Mikhail Alekseev - soldiers. Alekseev Mikhail Nikolaevich Mikhail Nikolaevich Alekseev

Mikhail Alekseev

SOLDIERS

Novel

BOOK ONE

"TERRIBLE SUMMER"

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

A sparse veil of fog hung over the Donets. Not far, to the north, across the river, shrouded in mist, the outlines of Belgorod appeared. The war was dormant. Rarely and lazily roared cannons, like deep sighs of the awakening earth. Two soldiers stood in a small outpost trench. One of them, broad-shouldered, swarthy, squinting from the sun and shifting his black eyebrows, peered across the river towards the enemy, and occasionally said something to his comrade. He didn't answer. This, obviously, did not please the dark-skinned man, and he said already louder:

Akim, don't you hear? Why don't you write it down? Yerofeenko!..

What?.. Ah, yes... - Akim answered, recollecting himself and hastily adjusted his glasses on his hawk nose. - Actually, what is there to write down?

Like what? Can't you see - a mortar battery!

Where did you see her?

Yes, out! Look straight ahead. You see - trunks stick out next to the bushes.

Akim looked at the bushes, visible through the veil of fog, and unexpectedly laughed.

You are our friend Uvarov! Well, what kind of battery is it? Oh, you scout sapper! Layouts, brother, this, not a battery! Don't you see?

I mean… I don't understand you, Akim.

Yerofeenko chuckled again.

And there is nothing to understand. Take a good look. The Germans put up logs instead of mortars. True, they acted a little stupidly - at least they would have disguised it for the sake of appearance.

Astonished, Uvarov could not tear his astonished gaze from Akim. “Here he is, it turns out, what - this quiet, thoughtful, absent-minded and a little funny Akim! Clever!.. "

Why are you so sad and boring? Jacob suddenly burst out.

Akim shuddered slightly.

Nothing, Yasha. Just like that... Watch carefully and write it down yourself.

You are strange, Akim. I do not understand you.

Akim did not answer. His long face became thoughtful again. Meek blue eyes gleamed uneasily behind the glasses. He peered tensely over the Donets, as if he saw something there that the other could not notice.

Uvarov did not interfere with Akim. He began diligently recording the observation data in his battered notebook. His face was wrinkled all the time. A stub of a pencil jumped out of his large, steel-burnt fingers and kept falling under his feet, into the yellowish-gray mud. The soldier bent down with difficulty, searched for a pencil for a long time, swearing in an undertone.

Having found a pencil, the fighter again began to write. Dirty wisps of sweat ran down her cheeks from under her earflaps. Uvarov rubbed them with his hand, forgetting that it was all smeared with chemical pencil.

Yes, he said. - Two machine guns. One easel. Wire fence in three stakes. But it's okay, we'll get through somehow.

Not two machine guns, but three,” Akim unexpectedly corrected him, and Yakov again looked with surprise at this strange fighter, immersed in some thoughts and at the same time managing to notice what he, Uvarov, could not detect.

Uvarov really wanted to talk to this soldier now, to learn more about him, but he was afraid to interfere with Akim.

He took out the pouch. I lit up. Flaring his nostrils, he greedily inhaled, along with the bitter smoke of shag, the spicy, intoxicating air, filled with river coolness and a healthy pine smell. I thought. Uvarov was disturbed by an unexpected turn in his front-line fate. He still did not understand why he was chosen from the entire engineer battalion to participate in the upcoming operation. He did not seem to have performed any special feats, and he was not rich in awards either: only two worn medals adorned his broad chest - “For Courage” and “For the Defense of Stalingrad” - and that’s all. And then - why did the divisional commander need to send fighters so far to reconnaissance and even burn the bridge behind enemy lines? Are the Germans up to something?

Now the right bank of the river looked quite peaceful and even friendly. Not a single movement. The green wall of the grove silently stood on the horizon. Winding ravines ran down to the water. In one distant gully, if you look through binoculars, even a few motley cows-kholmogorok grazed.

