War and children. Front-line essay by Arkady Gaidar

Essay in the format of the exam - option number 10

(collection of I. P. Tsybulko - USE-2018)

1 Text problem

Before me is a text by Arkady Petrovich Gaidar. What exactly was the participation of children in the fight against the enemy during the war - this is the main question that worries the author.

2. Commentary on the problem of the text

A. P. Gaidarconsiders this problem, talking about the Komsomol member Yashka. Writerdraws attention to the fact that the boy is filled with a thirst for action. Authorthinks that the children felt their involvement in everything that happened in wartime. A. P. Gaidarnotes that everywhere he saw "a huge thirst for work, work and even feat", that children during the days of the war "did not sit idly by, but helped their country in its difficult and very important struggle against misanthropic fascism."

The position of the author of the text is expressed very clearly. During the war years, children felt that they could not remain aloof from the events taking place. Teenagers felt a thirst for concrete deeds, went to any tricks, just to help the country in the fight against enemies at the front and in the rear.

4. My point of view

My point of view completely coincides with the opinion of the author. Preparing for speeches at the history lesson and at the class hour, I read a lot about the exploits of the pioneer heroes Volodya Dubinin, Lenya Golikov and others and learned what help children provided during the war in the fight against the enemy.

5-a. Argument one

In the story of Vasil Bykov "Obelisk" we see how the students of Ales Ivanovich Moroz also tried to contribute to the fight against the Nazis who occupied their native village. All the teenagers who committed sabotage hid their actions from their beloved teacher. Everything happened out of the blue. Once, when it got dark, the students of Ales Ivanovich sawed half the logs on the bridge, along which the policeman was supposed to pass. The car rolled over and rolled sideways. And the Germans saw the fleeing figure of the boy. Teacher A.I. Moroz was very alarmed, very worried and suffered ... And Pavlik Miklashevich took pity on his beloved teacher and told him everything. The Germans grabbed first two, and then all the other guys. Locked up in the elders' barn, they didn't reveal anything. Favorite teacher encouraged the children. On the first day of Easter, the Germans hanged the boys. Of the seven, only Pavlik Miklashevich miraculously survived. The teacher also died.

5-b. Argument two

The story of V.P. Kataev “Son of the Regiment” tells about a simple village boy, an orphan Van Solntsev, who wandered around the territory occupied by the Germans during the war. The smart boy was picked up by scouts, and they really liked him. Vanya, who twice escaped from Bidenko's scout on his way to the rear, returned on his own and met with Captain Enakiev, who allowed the boy to stay with the scouts. The teenager helped the military scout the area. But a misfortune happened - he was captured by the Germans, he was captured. The hero did not betray anyone. When the offensive of our troops began, Vanya Solntsev safely returned to the unit. Mastered artillery. The hero completed the most difficult task - Captain Enakiev sent the boy with a report to the headquarters so that the teenager would not be in the zone of terrible hostilities. The captain himself was dead.

6. Conclusion

Thus, I would like to note that in the days of the Great Patriotic War, children made their own contribution to the fight against the enemy. Of course, it is a pity that the lives of many teenagers ended very early. And the text of A.P. Gaidar makes us remember this.

A.P. Gaidar, a children's writer of the 20th century, raises the problem of children's attitude to events in the country.

Having told about a meeting with a fifteen-year-old teenager Yakov, who asked the author for cartridges, A. Gaidar comes to the conclusion that “the war fell on children in the same way as on adults.”

The writer believes that children perceived the events of the war "more often than adults". Everything that happened at the front and in the rear: the reports of the Information Bureau of the USSR, the heroic deeds of people, seeing off the echelons to the front, the arrival of the wounded - the teenagers felt with all their hearts. Wherever A. Gaidar met them, everywhere he noticed in them an enormous desire to bring victory closer, a desire to commit a heroic deed.

There are many pages in the history of our country that reflect the indifference of teenagers to the fate of their relatives.

A film was made about how four teenagers fought with bandits during the civil war. It's called The Elusive Avengers. Subsequently, they become Red Army soldiers.

The book by V. Kataev "Son of the Regiment" tells about Van Solntsev, who was left an orphan during the war. They tried to send him to the rear, but he escaped several times. The boy certainly wanted to be a participant in military events. Then he became the son of a regiment, participated in combat missions. Then he was assigned to the Suvorov School.

For sixteen-year-old Petya Rostov, one of the young heroes of Leo Tolstoy's novel "War and Peace", the main thing in life is a strong and constant desire to be, like an adult, in the most important place. Therefore, during the guerrilla war with the French, Petya decided to stay in the Denisov detachment. He tried "not to miss any case of real heroism ..." L.N. Tolstoy showed a teenager who could not stay away from military events and died in battle.

So, generations of children at all times wished to take an active part in the fate of the country, did not spare their lives in difficult times for the Motherland, and, along with adults, overcame severe trials. The events that took place in the country were a serious school of life for teenagers.

Updated: 2018-01-12

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Useful material on the topic

• The problem of the attitude of children to military events, their participation in the war according to A.P. Gaidar Tsybulko 2019 11 option “Front line. Passing herds of collective farm cattle, which go to calm pastures ... "

What is war? In my opinion, war is the most terrible event that can happen to humanity. She claimed millions of lives. The war spared neither adults nor children. Not only fathers and uncles took part in it, but also teenagers who wanted to bring their country closer to victory over fascism. This is exactly what Arkady Petrovich Gaidar thinks about and raises the problem of the role of children in the war.

He begs the soldier for ammunition to help in the destruction of the enemy. A brave boy, seeing how his older brothers, uncles go to the partisans, does not want to sit idly by. The soldier trusts him with a clip from his rifle. He is confident that these bullets will fly in the right direction. This is stated in sentences 22-26.

Children very acutely experienced the events of the Great Patriotic War. They helped in the deep rear, in the front line and even on the front line itself. Wherever the children were, they had a great thirst for deeds, feats.

Through these examples, we can see that during the war, children had to grow up early and stand alongside adults in defense of the Motherland. This war was so cruel and merciless.

Thus, we can say that the role of children during the Great Patriotic War was enormous. Teenagers with their exploits brought the country closer to a great victory. We must remember them and try to have peace throughout the world.

