A story about the defenders of the homeland. Stories for children about the Great Patriotic War

L. Cassil. At the chalkboard

They said about teacher Ksenia Andreevna Kartashova that her hands sing. Her movements were soft, leisurely, round, and when she explained the lesson in class, the children followed every wave of the teacher’s hand, and the hand sang, the hand explained everything that remained incomprehensible in the words. Ksenia Andreevna did not have to raise her voice at the students, she did not have to shout. There will be some noise in the class - she will raise her light hand, move it - and the whole class seems to listen, and immediately becomes quiet.

- Wow, she’s strict with us! - the guys boasted. - He notices everything right away...

Ksenia Andreevna taught in the village for thirty-two years. The village policemen saluted her on the street and, saluting her, said:

- Ksenia Andreevna, how is my Vanka doing in your science? You have him there stronger.

“Nothing, nothing, he’s moving a little,” the teacher answered, “he’s a good boy.” He's just lazy sometimes. Well, this happened to my father too. Isn't that right?

The policeman embarrassedly straightened his belt: once he himself sat at a desk and answered Ksenia Andreevna’s board at the blackboard and also heard to himself that he was a good guy, but he was just lazy sometimes... And the chairman of the collective farm was once Ksenia Andreevna’s student, and the director studied at the machine and tractor station with her. Over the course of thirty-two years, many people have passed through Ksenia Andreevna’s class. She was known as a strict but fair person.

Ksenia Andreevna’s hair had long since turned white, but her eyes had not faded and were as blue and clear as in her youth. And everyone who met this even and bright gaze involuntarily became cheerful and began to think that, honestly, he was not such a bad person and it was certainly worth living in the world. These are the eyes Ksenia Andreevna had!

And her gait was also light and melodious. Girls from high school tried to adopt her. No one had ever seen the teacher hurry up or hurry. And at the same time, all work progressed quickly and also seemed to sing in her skillful hands. When she wrote the terms of the problem or examples from grammar on the blackboard, the chalk did not knock, did not creak, did not crumble, and it seemed to the children that a white stream was easily and deliciously squeezed out of the chalk, like from a tube, writing letters and numbers on the black surface of the board. "Do not rush! Don’t rush, think carefully first!” - Ksenia Andreevna said softly when the student began to get lost in a problem or in a sentence and, diligently writing and erasing what he had written with a rag, floated in clouds of chalk smoke.

Ksenia Andreevna was in no hurry this time either. As soon as the sound of engines was heard, the teacher sternly looked at the sky and in a familiar voice told the children that everyone should go to the trench dug in the school yard. The school stood a little away from the village, on a hill. The classroom windows faced the cliff above the river. Ksenia Andreevna lived at the school. There were no classes. The front passed very close to the village. Somewhere nearby battles rumbled. Units of the Red Army retreated across the river and fortified there. And the collective farmers gathered a partisan detachment and went to the nearby forest outside the village. Schoolchildren brought them food there and told them where and when the Germans were spotted. Kostya Rozhkov, the school’s best swimmer, more than once delivered reports from the commander of the forest partisans to the Red Army soldiers on the other side. Shura Kapustina once bandaged the wounds of two partisans injured in battle herself - Ksenia Andreevna taught her this art. Even Senya Pichugin, a well-known quiet man, once spotted a German patrol outside the village and, having scouted out where he was going, managed to warn the detachment.

In the evening, the children gathered at the school and told the teacher everything. It was the same this time, when the engines began to roar very close. Fascist planes had already flown into the village more than once, dropped bombs, and scoured the forest in search of partisans. Kostya Rozhkov once even had to lie in a swamp for an entire hour, hiding his head under wide leaves of water lilies. And very close by, cut off by machine-gun fire from the plane, a reed fell into the water... And the guys were already accustomed to raids.

But now they were wrong. It wasn't the planes that were rumbling. The boys had not yet managed to hide in the gap when three dusty Germans ran into the school yard, jumping over a low palisade. Automotive sunglasses with casement lenses gleamed on their helmets. These were motorcycle scouts. They left their cars in the bushes. From three different sides, but all at once, they rushed towards the schoolchildren and aimed their machine guns at them.

- Stop! - shouted a thin, long-armed German with a short red mustache, who must have been the boss. — Pioniren? - he asked.

The guys were silent, involuntarily moving away from the barrel of the pistol, which the German took turns thrusting into their faces.

But the hard, cold barrels of the other two machine guns pressed painfully into the backs and necks of the schoolchildren.

- Schneller, schneller, bistro! - the fascist shouted.

Ksenia Andreevna stepped forward straight towards the German and covered the guys with herself.

- What would you like? — the teacher asked and looked sternly into the German’s eyes. Her blue and calm gaze confused the involuntarily retreating fascist.

- Who is V? Answer this very minute... I speak some Russian.

“I understand German,” the teacher answered quietly, “but I have nothing to talk to you about.” These are my students, I am a teacher at a local school. You can put your gun down. What do you want? Why are you scaring children?

- Don't teach me! - the scout hissed.

The two other Germans looked around anxiously. One of them said something to the boss. He became worried, looked towards the village and began to push the teacher and the children towards the school with the barrel of a pistol.

“Well, well, hurry up,” he said, “we’re in a hurry...” He threatened with a pistol. - Two small questions - and everything will be fine.

The guys, along with Ksenia Andreevna, were pushed into the classroom. One of the fascists remained to guard the school porch. Another German and the boss herded the guys to their desks.

“Now I’ll give you a short exam,” said the boss. - Sit down!

But the kids stood huddled in the aisle and looked, pale, at the teacher.

“Sit down, guys,” Ksenia Andreevna said in her quiet and ordinary voice, as if another lesson was beginning.

The guys carefully sat down. They sat in silence, not taking their eyes off the teacher. Out of habit, they sat down in their seats, as they usually sat in class: Senya Pichugin and Shura Kapustina in front, and Kostya Rozhkov behind everyone else, on the last desk. And, finding themselves in their familiar places, the guys gradually calmed down.

Outside the classroom windows, on the glass of which protective strips were glued, the sky was calmly blue, and on the windowsill there were flowers grown by the children in jars and boxes. As always, a hawk filled with sawdust hovered on the glass cabinet. And the wall of the classroom was decorated with carefully pasted herbariums. The older German touched one of the pasted sheets with his shoulder, and dried daisies, fragile stems and twigs fell onto the floor with a slight crunch.

This cut the boys painfully to the heart. Everything was wild, everything seemed contrary to the usual established order within these walls. And the familiar classroom seemed so dear to the children, the desks on the lids of which the dried ink smudges shone like the wing of a bronze beetle.

And when one of the fascists approached the table where Ksenia Andreevna usually sat and kicked him, the guys felt deeply insulted.

The boss demanded that he be given a chair. None of the guys moved.

- Well! - the fascist shouted.

“They only listen to me here,” said Ksenia Andreevna. - Pichugin, please bring a chair from the corridor.

Quiet Senya Pichugin silently slipped from his desk and went to get a chair. He didn't return for a long time.

- Pichugin, hurry up! - the teacher called Senya.

He appeared a minute later, dragging a heavy chair with a seat upholstered in black oilcloth. Without waiting for him to come closer, the German snatched the chair from him, placed it in front of him and sat down. Shura Kapustina raised her hand:

- Ksenia Andreevna... can I leave the class?

- Sit, Kapustina, sit. “And, looking at the girl knowingly, Ksenia Andreevna added barely audibly: “There’s still a sentry there.”

- Now everyone will listen to me! - said the boss.

And, distorting his words, the fascist began to tell the guys that the Red partisans were hiding in the forest, and he knew it very well, and the guys knew it too. German intelligence officers more than once saw schoolchildren running back and forth into the forest. And now the guys must tell the boss where the partisans are hiding. If the guys tell you where the partisans are now, naturally, everything will be fine. If the guys don’t say it, naturally, everything will be very bad.

“Now I will listen to everyone,” the German finished his speech.

Then the guys understood what they wanted from them. They sat motionless, only managed to glance at each other and froze again on their desks.

A tear slowly crawled down Shura Kapustina’s face. Kostya Rozhkov sat leaning forward, placing his strong elbows on the tilted lid of his desk. The short fingers of his hands were intertwined. Kostya swayed slightly, staring at his desk. From the outside it seemed that he was trying to unclasp his hands, but some force was preventing him from doing this.

The guys sat in silence.

The boss called his assistant and took the card from him.

“Tell them,” he said in German to Ksenia Andreevna, “to show me this place on a map or plan.” Well, it's alive! Just look at me... - He spoke again in Russian: - I warn you that I understand the Russian language and what you will say to the children...

He went to the board, took a chalk and quickly sketched out a plan of the area - a river, a village, a school, a forest... To make it clearer, he even drew a chimney on the school roof and scribbled curls of smoke.

“Maybe you’ll think about it and tell me everything you need?” — the boss quietly asked the teacher in German, coming close to her. — Children won’t understand, speak German.

“I already told you that I’ve never been there and don’t know where it is.”

The fascist, grabbing Ksenia Andreevna by the shoulders with his long hands, roughly shook her:

Ksenia Andreevna freed herself, took a step forward, walked up to the desks, leaned both hands on the front and said:

- Guys! This man wants us to tell him where our partisans are. I don't know where they are. I have never been there. And you don't know either. Is it true?

“We don’t know, we don’t know!..” the guys made a noise. - Who knows where they are! They went into the forest and that was it.

“You are really bad students,” the German tried to joke, “you can’t answer such a simple question.” Ay, ay...

He looked around the class with feigned cheerfulness, but did not meet a single smile. The guys sat stern and wary. It was quiet in

class, only Senya Pichugin snored gloomily on the first desk.

The German approached him:

- Well, what’s your name?.. You don’t know either?

“I don’t know,” Senya answered quietly.

- What is this, do you know? “The German pointed the muzzle of his pistol at Senya’s drooping chin.

“I know that,” said Senya. — Automatic pistol of the “Walter” system...

- Do you know how many times he can kill such bad students?

- Don't know. Consider for yourself...” Senya muttered.

- Who is this! - the German shouted. - You said: do the math yourself! Very well! I'll count to three myself. And if no one tells me what I asked, I will shoot your stubborn teacher first. And then - anyone who doesn’t say. I started counting! Once!..

He grabbed Ksenia Andreevna’s hand and pulled her towards the wall of the classroom. Ksenia Andreevna did not utter a sound, but it seemed to the children that her soft, melodious hands themselves began to groan. And the class buzzed. Another fascist immediately pointed his pistol at the guys.

“Children, don’t,” Ksenia Andreevna said quietly and wanted to raise her hand out of habit, but the fascist hit her hand with the barrel of the pistol, and her hand fell powerlessly.

“Alzo, so none of you know where the partisans are,” said the German. - Great, we'll count. I already said “one”, now there will be “two”.

The fascist began to raise his pistol, aiming at the teacher’s head. At the front desk, Shura Kapustina began to sob.

“Be quiet, Shura, be quiet,” whispered Ksenia Andreevna, and her lips hardly moved. “Let everyone be silent,” she said slowly, looking around the class, “if anyone is scared, let them turn away.” No need to look, guys. Farewell! Study hard. And remember this lesson of ours...

- I’ll say “three” now! - the fascist interrupted her.

And suddenly Kostya Rozhkov stood up in the back row and raised his hand:

“She really doesn’t know!”

- Who knows?

“I know...” Kostya said loudly and clearly. “I went there myself and I know.” But she wasn’t and doesn’t know.

“Well, show me,” said the boss.

- Rozhkov, why are you telling lies? - said Ksenia Andreevna.

“I’m telling the truth,” Kostya said stubbornly and harshly and looked into the teacher’s eyes.

“Kostya...” began Ksenia Andreevna.

But Rozhkov interrupted her:

- Ksenia Andreevna, I know it myself...

The teacher stood with her back turned away from him.

dropping his white head onto his chest. Kostya went to the board where he had answered the lesson so many times. He took the chalk. He stood indecisively, fingering the white crumbling pieces. The fascist approached the board and waited. Kostya raised his hand with a chalk.

“Look here,” he whispered, “I’ll show you.”

The German approached him and bent down to better see what the boy was showing. And suddenly Kostya hit the black surface of the board with both hands with all his might. This is done when, having written on one side, the board is about to be turned over to the other. The board turned sharply in its frame, squealed and hit the fascist in the face with a flourish. He flew to the side, and Kostya, jumping over the frame, instantly disappeared behind the board, as if behind a shield. The fascist, clutching his bloody face, fired uselessly at the board, putting bullet after bullet into it.

In vain... Behind the blackboard there was a window overlooking the cliff above the river. Kostya, without thinking, jumped through the open window, threw himself off the cliff into the river and swam to the other bank.

The second fascist, pushing Ksenia Andreevna away, ran to the window and began shooting at the boy with a pistol. The boss pushed him aside, snatched the pistol from him and took aim through the window. The guys jumped up to their desks. They no longer thought about the danger that threatened them. Now only Kostya worried them. They wanted only one thing now - for Kostya to get to the other side, so that the Germans would miss.

At this time, hearing gunfire in the village, the partisans who were tracking down the motorcyclists jumped out of the forest. Seeing them, the German guarding the porch fired into the air, shouted something to his comrades and rushed into the bushes where the motorcycles were hidden. But a machine-gun burst lashed through the bushes, cutting through leaves and cutting off branches.

the Red Army patrol that was on the other side...

No more than fifteen minutes passed, and the partisans brought three disarmed Germans into the classroom, where the excited children burst into again. The commander of the partisan detachment took a heavy chair, pushed it towards the table and wanted to sit down, but Senya Pichugin suddenly rushed forward and snatched the chair from him.