And this quiet, bright city, not particularly different from hundreds of similar cities scattered across the vast expanses of our great land, has been standing on the right bank of the river for a long time. Villages, large and small, with typical Russian names - Aleksandrovka, Krapivka, Bezlyudovka, Marievka, Ivanovka, Petrovka - ordinary villages that huddle together in dark arrays of groves and gardens, and in sonorous and warm June nights listen to the sweet singing of the native Kursk nightingale.

Here, only a few days ago, there were heated battles between the Germans, who had crossed the Donets, and the Soviet regiments, hastily transferred here from near Stalingrad, where the great massacre had just died down. The enemy was driven back by a swift attack, and now, in the early spring of 1943, the Donets, strict and impregnable, separated both sides - ours and the Germans. The city and villages stood silent, subdued and, numb, waiting for the inevitable...

On the Belgorod sector of the front, that restless lull, familiar to front-line soldiers, has set in, when the enemy, although he does not launch strong attacks, but bothers with frequent night sorties, patrols, bombing, sudden and therefore especially insidious artillery and mortar raids. So it was at that time here, near Belgorod, and so it must have been in thousands of other combat sectors stretching from the Barents to the Black Sea. Who would have thought in those spring days of 1943 that here, near Belgorod, and near these obscure villages, which appear only on commander's kilometers, it is here that terrible and majestic events will unfold in more than two months.

There is a small town of Cannes on earth. He went down in history. But did the Cannes happen to see at least a hundredth part of what the Donets, calmly rolling its bright waters, and these quiet villages, and this ancient Russian city trembling in a flowing haze, soon became witnesses? ..

However, our soldiers did not think about it then. So far, they were all busy with their everyday front-line affairs: and those two infantry soldiers over there who so carefully and even lovingly straighten the trench they had just dug; and scouts, friends of Akim Erofeenko and Yakov Uvarov, leisurely putting on camouflage robes, as if preparing not for a campaign behind enemy lines, but for an evening walk; and a signalman pulling a "thread" along the trench to the observation post of the battery commander; and that sapper who crawls on damp earth at night, rakes frozen clods with stiff hands, placing anti-tank mines; and this experienced machine gunner, in whose ears the noise of the recent battle must have still not calmed down, - he sat down at his faithful "maxim", covered with a cape, and with an indifferent look follows the fiery lines of tracer bullets flying over him - this you won’t surprise or frighten in anything: the machine gunner has seen nothing like this; and those who, having beaten off another enemy sortie, are now, concentrated and severe, burying their comrades who fell in this battle, with whom they smoked more than one common cigarette; and that infantry sergeant over there, grimy and preoccupied by the light of an oil lamp made from a shell casing, for the fifth time, it seems, is already counting and sorting precious sets of new summer uniforms in order to give them out to the fighters at dawn, by the fact that in the unsleeping silence of the trenches awake by their weapons.

According to the writer himself, one of the main themes of his work is the Great Patriotic War. “For half a century and every day of God, the war lives in me with all its details ...” , – author acknowledges.

Mikhail Nikolaevich Alekseev (1918-2007) - a former officer of the Soviet Army, who began his service as an ordinary soldier. During the Great Patriotic War, he commanded a battery and walked the path along which he leads the heroes of his novel "Soldiers". He fought in Stalingrad, on the Kursk Bulge in mortar, artillery units, he ended the war as an employee of an army newspaper.

The novel "Soldiers" is dedicated to heroic struggle of Soviet intelligence soldiers. It has everything: a fascinating plot, deep authenticity, and the heart-wrenching truth about the war, about those pages of it that are little known, forgotten, gone into the shadows along with unknown heroes.

The novel "Soldiers" (book 1 - 1951; book 2 - 1952-53), on which M. Alekseev began shortly after the Victory and the first chapters of which appeared in the newspaper of the Central Group of Forces "For the Honor of the Motherland" in December 1947, was devoted to the image Great Patriotic War. Numerous reviews noted that this large, truthful work convincingly shows the origins of the victory over fascism and the greatness of the spirit of the Soviet soldier. Already the first book of the novel "Soldiers" in 1952 was nominated for the Stalin Prize.

