28
May
2012

Tanker, or "White Tiger" (Ilya Boyashov)

ISBN: 978-5-9370-0547-3
Format: fb2,

Year of issue: 2008
Publisher: K. Tublin Publishing House
Genre:
Language:
Number of pages: 224

Description: World War II. Losses in tank divisions on both sides amount to thousands of wrecked vehicles and tens of thousands of dead soldiers. However, the "White Tiger", a German tank born from hell itself, and Vanka Smert, a miraculously surviving Russian tanker with a unique gift, have their own battle. Your battle. Your duel.
The new novel by the winner of the National Best Seller Award is no less fascinating and intriguing reading than the famous "Mouri's Way".

This story served as the basis for the script for Karen Shakhnazarov's film The White Tiger (2012). /span>

02
but I
2011

Tanker, or "White Tiger" (Ilya Boyashov)

Author:
Release year: 2011
Genre: mystic
Publisher:
Executor:
Duration: 06:10:00
Description: World War II. Losses in tank divisions on both sides amount to dozens of wrecked vehicles and hundreds of dead soldiers. However, the "White Tiger", a German tank spawned by Hell itself, and Vanka Smert, Ivan Ivanovich Naydenov, a miraculously surviving Russian tanker with a unique gift, have their own battle. Your battle. Your duel. The new novel from the National Best Seller Award winner is even more mesmerizing...

07
but I
2013

Tanker, or "White Tiger" (Boyashov Ilya)

Author:
Release year: 2013
Genre:
Publisher:
Executor:
Duration: 06:41:16
Description: World War II. Losses in tank divisions on both sides amount to thousands of wrecked vehicles and tens of thousands of dead soldiers. However, the White Tiger, a German tank born from hell itself, and Vanka Smert, a miraculously surviving Russian tanker with a unique gift, have their own battle. Your battle. Your duel. This story served as the basis for the script for Karen Shakhnazarov's film The White Tiger (2012). Add. inf...

27
dec
2012

White Tiger (Adiga Aravind)

Format: audiobook, MP3, 96kbps
Author:
Release year: 2012
Genre: foreign prose
Publisher:
Executor:
Duration: 07:09:50
Description: Balram, nicknamed the White Tiger, is a simple guy from a typical Indian village, a poor man from the poor. His family has nothing but a shack and a cart. Among his brothers and sisters, Balram is the most savvy and quick-witted, and he clearly deserves a better fate than the one that his native village has prepared for him. The white tiger bursts into the city, where unprecedented and terrible adventures await him, where he will abruptly change his fate, oh...

28
but I
2013

White Tiger (Marek Anna)

Format: audiobook, MP3, 64kbps
Author:
Release year: 2013
Genre: children's literature
Publisher:
Executor:
Duration: 05:11:08
Description: The zoo has opened a radio station for animals! - with this begins a fairy tale story, performed by the People's Artist of Russia, the legend of Russian cinema Alina Pokrovskaya. This is a story about a tiger cub from the 13th enclosure named Tigresha, about his growing up, freedom and lack of freedom, about illusions, finding himself and, of course, about love. And yet who is the White Tiger? A clumsy, naive tiger cub, a white "crow" in a tiger...

28
Feb
2014

Moby Dick, or the White Whale (Melville Herman)

Format: audiobook, MP3, 128kbps
Author:
Release year: 2011
Genre:
Publisher:
Executor:
Duration: 32:31:01
Description: To appreciate this book, one must forget how many times it has been called "the greatest American novel" and "a masterpiece of world literature." May the reader not be deterred by labels hung for more than a hundred years. And great luck, of course, that "Moby Dick" is not included in the school curriculum. It is pointless to try to tell what this novel is about. And if, turning the last page, it seems to you that you understand everything, read on ...

30
but I
2009

Alfred Bester. Tiger! Tiger!

Format: audiobook, MP3, 32kbps
Release year: 2009
Author:
Executor:
Genre:
Publisher:
Duration: 06:14:00
Description: An ordinary terrestrial ship "Nomad" crashes in outer space. The only survivor, assistant mechanic Gulliver Foyle, did nothing for almost half a year to restore the ship's performance, until the drifting Nomad met with another earthly ship, the Vorga-T. But the Worga passed by without even trying to help, and Foyle had a goal in life - to find the one who left him to die in outer space, and ...