- No, no, no! I'll bring you another one now.

And he instantly dragged another chair from the corridor, and pushed this one behind the board. The commander of the partisan detachment sat down and called the chief of the fascists to the table for interrogation. And the other two, rumpled and quiet, sat next to each other on the desk of Senya Pichugin and Shura Kapustina, carefully and timidly placing their legs there.

“He almost killed Ksenia Andreevna,” Shura Kapustina whispered to the commander, pointing to the fascist intelligence officer.

“That’s not exactly true,” the German muttered, “that’s not right at all...

- He, he! - shouted the quiet Senya Pichugin. - He still has a mark... I... when I was dragging the chair, I accidentally spilled ink on the oilcloth.

The commander leaned over the table, looked and grinned: there was a dark ink stain on the back of the fascist’s gray pants...

Ksenia Andreevna entered the class. She went ashore to find out if Kostya Rozhkov swam safely. The Germans sitting at the front desk looked in surprise at the commander who had jumped up.

- Get up! - the commander shouted at them. — In our class you are supposed to stand up when the teacher enters. Apparently that’s not what you were taught!

And the two fascists obediently stood up.

- May I continue our lesson, Ksenia Andreevna? - asked the commander.

- Sit, sit, Shirokov.

“No, Ksenia Andreevna, take your rightful place,” Shirokov objected, pulling up a chair, “in this room you are our mistress.” And here, at that desk over there, I’ve gained my wits, and my daughter is here with you... Sorry, Ksenia Andreevna, that we had to allow these cheeky people into our class. Well, since this has happened, you should ask them properly yourself. Help us: you know their language...

And Ksenia Andreevna took her place at the table, from which she had learned many good people in thirty-two years. And now in front of Ksenia Andreevna’s desk, next to the chalkboard, pierced by bullets, a long-armed, red-mustachioed brute was hesitating, nervously straightening his jacket, humming something and hiding his eyes from the blue, stern gaze of the old teacher.

“Stand properly,” said Ksenia Andreevna, “why are you fidgeting?” My guys don't behave like that. That's it... Now take the trouble to answer my questions.

And the lanky fascist, timid, stretched out in front of the teacher.

Arkady Gaidar "Hike"

Little story

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

In the morning, Alka was angry why they didn’t wake him up, and immediately declared that he wanted to go hiking too. He probably would have screamed and cried. But quite unexpectedly, his mother allowed him to go on a hike. And so, in order to gain strength before the road, Alka ate a full plate of porridge without whim, and drank milk. And then he and his mother sat down to prepare their camping equipment. His mother sewed his pants, and he, sitting on the floor, whittled a saber out of a board. And right there, while they were working, they learned marching marches, because with a song like “A Christmas Tree Was Born in the Forest,” you can’t go far. And the motive is not the same, and the words are not the same, in general, this melody is completely unsuitable for battle.

But then the time came for the mother to go on duty at work, and they postponed their work until tomorrow.

And so, day after day, they prepared Alka for the long journey. They sewed pants, shirts, banners, flags, knitted warm stockings and mittens. There were already seven wooden sabers hanging on the wall next to the gun and the drum. But this reserve is not a problem, because in a hot battle the life of a ringing saber is even shorter than that of a horseman.

And long ago, perhaps, Alka could have gone on a hike, but then a fierce winter came. And with such frost, of course, it won’t take long to catch a runny nose or a cold, and Alka patiently waited for the warm sun. But then the sun returned. The melted snow turned black. And just to start getting ready, the bell rang. And the father, who had returned from the hike, entered the room with heavy steps. His face was dark, weather-beaten, and his lips were chapped, but his gray eyes looked cheerful.

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

Konstantin Paustovsky. Bummer

I had to walk all day along overgrown meadow roads.

Only in the evening did I go to the river, to the watchhouse of the beacon keeper Semyon.

The guardhouse was on the other side. I shouted to Semyon to hand me the boat, and while Semyon was untying it, rattling the chain and going for the oars, three boys approached the shore. Their hair, eyelashes and panties were faded to a straw color.

The boys sat down by the water, above the cliff. Immediately, swifts began to fly out from under the cliff with a whistle that sounded like shells from a small cannon; Many swift nests were dug in the cliff. The boys laughed.

- Where are you from? - I asked them.

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

“He’s just grumpy,” said the smallest boy. “Everything is not enough for him, everything is not enough.” Do you know him?

- I know. For a long time.

- He is good?

- Very good.

“But everything is not enough for him,” the thin boy in the cap sadly confirmed. “You can’t please him with anything.” Swears.

I wanted to ask the boys what, in the end, wasn’t enough for Semyon, but at that time he himself drove up on a boat, got out, extended his rough hand to me and the boys and said:

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

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

Semyon rowed rarely, slowly, as buoy men and ferrymen always row on all our rivers. Such rowing does not interfere with talking, and Semyon, a talkative old man, immediately started a conversation.

“Don’t think so,” he told me, “they are not mad at me.” I’ve already drilled so much into their heads—passion! You also need to know how to cut wood. Let's say in which direction it will fall. Or how to bury yourself so that the butt doesn’t kill you. Now you probably know?

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

- Well, that’s it! They probably didn’t know how to make a saw, the wood splitters and workers!

“Now we can,” said the smallest boy.

- Well, that’s it! Only this science is not tricky. Empty science! This is not enough for a person. You need to know something else.

- And what? - the third boy, covered in freckles, asked worriedly.

- And the fact that now there is war. You need to know about this.

- We know.

- You don’t know anything. You brought me a newspaper the other day, but you can’t really determine what’s written in it.

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

- I’ll tell you now. Do you smoke?

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

“And it says in it about love for one’s native land.” From this love, one must think so, a person goes to fight. Am I right?

- Right.

- What is this - love for the homeland? So you ask them, boys. And it looks like they don’t know anything.

The boys were offended:

- We don’t know!

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

“I’m walking for a free life,” said the little boy.

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

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

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

“And for your people,” said the little boy. - So that he can have a working and happy life.

“What you say is correct,” said Semyon, “but that’s not enough for me.”

The boys looked at each other and frowned.

- Offended! - said Semyon. - Oh, you judges! But, say, you don’t want to fight for a quail? Protect him from ruin, from death? A?

The boys were silent.

“So I see that you don’t understand everything,” Semyon spoke. - And I, old man, must explain to you. And I have enough of my own things to do: check buoys, hang tags on poles. I also have a delicate matter, a state matter. Because this river also tries to win, it carries steamships, and I’m kind of like a mentor with it, like a guardian, so that everything is in good order. This is how it turns out that all this is correct - freedom, cities,, say, rich factories, schools, and people. This is not why we love our native land. After all, not for one thing?

- What else? - asked the freckled boy.

- Listen. So you walked here from the Laskovsky forest along the beaten road to Lake Tish, and from there through the meadows to the Island and here to me, to the transportation. Did you go?

- Here you go. Did you look at your feet?

- I looked.

- But apparently I didn’t see anything. But we should look, take note, and stop more often. Stop, bend down, pick any flower or grass - and move on.

- And then, in every such grass and in every such flower there is great beauty. Here, for example, is clover. You call him porridge. Pick it up, smell it - it smells like a bee. This smell will make an evil person smile. Or, say, chamomile. After all, it’s a sin to crush her with a boot. What about the lungwort? Or dream grass. She sleeps at night, bows her head, and feels heavy with dew. Or purchased. Yes, you apparently don’t even know her. The leaf is wide, hard, and underneath there are flowers like white bells. You're about to touch it and they'll ring. That's it! This is a tributary plant. It heals the disease.

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

- Well, medicinal or something. Our disease is aching bones. From dampness. When bought, the pain subsides, you sleep better and work becomes easier. Or calamus. I sprinkle it on the floors in the lodge. Come to me - my air is Crimean. Yes! Come, look, take note. There's a cloud standing over the river. You don't know this; and I can hear the rain coming from him. Mushroom rain - sporey, not very noisy. This kind of rain is more valuable than gold. It makes the river warmer, the fish play, and it grows all our wealth. I often, in the late afternoon, sit at the gatehouse, weaving baskets, then I’ll look around and forget about all sorts of baskets - after all, that’s what it is! The cloud in the sky is made of hot gold, the sun has already left us, and there, above the earth, it is still radiant with warmth, radiant with light. And it will go out, and the corncrakes will begin to creak in the grasses, and the quails will twitch, and the quails will whistle, and then, look, how the nightingales will strike as if with thunder - on the vines, on the bushes! And the star will rise, stop over the river and stand until the morning - looking into the clear water, beauty. That's it, guys! You look at all this and think: we have little life allotted to us, we have to live for two hundred years - and that’s not enough. Our country is so wonderful! For this beauty, we must also fight with our enemies, protect it, protect it, and not allow it to be desecrated. Am I right? Everybody make noise, “Motherland”, “Motherland”, but here it is, the Motherland, behind the haystacks!

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

“Eh,” said Semyon, “people go to war, but they forgot us old ones!” They forgot in vain, believe me. The old man is a strong, good soldier, his blow is very serious. If they had let us old men in, the Germans would have scratched themselves here too. “Uh-uh,” the Germans would say, “we don’t want to fight with such old people!” No matter! With such old people you will lose your last ports. You're joking, brother!

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

“That’s it, guys,” said Semyon. “You’ll probably complain about your grandfather again—everything’s not enough for him.” Some strange grandfather.

The boys laughed.

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

— Is this for transportation or for something else? - asked Semyon and squinted.

- For something else. And for transportation.

- Well, that’s it!

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

“I try to teach them,” he said. — Teach respect for one’s native land. Without this, a person is not a person, but trash!

The Adventures of the Rhinoceros Beetle (A Soldier's Tale)

When Pyotr Terentyev left the village to go to war, his little son Styopa did not know what to give his father as a farewell gift, and finally gave him an old rhinoceros beetle. He caught him in the garden and put him in a matchbox. The rhinoceros was angry, knocking, demanding to be released. But Styopa did not let him out, but slipped blades of grass into his box so that the beetle would not die of hunger. The rhinoceros gnawed blades of grass, but still continued to knock and scold.

Styopa cut a small window in the box for fresh air. The beetle stuck its furry paw out of the window and tried to grab Styopa’s finger—he probably wanted to scratch it out of anger. But Styopa didn’t give a finger. Then the beetle began to buzz so much in annoyance that Styopa Akulina’s mother shouted:

- Let him out, damn it! He's been buzzing and buzzing all day, his head is swollen!

Pyotr Terentyev grinned at Styopa’s gift, stroked Styopa’s head with a rough hand and hid the box with the beetle in his gas mask bag.

“Just don’t lose it, take care of it,” said Styopa.

“It’s okay to lose such gifts,” answered Peter. - I’ll save it somehow.

Either the beetle liked the smell of rubber, or Peter smelled pleasantly of an overcoat and black bread, but the beetle calmed down and rode with Peter all the way to the front.

At the front, the soldiers were surprised by the beetle, touched its strong horn with their fingers, listened to Peter’s story about his son’s gift, and said:

- What did the boy come up with! And the beetle, apparently, is a fighting one. Just a corporal, not a beetle.

The fighters were interested in how long the beetle would last and how things were going with its food supply - what Peter would feed and water it with. Even though it is a beetle, it cannot live without water.

Peter smiled embarrassedly and replied that if you give a beetle a spikelet, it will feed for a week. How much does he need?

One night, Peter dozed off in a trench and dropped the box with the beetle from his bag. The beetle tossed and turned for a long time, opened a crack in the box, crawled out, moved its antennae, and listened. In the distance the earth thundered and yellow lightning flashed.

The beetle climbed onto an elderberry bush at the edge of the trench to get a better look around. He had never seen such a thunderstorm before. There was too much lightning. The stars did not hang motionless in the sky, like a beetle in their homeland, in Petrova Village, but took off from the earth, illuminated everything around with a bright light, smoked and went out. Thunder roared continuously.

Some beetles whizzed past. One of them hit the elderberry bush so hard that red berries fell from it. The old rhinoceros fell, pretended to be dead and was afraid to move for a long time. He realized that it was better not to mess with such beetles - there were too many of them whistling around.

So he lay there until the morning, until the sun rose. The beetle opened one eye and looked at the sky. It was blue, warm, there was no such sky in his village.

Huge birds howled and fell from this sky like kites. The beetle quickly turned over, stood on its feet, crawled under the burdock - it was afraid that the kites would peck it to death.

In the morning, Peter missed the beetle and began to rummage around on the ground.

- What are you doing? - asked a neighboring fighter with such a tanned face that he could be mistaken for a black man.

“The beetle is gone,” Peter answered sadly. - What a problem!

“I found something to grieve about,” said the tanned fighter. - A beetle is a beetle, an insect. It was never of any use to the soldier.

“It’s not a matter of benefit,” Peter objected, “it’s a matter of memory.” My son gave it to me as a last gift. Here, brother, it’s not the insect that’s precious, it’s the memory that’s precious.

- That's for sure! — the tanned fighter agreed. - This, of course, is a matter of a different order. Just finding it is like shaving crumbs in the ocean-sea. That means the beetle is gone.

Since then, Peter stopped putting the beetle in boxes, but carried it right in his gas mask bag, and the soldiers were even more surprised: “You see, the beetle has become completely tame!”

Sometimes, in his free time, Peter released a beetle, and the beetle crawled around, looked for some roots, and chewed leaves. They were no longer the same as in the village.

Instead of birch leaves, there were many elm and poplar leaves. And Peter, reasoning with the soldiers, said:

— My beetle switched to trophy food.