Documentary narrative, a story about real faces, whom the author names "the bravest and smartest" encourage the reader to think: how many of these people, the colors of the nation, did not return from the war and how this was heavily reflected in the post-war fate of the country.

The author draws images of people, different in character, in age, in a peaceful profession. All of them - the fearless officer Zabarov, and the sympathetic party organizer of the company Shakhaev, and the innovator in military affairs Fetisov, and the economic Pinchuk, and the resilient, resourceful scout Vanin - treat the war courageously and simply, in the name of victory they do not spare their lives.

In the second book - "Ways-roads" Mikhail Alekseev shows how the Soviet Army, having driven out the fascist invaders from Romania in 1944, brought freedom to its people. The writer depicts the everyday life of the scouts, their military work, which requires exceptional dedication and courage, reveals the beauty and nobility of their spiritual appearance.

The greatness and simplicity of the Soviet soldier, his rich spiritual world are revealed in the novel truthfully, with a good knowledge of life, with good front-line humor.

Quote from the novel Mikhail Alekseev "Soldiers":

“A sparse veil of fog hung over the Donets. Not far, to the north, across the river, shrouded in mist, the outlines of Belgorod appeared. The war was dormant. Rarely and lazily roared cannons, like deep sighs of the awakening earth. Two soldiers stood in a small outpost trench. One of them, broad-shouldered, dark-faced, squinting from the sun and shifting his black eyebrows, peered across the river, in the direction of the enemy, and occasionally said something to his comrade. He didn't answer. This, obviously, did not please the dark-skinned man, and he ... "

there are other books by Mikhail Alekseev:

Bump Books

Alekseev, M. N. Cherry pool [Braille]: novel / M. N. Alekseev. - Stavropol: Kraev. library for the blind and visually impaired. V. Mayakovsky, 2015. - 8 books. - From ed.: M .: Sovremennik, 1980.

Alekseev, M. N. Willow weeping [Braille]: novel / M. N. Alekseev. - M .: Education, 1978. - 6 books. - From ed.: M .: Soviet writer, 1975.

Alekseev, M. N. My Stalingrad [Braille] / M. N. Alekseev. - M .: Repro, 2007. - 7 books. - From ed.: M .: Veche, 2005.

"Talking" books on cassettes

Alekseev, M. N. Cherry pool [Sound recording]: novel / M. N. Alekseev; read by Yu. Zaborovsky. - M .: Logosvos, 1995. - 5 mfk., (19 hours 52 minutes): 2.38 cm / s, 4 dop. - From ed.: M .: Young Guard, 1988.

Alekseev, M. N. Ivushka not weeping [Sound recording]: novel / M. N. Alekseev; read by Yu. Zaborovsky. - M .: Logosvos, 1995. - 7 mfk., (26 hours 10 minutes): 2.38 cm / s, 4 dop. - From ed.: M .: Young Guard, 1989.

Mikhail Alekseev

SOLDIERS

Novel

BOOK ONE

"TERRIBLE SUMMER"

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

A sparse veil of fog hung over the Donets. Not far, to the north, across the river, shrouded in mist, the outlines of Belgorod appeared. The war was dormant. Rarely and lazily roared cannons, like deep sighs of the awakening earth. Two soldiers stood in a small outpost trench. One of them, broad-shouldered, swarthy, squinting from the sun and shifting his black eyebrows, peered across the river towards the enemy, and occasionally said something to his comrade. He didn't answer. This, obviously, did not please the dark-skinned man, and he said already louder:

Akim, don't you hear? Why don't you write it down? Yerofeenko!..

What?.. Ah, yes... - Akim answered, recollecting himself and hastily adjusted his glasses on his hawk nose. - Actually, what is there to write down?

Like what? Can't you see - a mortar battery!