Updated: 2019-02-23

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Useful material on the topic

• According to the text by A.P. Gaidar: Front line. Passing herds of collective farm cattle, which go to calm pastures (The problem of children experiencing military events, their feasible participation in the war)

1. Na-pi-shi-te so-chi-non-nie-ras-judging-de-nie, ras-roo-vaya meaning of you-saying-va-nia from the West-no-go ling-vi -sta Ru-be-na Alek-san-dro-vi-cha Bu-da-go-wa: “Sin-tak-sis always on-ho-dit-sya in the service of sa-mo-go -lo-ve-ka, his thoughts and feelings. Ar-gu-men-ti-ruya your answer, with-ve-di-te 2 (two) examples from the pro-chi-tan-no-go text-hundred. When-in-dya in-measures, indicate-zy-wai-te but-me-ra of the necessary pre-lo-same-ni or apply me-nyai-te qi-ti-ro-va-nie . You can pi-sat ra-bo-tu in an academic or public-li-qi-sty-che style, spreading the topic in ling-wi-sti-che ma-te-ri-a-le. Start co-chi-non-ing you can-those words-wa-mi R. A. Bu-da-go-va. The volume of co-chi-non-niya should be at least 70 words. Ra-bo-ta, na-pi-san-naya without relying on a pro-chi-tan-ny text (not according to a given text), do not appreciate it. If co-chi-non-nye represents a re-said or full-of-stu re-re-pi-san-ny source text without any there was no com-men-ta-ri-ev, then such a ra-bo-ta estimate-no-va-et-sya with zero points. Write an essay carefully, legible handwriting.

2. Na-pi-shi-te co-chi-not-nie-ras-judging-de-nie. Explain-no-those, how do you-no-ma-e-those the meaning of the pre-lo-zh-ny text-hundred: “I saw our children in the deep rear, in an alarming at the front-then-howl in a lo-se and even on the line of the sa-my front-ta. And everywhere I saw in them a great thirst for business, work, and even movement. At-ve-di-te in co-chi-non-nii 2 (two) ar-gu-men-ta from pro-chi-tan-no-go text-hundred, confirming your ras-judgment-de-niya. When-in-dya in-measures, indicate-zy-wai-te but-me-ra of the necessary pre-lo-same-ni or apply me-nyai-te qi-ti-ro-va-nie . The volume of co-chi-non-niya should be at least 70 words. If co-chi-non-nye represents a re-said or full-of-stu re-re-pi-san-ny source text without any there was no com-men-ta-ri-ev, then such a ra-bo-ta estimate-no-va-et-sya with zero points. Write an essay carefully, legible handwriting.

3. How do you know the meaning of the word-in-co-che-ta-tion FORCE OF THE SPIRIT? Sfor-mu-li-rui-te and pro-com-men-ti-rui-te given by you define de-le-ni. Na-pi-shi-te co-chi-non-nie-ras-judging-de-nie on the topic “What is the power of the spirit”, taking the definition given by you as a te-zi-sa -le-nie. Ar-gu-men-ti-ruya your thesis, with-ve-di-te 2 (two) with-me-ra-ar-gu-men-ta, confirming your races -de-nia: one example-mer-ar-gu-ment with-ve-di-te from pro-chi-tan-no-go text-hundred, and the second - from your life -no experience. The volume of co-chi-non-niya should be at least 70 words. If co-chi-non-nye represents a re-said or full-of-stu re-re-pi-san-ny source text without any there was no com-men-ta-ri-ev, then such a ra-bo-ta estimate-no-va-et-sya with zero points. Write an essay carefully, legible handwriting.

Active army, Komsomolskaya Pravda,

(1) Children! (2) The war fell on tens of thousands of them in the same way as on adults, if only because the fascist bombs dropped over peaceful cities have the same force for everyone. (3) Acutely, often more acutely than adults, adolescent boys, girls are experiencing the events of the Great Patriotic War. (4) They eagerly, to the last point, listen to the messages of the Information Bureau, remember all the details of heroic deeds, write out the names of the heroes, their ranks, their surnames. (5) With boundless respect they escort the echelons leaving for the front, with boundless love they meet the wounded arriving from the front.

(6) I saw our children in the deep rear, in the alarming front line, and even on the front line itself. (7) And everywhere I saw in them a great thirst for work, work, and even achievement.

(8) Front line. (9) Passing herds of collective farm cattle, which go to calm pastures to the east, to the crossroads of the village, the car stops. (10) A fifteen-year-old boy jumps on the step. (11) He asks for something. (12) What does the boy need? (13) We do not understand. (14) Bread? (15) Then suddenly it turns out:

- (16) Uncle, give me two rounds.

- (17) What do you need ammo for?

- (18) And so ... for memory.

- (19) They don’t give cartridges for memory.

(20) I thrust him a lattice shell from a hand grenade and a spent shiny shell. (21) The boy's lips curl contemptuously.

- (22) Well! (23) What's the use of them?

- (24) Oh, dear! (25) So you need such a memory with which you can make sense? (26) Maybe give you this black, egg, grenade? (27) Maybe you should unhook that small anti-tank gun from the tractor? (28) Get in the car, don't lie and say everything straight. (29) And now the story begins, full of secret omissions, evasions, although in general everything has long been clear to us.

(30) A dense forest closed around severely, deep ravines lay across the road, swampy reed swamps spread along the banks of the river. (31) Fathers, uncles and older brothers are leaving for partisans. (32) And he is still young, but dexterous, bold. (33) He knows all the hollows, the last paths for forty kilometers in the area. (34) Fearing that they would not believe him, he pulls out a Komsomol ticket wrapped in oilcloth from his bosom. (35) And not being entitled to tell anything more, licking his cracked, dusty lips, he waits eagerly and impatiently.

(36) I look into his eyes. (37) I put a clip in his hot hand. (38) This is a clip from my rifle. (39) It is written on me. (40) I take responsibility for the fact that each bullet fired from these five rounds will fly exactly in the right direction.

- (41) What is your name?

- (43) Listen, Yakov, why do you need cartridges if you don’t have a rifle? (44) What are you going to shoot from an empty clay bottle *?

(45) The truck moves off. (46) Jacob jumps off the footboard, he jumps up and cheerfully shouts something awkward, stupid. (47) He laughs, mysteriously threatens me with his finger and disappears in clouds of dust.

(48) Oh no! (49) This guy will not lay the clip in an empty bottle.

(50) Another case. (51) Before the fight, on the banks of one river, I met a guy. (52) Looking for the missing cow in order to shorten the path, he swam across the river and unexpectedly found himself in the location of the Germans. (53) Hiding in the bushes, he sat three steps away from the fascist commanders, who talked for a long time about something, holding a map in front of them. (54) He returned to us and told about what he saw. (55) I asked him:

Wait a minute! (56) But you heard what their bosses said, and you understood that this is very important for us.

(57) The boy was surprised:

So they, Comrade Commander, spoke German!

- (58) I know that it's not Turkish. (59) How many classes did you finish? (60) Nine? (61) So you should have at least understood something from their conversation?

(62) He sadly and sadly spread his hands:

- (63) Oh, comrade commander! (64) If only I knew about this meeting earlier ...

* Krynka - a jug, a pot for milk.

(According to A.P. Gaidar*)

* Gaidar Arkady Petrovich (real name - Golikov, 1904-1941) - children's writer, screenwriter, participant in the Civil and Great Patriotic Wars.