One evening, a fresh air blew into the gas mask bag, the smell of big water, and the beetle crawled out of the bag to see where it had ended up.

Peter stood with the soldiers on the ferry. The ferry sailed across a wide, bright river. The golden sun was setting behind it, willow trees stood along the banks, and storks with red paws flew above them.

- Vistula! - the soldiers said, scooped up water with their fingernails, drank, and some washed their dusty faces in cool water. - So we drank water from the Don, Dnieper and Bug, and now we’ll drink from the Vistula. The water in the Vistula is painfully sweet.

The beetle breathed in the coolness of the river, moved its antennae, climbed into its bag, and fell asleep.

He woke up from strong shaking. The bag was shaking and bouncing. The beetle quickly got out and looked around. Peter ran through a wheat field, and soldiers ran nearby, shouting “Hurray.” It was getting a little light. Dew glistened on the soldiers' helmets.

At first the beetle clung to the bag with all its might, then realized that it still couldn’t hold on, it opened its wings, took off, flew next to Peter and hummed, as if encouraging Peter.

Some man in a dirty green uniform took aim at Peter with a rifle, but a beetle from the raid hit this man in the eye. The man staggered, dropped his rifle and ran.

The beetle flew after Peter, clung to his shoulders and climbed into the bag only when Peter fell to the ground and shouted to someone: “What bad luck! It hit me in the leg!” At this time, people in dirty green uniforms were already running, looking back, and a thunderous “hurray” was rolling on their heels.

Peter spent a month in the infirmary, and the beetle was given to a Polish boy for safekeeping. This boy lived in the same yard where the infirmary was located.

From the infirmary, Peter again went to the front - his wound was light. He caught up with some of his already in Germany. The smoke from heavy fighting was as if

the earth itself was burning and throwing out huge black clouds from every hollow. The sun was fading in the sky. The beetle must have gone deaf from the thunder of the guns and sat quietly in the bag, without moving.

But one morning he moved and got out. A warm wind blew and carried the last streaks of smoke far to the south. The pure high sun sparkled in the blue depths of the sky. It was so quiet that the beetle could hear the rustling of a leaf on the tree above him. All the leaves hung motionless, and only one trembled and made noise, as if he was happy about something and wanted to tell all the other leaves about it.

Peter sat on the ground, drinking water from a flask. Drops flowed down his unshaven chin and played in the sun. Having drunk, Peter laughed and said:

- Victory!

- Victory! - responded the soldiers sitting nearby.

- Eternal glory! Our native land yearns for our hands. Now we will make a garden out of it and live, brothers, free and happy.

Soon after this, Peter returned home. Akulina screamed and cried with joy, and Styopa also cried and asked:

— Is the beetle alive?

“He’s alive, my comrade,” answered Peter. — The bullet didn’t touch him. He returned to his native places with the victors. And we will release it with you, Styopa.

Peter took the beetle out of the bag and put it on his palm.

The beetle sat for a long time, looked around, moved its mustache, then rose on its hind legs, opened its wings, folded them again, thought and suddenly took off with a loud buzzing - it recognized its native place. He made a circle over the well, over the dill bed in the garden and flew across the river into the forest, where the guys were calling around, picking mushrooms and wild raspberries. Styopa ran after him for a long time, waving his cap.

“Well,” said Peter when Styopa returned, “now this bug will tell his people about the war and about his heroic behavior.” He will gather all the beetles under the juniper, bow in all directions and tell.

Styopa laughed, and Akulina said:

- Waking up the boy to tell fairy tales. He will actually believe it.

“And let him believe,” answered Peter. - Not only the guys, but even the fighters enjoy the fairy tale.

- Well, is that so! - Akulina agreed and threw pine cones into the samovar.

The samovar hummed like an old rhinoceros beetle. Blue smoke streamed from the samovar pipe, flew into the evening sky, where the young moon was already standing, reflected in the lakes, in the river, looking down on our quiet land.

Leonid Panteleev. My heart's pain

However, it is not only these days that it sometimes completely takes possession of me.

One evening, shortly after the war, in a noisy, brightly lit “Gastronom”, I met Lyonka Zaitsev’s mother. Standing in line, she looked thoughtfully in my direction, and I simply could not help but greet her. Then she took a closer look and, recognizing me, dropped her bag in surprise and suddenly burst into tears.

I stood there, unable to move or utter a word. Nobody understood anything; They assumed that money had been taken from her, and in response to questions she only shouted hysterically: “Get away!!! Leave me alone!.."

That evening I walked around as if dumbfounded. And although Lyonka, as I heard, died in the first battle, perhaps without even having time to kill one German, and I stayed on the front line for about three years and participated in many battles, I felt somehow guilty and infinitely indebted to this old woman , and to everyone who died - friends and strangers - and their mothers, fathers, children and widows...

I can’t even really explain to myself why, but since then I’ve been trying not to catch the eye of this woman and, when I see her on the street - she lives in the next block - I avoid her.

And September 15 is Petka Yudin’s birthday; Every year on this evening his parents gather the surviving friends of his childhood.

Adults of forty years old come, but they drink not wine, but tea with sweets, shortbread cake and apple pie - with what Petka loved most of all.

Everything is being done as it was before the war, when in this room a big-faced, cheerful boy, killed somewhere near Rostov and not even buried in the confusion of a panicked retreat, was noisy, laughing and commanding. At the head of the table is Petka's chair, his cup of fragrant tea and a plate on which the mother carefully puts nuts in sugar, the largest piece of candied fruit cake and a crust of apple pie. As if Petka could taste even a piece and scream, as he used to, at the top of his lungs: “This is so delicious, brothers! Pile on!..”

And I feel indebted to Petka’s old men; the feeling of some kind of awkwardness and guilt that I returned, and Petka died, does not leave me all evening. In my thoughts, I don’t hear what they are saying; I’m already far, far away... My heart hurts: I see in my mind the whole of Russia, where in every second or third family someone did not return...

Leonid Panteleev. Handkerchief

I recently met a very nice and good person on the train. I was traveling from Krasnoyarsk to Moscow, and then at night, at some small, remote station, in a compartment where until then there was no one but me, a huge red-faced guy in a wide bearskin coat, in white cloaks and a fawn long-eared hat stumbles in .

I was already falling asleep when he burst in. But then, as he rattled the entire carriage with his suitcases and baskets, I immediately woke up, opened my eyes and, I remember, was even scared.

“Fathers! - Think. “What kind of bear fell on my head?!”

And this giant slowly put his belongings on the shelves and began to undress.

I took off my hat and saw that his head was completely white and gray.

He took off his doha - under the doha is a military tunic without shoulder straps, and on it there are not one, not two, but four whole rows of order ribbons.

I think: “Wow! And the bear, it turns out, is really experienced!”

And I already look at him with respect. True, I didn’t open my eyes, but I made slits and watched carefully.

And he sat down in the corner by the window, puffed, caught his breath, then unbuttoned a pocket on his tunic and, I saw, took out a very, very small handkerchief. An ordinary handkerchief, the kind that young girls carry in their purses.

I remember I was surprised even then. I think: “Why does he need this handkerchief? After all, such a handkerchief probably wouldn’t be enough for such an uncle to fill his entire nose?!”

But he didn’t do anything with this handkerchief, he just smoothed it out on his knee, rolled it into a tube and put it in another pocket. Then he sat, thought and began to pull off his burqas.

I was not interested in this, and soon I fell asleep for real, and not feignedly.

Well, the next morning we met him and got to talking: who, where, and on what business we were going... Half an hour later I already knew that my fellow traveler was a former tanker, a colonel, he fought throughout the war, was wounded eight or nine times, shell-shocked twice, drowned, escaped from a burning tank...

The colonel was traveling that time from a business trip to Kazan, where he was then working and where his family was. He was in a hurry to get home, he was worried, and every now and then he went out into the corridor and asked the conductor whether the train was late and how many more stops there were before the transfer.

I remember asking how big his family was.

- How can I tell you... Not very big, perhaps. In general, you, me, and you and I.

- How much does this cost?

- Four, it seems.

“No,” I say. - As far as I understand, these are not four, but only two.

“Well then,” he laughs. - If you guessed right, nothing can be done. Really two.

He said this and, I see, unbuttons the pocket on his tunic, puts two fingers in there and again pulls his little, girlish scarf into the light of day.

I felt funny, I couldn’t stand it and said:

- Excuse me, Colonel, what kind of handkerchief do you have - a lady's one?

He even seemed offended.

“Allow me,” he says. - Why did you decide that he was a lady’s?

I speak:

- Small.

- Oh, that's how it is? Small?

He folded the handkerchief, held it on his heroic palm and said:

- Do you know, by the way, what kind of handkerchief this is?

I speak:

- No, I do not know.

- In fact of the matter. But this handkerchief, if you want to know, is not simple.

- What is he like? - I speak. - Enchanted, or what?

- Well, enchanted is not enchanted, but something like this... In general, if you want, I can tell you.

I speak:

- Please. Very interesting.

“I can’t vouch for its interestingness, but for me personally this story is of great importance. In a word, if there is nothing else to do, listen. We need to start from afar. It was in nineteen forty-three, at the very end, before the New Year holidays. I was a major then and commanded a tank regiment. Our unit was stationed near Leningrad. Have you not been to St. Petersburg during these years? Oh, they were, it turns out? Well, then you don’t need to explain what Leningrad was like at that time. It's cold, hungry, bombs and shells are falling in the streets. Meanwhile, in the city they live, work, study...

And on these very days, our unit took patronage over one of the Leningrad orphanages. In this house, orphans were raised whose fathers and mothers died either at the front or from hunger in the city itself. There is no need to tell how they lived there. The ration was, of course, enhanced compared to others, but still, you know, the guys didn’t go to bed well-fed. Well, we were a wealthy people, we were supplied at the front, we didn’t spend money - we gave these guys something. They gave them sugar, fats, canned food from their rations... We bought and donated to the orphanage two cows, a horse and team, a pig with piglets, all kinds of birds: chickens, roosters, well, and everything else - clothes, toys, musical instruments... By the way, I remember one hundred and twenty-five pairs of children’s sleds were presented to them: please, they say, ride, children, to the fear of your enemies!..

And on New Year's Eve we gave the children a Christmas tree. Of course, they tried their best here too: they got a Christmas tree, as they say, higher than the ceiling. Eight boxes of Christmas decorations alone were delivered.

And on the first of January, on the very holiday, we went to visit our sponsors. We grabbed some gifts and drove the delegation to the Kirov Islands in two Jeeps.

They met us and almost knocked us off our feet. The whole camp poured out into the yard, laughing, shouting “hurray”, rushing to hug...

We brought them each a personal gift. But they, too, you know, don’t want to remain in debt to us. They also prepared a surprise for each of us. One has an embroidered pouch, the other some kind of drawing, a notebook, a notepad, a flag with a sickle and a hammer...

And a little fair-haired girl runs up to me on fast legs, blushes like a poppy, looks fearfully at my grandiose figure and says:

“Congratulations, military man. “Here’s a gift for you,” he says, “from me.”

And she holds out her hand, and in her hand she has a small white bag tied with a green woolen thread.

I wanted to take the gift, but she blushed even more and said:

“Only you know what? Please don’t untie this bag now. Do you know when you will untie him?

I speak:

“And then, when you take Berlin.”

Have you seen it?! The time, I say, forty-four, the very beginning of it, the Germans are still sitting in Detskoye Selo and near Pulkovo, shrapnel shells are falling on the streets, in their orphanage the day before the cook was wounded by a shrapnel...

And this girl, you see, is thinking about Berlin. And the little girl was sure, she didn’t doubt for a single minute that sooner or later our people would be in Berlin. How could one really not go all out and take this damned Berlin?!

I then sat her on my knee, kissed her and said:

“Okay, daughter. I promise you that I will visit Berlin and defeat the Nazis, and that I will not open your gift before this hour.”

And what do you think - after all, he kept his word.

— Have you really been to Berlin?

— And, imagine, I had a chance to visit Berlin. And the main thing is that I really didn’t open this bag until Berlin. I carried it with me for a year and a half. Drowning with him. The tank caught fire twice. He was in hospital. I changed three or four gymnasts during this time. A bag

everything with me is inviolable. Of course, sometimes it was interesting to see what was there. But nothing can be done, I gave my word, and a soldier’s word is strong.

Well, it takes a long time or a short time, but finally we are in Berlin. Conquered. The last enemy line was broken.

They broke into the city. We walk through the streets. I am in front, riding on the lead tank.

And so, I remember, standing at the gate, near the broken house, a German woman. Still young.

Skinny. Pale. Holding a girl's hand. The situation in Berlin, frankly speaking, is not for children. There are fires all around, here and there shells are still falling, machine guns are knocking. And the girl, imagine, stands, looks with all her eyes, smiles... Of course! She’s probably interested: other people’s guys are driving cars, they’re singing new, unfamiliar songs...

And I don’t know why, but suddenly this little fair-haired German girl reminded me of my Leningrad orphanage friend. And I remembered the bag.

“Well, I think it’s possible now. Completed the task. He defeated the fascists. Berlin took. I have every right to see what’s there...”

I reach into my pocket, into my tunic, and pull out a package. Of course, no traces of its former splendor remain. He was all crumpled, torn, smoked, smelling of gunpowder...

I unwrap the bag, and there... Well, frankly speaking, there is nothing special there. There's just a handkerchief lying there. An ordinary handkerchief with a red and green border. He's tied up with Garus or something. Or something else. I don't know, I'm not an expert in these matters. In a word, this very lady’s handkerchief, as you called it.