Where did you see her?

Yes, out! Look straight ahead. You see - trunks stick out next to the bushes.

Akim looked at the bushes, visible through the veil of fog, and unexpectedly laughed.

You are our friend Uvarov! Well, what kind of battery is it? Oh, you scout sapper! Layouts, brother, this, not a battery! Don't you see?

I mean… I don't understand you, Akim.

Yerofeenko chuckled again.

And there is nothing to understand. Take a good look. The Germans put up logs instead of mortars. True, they acted a little stupidly - at least they would have disguised it for the sake of appearance.

Astonished, Uvarov could not tear his astonished gaze from Akim. “Here he is, it turns out, what - this quiet, thoughtful, absent-minded and a little funny Akim! Clever!.. "

Why are you so sad and boring? Jacob suddenly burst out.

Akim shuddered slightly.

Nothing, Yasha. Just like that... Watch carefully and write it down yourself.

You are strange, Akim. I do not understand you.

Akim did not answer. His long face became thoughtful again. Meek blue eyes gleamed uneasily behind the glasses. He peered tensely over the Donets, as if he saw something there that the other could not notice.

Uvarov did not interfere with Akim. He began diligently recording the observation data in his battered notebook. His face was wrinkled all the time. A stub of a pencil jumped out of his large, steel-burnt fingers and kept falling under his feet, into the yellowish-gray mud. The soldier bent down with difficulty, searched for a pencil for a long time, swearing in an undertone.

Having found a pencil, the fighter again began to write. Dirty wisps of sweat ran down her cheeks from under her earflaps. Uvarov rubbed them with his hand, forgetting that it was all smeared with chemical pencil.

Yes, he said. - Two machine guns. One easel. Wire fence in three stakes. But it's okay, we'll get through somehow.

Not two machine guns, but three,” Akim unexpectedly corrected him, and Yakov again looked with surprise at this strange fighter, immersed in some thoughts and at the same time managing to notice what he, Uvarov, could not detect.

Uvarov really wanted to talk to this soldier now, to learn more about him, but he was afraid to interfere with Akim.

He took out the pouch. I lit up. Flaring his nostrils, he greedily inhaled, along with the bitter smoke of shag, the spicy, intoxicating air, filled with river coolness and a healthy pine smell. I thought. Uvarov was disturbed by an unexpected turn in his front-line fate. He still did not understand why he was chosen from the entire engineer battalion to participate in the upcoming operation. He did not seem to have performed any special feats, and he was not rich in awards either: only two worn medals adorned his broad chest - “For Courage” and “For the Defense of Stalingrad” - and that’s all. And then - why did the divisional commander need to send fighters so far to reconnaissance and even burn the bridge behind enemy lines? Are the Germans up to something?

Now the right bank of the river looked quite peaceful and even friendly. Not a single movement. The green wall of the grove silently stood on the horizon. Winding ravines ran down to the water. In one distant gully, if you look through binoculars, even a few motley cows-kholmogorok grazed.

And this quiet, bright city, not particularly different from hundreds of similar cities scattered across the vast expanses of our great land, has been standing on the right bank of the river for a long time. Villages, large and small, with typical Russian names - Aleksandrovka, Krapivka, Bezlyudovka, Marievka, Ivanovka, Petrovka - ordinary villages that huddle together in dark arrays of groves and gardens, and in sonorous and warm June nights listen to the sweet singing of the native Kursk nightingale.

Here, only a few days ago, there were heated battles between the Germans, who had crossed the Donets, and the Soviet regiments, hastily transferred here from near Stalingrad, where the great massacre had just died down. The enemy was driven back by a swift attack, and now, in the early spring of 1943, the Donets, strict and impregnable, separated both sides - ours and the Germans. The city and villages stood silent, subdued and, numb, waiting for the inevitable...