In what way-ri-an-te from-ve-ta contains in-for-ma-tion, not-about-ho-di-may to justify-no-va-nia from-ve- she answered the question: “Why, par-nish-ka, having listened to the time of the non-mets-kih-man-di-ditch, I couldn’t re-give it with -holding the so-vet-skim sol-yes-there?

1) Non-metz-kie-man-di-ry go-vo-ri-li very quietly.

2) Par-nish-ka did not understand the content of this once-in-ra, because he did not learn the German language well at school.

3) Steam-nish-ka was not-attention-ma-te-len, then-ro-drank-sya, he was looking for his co-ro-woo.

4) Par-nish-ka didn’t hear a lot, because it’s a ri-co-val map of military actions.

Clear-no-no.

The sad sigh of the boy “If only I had known about this meeting earlier ...” he says that at school he didn’t teach German how to but, about which this hour was very sorry.

Answer: 2

Answer: 2

Source: FIPI Open Bank, block 634F69, RESHU option No. 108

Relevance: Used in the OGE 2016-2017

Clear-no-no.

1. 1. Let's take an example of co-chi-non-niya-ras-judging-de-niya in an academic style.

Sin-tak-sis - section of ling-vi-sti-ki, studying pre-lo-same and word-co-che-ta-nie. Pre-lo-zhe-nie - one-ni-tsa sin-so-si-sa, in a co-hundred-ve-swarm of separate words and pre-di-ka-tiv-ny parts with -ob-re-ta-yut ability to inter-and-mo-action-stvo-vat and about-ra-zo-you-vat re-che-com-po-nen-you. Therefore, it’s impossible not to agree with you-say-zy-va-ni-em from the West-no-go ling-wi-sta Ru-be-na Alek-san-dro -vi-cha Bu-da-go-va: “Sin-tak-sis is always on-ho-dit-sya in the service of sa-mo-go-lo-ve-ka, his thoughts and feelings."

To confirm the correctness of the words of R.A. Bu-da-go-va ob-ra-tim-sya to the tear-ku from the text-hundred Ar-ka-diya Gai-da-ra. Ras-look-rim pre-lo-zhe-niya 63-64. According to the content, these two proposals should be combined into one complex-subordinate. Why does the author divide them into two? What is the purpose? No-conditions-but, it's not-accidental. Such an or-ga-ni-za-tion pre-lo-zhe-ni-m-ha-et under-emphasize from-cha-i-ne boy-chi-ka, not so-mev-she-go understand what the fa-shist co-man-di-ry are talking about.

In se-re-di-not proposition 18 (And so ... for pa-min.) there is a lot of something: something par-niche-ka not-to-go -va-ri-va-et - it immediately becomes clear.

In this way, pro-ana-li-zi-ro-vav the text, we can confidently assert that syn-tak-sis plays not-a-little -an important role in you-ra-same-tion of our thoughts and pe-re-zhi-va-ny.

2. The war didn’t spare anyone: million-li-o-ns died, hundreds of thousands of children were left without ro-di-te-lei in the en-time. These older left-handed children strove to be worthy of their fathers and older brothers. About this, the final lines of the tek-sta Gai-da-ra: “I saw our children in the deep rear, in the anxious front-line, howling in the lo-se and even on the line of the sa-mo-go front-ta. And everywhere I saw in them a great thirst for business, work, and even movement.

Yakov is ready to fight with the enemy, he is young, re-shi-te-len and bold. That's why the fighter believes him and gives both pa-tro-nov. In preposition number 49 (This pa-re-nek for-lo-lives both-mu not in an empty kryn-ku) we-ho-dim confirm this.

In the preposition-lo-ni-yah 63-64 (“Oh, then-va-rishch commander-man-dir! If only I knew about this meeting earlier ...”) with no hiding -e-my do-sa-doy par-nish-ka-vo-rit that he did not learn a non-Mets language and did not understand what the fa-shist was talking about -skie co-man-di-ry, but he could bring valuable information.

War - is-py-ta-nie, war - raz-ru-she-nie, war - raz-lu-ka. But she won’t be able to do anything, because she’s pro-ti-in-on-be-le-on-ve-li-kaya fortitude on-she-on-ro -yes, where even a child is ready to compare his life with the life of his father-hero.

3. The strength of the spirit is one of the main qualities, de-la-yu-chee-lo-ve-ka strong. This is not-for-me-no-my quality, which helps you live in difficult life si-tu-a-qi-yah. A person, strong in spirit, is able to pre-ado-le-va, as-for-moose, not-pre-odo-whether-my obstacles. We-tea-neck on-the-strain of spiritual and physical forces in-tre-bo-wa-elk from our-she-on-ro-yes, so that you-stand in the Great Patriotic War. The children were also strong in spirit, who became adults so early.

Ar-ka-diy Gaydar de-lit-sya with chi-ta-te-la-mi not-you-du-man-ny-mi is-to-ri-i-mi about how to-everything boys-chish-ki, not being afraid of anything, help adults to beat the enemy. One asks for one hundred pas, and not for pas, but for through-you-tea-but important, tai-no-th business. The other regrets that he could not understand anything from the under-listen-shan-but-th-th-th-in-ra-fri-tsev, he could not help his own ... The desire of children to be on an equal footing with adults, to contribute to the be-do-not-evaluate-no-mo. And this is only possible for children whose spirit is strong and strong. Like fathers who went to the front.

About the fate of the mo-lo-do-wife, left alone with hunger, raz-ru-hoy, fear and death, I learned from the film ma "Ma-ter che-lo-ve-che-sky". How-for-elk, how can you live in such conditions? But Mary could. And not only she herself remained alive: she saved the lives of children who lost their parents. Together they sowed bread, ho-ho-wa-whether for zhi-here-us-mi and lived in hope for the return of Russian soldiers-dates, for help. And they waited! But the film would not have an op-ti-mi-stich-no-th end if it were not for the strength of the spirit of Mary. This film is a hymn to a strong Russian woman.

Happiness is to meet people on your way, stubborn, left-wing, stubborn. But every person should strive to for-mine the strength of the spirit, because you-keep-reaping vital tests only such people can do it.

At the ferry

Our battalion entered the village.

The dust of marching columns, the sand scattered by the explosions of shells, the ashes of the huts burned by the Germans were covered with a thick coating of rough corn leaves and ripe unharvested cherries.

Taken by surprise, the German battery hurriedly hit the front outpost with incendiary shells from a hillock.

The fiery serpents hissed past. And immediately the thatched roof of the empty collective farm barn flared up with a pale, transparent flame in the sun.

Before throwing himself on the ground, the secretary of the regimental Komsomol, Tsolak Kupalyan, looked around for one or two moments: is everything going on as usual before the battle, and where is the battalion commander now?