And the colonel once again pulled out of his pocket and smoothed his small scarf, cut into a red and green herringbone pattern, on his knee.

This time I looked at him with completely different eyes. Indeed, this was not an easy handkerchief.

I even gently touched it with my finger.

“Yes,” the colonel continued, smiling. “This same rag was lying there, wrapped in checkered notebook paper. And there's a note pinned to it. And on the note, in huge, clumsy letters with incredible errors, is scrawled:

“Happy New Year, dear soldier! With new happiness! I give you a handkerchief as a souvenir. When you're in Berlin, wave it to me, please. And when I find out that ours have taken Berlin, I will also look out the window and wave to you. My mother gave me this handkerchief when she was alive. I only blew my nose in it once, but don’t be shy, I washed it. I wish you good health! Hooray!!! Forward! To Berlin! Lida Gavrilova.

Well... I won’t hide it - I cried. I haven’t cried since childhood, I had no idea what kind of thing tears were, I lost my wife and daughter during the war years, and even then there were no tears, but here - on you, please! - winner, I enter the defeated capital of the enemy, and cursed tears run down my cheeks. It’s nerves, of course... After all, victory didn’t fall into your hands. We had to work before our tanks rumbled through Berlin streets and alleys...

Two hours later I was at the Reichstag. By this time, our people had already hoisted the red Soviet banner over its ruins.

Of course, I went up to the roof. The view from there, I must say, is scary. There is fire, smoke everywhere, and there is still shooting here and there. And people’s faces are happy, festive, people hug, kiss...

And then, on the roof of the Reichstag, I remembered Lidochka’s order.

“No, I think whatever you want, but you definitely have to do it if she asked.”

I ask some young officer:

“Listen,” I say, “Lieutenant, where is our east going to be?”

“Who knows,” he says, “who knows.” Here you can’t tell your right hand from your left, let alone...

Luckily, one of our watches turned out to have a compass. He showed me where east is. And I turned in this direction and waved my white handkerchief there several times. And it seemed to me, you know, that far, far from Berlin, on the banks of the Neva, a little girl Lida is now standing and also waving her thin hand to me and also rejoicing at our great victory and the world we have won...

The colonel straightened his handkerchief on his knee, smiled and said:

- Here. And you say - ladies'. No, you are wrong. This handkerchief is very dear to my soldier’s heart. That's why I carry it with me like a talisman...

I sincerely apologized to my companion and asked if he knew where this girl Lida was now and what was wrong with her.

- Lida, where are you saying now? Yes. I know a little. Lives in the city of Kazan. On Kirovskaya street. He studies in the eighth grade. An excellent pupil. Komsomolskaya Pravda. Currently, hopefully, he is waiting for his father.

- How! Has her father been found?

- Yes. I found some...

- What do you mean “some”? Excuse me, where is he now?

- Yes, here he is sitting in front of you. Are you surprised? There is nothing surprising. In the summer of 1945, I adopted Lida. And, you know, I don’t regret it at all. My daughter is lovely...

Sofia Mogilevskaya “The Tale of the Loud Drum”

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

It was an old military drum, much worn on the sides, but still strong. The skin on it was stretched tightly, and there were no sticks. And the drum was always silent, no one heard its voice.

One evening, when the boy went to bed, his grandfather and grandmother came into the room. In their hands they carried a round package in brown paper.

“He’s asleep,” said the grandmother.

- Well, where should we hang this? - Grandfather said, pointing to the package.

“Over the crib, above his crib,” grandmother whispered.

But grandfather looked at the old war drum and said:

- No. We will hang it under our Larick's drum. This is a good place.

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

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

And then the boy opened his eyes.

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

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

At first he quietly hit the drum with only one stick. And the drum responded cheerfully: tram-there!

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

What a glorious drum it was!

And suddenly the boy looked up at a large military drum. Previously, when he did not have these strong wooden sticks, he could not even touch the bass drum from his chair. And now?

The boy stood on tiptoes, reached up and hit the big drum hard with his stick. And the drum hummed in response to him quietly and sadly...

It was a long, long time ago. Then my grandmother was still a little girl with thick pigtails.

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

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

Larin was thirteen years old at the time.

He went to the detachment commander and told him:

- Sign me up for the squad. I will also go fight the whites.

- And how old are you? - asked the commander.

- Fifteen! — Larik answered without blinking.

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

“Yes,” said Larik.

But the commander shook his head:

- No, you can’t, you’re too young...

And Larik had to leave with nothing. And suddenly, near the window, on a chair, he saw a new military drum. The drum was beautiful, with a shiny copper rim and taut skin. Two wooden sticks lay nearby.

Larik stopped, looked at the drum and said:

— I can play the drum...

- Really? — the commander was delighted. - Try it!

Larick threw the drum straps over his shoulder, picked up the sticks and hit the tight top with one of them. The stick bounced back like a spring, and the drum answered in a cheerful basso:

Larik struck with another stick.

- Boom! - the drum answered again,

And then Larik began drumming with two sticks.

Wow, how they danced in his hands! They simply could not hold back, they simply could not stop. They beat such a beat that you wanted to stand up, straighten up and step forward!

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

And Larik remained in the detachment.

The next morning the detachment left the city. When the train started moving, Larik’s cheerful song was heard from the open doors of the vehicle:

Bam-bara-bam-bam,

Bam-bam-bam!

Ahead of everyone is the drum,

Commander and drummer.

Larik and drum immediately became comrades. In the mornings they woke up earlier than everyone else.

- Great, buddy! - Larik said to his drum and lightly spanked it with his palm.

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

The detachment did not even have a bugle. Larik and the drum were the only musicians. In the morning they played wake-up calls:

Bam-bara-bam,

Bam-bam-bam!

Good morning,

Bam-bara-bam!

It was a nice morning song!

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

And in the evening, at the rest stops, the drum also had work. Of course, it was difficult for him alone to cope.

He was just getting started:

Eh! Bam-bara-bam,

Bam-bara-bam!

More fun than everyone else

They immediately picked up the wooden spoons:

And we also hit deftly,

Bim-biri-bom,

Bim-biri-bom!

Then four scallops entered:

We won't leave you behind

Beams-bams, beams-bams!

And the last ones started playing harmonicas.

Now that was fun!

One could listen to such a wonderful orchestra all night long.

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

Winter has passed. Spring has come again. Larik was already fifteen years old.

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

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

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

“Well, go,” said the commander.

And Larik went.

He walked and whistled faintly. Water gurgled underfoot in small spring puddles. It was light from the moon. Behind Larik’s back hung his comrade in arms—a military drum.

Will they recognize him at home? No, my little sister, of course, won’t find out. He felt two pink gingerbread cookies in his pocket. He had been saving this gift for her for a long time...

He approached the edge. It was so good here! The forest stood very quiet, all silvered with moonlight.

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

Suddenly a dry branch quietly clicked.

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

People came out to the edge. There were many of them. They walked in a long line. Rifles at the ready. The two stopped almost next to Larik. On the shoulders are White Guard shoulder straps. One officer said to the other very quietly:

— Some of the soldiers are coming from the direction of the forest. The other is along the railway line. The rest come from the rear.

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

And, stealthily, they passed by.

These were enemies.

Larik took a deep breath. He stood in the shadows. They didn't notice him.

Larik rubbed his hot forehead with his palm. All clear. This means that some of the soldiers are coming from the forest. Others come from the rear. Part of it is along the railway track...

The Whites want to encircle their detachment and destroy them.

We need to run there, to our own people, to the Reds. We need to warn you, and as soon as possible.

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

And Larik turned his war drum towards himself, took out wooden sticks from his belt and, waving his arms widely, hit the drum.

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

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

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

This was their last song - a battle alarm song.

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

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

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

The soldiers brought Larik home. His eyes were closed.

The drum was with him. Only the sticks remained in the forest, where they fell out of Larik’s hands.

And the drum was hung on the wall.

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

This is what the old war drum told the boy.

The boy quietly climbed down from the chair and tiptoed back to bed. He lay for a long time with his eyes open, and it seemed to him as if he was walking along a wide, beautiful street and vigorously beating his new yellow drum. The drummer's voice is loud, bold, and together they sing their favorite

Larik's song:

Bam bara-bam,

Bam bara-bam!

Ahead of everyone is the drum,

Commander and drummer.

Arkady Gaidar "Hike"

Little story

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

In the morning, Alka was angry why they didn’t wake him up, and immediately declared that he wanted to go hiking too. He probably would have screamed and cried. But quite unexpectedly, his mother allowed him to go on a hike. And so, in order to gain strength before the road, Alka ate a full plate of porridge without whim, and drank milk. And then he and his mother sat down to prepare their camping equipment. His mother sewed his pants, and he, sitting on the floor, whittled a saber out of a board. And right there, while they were working, they learned marching marches, because with a song like “A Christmas Tree Was Born in the Forest,” you can’t go far. And the motive is not the same, and the words are not the same, in general, this melody is completely unsuitable for battle.

But then the time came for the mother to go on duty at work, and they postponed their work until tomorrow.

And so, day after day, they prepared Alka for the long journey. They sewed pants, shirts, banners, flags, knitted warm stockings and mittens. There were already seven wooden sabers hanging on the wall next to the gun and the drum. But this reserve is not a problem, because in a hot battle the life of a ringing saber is even shorter than that of a horseman.

And long ago, perhaps, Alka could have gone on a hike, but then a fierce winter came. And with such frost, of course, it won’t take long to catch a runny nose or a cold, and Alka patiently waited for the warm sun. But then the sun returned. The melted snow turned black. And just to start getting ready, the bell rang. And with heavy steps the father, who had returned from the hike, entered the room. His face was dark, weather-beaten, and his lips were chapped, but his gray eyes looked cheerful.

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

Andrey Platonov "Little Soldier"

Not far from the front line, inside the surviving station, Red Army soldiers who had fallen asleep on the floor were snoring sweetly; the happiness of relaxation was etched on their tired faces.

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

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

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

“Well, Seryozha, goodbye for now,” said the major whom the child loved. “Don’t really try to fight, when you grow up, you will.” Don’t interfere with the German and take care of yourself so that I can find you alive and intact. Well, what are you doing, what are you doing - hold on, soldier!

Seryozha began to cry. The major picked him up in his arms and kissed his face several times. Then the major went with the child to the exit, and the second major also followed them, instructing me to guard the things left behind.

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

The major, who replaced the one who had left, admonished the silent child for a long time, but he, faithful to one feeling and one person, remained alienated.

Anti-aircraft guns began firing not far from the station. The boy listened to their booming, dead sounds, and excited interest appeared in his gaze.

- Their scout is coming! - he said quietly, as if to himself. - It goes high, and anti-aircraft guns won’t take it, we need to send a fighter there.

“They’ll send it,” said the major. - They're watching us there.

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

Sergei Labkov was the son of a colonel and a military doctor. His father and mother served in the same regiment, so they took their only son to live with them and grow up in the army. Seryozha was now in his tenth year; He took the war and his father’s cause to heart and had already begun to truly understand why war was needed. And then one day he heard his father talking in the dugout with one officer and caring that the Germans would definitely blow up his regiment’s ammunition when retreating. The regiment had previously left German envelopment, well, with haste, of course, and left its warehouse with ammunition with the Germans, and now the regiment had to go forward and return the lost land and its goods on it, and the ammunition, too, which was needed. “They probably already laid the wire to our warehouse - they know that we will have to retreat,” the colonel, Seryozha’s father, said then. Sergei listened and realized what his father was worried about. The boy knew the location of the regiment before the retreat, and so he, small, thin, cunning, crawled at night to our warehouse, cut the explosive closing wire and remained there for another whole day, guarding so that the Germans did not repair the damage, and if they did, then again cut the wire. Then the colonel drove the Germans out of there, and the entire warehouse came into his possession.

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

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

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

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

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

- But I’m not from their unit, I’m from another. But I know Volodya Savelyev from a long time ago. And so we met here at the front headquarters. Volodya was sent to advanced training courses, but I was there on another matter, and now I’m going back to my unit. Volodya Savelyev told me to take care of the boy until he arrives back... And when will Volodya return and where will he be sent! Well, it will be visible there...

Major Bakhichev dozed off and fell asleep. Seryozha Labkov snored in his sleep, like an adult, an elderly man, and his face, having now moved away from sorrow and memories, became calm and innocently happy, revealing the image of the saint of childhood, from where the war took him. I also fell asleep, taking advantage of the unnecessary time so that it would not be wasted.

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

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

Konstantin Paustovsky "Buyer"

I had to walk all day along overgrown meadow roads. Only in the evening I went to the river, to the watchhouse of the beacon Semyon.

The guardhouse was on the other side. I shouted to Semyon to hand me the boat, and while Semyon was untying it, rattling the chain and going for the oars, three boys approached the shore. Their hair, eyelashes and panties were faded to a straw color.

The boys sat down by the water, above the cliff. Immediately, swifts began to fly out from under the cliff with a whistle that sounded like shells from a small cannon; Many swift nests were dug in the cliff. The boys laughed.

- Where are you from? - I asked them.

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

“He’s just grumpy,” said the smallest boy. “Everything is not enough for him, everything is not enough.” Do you know him?

- I know. For a long time.

- He is good?

- Very good.

“But everything is not enough for him,” the thin boy in the cap sadly confirmed. “You can’t please him with anything.” Swears.

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

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

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

Semyon rowed rarely, slowly, as buoy men and ferrymen always row on all our rivers. Such rowing does not interfere with talking, and Semyon, a talkative old man, immediately started a conversation.