On the Belgorod sector of the front, that restless lull, familiar to front-line soldiers, has set in, when the enemy, although he does not launch strong attacks, but bothers with frequent night sorties, patrols, bombing, sudden and therefore especially insidious artillery and mortar raids. So it was at that time here, near Belgorod, and so it must have been in thousands of other combat sectors stretching from the Barents to the Black Sea. Who would have thought in those spring days of 1943 that here, near Belgorod, and near these obscure villages, which appear only on commander's kilometers, it is here that terrible and majestic events will unfold in more than two months.

There is a small town of Cannes on earth. He went down in history. But did the Cannes happen to see at least a hundredth part of what the Donets, calmly rolling its bright waters, and these quiet villages, and this ancient Russian city trembling in a flowing haze, soon became witnesses? ..

However, our soldiers did not think about it then. So far, they were all busy with their everyday front-line affairs: and those two infantry soldiers over there who so carefully and even lovingly straighten the trench they had just dug; and scouts, friends of Akim Erofeenko and Yakov Uvarov, leisurely putting on camouflage robes, as if preparing not for a campaign behind enemy lines, but for an evening walk; and a signalman pulling a "thread" along the trench to the observation post of the battery commander; and that sapper who crawls on damp earth at night, rakes frozen clods with stiff hands, placing anti-tank mines; and this experienced machine gunner, in whose ears the noise of the recent battle must have still not calmed down, - he sat down at his faithful "maxim", covered with a cape, and with an indifferent look follows the fiery lines of tracer bullets flying over him - this you won’t surprise or frighten in anything: the machine gunner has seen nothing like this; and those who, having beaten off another enemy sortie, are now, concentrated and severe, burying their comrades who fell in this battle, with whom they smoked more than one common cigarette; and that infantry sergeant over there, grimy and preoccupied by the light of an oil lamp made from a shell casing, for the fifth time, it seems, is already counting and sorting precious sets of new summer uniforms in order to give them out to the fighters at dawn, by the fact that in the unsleeping silence of the trenches awake by their weapons.

These soldiers did their great work there, off the banks of the Volga. If necessary, they will do just as great here, on the banks of the Donets, all who have experienced and are ready for anything ...

Yakov glanced at Yerofeenko. He continued to watch.

“And what are our sappers doing now?” - suddenly thought Uvarov with a slight sadness and immediately remembered how they did not want to let him go. Especially Vasya Pchelintsev, his old friend.

You will return from the mission, and rather to us, to the battalion, - Pchelintsev admonished, not letting go of Uvarov's hand from his small hands. “Look, Yashka, take care of yourself!” he added in a trembling voice, and his freckled thin face turned pale.

Uvarov's thoughts were interrupted by the general, division commander - he unexpectedly appeared, accompanied by an adjutant, from behind a turn in the trench. Yakov did not even have time to warn Akim, as the divisional commander had already approached them. Uvarov pulled the scout by the sleeve. Akim turned around, saw the general and, apparently in confusion, began to adjust his glasses for some reason.

Hello fellow scouts! Are you watching?

That's right, Comrade General! Uvarov reported.

Well, what did you see there? - General for some reason long and intently looked at Akim. Jacob noticed this.

Mikhail Nikolaevich Alekseev

"Soldiers"

BOOK ONE "THE TERRIBLE SUMMER"

* PART ONE *

CHAPTER ONE

A sparse veil of fog hung over the Donets. Near, north

the river, shrouded in mist, showed the outlines of Belgorod. The war was dormant.

Rarely and lazily roared cannons, like deep sighs of the awakening earth. AT

two soldiers stood in a small outpost trench. One of them,

broad-shouldered, dark-faced, squinting in the sun and shifting his black eyebrows,

peered across the river, towards the enemy, and occasionally said something to his

comrade. He didn't answer. This, obviously, did not please the dark-skinned man, and he

said louder:

Akim, don't you hear? Why don't you write it down? Yerofeenko!..

What?.. Ah, yes...'

glasses on his hawkish nose. - Actually, what is there to write down?

Like what? Can't you see it's a mortar battery!

Where did you see her?