The battalion commander Senior Lieutenant Prudnikov was nearby, around the corners of the hut. Jumping off his horse and throwing the reins to the orderly, he already ordered the fourth company to take up a battle line with a throw, the fifth to support the fourth with fire, and the sixth to strengthen its flank and hold on to the elbow of the fifth.

And then the fourth went, the fifth went.

Everything went - or rather, crawled over wheat, over buckwheat, head into the sand, face into the grass, over the ground, over a damp peat bog.

The roar intensifies.

Beat enemy mortars. The houses are on fire. People are not visible. And therefore, at first it seems that among this discordant screeching and thunder there is no meaningful order and cannot be.

But it soon turns out that this battle has its own invisible iron order.

Here in the hollow they hastily fold their heavy load and the mortars open fire.

From a hill on a potato field head over heels, rolling from his side to the tank, a Komsomol member Sergienko pulls a telephone wire. The radio operator sets up a small, hedgehog-like station under a thick hazel tree.

Suddenly - bang! - didn't put it there. He got burned, shivered, dragged the box into the ditch, put on headphones and winds something up, adjusts it.

The fourth company breaks into the line. Here is the last hut Three minutes ago there was an enemy here. He ran away. In a panic, in a hurry Even now below, between the bushes, enemy soldiers run across. One, two, three... fifteen... forty! Stop! It's not forty anymore...

The wet machine gunner immediately pulled the machine gun, pressed the trigger of the Maxim, and the score changed at once.

Hut. Pillows and feather beds were thrown to the floor. Here they slept

Table. On the table are plates, spoons, an overturned jug of milk. Here they ate.

Wide open chest, crumpled underwear. Towel embroidered with cockerels. Children's boots. This is where they robbed. A spidery fascist sign is drawn in thick charcoal over the chest half a wall.

The walls of the peaceful hut are trembling from explosions, from grief and anger.

The fight continues. Shulgin, an agitated chief of staff of the battalion, is quickly walking through the wheat.

Suddenly he sits up. Then he rises, looking at his leg in bewilderment. The leg is intact, but the top of the boot is cut off by a fragment. He's asking:

Where is kombat? Have you seen Prudnikov? He was there now.

"There, behind the hillock, where the command post had just been, a barn was blown up with a mine, it is scattered and burning, setting fire to ears of thick wheat around.

On the face of the chief of staff, anxiety for his battalion commander. This is the best and most courageous battalion commander of the best regiment of the entire division.

It was he, when, tearing his soul, hoarsely, menacingly, intimidatingly sang, the German pipes whined, frightening with attacks, to the question of the regiment commander on the phone: “What is this?” - pursing slightly protruding lips, he answered with a grin:

It's all right, Comrade Commander. The music starts. Now I will also enter my scale with machine guns.

With binoculars around his neck, with a simple TT pistol in a holster, a whole and unharmed battalion commander suddenly appears because of the smoke.

He is welcome. He does not answer questions about himself and orders:

We go on defense. The enemy is strong here. Give me a link to the artillery. All company commanders firmly dig in.

Sergienko's wire is again pulled across the peat field. Here he fell, but he was not injured. He is tired. He buried his face in the wet peat and was breathing heavily. So he turns his head and sees that very close in front of him, in front of his lips - a funnel from a mine explosion and, like at the bottom of a saucer, a little water has accumulated in it. He bows his head, drinks greedily, then lifts his face, covered with brown peat, and crawls on with the reel.

A few minutes later, communication with the regiment was established. An order comes:

"Move immediately..."

And suddenly the order is interrupted. The battalion commander looks sternly at Kupalyan: where to go?

On this front, to the left and in front of us, a battle is being fought. There is a battle on a large scale, the struggle for the hub city. Maybe the order means: "Immediately go on the attack on superior enemy forces"?

Then throw the commanders forward. Communists and Komsomol members are also forward. Collect all the will into a fist and attack.

The battalion commander gives the last orders ...

Suddenly the connection worked again. It turns out that the command reads:

"Get out of the fight immediately. Ford the river and take Hill 165."

The Red Army signalman is thirsty again. He runs into the last house.

He sees the collapse, the pogrom.

He sees a spider cross on the wall.

He spits on him.

Strikes out with charcoal. And quickly draws his Red Army star.

The battalion gathers at the ford.

On the shore, on the panels of tents, the wounded lie waiting for the crossing. Here is one of them opening his eyes. He looks, listens to the growing rumble and asks:

Comrades, will you transfer me?

Dear friend, it is, saving you, they beat you to the last minute, pressing the enemy to the ground, semi-deafened mortars.

Do you hear? This, providing you with a crossing, nine kilometers away, opened their powerful barrage of batteries. From the regiment of reserves of the main command. We will cross the river calmly. Do you want to smoke? Not! Then close your eyes and be quiet for now. You will be healthy, and you will still see the death of the enemy, the glory of your people and your own glory.

active army

Straight and narrow, like the blade of a bayonet, lay an iron bridge across the river. And on it high, between the water and the sky, every twenty or thirty meters are our sentries.

To the right along the bank behind the reeds - and only marsh waders and long-legged herons know exactly where - a battalion of infantry covering the bridge is hidden. On the other side of the mountain, in the bushes, there are anti-aircraft gunners.

Vehicles with troops, weapons and ammunition are constantly moving along the bridge to the battle lines. The surrounding collective farmers pass through the bridge and drive into the city to the market.

Fishermen scurry down the river in canoes, catching fish stunned by German Heinkel bombs.

On the sandy spit, a small wheeled tractor, hooked on the leg with a rope, pulls, leaving a deep trace, accidentally killed by fragments of an ox.

In front of the sentry hut, eaten away like smallpox, with the roof shifted to one side, a Red Army soldier Fyodor Efimkin appears, connected from the battalion infantry. He made his way straight through the sedge and swamp. Therefore, the lower half of it is wet-black almost to the waist, while the tunic and cap are burned out in the sun and covered with dry light gray dust. The red belt is so thickly hung with hand grenades that when Efimkin quickly turns, they move away and bristle in all directions.

He stops near foreman Dvornikov, who is inquisitively examining the torn holes of a crumpled, punctured bowler hat, and, saluting, asks:

Allow me, comrade foreman, to address an unofficial question? The bowler hat, which has all the hits from a half-ton high-explosive bomb, forms cracks as a result of compression, as well as various holes, and it can be thrown over the railing into the river. But if you, comrade foreman, lend me that wicker basket for an hour or two, then, here's my word, I'll go back and bring you a new bowler hat, trophy, painted all blue.

Sergeant Major Dvornikov turns around:

What is your basket for?

I can't say, comrade foreman: a military secret.

I will not give baskets, - the foreman declares. - You took the bag from us and did not return it.