“Don’t think so,” he told me, “they are not mad at me.” I’ve already drilled so much into their heads—passion! You also need to know how to cut wood. Let's say which way it will fall. Or how to bury yourself so that the butt doesn’t kill you. Now you probably know?

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

- Well, that’s it! They probably didn’t know how to make a saw, the wood splitters and workers!

“Now we can,” said the smallest boy.

- Well, that’s it! Only this science is not tricky. Empty science! This is not enough for a person. You need to know something else.

- And what? - the third boy, covered in freckles, asked worriedly.

- And the fact that now there is war. You need to know about this.

- We know.

- You don’t know anything. You brought me a newspaper the other day, but you can’t really determine what’s written in it.

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

- I’ll tell you now. Do you smoke?

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

“And it says in it about love for one’s native land.” It is from this love, one must think, that a person goes to fight. Am I right?

- Right.

- What is this - love for the homeland? So you ask them, boys. And it looks like they don’t know anything.

The boys were offended:

- We don’t know!

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

“I’m walking for a free life,” said the little boy.

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

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

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

“And for your people,” said the little boy. - So that he can have a working and happy life.

“What you say is correct,” said Semyon, “but that’s not enough for me.”

The boys looked at each other and frowned.

- Offended! - said Semyon. - Oh, you reasoners! But, say, you don’t want to fight for a quail? Protect him from ruin, from death? A?

The boys were silent.

“So I see that you don’t understand everything,” Semyon spoke. - And I, old man, must explain to you. And I have enough of my own things to do: check buoys, hang tags on poles. I also have a delicate matter, a state matter. Because this river is also trying to win, it carries steamships, and I’m kind of like a mentor with it, like a guardian, so that everything is in good order. This is how it turns out that all this is correct - freedom, cities, and, say, rich factories, schools, and people. This is not why we love our native land. After all, not for one thing?

- And for what else? - asked the freckled boy.

- Listen. So you walked here from the Laskovsky forest along the beaten road to Lake Tish, and from there through the meadows to the Island and here to me, to the transportation. Did you go?

- Here you go. Did you look at your feet?

- I looked.

- But apparently I didn’t see anything. But we should look, take note, and stop more often. Stop, bend down, pick any flower or grass - and move on.

- And then, in every such grass and in every such flower there is great beauty. Here, for example, is clover. You call him porridge. Pick it up, smell it - it smells like a bee. This smell will make an evil person smile. Or, say, chamomile. After all, it would be a sin to crush her with a boot. What about the lungwort? Or dream grass. She sleeps at night, bows her head, and feels heavy with dew. Or purchased. Yes, you apparently don’t even know her. The leaf is wide, hard, and underneath there are flowers like white bells. You're about to touch it and they'll ring. That's it! This is a tributary plant. It heals the disease.

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

- Well, medicinal or something. Our disease is aching bones. From dampness. When bought, the pain subsides, you sleep better and work becomes easier. Or calamus. I sprinkle it on the floors in the lodge. Come to me - my air is Crimean. Yes! Come, look, take note. There's a cloud standing over the river. You don't know this; and I can hear the rain coming from him. Mushroom rain - controversial, not very noisy. This kind of rain is more valuable than gold. It makes the river warmer, the fish play, and it grows all our wealth. I often, in the late afternoon, sit at the gatehouse, weaving baskets, then I’ll look around and forget about all sorts of baskets - after all, that’s what it is! The cloud in the sky is made of hot gold, the sun has already left us, and there, above the earth, it is still radiant with warmth, radiant with light. And it will go out, and the corncrakes will begin to creak in the grasses, and the quails will twitch, and the quails will whistle, and then, look, how the nightingales will strike as if with thunder - on the vines, on the bushes! And the star will rise, stop over the river and stand until the morning - looking into the clear water, beauty. That's it, guys! You look at all this and think: we have little life allotted to us, we have to live for two hundred years - and that’s not enough. Our country is so wonderful! For this beauty, we must also fight with our enemies, protect it, protect it, and not allow it to be desecrated. Am I right? Everybody make noise, “Motherland”, “Motherland”, but here it is, the Motherland, behind the haystacks!

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

“Eh,” said Semyon, “people go to war, but they forgot us old ones!” They forgot in vain, believe me. The old man is a strong, good soldier, his blow is very serious. If they had let us old men in, the Germans would have scratched themselves here too. “Uh-uh,” the Germans would say, “we don’t want to fight with such old people!” No matter! With such old people you will lose your last ports. You're joking, brother!

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

“That’s it, guys,” said Semyon. “You’ll probably complain about your grandfather again—everything’s not enough for him.” Some strange grandfather.

The boys laughed.

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

— Is this for transportation or for something else? - Semyon asked and squinted.

- For something else. And for transportation.

- Well, that’s it!

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

“I try to teach them,” he said. — Teach respect for one’s native land. Without this, a person is not a person, but trash!

Vladimir Zheleznikov “In an old tank”

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

There was an old tank in the middle of the square. He walked up to the tank, touched the dents from enemy shells - apparently it was a battle tank, and he

so I didn’t want to leave him right away. I placed the suitcase near the track, climbed onto the tank, and tried the turret hatch to see if it opened. The hatch opened easily.

Then he climbed inside and sat in the driver's seat. It was a narrow, cramped place, he could barely crawl into it without getting used to it, and even scratched his hand when he climbed.

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

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

It was a boy. His hair looked almost blue in the light. They looked at each other in silence for a full minute. For the boy, the meeting was unexpected: I thought I would find one of my friends here with whom I could play, but here you are, a grown stranger.

The boy was about to tell him something sharp, that there was no point in climbing into someone else’s tank, but then he saw the man’s eyes and saw that his fingers were trembling a little when he brought the cigarette to his lips, and remained silent.

But you can’t remain silent forever, and the boy asked:

- Why are you here?

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

“It’s possible,” said the boy. - Only this tank is ours.

- Whose is yours? - he asked.

“The guys from our yard,” said the boy.

They were silent again.

-Are you going to sit here for a long time? - asked the boy.

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

“Look, it’s raining,” said the boy.

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

It's good that it started raining, otherwise we would have had to leave. But he still couldn’t leave, something was holding him in this tank.

The boy somehow perched himself next to him. They sat very close to each other, and this proximity was somehow surprising and unexpected.

He even felt the boy’s breathing and every time he raised his eyes, he saw how quickly his neighbor turned away.

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

— This tank is a good thing. “The boy expertly patted the armor with his palm. “They say he liberated our city.”

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

- And now? - asked the boy.

“And now he’s gone,” he replied. - Didn't return from the front. In 1943 he went missing.

It was almost dark in the tank. A thin strip made its way through the narrow viewing slit, and then the sky became overcast with a thundercloud and became completely dark.

- How do you mean “missing in action”? - asked the boy.

— He went missing, which means he went, for example, on reconnaissance behind enemy lines and did not return. And it is unknown how he died.

- Is it really impossible to find out even this? - the boy was surprised. - After all, he was not alone there.

“Sometimes it doesn’t work,” he said. - And the tankers are brave guys. For example, some guy was sitting here during a battle: there’s nothing to the light, you see the whole world only through this crack. And enemy shells hit the armor. I saw what potholes! The impact of these shells on the tank could cause its head to burst.

Thunder struck somewhere in the sky and the tank rang dully. The boy shuddered.

- Are you afraid? - he asked.

“No,” answered the boy. - It came from surprise.

“I recently read in the newspaper about a tanker,” he said. - That was the man! Listen. This tanker was captured by the Nazis: maybe he was wounded or shell-shocked, or maybe he jumped out of a burning tank and they grabbed him. In general, he was captured. And suddenly one day they put him in a car and take him to an artillery range. At first the tanker didn’t understand anything: he saw a brand new T-34 standing, and in the distance a group of German officers. They brought him to the officers. And then one of them says:

“Here, they say, you have a tank, you will have to walk the entire training ground on it, sixteen kilometers, and our soldiers will fire at you from cannons. If you see the tank to the end, it means you will live, and I personally will give you freedom. Well, if you don’t do it, it means you’ll die. In general, in a war it’s like in a war.”

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

“Are you chickening out?” - asked the general.

The tanker did not answer anything, turned and walked towards the tank... And when he got into the tank, when he climbed into this place and pulled the control levers and when they easily and freely moved toward him, when he inhaled the familiar, familiar smell of engine oil, he he was literally dizzy with happiness. And, would you believe it, he cried. He cried with joy; he never dreamed that he would get into his favorite tank again. That he will again end up on a small piece of land, on a small island of his native, dear Soviet land.

For a minute, the tanker bowed his head and closed his eyes: he remembered the distant Volga and the high city on the Volga. But then they gave him a signal: they launched a rocket. This means: went forward. He took his time and looked carefully through the viewing slot. No one, the officers hid in the ditch. He carefully pressed the gas pedal all the way, and the tank slowly moved forward. And then the first battery hit - the Nazis hit him, of course, in the back. He immediately gathered all his strength and made his famous turn: one lever all the way forward, the second back, full throttle, and suddenly the tank spun on the spot one hundred and eighty degrees like mad - for this maneuver he always received an A in school - and suddenly rushed off towards the hurricane fire of this battery.

“In war it’s like in war! - he suddenly shouted to himself. “That’s what your general said, it seems.” He jumped with a tank onto these enemy guns and scattered them in different directions.

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

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

He again made his famous turn and pressed down to the viewing slot: the second battery fired a salvo at the tank. And the tanker threw the car to the side; making turns to the right and left, he rushed forward. And again the entire battery was destroyed. And the tank was already racing on, and the guns, forgetting any sequence, began to lash the tank with shells. But the tank was like mad: it spun like a top on one track or another, changed direction and crushed these enemy guns. It was a nice fight, a very fair fight. And the tankman himself, when he went into the final frontal attack, opened the driver’s hatch, and all the artillerymen saw his face, and they all saw that he was laughing and shouting something to them.

And then the tank jumped out onto the highway and went east at high speed. German rockets were flying after him, demanding to stop. The tanker did not notice anything. Only to the east, his path lay to the east. Only to the east, at least a few meters, at least a few tens of meters towards your distant, dear, dear land...

- And he wasn’t caught? - asked the boy.

The man looked at the boy and wanted to lie, suddenly he really wanted to lie that everything ended well and he, this glorious, heroic tanker, was not caught. And the boy will then be so happy about it! But he didn’t lie, he simply decided that in such cases one should never lie.

“Caught,” said the man. “The tank ran out of fuel and he was caught.” And then they brought us to the general who came up with this whole game. He was led across the training ground to a group of officers by two machine gunners. His tunic was torn. He walked along the green grass of the training ground and saw a field daisy under his feet. He bent down and tore it off. And then all the fear really left him. He suddenly became himself: a simple Volga boy, short in stature, well, like our cosmonauts. The general shouted something in German, and a single shot was fired.

- Or maybe it was your father?! - asked the boy.

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

They got out of the tank. The rain has stopped.

“Goodbye, friend,” said the man.

- Goodbye...

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

They went in different directions.

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

And then the boy remembered that he did not recognize either the name or address of this man, and almost began to cry from resentment. Well, what can you do...

And the man walked with long strides, waving his suitcase as he walked. He didn’t notice anyone or anything, he walked and thought about his father and the boy’s words.

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

It’s so good, so infinitely good that he finally has this story. He will remember her often: at night, when he can’t sleep well, or when it’s raining and he feels sad, or when he’s having a lot of fun.

It’s so good that he has this story, and this old tank, and this boy...

Vladimir Zheleznikov “Girl in Military”

Almost the whole week went well for me, but on Saturday I received two bad marks: in Russian and in arithmetic.

When I came home, my mother asked:

- Well, did they call you today?

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

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

“Yuri,” she said. - What does it mean?

“It’s an accident,” I answered. — The teacher called me in at the last lesson, when Sunday had almost begun...

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

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

— When dad comes, feed him lunch.

- Will you be back soon?

- Don't know.

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

I thought that dad had finally arrived. But standing on the threshold was a tall, broad-shouldered unknown man.

— Does Nina Vasilievna live here? - he asked.

“Here,” I answered. - Only mom is not at home.

- May I wait? - He extended his hand to me: - Sukhov, your mother’s friend.

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

“It’s a pity that Nina is not here,” said Sukhov. - How does she look? Is everything the same?

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

We were silent.

- And I brought her a photo card. I promised it a long time ago, but only brought it now. Sukhov reached into his pocket.

In the photo there was a girl in a military costume: in soldier’s boots, a tunic and a skirt, but without a weapon.

“Senior Sergeant,” I said.

- Yes. Senior Medical Sergeant. Have you ever met?

- No. I see it for the first time.

- Is that so? - Sukhov was surprised. - And this, my brother, is not an ordinary person. If it weren't for her, I wouldn't be sitting with you now...

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

- Would you like some tea?

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

- About this girl? - I guessed.

- Yes. About this girl. - And Sukhov began to tell: - It was during the war. I was seriously wounded in the leg and stomach. When you are wounded in the stomach, it is especially painful. It's scary to even move. I was pulled from the battlefield and taken to the hospital on a bus.

And then the enemy began to bomb the road. The driver of the front car was wounded, and all the cars stopped. When the fascist planes flew away, this same girl climbed onto the bus,” Sukhov pointed to the photograph, “and said: “Comrades, get out of the car.”

All the wounded rose to their feet and began to go out, helping each other, hurrying, because somewhere nearby they could already hear the rumble of returning bombers.

I was left alone lying on the lower hanging bunk.

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

“Don’t you see? “I’m seriously wounded and can’t get up,” I answered. “You better get out of here quickly.”