Yes, out! Look straight ahead. You see - next to the bush

stems stick out.

Akim looked at the bushes that could be seen through the veil of fog, and suddenly

laughed.

You are our friend Uvarov! Well, what kind of battery is it? Oh, you scout sapper!

Layouts, brother, this, not a battery! Don't you see?

I mean... I don't understand you, Akim.

Yerofeenko chuckled again.

And there is nothing to understand. Take a good look. Germans instead

log mortars were put up. True, they acted a little stupidly - at least

disguised for the sake of appearance.

Astonished, Uvarov could not tear his astonished gaze from Akim. "Here

he, it turns out, is what he is - this quiet, thoughtful, absent-minded and a little

funny Akim! Clever!.."

Why are you so sad and boring? Jacob suddenly burst out.

Akim shuddered slightly.

Nothing, Yasha. Just like that... Watch carefully and write it down yourself.

You are strange, Akim. I do not understand you.

Akim did not answer. His long face became thoughtful again. meek

blue eyes gleamed uneasily behind the glasses. He is tense

peered over the Donets, as if he saw there something that the other could not notice.

Uvarov did not interfere with Akim. He began to diligently write down the data

observations in your battered notebook. His face was wrinkled all the time. stub

pencil jumped out of the large fingers burned with flint and every now and then

fell under my feet, into the yellowish-gray mud. The soldier stooped with difficulty, for a long time

Having found a pencil, the fighter again began to write. Dirty wisps of sweat

ran down the cheeks from under the earflaps. Uvarov rubbed them with his hand, forgetting that she was all

smeared with chemical pencil.

Yes, he said. - Two machine guns. One easel. Wire

three stake fence. But it's okay, we'll get through somehow.

Not two machine guns, but three,” Akim unexpectedly corrected him, and Yakov

again looked with surprise at this strange fighter, immersed in

some thoughts and at the same time he manages to notice what he, Uvarov, does not

could discover.

Uvarov really wanted to talk to this soldier now, to find out about him.

more, but he was afraid to disturb Akim.

He took out the pouch. I lit up. Flaring nostrils, greedily inhaled along with

bitter smoke of shag spicy, intoxicating air, filled with river

cool and healthy pine scent. I thought. Uvarov worried

an unexpected turn in his front-line fate. He still didn't understand why.

it was he who was chosen from the entire engineer battalion to participate in the upcoming

operations. He did not seem to have performed special feats, and he is not rich in awards either:

only two worn medals adorned his broad chest - "For Courage" and "For

defense of Stalingrad" - and that's it. And then - why did the division commander need this

so far to send fighters to reconnaissance and even burn the bridge behind enemy lines?

Are the Germans up to something?

Now the right bank of the river looked quite peaceful and even friendly. Neither

single movement. The green wall of the grove silently stood on the horizon.

Winding ravines ran down to the water. In one distant beam, if you look

through binoculars, even a few motley cows were grazed.

And this quiet, bright city, not particularly different from hundreds of

cities like it, scattered across the vast expanses of our great

land, has long stood on the right bank of the river. From it to the north and south

villages, large and small, with typical

Russian names - Aleksandrovka, Krapivka, Bezlyudovka, Maryevka,

Ivanovka, Petrovka - ordinary villages that huddle together dark

arrays of groves and gardens, and on sonorous and warm June nights they listen to

sweet singing of the native Kursk nightingale.

Here, just a few days ago, there were heated battles between the Germans,

crossed the Donets, and Soviet regiments hastily transferred

here from under Stalingrad, where the great massacre had just died down.

The enemy was driven back by a swift attack, and now, in the early spring of 1943

year, Donets, strict and impregnable, divided both sides - ours and

German. The city and villages stood silent, subdued, and, numb, waited

inevitable...