The bag, comrade foreman, was ready to be returned. But then it happened that ours captured three Germans, and looted material was found in their bags: four decks of playing cards, panties for both sexes, towels, sweaters, cocoa and lace duvet covers. Everything mentioned, except cocoa, was put in your bag and sent as evidence to the division headquarters, from where it is quite possible to claim the bag according to the law.

You don’t speak your teeth to me, - the foreman said involuntarily smiling. - You better tell me why you hung so many grenades on your belt. What do you have here - an arsenal, a storehouse?

I went to reconnaissance yesterday, comrade foreman, I threw six, two were not even enough. I still have a couple of round lemons in my pocket. This is a good thing for night reconnaissance: the fire is bright, the sound is sharp: if a German does not die, he will still be stunned with fear. Give me, comrade foreman, a basket. Here's what you need! Otherwise, my whole operation fails.

What operation? - the foreman is perplexed. - You, my friend, are talking about something.

The foreman looks at Efimkin.

Oh, and cunning, perky! But well done this guy. He is always wet or dusty, oiled, but you look at his straight, angular shoulders, at his good-natured, sly smile, at the way he stands, how deftly he rolls a tight shag cigarette, and you immediately say: "This is a fighting guy."

Take it, - says the foreman, - tell your lieutenant: well, they say, they are bombing us, and you are actually fishing for yourself below, and ask him - let him send squints or ruffs in his ear and to our share.

Here's another! Because of some ruffs, I will disturb the lieutenant, - Efimkin says hastily taking away the basket. - You, probably, will be bombed again today, so I will come for a pass in the evening - I will bring a whole basket of fresh bream. Your post is high, comrade foreman, - Efimkin adds with a sigh. - What are we - we have grass, ditches, earth, bushes. And you ... stand before the eyes of the whole world.

Efimkin takes the basket and, dirty-gray, dusty on top, rattling his fastened grenades, goes across the bridge past a row of sentries who silently follow him with curious glances. Many of them he already knows by name. Here is Nesterenko, Kurbatov. Silently, narrowing his narrow eyes, stands the Turkmen Beketov.

This man was initially assigned to intelligence. At night in the forest he fell behind, confused, confused. Same thing next time. It was already decided that he was a coward. The command wanted to impose a disciplinary sanction. But the commissioner quickly realized what was the matter. Beketov grew up and lived in the endless sands of Turkmenistan. He had never seen the forest and was navigating it poorly. And now he proudly stands at the most dangerous post. Thirty meters above the water! Right in the middle of the bridge. At the very point where, with a howl and a roar, for three weeks now, fiercely, but unsuccessfully, fascist planes have been bombing.

Efimkin likes the calm, imperturbable face of this sentry. He wanted to say something pleasant to him in Turkmen, but, apart from the Russian language and the German words needed in intelligence: “halt” (stop), “hyunde hoch” (hands up), “vafen hinlegen” (drop weapons), Efimkin does not know anything, and therefore, clicking his tongue, winking, approvingly claps hand in hand and, leaving the Turkmen in complete bewilderment, grabs the little girl in his arms, puts her in a basket and, past the smiling sentries, swaying, carries her to the very end of the bridge .

There he gives the child to the mother's arms, and he, carefully looking around, climbs under a steep slope, to the swamp.

Foreman Dvornikov, who is watching Efimkin through binoculars, is now clear both the military secret and the whole operation of Efimkin. In the morning, a van with plums was smashed by a shell. Fighters walked along the road and picked them up, but some of the plums remained, and Efimkin collects them in a basket to take them to his comrades and commanders. The foreman looks around. Around the expanse and peace. True, somewhere behind the hills there is a war going on, explosions are buzzing, but this is distant and not dangerous music for the bridge.

The foreman once again looks at the crumpled, perforated bowler hat and resolutely throws it over the railing.

But before the cauldron has time to fly over and thump into the warm, sleepy water, a jerky, heart-grabbing howl of a hand siren is heard, and an alarm cry flies from end to end of the bridge: "Air!"

Cars, carts, people caught on the bridge are rushing away. They hide under embankments, in ditches, turn into meadows to haystacks, crawl into pits, hide in bushes.

One more, two... three minutes! And here it is, like a sparkling blade, sharp, straight, silently clamped above the water, near the ground in the palms, a formidable iron bridge.

Honor and glory to the brave, courageous sentries of all the military roads of our great Soviet region - and those that stand in dense forests, and those that are on high mountains, and those that are in villages, in villages, in big cities, at the gates, on corners, at crossroads - but the harsh glory of the sentry, standing on that bridge, through which trains loaded with cartridges and shells pass and dusty courageous troops marching towards a decisive battle, burns brighter than all.

He stands on a narrow and long strip of iron, and above his head is an open sky, roaring with the roar of engines and threatening death. Under his feet there are thirty meters of emptiness, under which dark waves shine. Bombs dropped from aircraft roar in the waves, explosions of anti-aircraft guns rumble across the sky, and with a screech, rattle and clang, hitting the tightly stretched metal trusses, red-hot fragments fly at random.

Two steps to the right, two steps to the left.

That's the whole move at the sentry.

The meadows - the infantry - are silent and intensely watching the battle.

But the mountain - the anti-aircraft gunners - are angry. The mountain defends the bridge with all the might and strength of its huge flurry.

The Messerschmitts howl long. Bombers roar heavily. They rush to the bridge in packs. There are many of them - thirty, forty. Here they are, one by one, laying down on a combat course. And it seems that there is no longer any force that will prevent them from rushing down and throwing bombs at the very center of the bridge, to where, leaning back against the iron and pushing a heavy helmet over his forehead, sentinel Beketov stands silently, but the mountain furiously raises a formidable veil of fire and steel.

One enemy plane swayed, jumped, staggered and somehow heavily went down to the meadow, and there the infantry happily picked it up on their heavy machine gun.

And immediately the neighboring plane, which swiftly rushed down to the target, hastily throwing bombs, straightens out earlier than necessary, lays down on the wing and leaves.

The bombs fly like stone rain, but they fall into the water, into the sand, into the swamp, because the formation of the planes is broken and torn apart.

Several dozen brightly luminous "lighters" fall on the bridge deck, but, without waiting for the firemen, with a blow from a heavy, iron-bound sock, with a butt of a rifle, sentries knock them off the bridge into the water.

Pursued by the arrived hawk, the enemy planes randomly retreat.

And so, before the signalmen have time to fix the field wire torn by the air wave, before the head of the guard of the post, Lieutenant Merkulov, informs the headquarters by phone about the results of the bombing, many, many people, shielding their eyes from the sun with their palms, are now looking intently towards the bridge.

The enemy has already made seven hundred "aircraft raids" and dropped more than five thousand bombs in a week in the area of ​​the bridge.

Long, agonizing minutes pass... five, ten, and suddenly...

From top to bottom, from roofs, from windows, from trees, from fences, joyful cries rush:

Go-go!