And then the bombing began again. They bombed us with special bombs with sirens. I closed my eyes and pulled the blanket over my head to avoid damaging the window glass of the bus, which was shattered by the explosions. In the end, the blast wave overturned the bus on its side and something heavy hit me on the shoulder. At that same second, the howl of falling bombs and explosions stopped.

“Are you in a lot of pain?” - I heard and opened my eyes.

A girl was squatting in front of me.

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

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

“No one?” - I asked.

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

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

“Lie back on your back,” the girl said.

I turned around and my back rested firmly on hers. It seemed to me that she wouldn’t even be able to move, but she slowly crawled forward, carrying me on her.

“I’m tired,” she said. The girl stood up and looked around again. “No one, like in the desert.”

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

“Run! - I shouted. “He’ll turn around now.”

The plane was coming towards us again. The girl fell. Whoop, whoop, whoosh whistled next to us again. The girl raised her head, but I said:

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

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

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

“Flew away,” I said. “Mazila.”

“That’s what girls are like, brother,” said Sukhov. “One wounded man took a photograph of it for me as a souvenir. And we parted ways. I go to the rear, she goes back to the front.

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

- Is this mom? - I asked. - Was it my mother who saved you?

“That’s it,” answered Sukhov. - Your mother.

Then dad returned and interrupted our conversation.

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

“Mom isn’t at home,” I said.

-Where is she?

- I don’t know, I went somewhere.

“It’s strange,” said dad. “It turns out I was in no hurry.”

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

Dad walked into the room. Sukhov rose heavily to meet him. They looked at each other carefully and shook hands. They sat down and were silent.

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

- Yes? - Dad looked at Sukhov. - It's a pity that Nina is not here. Now I would feed you lunch.

“Lunch is nonsense,” answered Sukhov. — It’s a pity that Nina isn’t here.

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

-Are you going to have lunch? - I asked dad. - Mom told me to have dinner, she won’t come soon.

“I won’t have dinner without mom,” dad got angry. — I could sit at home on Sunday!

I turned and went into another room. About ten minutes later dad came to me.

- Don't know. I dressed up for a holiday and left. Maybe go to the theater, I said, or get a job. She has long said that she is tired of sitting at home and looking after us. We don't appreciate it anyway.

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

“But I didn’t warn you,” I answered.

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

“Well, well, in a festive way,” dad repeated sadly. - What kind of photo do you have? - he asked. - Yes, it’s mom!

- That's it, mom. Comrade Sukhov left this. His mother pulled him out from under the bombing.

- Sukhova? Our mother? - Dad shrugged. - But he is twice as tall as his mother and three times heavier.

- Sukhov himself told me. “And I repeated to dad the story of this mom’s photograph.

- Yes, Yurka, we have a wonderful mother. But you and I don’t appreciate that.

“I appreciate it,” I said. - Only sometimes it happens to me...

- So it turns out I don’t appreciate it? - Dad asked.

“No, you appreciate it too,” I said. - Only sometimes it happens to you too...

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

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

— “To my dear sergeant of the medical service on her birthday. From fellow soldier Andrei Sukhov." Wait, wait,” said dad. — What date is today?

- Twenty first!

- Twenty first! Mom's birthday. This was not enough yet! - Dad grabbed his head. - How did I forget Z6? And she, of course, was offended and left. And you are good - I forgot too!

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

- Nice gift! “We’re just pigs,” Dad said. You know what, go to the store and buy your mom a cake.

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

I immediately guessed that my mother had never left. She was simply offended by dad and me for her birthday and left.

I ran home and shouted:

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

- Aren’t you mistaken? - said dad. “Bring the razor quickly, I’ll shave.” Get out my new suit and clean my boots. Dad was worried that she might leave.

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

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

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

- Yurka! - Dad shouted. —Have you seen that they don’t sell flowers on the street?

“I didn’t see it,” I answered.

“It’s amazing,” said dad, “you never notice anything.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

We entered the square, walking foot in foot. We approached our mother.

She looked up and said:

- Well, finally.

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

- These are my men.

Vasil Bykov “Katyusha”

The shelling lasted all night - sometimes weakening, seemingly even stopping for a few minutes, sometimes suddenly flaring up with renewed vigor. They fired mainly from mortars. Their mines cut the air with a piercing screech at the very zenith of the sky, the screeching gained maximum strength and ended with a sharp deafening explosion in the distance. They mostly hit the rear, in the nearby village; it was there that the screech of mines rushed in the sky, and there the reflections of explosions flashed every now and then. Right there, on the grassy hillock where the machine gunners had dug in in the evening, it was a little quieter. But this is probably because, thought platoon deputy commander Matyukhin, that the machine gunners occupied this hillock at dusk, and the Germans had not yet discovered them there. However, they will discover that their eyes are sharp, and so are their optics. Until midnight, Matyukhin went from one machine gunner to another - forcing them to dig in. The submachine gunners, however, did not put much effort on their shoulder blades - they had accumulated a lot of training during the day and now, having adjusted the collars of their greatcoats, they were preparing to fire. But it seems they were already running away. The offensive seemed to be running out of steam; yesterday they only took a completely destroyed, burned village and settled on this hillock. The authorities also stopped urging them on: no one came to see them that night - neither from headquarters nor from the political department - during the week of the offensive, everyone was also probably exhausted. But the main thing is that the artillery fell silent: either they were transferred somewhere, or the ammunition ran out. Yesterday the regimental mortars fired briefly and fell silent. In the autumn field and the sky covered with dense clouds, German mines only screamed at the top of their voices, gasping loudly, and from a distance, from the fishing line, their machine guns fired. Our “maxims” sometimes responded to them from the neighboring battalion’s site. The machine gunners were silent for the most part. Firstly, it was a bit far, and secondly, they were saving cartridges, of which God knows how many were left. The hottest ones have one disc per machine. The platoon deputy commander hoped that they would give us a ride at night, but they didn’t give us a ride, probably the rear was left behind, got lost, or got drunk, so now all hope was left to ourselves. And what will happen tomorrow - only God knows. What if a German tramples - what to do then? To fight back like Suvorov with a bayonet and butt? But where is the bayonet of the machine gunners, and the butt is too short.

Overcoming the autumn cold, in the morning, Matyukhin, the platoon deputy commander, fell asleep in his trench-hole. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t resist. After Lieutenant Klimovsky was taken to the rear, he commanded a platoon. The lieutenant was very unlucky in the last battle: a fragment of a German mine sliced ​​him well across the stomach; the intestines fell out, it is unknown whether the lieutenant will be saved in the hospital. Last summer, Matyukhin was also wounded in the stomach, but not by shrapnel - by a bullet. I also suffered pain and fear, but somehow dodged the scrawny one. In general, he was lucky then, because he was wounded next to the road along which empty cars were walking, they threw him into the back of the truck, and an hour later he was already in the medical battalion. And if, like this, with his guts falling out, he was dragged across the field, constantly falling under explosions... The poor lieutenant did not live another twenty years.

That is why Matyukhin is so restless, he needs to see everything himself, command the platoon and run to the authorities, report and justify himself, listen to his obscene swearing. And yet, fatigue overpowered anxiety and all worries, the senior sergeant dozed off to the sound of screaming and exploding mines. It’s good that the young, energetic submachine gunner Kozyra managed to dig in nearby, and was ordered by the platoon commander to watch and listen, and to sleep - under no circumstances, otherwise there would be trouble. The Germans are also nimble not only during the day, but also at night. During the two years of war, Matyukhin saw enough of everything.

Having fallen asleep imperceptibly, Matyukhin saw himself as if he were at home, as if he had dozed off on the rubble from some strange fatigue, and as if the neighbor’s pig was poking at his shoulder with its cold snout - maybe it was about to grab him with its teeth. The platoon deputy commander woke up from the unpleasant sensation and immediately felt that someone was really shaking him by the shoulder, probably waking him up.

- What's happened?

- Look, comrade platoon commander!

In the gray dawn sky, the narrow-shouldered silhouette of Kozyra bent over the trench. The machine gunner, however, looked not towards the Germans, but to the rear, clearly interested in something there. Habitually shaking off the morning sleepy chills, Matyukhin stood up on his knees. On the hill nearby there was a dark, bulky silhouette of a car with the top tilted at an angle, around which people were silently fussing.

— “Katyusha”?

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

- From now on they will ask a lot! They'll ask! - Kozyra rejoiced like a child.

Other fighters from nearby trench pits, also apparently interested in the unexpected proximity, crawled to the surface. Everyone watched with interest as the artillerymen scurried around the car, seemingly setting up their famous salvo. “Damn them, with their volley!” — the platoon deputy commander, who already knew well the price of these volleys, became nervous. Who knows what benefit, you won’t see much in the forest beyond the field, but, lo and behold, they will cause alarm... Meanwhile, over the field and the forest that had darkened ahead, it began to gradually get light. The gloomy sky above had cleared, a fresh autumn wind was blowing, apparently preparing for rain. The platoon commander knew that if the Katyushas worked, it would definitely rain. Finally, there, near the car, the bustle seemed to calm down, everyone seemed to freeze; several people ran further away, behind the car, and the muffled words of the artillery team were heard. And suddenly in the air overhead there was a sharp squeal, a hum, a grunt, fiery tails hit the ground with a crash behind the car, rockets fluttered over the heads of the machine gunners and disappeared into the distance. Clouds of dust and smoke, spinning in a tight white whirlwind, enveloped the Katyusha, part of the nearby trenches, and began to creep along the slope of the hill. The roaring in my ears had not yet subsided when they already gave orders - this time loudly, openly, with evil military determination. People rushed to the car, metal clanked, some jumped on its steps, and through the rest of the dust that had not yet settled, it crawled down the hill towards the village. At the same time, ahead, behind the field and forest, there was a menacing rumble - a series of rolling, drawn-out echoes shook the space for a minute. Plumes of black smoke slowly rose into the sky above the forest.

- Oh gives, oh gives to the damned one! - Kozyra’s submachine gunner beamed with his young, snub-nosed face. Others also climbed to the surface or stood up in the trenches and watched with admiration the unprecedented spectacle across the field. Only platoon deputy commander Matyukhin, as if petrified, stood on his knees in a shallow trench and, as soon as the roar across the field stopped, he shouted at the top of his voice:

- To the shelter! Take cover, motherfucker! Kozyra, what are you...

He even jumped to his feet to get out of the trench, but did not have time. You could hear a single explosion or shot clicking somewhere behind the forest, and there was a discordant howl and crackle in the sky... Sensing danger, the machine gunners poured into their trenches like peas from a table. The sky howled, shook, and rumbled. The first salvo of German six-barreled mortars was overshot, closer to the village, the second - closer to the hillock. And then everything around was mixed up in a continuous dusty mess of explosions. Some of the mines exploded closer, others further, in front, behind and between the trenches. The entire hillock turned into a fiery and smoky volcano, which was carefully pushed, dug, and shoveled by German mines. Stunned, covered with earth, Matyukhin writhed in his trench, waiting in fear when... When, when? But this was when everything didn’t happen, and the explosions were hollowing, shaking the earth, which seemed about to split to its full depth, collapsing itself and taking everything else with it.

But somehow everything gradually calmed down...

Matyukhin looked out cautiously - first, ahead, into the field - were they coming? No, it seems they haven’t come from there yet. Then he looked to the side, at the recent line of his platoon of machine gunners, and did not see him. The entire hillock gaped with pit-funnels between heaps of clayey blocks and clods of earth; sand and earth covered the grass around it, as if it had never been there. Not far away lay the long body of Kozyra, who, apparently, did not have time to reach his saving trench. The head and upper part of his body were covered with earth, his legs as well, only polished metal joints glittered on the heels of his boots, which had not yet been trampled...

“Well, I helped, as they say,” said Matyukhin and did not hear his voice. A trickle of blood flowed from his right ear down his dirty cheek.

A collection of articles and materials dedicated to the village of Lyuboshch and the places surrounding it

SMALL STORIES 0 BIG WAR

The world has died down long ago,
not one, even two world ones.
But, closing the textbooks,
I grieve not for the dead, but for the living.

I believe a medical genius can handle it
with cancer, with any pestilence.
But will someone write a textbook?
after the third world war?

Much, much has been written about the war. Much has been written against war. But the wars continue. Maybe because they continue in our hearts, in our thoughts?

In any war, one way or another, everyone is always involved. Especially during world wars. Especially during the last second world war, most of all has been written about the second world war. Many children of this war are still alive. It still continues in them, in their deep memory. It continues within me. I dedicate these little stories to the children of World War II.

Oryol region. An occupation. Places that we associate with the Battle of Oryol-Kursk. Big village. She's gone now. It was not destroyed by invaders, it was destroyed by Russian reformers of the 60s - 80s. I am 5 years old. Our house is the last one. It stands on a large (so it seemed in childhood) mountain. The hut is made of two halves, on one the animals, on the other - us. Doors (through) in the middle of the hut. I am returning in the afternoon from somewhere under the mountain. I approach the hut from the human side. A German is standing at the front door. He raises his rifle. And he's aiming at me. Now he will shoot. In a second. And I won't be there anymore. I'm running away. I turn the corner and exit from the opposite side of the hut. The German is already standing there and is aiming at me again. If he aims, he will shoot. I have no choice. End! But there is no shot. I run downhill and huddle under the mountain into a deep dark hole where they took clay from. And before my eyes there is a German aiming at me... I don’t remember how long I sat in this clay pit without moving. Grandfather found me there already after dark.

When this picture pops up in my memory, I always think - how many children there were at whom all the guns and weapons of war were aimed back then! And how many triggers were pulled! And how many murder weapons are now aimed at children! In principle, it is aimed at the childhood of humanity, because humanity begins with childhood. Kill childhood - kill humanity! How many children are killed every day now? Are there such statistics? Maybe the UN knows these statistics? They kill someone’s childhood, which means they kill me too. I get killed every day. They continue to kill the childhood in me.

