but not about the near future, but about the distant one, about the border they will reach, and about what will happen there, abroad. And, of course, what everyone who has been fighting for three years thinks about is the end of the war.
“But you still can’t jump over it,” Tsyganov suddenly remembers the village of Zagreblya lying right in front of him.
And from this thought he, who had just longed to stretch out the minutes remaining before the attack, begins to want to shorten them.
Behind the village, one and a half kilometers away, several cannon shots are heard at once. Tsyganov recognizes the familiar voice of his battalion guns. Then the machine-gun chatter breaks out and the cannons fire again.
“I finally got it!” - Tsyganov thinks with admiration about Captain Morozov.
Rising to his full height, biting the whistle between his teeth, Tsyganov whistles loudly and runs forward, along the slope, forward, down, to a ford across a nameless stream.
Simonov Konstantin Mikhailovich
Candle
Story
1944
Simonov Konstantin Mikhailovich
Candle
Story
The story I want to tell took place on October nineteenth of the year forty-four.
By this time, Belgrade had already been taken; only the bridge over the Sava River and a small piece of land in front of it on this bank remained in the hands of the Germans.
At dawn, five Red Army soldiers decided to sneak to the bridge unnoticed. Their path lay through a small semicircular square, in which there were several burnt tanks and armored vehicles, ours and German, and there was not a single intact tree, only splintered trunks stuck out, as if broken off by someone’s rough hand at the height of a man.
In the middle of the square, the Red Army soldiers were caught by a half-hour mine raid from the other side. They lay under fire for half an hour and finally, when it calmed down a little, two lightly wounded crawled back, dragging two seriously wounded. The fifth - dead - remained lying in the park.
I know nothing about him, except that according to the company lists his last name was Chekulev and that he died on the morning of the nineteenth in Belgrade, on the banks of the Sava River.
The Germans must have been alarmed by the Red Army's attempt to get to the bridge unnoticed, because all day after that they fired mortars at the square and the street adjacent to it, with short breaks.
The company commander, who was ordered to repeat the attempt to get to the bridge before dawn tomorrow, said that there was no need to go after Chekulev’s body for now, that he would be buried later, when the bridge was taken.
And the Germans kept shooting - during the day, at sunset, and at dusk.
Near the square itself, away from the other houses, there were stone ruins of a house, from which it was even difficult to determine what this house had been like before. It was so razed to the ground in the very first days that no one would have thought that anyone could still live here.
Meanwhile, under the ruins, in the basement, where a black hole led, half filled with bricks, lived the old woman Maria Djokic. She used to have a room on the second floor, left behind by her late husband, a bridge watchman. When the second floor was destroyed, she moved to a room on the first floor. When the first floor was destroyed, she moved to the basement.
The nineteenth was already the fourth day since she sat in the basement. In the morning, she clearly saw how five Russian soldiers crawled into the park, separated from her only by a crippled iron grate. She saw how the Germans began to shoot at them, how many mines exploded all around. She even half leaned out of her basement and just wanted to shout to the Russians to crawl to the basement, because she was sure that where she lived was safer, when at that moment one mine exploded near the ruins, and the old woman, stunned, fell down down, hit her head painfully against the wall and lost consciousness.
When she woke up and looked out again, she saw that of all the Russians there was only one left in the park. He lay on his side, with his arm thrown back and the other under his head, as if he wanted to get comfortable to sleep. She called to him several times, but he did not answer. And she realized that he was killed.
The Germans sometimes fired, and mines continued to explode in the park, raising black columns of earth and cutting off the last branches from the trees with shrapnel. The murdered Russian lay alone, with his dead arm under his head, in a bare little park, where only mutilated iron and dead wood lay around him.
Old woman Djokic looked at the murdered man for a long time and thought. If at least one living creature had been nearby, she probably would have told him about her thoughts, but there was no one nearby. Even the cat, who had lived with her in the basement for four days, was killed in the last explosion by fragments of brick. The old woman thought for a long time, then, rummaging in her only bundle, she pulled out something from there, hid it under a black widow’s scarf and slowly crawled out of the basement.
She didn’t know how to crawl or run across, she just walked with her slow old lady’s step towards the square. When on her way she came across a piece of grating that remained intact, she did not climb over it, she was too old for that. She slowly walked along the grate, went around it and went out into the park.
The Germans continued to fire mortars at the square, but not a single mortar fell close to the old woman.