On the Belgorod sector of the front, the customary for

front-line soldiers, a restless lull, when the enemy, although he does not take

strong attacks, but bothers with frequent night sorties, patrol actions,

bombing, sudden and therefore especially insidious artillery and mortar

raids. So it was at that time here, near Belgorod, it must have been so on

thousands of other combat areas stretching from the Barents to the Black Sea. Who

could think in those spring days of 1943 that here, near Belgorod, and these

unknown villages, which appear only on the commander's

kilometers - it is here in some two-odd months

terrible and majestic events will unfold.

There is a small town of Cannes on earth. He went down in history. But

did the Kangnam ever see at least a hundredth of what they soon became

Donets, calmly rolling its bright waters, and these quiet villages,

and this ancient Russian city trembling in a flowing haze? ..

However, our soldiers did not think about it then. So far they have all been

busy with their everyday front-line affairs: and those two infantry soldiers over there,

that they are so carefully and even lovingly straightening the trench they have just dug; and

scouts, friends of Akim Erofeenko and Yakov Uvarov, leisurely dressing

in camouflage robes, as if preparing not for a campaign behind enemy lines, but

for an evening walk and a signalman pulling a "thread" along the trench to

battery commander's observation post; and that sapper that at night

creeps on damp earth, rakes frozen clods with stiff hands, placing

anti-tank mines; and this experienced machine gunner, in whose ears, should

it may be that the noise of the recent battle has not yet calmed down - he sat down at his

faithful "maxim", covered with a raincoat, and an indifferent look

escorts the fiery lines of tracer bullets flying over him - this

you won’t surprise or frighten in anything: the machine gunner has seen nothing like this; and those that

having beaten off another enemy sortie, now, concentrated and severe, they are burying

Mikhail Nikolaevich Alekseev

"Soldiers"

BOOK ONE "THE TERRIBLE SUMMER"

* PART ONE *

CHAPTER ONE

A sparse veil of fog hung over the Donets. Near, north

the river, shrouded in mist, showed the outlines of Belgorod. The war was dormant.

Rarely and lazily roared cannons, like deep sighs of the awakening earth. AT

two soldiers stood in a small outpost trench. One of them,

broad-shouldered, dark-faced, squinting in the sun and shifting his black eyebrows,

peered across the river, towards the enemy, and occasionally said something to his

comrade. He didn't answer. This, obviously, did not please the dark-skinned man, and he

said louder:

Akim, don't you hear? Why don't you write it down? Yerofeenko!..

What?.. Ah, yes...'

glasses on his hawkish nose. - Actually, what is there to write down?

Like what? Can't you see it's a mortar battery!

Where did you see her?

Yes, out! Look straight ahead. You see - next to the bush

stems stick out.

Akim looked at the bushes that could be seen through the veil of fog, and suddenly

laughed.

You are our friend Uvarov! Well, what kind of battery is it? Oh, you scout sapper!

Layouts, brother, this, not a battery! Don't you see?

I mean... I don't understand you, Akim.

Yerofeenko chuckled again.

And there is nothing to understand. Take a good look. Germans instead

log mortars were put up. True, they acted a little stupidly - at least

disguised for the sake of appearance.

Astonished, Uvarov could not tear his astonished gaze from Akim. "Here

he, it turns out, is what he is - this quiet, thoughtful, absent-minded and a little

funny Akim! Clever!.."

Why are you so sad and boring? Jacob suddenly burst out.

Akim shuddered slightly.

Nothing, Yasha. Just like that... Watch carefully and write it down yourself.

You are strange, Akim. I do not understand you.

Akim did not answer. His long face became thoughtful again. meek

blue eyes gleamed uneasily behind the glasses. He is tense

peered over the Donets, as if he saw there something that the other could not notice.

Uvarov did not interfere with Akim. He began to diligently write down the data

observations in your battered notebook. His face was wrinkled all the time. stub

pencil jumped out of the large fingers burned with flint and every now and then

fell under my feet, into the yellowish-gray mud. The soldier stooped with difficulty, for a long time

Having found a pencil, the fighter again began to write. Dirty wisps of sweat

ran down the cheeks from under the earflaps. Uvarov rubbed them with his hand, forgetting that she was all

smeared with chemical pencil.