Ours moved!

It was the overjoyed people who saw that our cars had started and moved across the bridge.

So it's all right!

To the foreman Dvornikov, who is standing near a group of Red Army soldiers, a messenger Efimkin approaches. He hands the foreman a new iron bowler hat. He puts a basket with fresh fish, jammed by German bombs, on the ground and says:

Good evening! All targets?

They tell him:

Akimov is wounded. Yemelyanov pushed the bomb, burned his boot, burned his leg.

The foreman takes the basket, leads Efimkin into the room and receives a night pass from the lieutenant.

Before descending under the embankment, both of them turn around. The moon shines through the iron, now seeming openwork cover of the bridge.

Far on the horizon, a blue rocket flashes and slowly floats across the sky.

To the left, a choral song is heard from the village. Yes, a song. Yes, here, shortly after the fire and the rumble, the girls sing loudly.

Efimkin holds the foreman by the sleeve.

Your post is high, comrade foreman! he repeats again. - During the day, you can see for twenty kilometers around, at night - you can hear everything for ten ...

active army

War and children

Rear railway station on the way to the front. Water tower. Two straight old poplars. A low brick station surrounded by thick acacias.

The military train stops. Two village children run up to the carriage with wallets in their hands.

Lieutenant Martynov asks:

Why currant?

The elder replies:

We do not take money from you, comrade commander.

The boy conscientiously fills the glass astride, so that the currant falls on the hot dust between the sleepers. He knocks the glass into the bowler set up, cocks his head, and, listening to the distant rumble, announces:

- "Henkel" is buzzing ... Wow! Wow! Suffocated. Don't be afraid, comrade lieutenant, there they are our fighters. Here the Germans have no passage through the sky.

Axis! There it thumps ...

Lieutenant Martynov is interested in this message. He sits down on the floor by the door and, dangling his legs out, eating currants, asks:

Hm! And what, lad, are people doing in that war?

They shoot, - the boy explains, - they take a gun or a cannon, point it ... and bang! And you're done.

What's ready?

That's what! - the boy exclaims with annoyance. - If they pull the trigger, pull it, then death will come.

To whom death - me? - And Martynov imperturbably pokes his finger in his chest.

No! - the boy screams distressedly, surprised by the dullness of the commander. - Some kind of evil spirit has come, throwing bombs at huts, at sheds. That's where the grandmother was killed, two cows were torn to pieces. About what, - he mockingly shamed the lieutenant, - he put on a revolver, but he doesn’t know how to fight.

Lieutenant Martynov is confused. The commanders around him laugh.

The locomotive gives a whistle.

The boy, the one who delivered the currants, takes his angry little brother by the hand and, striding towards the moving carriages, explains to him at length and indulgently:

They know! They are joking! This is such a people going ... cheerful, desperate! One commander handed me a three-ruble note for a glass of currants on the go. Well, I'm behind the wagon, running, running. But he put the paper into the car anyway.

Here ... - the boy nods approvingly. - You what! And he is there in the war, let him buy kvass or sitra.

That's stupid! - accelerating his pace and keeping level with the car, the elder says condescendingly. - Do they drink it in the war? Don't lean on my side! Don't turn your head! This is our "I-16" - a fighter, and the German is buzzing heavily, with a break. The war is on its second month, and you don't know your planes.

Combatant zone. Passing herds of collective farm cattle, which go to calm pastures to the east, to the crossroads of the village, the car stops.

A boy of about fifteen jumps up on the step. He is asking for something. The cattle lows, a long whip clicks in clouds of dust.

The engine rumbles, the driver honks desperately, driving away the stupid beast that will not turn off until it hits its forehead on the radiator. What does the boy need? We don't understand. Of money? Of bread?

Then suddenly it turns out:

Uncle, give me two bullets.

What do you need ammo for?

And so ... for memory.

They don't give you ammo for memory.

I shoved him a lattice shell from a hand grenade and a spent shiny cartridge case.

The boy's lips twitch in disdain.

Well! What's the point of them?

Ah dear! So you need a memory that you can use? Maybe give you this green bottle or this black, egg-shaped grenade? Maybe you should unhook that small anti-tank gun from the tractor? Get in the car, don't lie and say everything straight.

And so the story begins, full of secret omissions, evasions, although in general everything has long been clear to us.

The dense forest closed sternly around, deep ravines lay across the road, swampy reed swamps spread along the banks of the river. Fathers, uncles and older brothers leave to join partisans. And he is still young, but dexterous, bold. He knows all the hollows, the last forty-kilometer paths in the area.

Fearing that they will not believe him, he pulls out a Komsomol ticket wrapped in oilcloth from his bosom. And not having the right to say anything more, licking his chapped, dusty lips, he waits greedily and impatiently.

I look into his eyes. I put a clip in his hot hand. This is a clip from my rifle. She is registered to me.

I take responsibility for the fact that every bullet fired from these five rounds will fly exactly in the right direction.

What is your name?

Listen, Yakov, why do you need cartridges if you don't have a rifle? What are you going to shoot from an empty jug?

The truck is moving. Yakov jumps off the footboard, he jumps up and cheerfully shouts something awkward, stupid. He laughs and mysteriously threatens me with his finger. Then, moving his fist in the muzzle of a cow spinning near, he disappears in clouds of dust.

Oh, No! This kid will not lay the clip in an empty pot.

Children! The war fell on tens of thousands of them in the same way as on adults, if only because the fascist bombs dropped over peaceful cities have the same effect on everyone.

Acutely, often more acutely than adults, adolescents - boys, girls - experience the events of the Great Patriotic War.

They eagerly, to the last point, listen to the messages of the Information Bureau, remember all the details of heroic deeds, write out the names of the heroes, their ranks, their surnames.

With boundless respect they see off the echelons leaving for the front, with boundless love they greet the wounded arriving from the front.

I saw our children deep in the rear, in the troubled front line, and even on the front line itself. And everywhere I saw in them a great thirst for work, work, and even achievement.

Before the battle on the bank of a river, I recently met a boy.

Looking for the missing cow, in order to shorten the path, he swam across the river and suddenly found himself in the location of the Germans.

Hiding in the bushes, he sat three steps away from the fascist commanders, who were talking about something for a long time, holding a map in front of them.

He came back to us and told us what he saw.

I asked him:

Wait a minute! But you heard what their bosses said, it's very important for us.

The boy was surprised:

So they, Comrade Commander, spoke German!

I know it's not Turkish. How many classes did you complete? Nine? So you were supposed to at least understand something from their conversation?

He folded his hands sadly and sadly.

Oh, comrade commander! If I had known about this meeting earlier ...