I'm walking through a summer meadow. If you only knew how beautiful the meadows in the Oryol region are during the grass season. What many grasses, many colors, what smells, what colors! I'm walking through this beautiful meadow. I'm a happy-go-lucky kid. Childhood is characterized by carelessness, that is, freedom, lack of concern. Childhood always turns its attention primarily to beauty, to the beautiful things around it. It's so natural.

I walk, carefree, through a beautiful meadow. And then from somewhere, from some celestial space, a plane appears. First there is the sound of this plane. Already in this very sound there is hostility. I turn around. The plane is flying low. He is approaching me. He's above me. In the entire expanse of sky and meadow there are two of us - the plane and me. The plane needs me. My whole being understands why the plane needs me. And it fills me with horror. The plane is so big, and I am so small, helpless. I run to the mountain in which a bomb shelter has been dug. It is my salvation. I run as hard as I can, but it seems that I remain in place, as happens in a dream. And above me is an airplane. It covers me. He roars. It seems that the plane is right over the top of my head. I run as hard as I can. And I don’t remember anything else. I'm just alive...

When I watch TV and constantly see how modern planes are bombing various beautiful countries, I feel like I’m running through a meadow again, and above me there are planes (many, many of them) with their deadly cargo. And there is nowhere for me to hide.

Already during the battle on the Oryol-Kursk Bulge, the entire village: old people, women, children were loaded into freight cars at the Komarichi station along with all our village belongings, even horses and carts, and taken away. Where? Did I know then where? This I know now - we were taken to Ukraine to work in the cadet farms being created there. The carriages were moving, and from time to time planes roared over the carriages, as they once did above me running through the meadow, but, I remember, they never bombed. We were brought to the station in the city of Smolensk. There we were supposed to be overloaded.

We settled down with our entire village camp right next to the station. It was summer. We went to sleep under the carts. The horses were tied to carts. And at night the station began to be bombed. At the same time, our camp. Our Russian bombers bombed. “I don’t know my own.” The bombing, as it seemed then, took a long time and was scary. It was the worst thing in my life. Dark night. Sudden columns of fire. In sequence. Right next to you. The horse rears up and breaks. Everything around is torn and groaning. Everything in me is torn and groaning. Inside I have one burning desire: to jump up and run without looking back, run, run, run. But my grandmother lay down on me and pressed me with her senile, also defenseless body to the ground. And that made it even worse...

This night crushed me. In the morning, when it dawned, the vision was devastating: everything was torn apart. And among this devastated chaos wandered those who were still people yesterday. Half of the village remained forever at the station of the city of Smolensk.

When I think of Hell, I remember this night and this morning. Hell is not somewhere out there, far away, it is here on Earth, it is next to us, it is in us. We, people, gave birth to this earthly Hell...

We are not only children of war, we are children of Hell.

Then we, the survivors, were taken to the right place. And then we were liberated by our advancing army. More precisely, we ourselves freed ourselves. During the battle, obviously by agreement, with bullets whistling around us and shells exploding, we ran across, or rather, we ran over to our people. We were transported on our old-fashioned ancient-pre-ancient carts. We (we are grandfather, grandmother and I) had a gig, a cart with two wheels. And a handsome horse, a shiny black horse named Voronok. I don't know how fast we were flying. And when we flew over some railroad tracks, one wheel of our gig fell apart. But Voronok did not stop. and couldn't stop. Grandfather whipped our beautiful Funnel without ceasing... One wheel was spinning, and a fragment of the other was furrowing, plowing the ground. When we stopped, already freed, Voronok was covered in soap. He became white and white. This is how people turn gray in an instant or overnight...

Do you know how many gray-haired children there are in the world?

Son of the regiment

And then the entire remaining village returned on its own to their native places. Unforgettable pictures: on both sides of the road there are broken and abandoned military equipment, trenches, corpses that have not been removed here and there, the smell of gunpowder and some kind of burning. The empty bucket tied to the back of the cart rattled. And it was very empty around. And my stomach is empty.

We passed through some villages. I remember a well on one of the streets. Well with a crane. A fence around the well and the inscription: “Mined!” As grandfather read it.

Sometimes they stopped to rest. I remember parking in a pine forest. I remember it for its beauty. An extraordinary warmth emanated from the pines. Some kind of love was spilled in the pine forest and filled the body and soul... There were many, many pine cones on the ground, and warmth emanated from them too. They looked like little living hedgehogs.

And there, apparently, some tank unit was also camped there to rest. And there was a girl there, very beautiful, slim, in shape. She liked me. And she asked my grandparents to give me to her. So that I become the son of the regiment. But they didn’t give me away. Whether I now regret that I was not given as a son of the regiment, I don’t know. I only know that on that day I experienced my first love: for the sun, for the pine trees, for the pine cones, for this unknown girl...

After the war, I went countless times with my peers to see the film “Son of the Regiment” based on the story by Valentin Kataev. And each time we lived the same life with Vanya Solntsev, participating with all our being in that big war.

And then I studied at the technical school with the real former son of the regiment. And we were friends for a very long time.

This is a very short story. One day we stopped somewhere right in an open field. And somewhere in the middle of our caravan, a boy named Vanechka, Vanechka Shcherbakov, was sitting on a cart. He was younger than me, very small. And that’s why everyone affectionately called him Vanechka-Snotty. And Vanechka saw something attractive and shiny on the side of the road. And he asked that it be served to him. It was an egg, but not a simple one, but... a toy one. And they gave it to Vanechka. Vanechka was delighted with the unexpected toy. And he began to play with her. And there was an explosion. And Vanechka passed away. Childhood ended as soon as it began.

And then we rode alone in our gig, falling further and further behind everyone else. This is why it happened. We always rode ahead of our cart convoy. One day we were driving through the forest. And some people came out of the forest. They said that they were partisans. And they took Voronka from us. But they took pity on us and gave us some kind of starved horse in return. So we ended up at the tail of the caravan, and then completely lagged behind. But it was already close to their native places. Here is the city of Orel. All in ruins, in ruins. The bridge over the Orlik River was blown up. It was restored. And we moved to the other side along a temporary pontoon bridge. We also moved. We climbed to the high bank. Grandfather stopped the horse. He saw a well nearby, untied the bucket and went to it. And from the bridge being restored they began to shout: “It’s mined!” They waved their arms and shouted and shouted. And grandfather walked, he was deaf. We heard and saw it all, me and my grandmother. They were shouting from the bridge, my grandmother was screaming, my grandfather was walking towards a mined well, and I was numb. There was already an explosion inside me. And my grandfather was no longer there. The end of everything. And already some kind of endless sobbing was rising in me, and was ready to break through. And grandfather was already next to the well... But, just one step short of the well, he stopped. I looked around. I saw people screaming and waving from the bridge. He probably understood everything and returned. I don’t know what force stopped him. I often remember this terrible situation, and lines from a poem by Alexander Blok come to mind:

Go through dangerous years.
They are waiting for you everywhere.
But if you come out safe - then
You will finally believe a miracle.

Ivan Kosoy

And here we are - at home. We arrived in the afternoon. And in the evening the horse, which grandfather, I remember, called Gray, died. They say about the horse - it died. But Gray died. He took us and died. Like a man who has done his duty well.

And then there was a hungry autumn. And a hungry winter. And an even hungrier spring. In the spring we planted potatoes. And in the fall, my grandfather and I were already harvesting this life-saving crop. I still remember this great miracle: digging out of the ground a beautiful potato bush, the roots of which were thickly covered with potatoes. All potatoes are alive, resembling some kind of fairy-tale creatures, with a head, torso, arms and legs. And all potatoes are different. Like people. I have never seen such wonderful potatoes anywhere...

Grandpa and I are digging potatoes. And Ivan Zaitsev comes up to us. He is a year older than me, but in childhood the difference of one year is very noticeable. Ivan was the leader in all our childish affairs. The Zaitsevs' hut is not far from ours. Ivan has something in his hands. He shows this to his grandfather and says: “Now I found an airplane.” Grandfather immediately understood what kind of toy it was: “It’s not an airplane, Vanechka, it’s a mine.” Before grandfather had time to do anything, Ivan, frightened, turned away from us and threw this terrible toy to the ground. And a column of fire shot up. And, perhaps, a second before the explosion, grandfather knocked me to the ground and fell on top of me, covering me with himself. And when the explosion occurred, Ivan turned to us. His face was covered in blood. It seemed to me that he was covered in blood. They later called him in the village - Ivan Kosoy. His eye was knocked out by fragments of a mine, one fragment pierced his lung, another touched his internal organs; and there were many small wounds on the body.

I’m reading the magazine “Ecology and Life” (No. 5, 2002): “According to experts, there are more than 100 million anti-personnel mines in the ground all over the planet” (p. 64). And how many mines exploded! And behind every mine I see a boy who looks like Ivan Kosoy. And those who fill the earth with mines are child-haters, child killers!

The story is not the last

And peaceful life began. But it was not peaceful. Cows were blown up by mines, tractors were blown up. The war continued. It continued in our children's games. We found a lot of live ammunition. My favorite pastime was to light a fire, quickly throw cartridges into the fire and quickly take cover, lie down behind a hillock. And with a sinking heart, hear shots and the whistle of bullets. Like in a war. A lot of linear gunpowder was left everywhere. We wrapped it in paper, stapled it and set one end on fire. It turned out to be a small rocket - a snake, it flew through the air in unpredictable ways, plopped down on the ground, took off again, and we dodged it.

And homemade pistols! Primitive, wooden. The trigger is a rubber band and a nail striker. One of these pistols exploded in the hands of my friend.

But the biggest tragedy happened in the summer, before Vanya Zaitsev found the mine. The boys found a warehouse with shells in one of the large dens. The adults were not told about this. Someone came up with the idea of ​​unscrewing the heads from all the shells, pouring the gunpowder into one pile and setting it on fire. It was late in the evening. I was watering the lower garden and was in a hurry to run to the kids to play. And suddenly there was a powerful explosion from the den where the boys were fiddling with the shells. The whole village rushed there... None of the boys were alive, the relatives collected theirs piece by piece, recognizing them by some signs. My cousin also died in this ravine...

When I was writing this, a message was heard on the radio: the guys found a live grenade, it exploded, two boys were killed, eight were wounded. The war continues. What has man produced most on earth? Bread, potatoes, apples, boots, hats? There are more weapons on earth, the most varied - from gas pistols to increasingly new types of weapons of mass destruction. Back in the 60s of the 20th century, the following figure was announced: so many weapons have been accumulated on earth that they can hit every living thing on the planet 10 times. How long is it now?..

Go to children's stores, what kind of toys are there most of all? Weapons! The war continues! Any war is a war against childhood. I can’t help but remember two films by the great American director Stanley Kramer: “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad World” and “On the Farthest Shore.”

But childhood is always childhood. Childhood is characterized by joy. A child is given joy, or he finds it himself, invents it, or joy itself finds the child. And our wartime childhood had its joys, small and big, of course. I will end my little story with a story about one such joy...

In the first year after returning from Ukraine, we were in great poverty. They were just begging. My grandmother and I walked around the surrounding villages, near and far cities and begged for alms. We went a lot. A lot of memories remained in my heart. But one thing stood out in particular and was remembered forever. After several unsuccessful trips, my grandmother decided to go begging to the neighboring Bryansk region. There, in one of the villages, her old good friend lived.

We left early in the morning. And at lunchtime they came to that village. Grandma's friend greeted us cordially. She fed me soup. It was a great joy to eat real soup, which I had heard something about, but didn’t know the taste... However, the greatest joy was ahead. After lunch, my grandmother’s friend’s granddaughter and I were sent to the yard to play in the garden. The garden was big. And there were many apple trees in the garden. It seemed as if the whole sky was filled with apples. The beauty of these apples was amazing; they looked like magic, with different shades of blush on their sides. The girl was my age, somehow unusually clean, light, airy. A kind of warmth and kindness emanated from her. This was so new after my grandmother and I spent many months of humiliating wanderings in search of a piece of bread.

I don’t remember what we did in this Garden of Eden, what we played. I only remember very well the feeling of happiness. And I wanted it not to end... And when we left this hospitable house, the girl filled our knapsack with apples, these same heavenly apples. I carried this bag of apples like my greatest treasure and secret.

At home, I put the apples in a large ammunition box. Several times a day I opened the magic box and admired the apples. And I kept seeing this girl in front of me. I never ate a single apple; I couldn’t even think that such apples could be eaten.

V.A. Zhilkin

S.V. Kochevykh, 2011

Stories by Sergei Alekseev about the Great Patriotic War. Interesting, educational and unusual stories about the behavior of soldiers and fighters during the war.

GARDENERS

This happened shortly before the Battle of Kursk. Reinforcements have arrived at the rifle unit.

The foreman walked around the fighters. Walks along the line. A corporal is walking nearby. Holds a pencil and notepad in his hands.

The foreman looked at the first of the soldiers:

— Do you know how to plant potatoes?

— Do you know how to plant potatoes?

- I can! - the soldier said loudly.

- Two steps forward.

The soldier is out of action.

“Write to the gardeners,” said the sergeant major to the corporal.

— Do you know how to plant potatoes?

- I haven’t tried it.

- I didn’t have to, but if necessary...

“That’s enough,” said the foreman.

The fighters came forward. Anatoly Skurko found himself in the ranks of skilled soldiers. Soldier Skurko wonders: where are they going to go, those who know how? “It’s too late to plant potatoes. (Summer is already in full swing.) If you dig it, it’s very early in time.”