Yes, he said. - Two machine guns. One easel. Wire

three stake fence. But it's okay, we'll get through somehow.

Not two machine guns, but three,” Akim unexpectedly corrected him, and Yakov

again looked with surprise at this strange fighter, immersed in

some thoughts and at the same time he manages to notice what he, Uvarov, does not

could discover.

Uvarov really wanted to talk to this soldier now, to find out about him.

more, but he was afraid to disturb Akim.

He took out the pouch. I lit up. Flaring nostrils, greedily inhaled along with

bitter smoke of shag spicy, intoxicating air, filled with river

cool and healthy pine scent. I thought. Uvarov worried

an unexpected turn in his front-line fate. He still didn't understand why.

it was he who was chosen from the entire engineer battalion to participate in the upcoming

operations. He did not seem to have performed special feats, and he is not rich in awards either:

only two worn medals adorned his broad chest - "For Courage" and "For

defense of Stalingrad" - and that's it. And then - why did the division commander need this

so far to send fighters to reconnaissance and even burn the bridge behind enemy lines?

Are the Germans up to something?

Now the right bank of the river looked quite peaceful and even friendly. Neither

single movement. The green wall of the grove silently stood on the horizon.

Winding ravines ran down to the water. In one distant beam, if you look

through binoculars, even a few motley cows were grazed.

And this quiet, bright city, not particularly different from hundreds of

cities like it, scattered across the vast expanses of our great

land, has long stood on the right bank of the river. From it to the north and south

villages, large and small, with typical

Russian names - Aleksandrovka, Krapivka, Bezlyudovka, Maryevka,

Ivanovka, Petrovka - ordinary villages that huddle together dark

arrays of groves and gardens, and on sonorous and warm June nights they listen to

sweet singing of the native Kursk nightingale.

Here, just a few days ago, there were heated battles between the Germans,

crossed the Donets, and Soviet regiments hastily transferred

here from under Stalingrad, where the great massacre had just died down.

The enemy was driven back by a swift attack, and now, in the early spring of 1943

year, Donets, strict and impregnable, divided both sides - ours and

German. The city and villages stood silent, subdued, and, numb, waited

inevitable...

On the Belgorod sector of the front, the customary for

front-line soldiers, a restless lull, when the enemy, although he does not take

strong attacks, but bothers with frequent night sorties, patrol actions,

bombing, sudden and therefore especially insidious artillery and mortar

raids. So it was at that time here, near Belgorod, it must have been so on

thousands of other combat areas stretching from the Barents to the Black Sea. Who

could think in those spring days of 1943 that here, near Belgorod, and these

unknown villages, which appear only on the commander's

kilometers - it is here in some two-odd months

terrible and majestic events will unfold.

There is a small town of Cannes on earth. He went down in history. But

did the Kangnam ever see at least a hundredth of what they soon became

Donets, calmly rolling its bright waters, and these quiet villages,

and this ancient Russian city trembling in a flowing haze? ..

However, our soldiers did not think about it then. So far they have all been

busy with their everyday front-line affairs: and those two infantry soldiers over there,

that they are so carefully and even lovingly straightening the trench they have just dug; and

scouts, friends of Akim Erofeenko and Yakov Uvarov, leisurely dressing

in camouflage robes, as if preparing not for a campaign behind enemy lines, but

for an evening walk and a signalman pulling a "thread" along the trench to

battery commander's observation post; and that sapper that at night

creeps on damp earth, rakes frozen clods with stiff hands, placing

anti-tank mines; and this experienced machine gunner, in whose ears, should

it may be that the noise of the recent battle has not yet calmed down - he sat down at his

faithful "maxim", covered with a raincoat, and an indifferent look

escorts the fiery lines of tracer bullets flying over him - this

you won’t surprise or frighten in anything: the machine gunner has seen nothing like this; and those that

having beaten off another enemy sortie, now, concentrated and severe, they are burying