Years will pass. You will become adults. And then, in a good hour of rest after a great and peaceful work, you will remember with joy that once, in terrible days for the Motherland, you did not hang under your feet, did not sit idly by, but in what way you could help your country in its difficult and a very important fight against human-hated fascism.

active army

At the front end

At the passage through a heavy barricade sheathed with rough wood, a policeman checked my pass to leave the besieged city.

He advised me to drive up to the front line in a passing car or wagon, but I refused. It was a good day and not a long way. And besides, on the hillocks, mines sometimes opened fire on cars. Spending a mine on a lonely walking person is not a calculation. Yes, and in which case it is always easier for a pedestrian to fall into a roadside ditch in time.

I walked past empty, abandoned houses with boarded up windows and closed gates. It was quiet. The ratchet rattled, and hungry cats hunted sparrows.

Through the gardens, among which the bomb-proof trenches washed out by the rain turned yellow, I went out to the slope of the ravine and hooked my foot on the field wire. Having figured out the direction, I took the path straight along the wire, because I needed people.

Suddenly there was a blow. It seemed that he slammed over the very crest of my steel helmet. I quickly flew into the old funnel, carefully looked around and saw nearby a disguised mound of a bunker, from the dark crack of which the barrel of a stocky cannon protruded.

I went down to the bunker and, after saying hello, asked the senior sergeant what his people were doing now.

It is clear that before answering, the sergeant checked my pass, documents. He asked how Moscow lives. Only then was he ready to answer my questions.

But here in the distance, to the right, very frequent explosions were heard.

The telephone operator loudly asked the neighboring bunker through the handset:

What do you have? Speak louder. Why are you talking so quietly? Oh, mines are exploding around you! Do you think that if you speak loudly, they will get scared!

From such simple words, smiles broke out in the hushed, alert bunker. Then there was a stern command, and our cannon roared.

The neighbors supported her. The enemies responded. They fired 205 shells and long-range mines.

Mines ... A lot has already been written about them. They wrote that they roar, howl, buzz, snore. Not! The sound of the mine in flight is thin and melodic and sad. The explosion is dry and sharp. And the screech of flying fragments is similar to the meowing of a cat, which suddenly stepped on its tail with a heavy boot.

The rough, iron-bolted logs of the ceiling roll tremble. Dry earth pours through the cracks on the shoulders, behind the collar. The telephone operator hurriedly covers a bowl of buckwheat porridge with a helmet, shouting loudly:

Right, zero with twenty-five shells! Now for sure! Rapid fire!

Five minutes later, the barrage of fire from both sides, as if chopped off, falls silent.

Everyone's eyes are burning, their foreheads are wet, people are drinking from the neck of their flasks. The telephone operator asks the neighbors what happened and where.

It turns out that one of them had a tank of water overturned by the air; at the second, the regimental telephone wire was cut off; the third is worse: they pierced the shield of the gun through the embrasure with a fragment and wounded the best battery gunner in the shoulder; we dug around holes, funnels, tore to shreds and carried away, probably behind a cloud, one wet boot, hung by a Red Army soldier Konoplev by a tree under the sun to dry.

You are not a miner, but a crow, - the sergeant reproachfully grumbles at the Red Army soldier Konoplev, who stared thoughtfully and bewilderedly at the surviving boot - Now it is military time. You were supposed to take the twine and run a link from here to the boot. Then, just a little, he pulled and pulled his boot out of the firing sector into the shelter. And now you have no view. Secondly, a Red Army soldier in one left boot does not represent any combat value. You take your boot in your hands, carry it, as a fact, to the foreman and explain to him your sad situation.

While everyone, turning around, listened with curiosity to these teachings, someone entered through the door of the bunker. At first they did not pay attention to the newcomer: they thought - someone from the gun crew. Then they realized it. The sergeant came up to give the chief a report.

By some single, barely perceptible movement, it became clear to me that this person is both respected and deeply loved here.

The faces smiled. People hurriedly straightened their belts, straightened their tunics. And the Red Army soldier Konoplev quickly hid his bare foot behind the empty boxes from under the shells.

It was Senior Lieutenant Myasnikov, the battalion commander.

We went along with him along the reserve line of defense, where the Red Army soldiers - mostly Donetsk miners - amicably and skillfully dug communications and trenches of a full profile.

Each of these fighters is an engineer armed with an axe, pickaxe and shovel. They build tangled labyrinths, shelters, nests, dugouts, embrasures under fire quickly, skillfully and firmly. These people are experienced, courageous and resourceful. Here, a Red Army soldier came out from behind the bushes along the hollow to meet us. The presence of the commander puzzles him for a moment.

I see that the commander frowned, probably saw some kind of disorder and will now make a remark to the Red Army soldier. But he, not at a loss, goes straight ahead. He is cheerful, strong, broad-shouldered.

Approaching five to seven meters, he switches to a regular, "printed" step, puts his hand on the cap and, raising his head, solemnly and gallantly passes by.

The commander stops and laughs.

Well, fighter! Well done! - he bursts with admiration, looking in the direction of the fighter hiding in the trench.

And to my perplexed question he answers:

He (the fighter) walked in a cap, and not in a helmet, as expected. Noticed the commander, nowhere to go. He knows that I love bearing, discipline. To hush up the matter, he rushed past me, as if at a parade. Miners! the commander exclaimed lovingly. - Experienced and smart people. Send me to another unit, and I will go to headquarters and cry about my miners.

We're making our way to the front. On one of the turns, the commander hooked his cloak on the handle of a shovel. Something under the lapel of his cloak flashed very brightly. On the very first ledge, I cautiously, squinting my eyes, looked from above at the chest of the commander's tunic.

And, here's the thing: there, under the cloak, the "Golden Star" is burning. He, lieutenant, is a Hero of the Soviet Union.

But here we are already at the very front line. There is no fight. The enemy has hit a solid wall here. But watch out! Here, above, everything is shot through by both the enemy and us. Well-hidden snipers rule here. Here, as narrow as a sting, the DS machine gun can fire from seven hundred to a thousand bullets through an embrasure at one point from one barrel in one minute.

Here, on the outskirts of the city, more than one fascist regiment ingloriously laid down its drunken heads. Here the entire ninety-fifth German division was completely defeated.

There is a single shot. Through a narrow gap, the camouflaged shaft of enemy trenches is already clearly visible. Something behind the hillock moved, shied away and disappeared under the shot.

Dark force! Are you here! You're near! Behind us stands a bright, big city. And you from your black holes look at me with your greedy colorless eyes.

Go! Come on! And accept death from these heavy miner's hands. Here from this tall, calm man with his brave heart, burning like a golden star.

active army

Rockets and grenades

Ten scouts under the command of a young sergeant Lyapunov descend a steep path to the river ford. The soldiers are in a hurry. It was getting dark, and we had to have time to smoke for the last time at night in an abandoned shepherd's hut, near which the field guard of the outpost was located and dug in.