Soldier Skurko tells fortunes. And other fighters are wondering:

— Should I plant potatoes?

— Sow carrots?

— Cucumbers for the headquarters canteen?

The foreman looked at the soldiers.

“Well,” said the foreman. “From now on, you will be among the miners,” and hands the mines to the soldiers.

The dashing foreman noticed that those who know how to plant potatoes lay mines faster and more reliably.

Soldier Skurko grinned. The other soldiers couldn't hold back their smiles either.

The gardeners got down to business. Of course, not immediately, not at the same moment. Laying mines is not such a simple matter. The soldiers underwent special training.

Minefields and barriers stretched for many kilometers to the north, south, and west of Kursk. On the first day of the Battle of Kursk alone, more than a hundred fascist tanks and self-propelled guns were blown up on these fields and barriers.

The miners are coming.

- How are you, gardeners?

- Everything is in perfect order.

UNUSUAL OPERATION

Mokapka Zyablov was amazed. Something incomprehensible was happening at their station. A boy lived with his grandfather and grandmother near the town of Sudzhi in a small working-class village at the Lokinskaya station. He was the son of a hereditary railway worker.

Mokapka loved to hang around the station for hours. Especially these days. One by one the echelons come here. They are bringing in military equipment. Mokapka knows that our troops defeated the Nazis near Kursk. They are driving the enemies to the west. Although small, but smart, Mokapka sees that the echelons are coming here. He understands: this means that here, in these places, a further offensive is planned.

The trains are coming, the locomotives are chugging. Soldiers unload military cargo.

Mokapka was spinning around somewhere near the tracks. He sees: a new train has arrived. Tanks stand on platforms. A lot of. The boy began to count the tanks. I took a closer look and they were made of wood. How can we fight against them?!

The boy rushed to his grandmother.

“Wooden,” he whispers, “tanks.”

- Really? - the grandmother clasped her hands. He rushed to his grandfather:

- Wooden, grandfather, tanks. The old man raised his eyes to his grandson. The boy rushed to the station. He looks: the train is coming again. The train stopped. Mokapka looked - the guns were on platforms. A lot of. No less than there were tanks.

Mokapka took a closer look - after all, the guns were also wooden! Instead of trunks there are round timbers sticking out.

The boy rushed to his grandmother.

“Wooden,” he whispers, “cannons.”

“Really?..” the grandmother clasped her hands. He rushed to his grandfather:

— Wooden, grandfather, guns.

“Something new,” said the grandfather.

A lot of strange things were going on at the station back then. Somehow boxes with shells arrived. Mountains grew of these boxes. Happy Mockup:

- Our fascists will have a blast!

And suddenly he finds out: there are empty boxes at the station. “Why are there whole mountains of such and such?!” - the boy wonders.

But here’s something completely incomprehensible. The troops are coming here. A lot of. The column hurries after the column. They go openly, they arrive before dark.

The boy has an easy character. I immediately met the soldiers. Until dark, he kept spinning around. In the morning he runs to the soldiers again. And then he finds out: the soldiers left these places at night.

Mokapka stands there, wondering again.

Mokapka did not know that our people used military stratagem near Sudzha.

The Nazis are conducting reconnaissance of Soviet troops from airplanes. They see: trains arrive at the station, bring tanks, bring guns.

The Nazis also notice mountains of boxes with shells. They notice that troops are moving here. A lot of. Behind the column comes a column. The fascists see the troops approaching, but the enemies do not know that they are leaving unnoticed from here at night.

It is clear to the fascists: this is where a new Russian offensive is being prepared! Here, near the city of Sudzha. They gathered troops near Sudzha, but weakened their forces in other areas. They just pulled it off - and then there was a blow! However, not under Sudzha. Ours struck in another place. They defeated the Nazis again. And soon they were completely defeated in the Battle of Kursk.

We Russians are a non-aggressive people. So far the matter does not concern our Motherland. This is where we get merciless. This has been the case at all times, in all the wars Russia has waged. We offer you our version of seven Russian heroes of the main wars and battles of Russian history.

Alexander Peresvet

Hero of the Battle of Kulikovo. The monk of the Trinity-Sergius Monastery Alexander Peresvet was called into the Russian squad by Dmitry Donskoy himself. The prince knew that “This Peresvet, when he was in the world, was a glorious hero, had great strength and strength.” Having received the blessing of his abbot Sergius of Radonezh, the monk went to beat the Mongols with his brother, also a monk, Andrei Oslyabey, on the Kulikovo field.

Before the battle, Peresvet prayed all night in the hermit’s cell. The Lord decreed that the monk had to open the battle in a personal duel with the Tatar knight Chelubey. The latter was famous for his invincibility as a dueling warrior. Already on the Kulikovo field, before the start of the massacre, Chelubey arrogantly challenged the best Russian heroes to a duel, but “no one dared to come out against him, and everyone told his neighbor to come out, and no one came.”

Then a Russian monk volunteered: “This man is looking for his equal, but I want to meet him.” Peresvet was not dressed in battle armor - instead of a helmet and armor, he only wore a schema with an image of a cross.

According to Christian custom, the monk said goodbye to his fellow soldiers and asked Andrei Oslyablya and other soldiers to pray for him. Peresvet mounted his horse and, armed with a spear, rushed at the Tatar. The heroes collided with such terrible force that the spears broke, and both mighty warriors fell from their horses to the ground dead. But the death of the invincible Tatar knight gave additional strength to the Russian soldiers, and the Battle of Kulikovo was won. And Peresvet was canonized.

Nadezhda Durova

Defense of the Fatherland is usually associated only with the masculine gender. However, in Russian history there were also women defenders who fought for Russia with no less courage. As a young girl in 1806, Nadezhda ran away from her noble nest to fight Napoleon. Dressed in a Cossack uniform and introducing herself as Alexander Durov, she managed to join the Uhlan regiment. The girl took part in the battles of Friedlan and in the battle of Heilsberg, and in the battle with the French near the city of Gutstadt, Durova showed fantastic courage, and slept from the death of officer Panin. For her feat, Nadezhda was awarded the St. George Cross.

True, at the same time, Nadezhda’s main secret was revealed, and soon Emperor Alexander I himself learned about the soldier.

Nadezhda Andreevna was taken to the capital of the Russian Empire. Alexander I wished to meet the courageous woman in person. Durova's meeting with the emperor took place in December 1807. The Emperor presented Durova with the St. George Cross, and everyone was amazed at the bravery and courage of her interlocutor. Alexander I intended to send Nadezhda to her parents’ home, but she snapped: “I want to be a warrior!” The emperor was amazed and left Nadezhda Durova in the Russian army, allowing her to introduce herself by her last name - Alexandrova, in honor of the emperor.

Nadezhda Durova began the War of 1812 with the rank of second lieutenant of the Uhlan regiment. Durova took part in many battles of that war. There was Nadezhda near Smolensk, Mir, Dashkovka, and she was also on the Borodino field. During the Battle of Borodino, Durova was on the front line, was wounded, but remained in service.

Alexander Kazarsky

Hero of the Russian-Turkish War of 1828-1829. Commander of the 18-gun brig Mercury. On May 14, 1829, a brig under the command of Alexander Kazarsky, who was on patrol near the Bosphorus, was overtaken by two Turkish battleships: the 100-gun Selemie under the flag of the commander of the Turkish fleet and the 74-gun Real Bay. The Mercury could only counter them with eighteen small-caliber guns. The enemy's superiority was more than thirtyfold! Seeing that the slow-moving brig would not be able to escape from the Turkish ships, the commander of the Mercury gathered officers for a military council. Everyone was unanimous in favor of the fight. Shouting “Hurray!” The sailors also welcomed this decision. Kazarsky placed a loaded pistol in front of the crew chamber. The last surviving crew member had to blow up the ship to avoid being captured by the enemy.

The Russian brig fought for 3 hours with two huge ships of the Turkish fleet that overtook it. When Russian ships appeared on the horizon, Kazarsky discharged a pistol lying near the cruise chamber into the air. Soon, the wounded but not defeated brig entered Sevastopol Bay.

The Mercury's victory was so fantastic that some experts in naval art refused to believe it. The English historian F. Jane, having learned about the battle, declared publicly: “It is absolutely impossible to allow such a small ship as the Mercury to put two battleships out of action.”

Peter Koshka

Hero of the Sevastopol Defense of 1854-1855. The fighting for the city did not stop day or night. At night, hundreds of volunteers made forays into enemy trenches, bringing “tongues”, obtaining valuable information, and recapturing weapons and food from the enemy. Sailor Koshka became the most famous “night hunter” of Sevastopol. He participated in 18 night attacks and made solo forays into the enemy camp almost every night. During one of the night campaigns, he brought three captured French officers, whom, armed with one knife (Koshka did not take any other weapons with him on a night hunt), he led straight from the campfire. No one bothered to count how many “languages” Koshka brought for the entire company. Ukrainian economy did not allow Pyotr Markovich to return empty-handed. He brought with him rifled English rifles, which shot further and more accurately than smooth-bore Russian guns, tools, provisions, and once brought a boiled, still hot leg of beef to the battery. The Cat pulled this leg right out of the enemy cauldron. It happened like this:

The French were cooking soup and did not notice how the Cat got close to them. There were too many enemies to attack them with a cleaver, but the troublemaker could not resist mocking his enemy. He jumped up and yelled “Hurray!!! Attack!!!".

The French fled, and Peter took the meat from the cauldron, turned the cauldron over onto the fire and disappeared into the clouds of steam. There is a well-known case of how Koshka saved the body of his comrade, sapper Stepan Trofimov, from desecration. The French, mockingly, put his half-naked corpse on the parapet of the trench and guarded him day and night. It was not possible to recapture the body of a comrade, but not for Pyotr Koshka. Stealthily creeping up to the dead man, he threw the body on his back and, in front of the amazed eyes of the English, ran back. The enemy opened hurricane fire on the daring sailor, but Koshka safely reached his trenches. Several enemy bullets hit the body he was carrying. For this feat, Rear Admiral Panfilov nominated the sailor of the second class for promotion in rank and the Order of St. George.

Avvakum Nikolaevich Volkov

During the Russo-Japanese War, Avvakum Nikolaevich Volkov became a full Knight of St. George. He received the first St. George Cross, 4th degree, for bravery at the beginning of the war. Just a few weeks later, when it was necessary to find out the location of the Japanese troops, bugler Volkov volunteered to go on reconnaissance. Dressed in Chinese clothes, the young soldier scouted out the location of two large enemy detachments. But soon he came across a Japanese patrol of 20 dragoons led by an officer. The Japanese guessed who this unusual young Chinese was. Snatching a revolver from his bosom, the scout killed three dragoons with point-blank shots. And while the others tried to take him alive, Volkov jumped onto the horse of one of the dead. A long chase, attempts to bypass and shoot were unsuccessful. Volkov broke away from his pursuers and returned safely to his regiment. For this feat Avvakum Volkov was awarded the St. George Cross, 3rd degree.

In one of the battles, the wounded Avvakum is captured by the Japanese. After a short trial, he was sentenced to death. However, that night the soldier managed to escape.

After ten days of grueling wandering in the remote taiga, Volkov returned to the regiment and received the St. George Cross, 2nd degree. But the war continued. And before the battle of Mukden, Volkov again volunteered for reconnaissance. This time, the experienced scout, having completed the task, removed the guards from the enemy powder magazine and blew it up. For his new feat, he received the 1st degree St. George Cross and became a full Knight of St. George.

Kozma Kryuchkov

During the First World War, the name of Kozma Kryuchkov was known throughout Russia. The brave Don Cossack appeared on posters and leaflets, cigarette packs and postcards. Kryuchkov was the first to be awarded the St. George Cross, receiving the cross of the 4th degree for the destruction of eleven Germans in battle. The regiment in which Kozma Kryuchkov served was stationed in Poland, in the town of Kalvaria. Having received an order from their superiors, Kryuchkov and three of his comrades went on patrol, and suddenly encountered a patrol of 27 German lancers. Despite the inequality of forces, the Don people did not even think of giving up. Kozma Kryuchkov tore the rifle from his shoulder, but in his haste he jerked the bolt too sharply, and the cartridge jammed. At the same moment, the German who approached him slashed the Cossack’s fingers with a saber, and the rifle flew to the ground.

The Cossack pulled out a saber and entered into battle with 11 enemies surrounding him. After a minute of battle, Kozma was already covered in blood, while his own blows for the most part turned out to be fatal to his enemies.

When the Cossack’s hand was “tired of chopping,” Kryuchkov grabbed the lance of one of the lancers and pierced the last of the attackers one by one with German steel. By that time, his comrades had dealt with the rest of the Germans. 22 corpses lay on the ground, two more Germans were wounded and captured, and three fled. 16 wounds were later counted on Kozma Kryuchkov’s body.

Yakov Pavlov

Hero of the Battle of Stalingrad. On the evening of September 27, 1942, Yakov Pavlov received a combat mission from the company commander, Lieutenant Naumov, to reconnoiter the situation in a 4-story building in the city center, which had an important tactical position. This house went down in the history of the Battle of Stalingrad as “Pavlov’s House”.

With three fighters, he managed to knock the Germans out of the building and completely capture it.

Soon the group received reinforcements, ammunition and a telephone line. The Nazis continuously attacked the building, trying to smash it with artillery and aerial bombs. Skillfully maneuvering the forces of a small “garrison”, Pavlov avoided heavy losses and defended the house for 58 days and nights, not allowing the enemy to break through to the Volga.