She walked through the square and reached the place where the murdered Russian Red Army soldier lay. She turned him face up with difficulty and saw that his face was young and very pale. She smoothed his hair, folded his arms with difficulty, and sat down next to him on the ground.
The Germans continued to fire, but all their mines still fell far from her.
So she sat next to him, maybe an hour, maybe two, and was silent.
It was cold and quiet, very quiet, except for those seconds in which the mines exploded.
Finally, the old woman got up and, moving away from the dead man, took a few steps across the square. Soon she found what she was looking for: it was a large crater from a heavy shell, which had already begun to fill with water.
Kneeling down in the funnel, the old woman began to throw out handfuls of water that had accumulated there from the bottom. She rested several times and started again. When there was no more water left in the funnel, the old woman returned to the Russian. She took him under the arms and pulled him away.
She only had to drag ten steps, but she was old and sat down and rested three times during that time. Finally she dragged him to the funnel and pulled him down. Having done this, she felt completely tired and sat and rested for a long time.
But the Germans kept shooting, and their mines continued to explode far from her.
Having rested, she rose and, kneeling, crossed the dead Russian and kissed him on the lips and forehead.
Then she began to slowly cover it with earth, of which there was a lot along the edges of the funnel. Soon she covered it up so that nothing was visible from under the ground. But this seemed insufficient to her. She wanted to make a real grave and, having rested again, began to rake up the earth. A few hours later she heaped a small mound over the dead man in handfuls.
It was already evening. And the Germans kept shooting.
Having filled the mound, she unfolded her black widow's scarf and took out a large wax candle, one of two wedding candles that she had kept for forty-five years since her wedding.
After rummaging in her dress pocket, she took out matches, stuck the candle at the head of the grave and lit it. The candle caught fire easily. The night was quiet and the flames rose straight up. She lit a candle and continued to sit next to the grave, still in the same motionless position, with her hands folded under the scarf on her knees.
When the mines exploded far away, the candle flame only flickered, but several times when they exploded closer, the candle went out, and once even fell. Each time, old woman Djokic silently took out the matches and lit the candle again.
Morning was approaching. The candle burned down to the middle. The old woman, rummaging around on the ground, found a piece of burnt-out roofing iron and, with difficulty bending it with her old hands, stuck it into the ground so that it would cover the candle if the wind started. Having done this, the old woman stood up and, with the same leisurely gait with which she had come here, crossed the square again, walked around the remaining piece of the grate and returned to the basement.
Before dawn, the company in which the deceased Red Army soldier Chekulev served passed through the square under heavy mortar fire and occupied the bridge.
An hour or two later it was completely dawn. Following the infantrymen, our tanks crossed to the other side. The battle was going on there, and no one else fired mortars at the square.
The company commander, remembering Chekulev who died yesterday, ordered to find him and bury him in the same mass grave with those who died this morning.
They searched for Chekulev’s body for a long time and in vain. Suddenly one of the searching fighters stopped at the edge of the square and, crying out in surprise, began to call the others. Several more people approached him.
Look, said the Red Army soldier.
And everyone looked where he was pointing.
A small mound rose near the broken fence of the park. A semicircle of burnt iron was stuck in his head. Covered by it from the wind, the candle quietly burned out inside. The cinder had already floated, but the small flame still flickered without going out.
Everyone who approached the grave took off their hats almost simultaneously. They stood around in silence and looked at the burning candle, struck by a feeling that prevented them from speaking right away.
It was at that moment, unnoticed by them before, that a tall old woman in a black widow’s scarf appeared in the park. Silently, with quiet steps, she walked past the Red Army soldiers, silently knelt down at the mound, took out from under her scarf a wax candle, exactly the same as the one whose stub was burning on the grave, and, picking up the stub, lit a new candle from it and stuck it in into the ground in the same place. Then she began to rise from her knees. She did not succeed immediately, and the Red Army soldier who stood closest to her helped her get up.
Even now she didn't say anything. Only, looking at the Red Army soldiers standing with their heads naked, she bowed to them and, sternly pulling back the ends of the black scarf, without looking at the candle or at them, she turned and went back.
The Red Army soldiers followed her with their gazes and, talking quietly, as if afraid to break the silence, went in the other direction, to the bridge over the Sava River, beyond which the battle was going on, to catch up with their company.
And on the grave hill, among the ground black from gunpowder, mutilated iron and dead wood, the last widow's property burned - a wedding candle placed by a Yugoslav mother on the grave of her Russian son.
And her fire did not go out and seemed eternal, just as mother’s tears and filial courage are eternal.