While ten people lie down - head to head - greedily inhale strong shag smoke, the head of intelligence, young sergeant Lyapunov, warns the same young head of the guard, sergeant Burykin:

Let's go back, so I won't yell at you, dear, from the other side of the pass. And don't you dare open fire on me about this. I'll send a fighter forward. You call him from the shore to the water quietly. He will come, then he will say.

I know, - Burykin replies importantly. - Science is simple.

That's it, easy! And yesterday the sentry shouted so loudly that the enemy could hear. What's on that shore? Quiet?

Two missiles like this in the direction. Then two shots,” explains Burykin. - Sometimes the wind blows - something rumbles. Yes! Then the plane flew in, scout. Twisted, twirled and over there, you bastard, disappeared.

The plane is a predator of the sky, - Sergeant Lyapunov says solidly, - and our business is to rummage through the ground, through the grass and through the forest. Well! he turns sternly. - How did you smoke? And what a dream I have - this is a non-smoking intelligence service, and they cannot live without a tobacco nipple.

Hanging bandoliers around his neck, holding rifles and grenades above the water, the dark chain crosses the river.

The bright dial of the compass on the sergeant's hand flickers above the waves like a bluish light.

Having got out to the forest edge, the sergeant unfastens the luminous compass, hides it in his pocket, and silent reconnaissance disappears into the forest thicket. The reconnaissance core is moving along a forest path. Two people in front, two on the left and two on the right. Every ten minutes, without a watch, without a team, intelligence stops by instinct. Leaning their butts on the ground, kneeling down, holding their breath, people listen intently to the night sounds and rustles.

Chu! A rooster, not yet devoured by the Germans, crowed somewhere.

Then something in the distance buzzed, tinkled, as if two empty carriages had bumped into buffers.

But something rumbled. This is a motor. There are motorcyclists here somewhere. They must be found by all means.

The Red Army soldier Melchakov emerges from the darkness and, out of breath, reports:

Comrade sergeant, on a hillock, across the road, there is a wire under your feet.

The sergeant walks forward. He feels the wire with his hand and thinks: should I follow the wire to the left or to the right? But it turns out that on the left the wire goes into a swampy swamp. The leg gets stuck, and the boot is hardly torn out of the sticky mud. Right the same.

Melchakov approaches the sergeant, takes out a knife and offers:

Allow me, comrade sergeant, I'll cut the wire.

Sergeant Melchakova stops. He frowns, then grabs the wire, wraps it around the bayonet sheath and pulls hard. The wire is supplied. Something is chugging in the swamp. And then a heavy stone crawls out onto the road.

The sergeant is jubilant. Yep, it's a fake wire. So it is, at the other end of the wire, a piece of iron spring is tied and thrown into the sedge.

- "I'll cut it, I'll cut it!" - mimics Sergeant Melchakova. - "Comrade sergeant, I report that I destroyed the telephone connection between the two battalions of swamp frogs." You are very hasty, Melchakov. Walk straight. Search. There's a real wire around here somewhere.

Again, the snort of the engine is heard ahead. Reconnaissance moves crawling along the sandy edge. From here you can see the silhouette of the hut behind the bushes. The hut has a wattle fence. Behind the fence - an indistinct noise.

The sergeant whispers:

Prepare grenades. Crawl to the fence. I go forward with three on the right. Throw grenades exactly in the direction where I will give a gentle blow with a red rocket.

To prepare grenades means: click - platoon, click - fuse, click - and the primer is in place.

And here it is, hidden, ready to explode fire, lying near the chest, at the very heart.

A minute passes, another, five, ten. There are no rockets. Finally, Sergeant Lyapunov appears and orders:

Discharge grenades. The house is abandoned. It beats in the yard, by the barn, a wounded horse. Get up quickly. We take to the left. Do you hear? The Germans are somewhere here, over the hill.

Melchakov approaches the sergeant. He crumples and holds his right hand, clenched into a fist, in a strange way.

Comrade sergeant, - he says embarrassedly, - I have a grenade - not a “bottle”, but an “F-1”, “lemon”. And here is the sad result.

What result? What are you muttering?

She, comrade sergeant, stands on a combat platoon.

Instantly, instinctively, everyone shied away from Melchakov.

Chemist! - the puzzled sergeant exclaims in desperate whispers. - So you that … have already pulled out the check?

Yes, Comrade Commander. I thought: now there will be a rocket, and I will immediately throw it away.

- "I'll throw it, I'll throw it"! snarls the sergeant. - Well, now keep it in your fist and do not unclench your hands at least until dawn.

Melchakov's position is unenviable. He hurried, and the grenade head is now held only by a bracket clamped in the palm of his hand. You cannot insert a fuse without lighting a fire. Throwing a grenade into the forest, into the swamp is also impossible - all reconnaissance will be thwarted. The fighters on the move scold Melchakov in a whisper:

Where are you, boy, huddling with people? You go sideways or sideways.

Where is his side? Let him go along the road, where it is smoother, otherwise it will catch on the root and how it will blur.

Don't wave your hand, not in the parade. You hold it, a grenade, with both hands.

In the end, the rifle was taken away from the offended Melchakov and he was sent forward with a grenade, the head sentinel.

A few minutes later, the intelligence core finds him sitting on the edge of the road.

I have a wire under my foot, - Melchakov says gloomily.

Intelligence is on the line. Suddenly, the crackle of engines is heard very close. The fire flickered and went out. Ahead, at the collective farm sheds, noise, movement. The sergeant, followed by all the reconnaissance, fall flat on the ground and crawl away from the road, on which, probably not far away, there is a guard outpost. Two hundred meters reconnaissance creeps for about forty minutes. Then he lies motionless for a long time, listening to the noise, crackling and sounds of an unfamiliar language. The sergeant tugs on Melchakov's heel and points to a loaded rocket launcher. Melchakov silently and knowingly nods his head. The sergeant crawls away.

Again one, another, long minutes. Suddenly, a rocket thrown by the sergeant flashes like a red snake, showing the direction.

Melchakov jumps up and, with all his strength, throws his grenade through the roof of the shed.

There is thunder, then a howl, then the deafening crackle of engines merges with the crackle of German machine guns. The scouts open fire.

The thatched roof of the barn catches fire. Light. Visible enemies. So it is - this is a motorcycle company.

But now heavy machine guns are getting involved in the stupid crackle of machine guns.

Having cut the wire in several places, the reconnaissance departs.

The firing from behind does not stop. Now it will continue until dawn.

Dark. Far on the other side, of course, the company commander woke up. He hears this fire and thinks about his intelligence now.

And his scouts march through the forest together and quickly. They do not angrily scold the long-legged Melchakov now. Impatiently feeling pockets with shag.

And so that even across the river, in a hut, he would give them plenty of smoke, they loudly and amicably praise their young sergeant.

active army