27
May
2013

Tankman (Yuri Korchevsky)

ISBN: 978-5-906017-07-9, Fighting fiction.
Format: FB2, (originally computer)
Author:
Release year: 2013
Genre:
Publisher:
Language:
Number of pages: 224
Description: Pavel Starodub was drafted into the tank troops at the beginning of the war and already in 1943 he became a tank commander. Luck has always been on his side. He was also lucky in the battle of Prokhorovka, when Soviet tanks launched a suicidal frontal attack on the prepared enemy defenses. Pavel managed to get out of the burning tank, throw off his smoldering clothes, and, already in a semi-conscious state, he...

23
july
2016

Tankman (Yuri Korchevsky)

Format: audiobook, MP3, 128kbps
Author:
Release year: 2016
Genre:
Publisher:
Executor:
Duration: 08:52:07
Description: Pavel Starodub was drafted into the tank troops at the beginning of the war and already in 1943 he became a tank commander. Luck has always been on his side. He was also lucky in the battle of Prokhorovka, when Soviet tanks launched a suicidal frontal attack on the prepared enemy defenses. Pavel managed to get out of the burning tank, throw off his smoldering clothes and, already in a semi-conscious state, put on a jacket taken from the dead man ...

16
mar
2017

Russian Tiger (Suvorov Sergey)

ISBN: 978-5-699-92229-1
Series: War and us. tank collection
Format: , (originally computer)
Author:
Release year: 2016
Genre:
Publisher:
Russian language
Number of pages: 194
Description: “Russian Tiger”, “Polite Tigers”, “Our answer to the Hammer” – this is how the Russian armored car “Tiger” was nicknamed after “forcing Georgia to peace”, the return of Crimea and the counter-terrorist operation in Syria. The car was developed at GAZ by order of the Jordanian king, but the Arabs preferred to produce this car on their own under the name "Nimr", and in Russia ...

02
sep
2017

Meeting. Spotted Tiger (Hoch Edward)

Format: audiobook, MP3, 96
Author:
Release year: 2015
Genre:
Publisher:
Processed:
Executor:
Duration: 01:45:44
Description: Edward D. Hoch's literary work has won both the Anthony Boucher Award and the Edgar Award. In addition, he was awarded the title of Grand Master of the American Association of Detective Novel Writers. Hoch created a great variety of works, their total number at the time of his death in 2008 exceeded 900. Many describe the adventures of Dr. Sam Hawthorne, Captain Leopold and Nick ...

07
Apr
2012

Tiger in the Smoke (Marjorie Allingham)

Format: audiobook, MP3, 96kbps
Author:
Release year: 2009
Genre: detective
Publisher:
Executor:
Duration: 13:10:10
Description: "Tiger in the Fog" was included in the list of the best 100 detectives of the XX century, according to the Association of shops of detective literature. The only filmed novel. - the famous English writer, from whose pen came out more than 30 detective novels, including the most popular series about Albert Campion. Her novels have it all - satire and laughter, murder and blackmail, love and intrigue. Books by M. Alling...

MAN vs MACHINE

The far from simple and very controversial history of the Great Patriotic War is still popular with Russian-speaking writers and, obviously, will remain so for a long time to come. Including - among science fiction writers. Unfortunately, most often only adherents of alternative history risk touching this topic with an unwavering hand.

As a rule, very voluminous, often multi-volume "works" of numerous alternatives have long been filled with a fair amount of soreness with strained and not always logical arguments on the topics "... if only then, then we would have them - wow!", "Oh, if only with the Germans in in a single order ... "and the adventures of various" hitmen ", with the ease of a magician reshaping the story at will, to put it mildly, the author is poorly familiar with the subject. Such crafts often do not look very convincing, often just funny, and almost always frankly annoy with the spirit of leavened jingoistic patriotism that pervades them and a capricious attitude towards any opponents (although sometimes individual successes occur, such as, for example, Sergei Anisimov's “Bis Option” ).

But those are alternatives. Much less often, authors risk interweaving the plot of their narrative into the fabric of the real history of that great and terrible war. And Ilya Boyashov is just one of those - one of the risky ones. And he took a big risk, because his short novel "Tankman or" White Tiger "by all indications can be attributed to a genre that would seem completely unthinkable in military prose - mysticism.

How else to call it?

Against the backdrop of a gigantic fire of war that engulfed half of Europe, from Prokhorovka to Prague, the story of an almost two-year confrontation between the two main characters of the novel unfolds.

The first is the German tank "White Tiger". The merciless and invulnerable king of the entire armored "menagerie" of the Third Reich with unthinkable performance characteristics and fantastic capabilities; the true spirit, the quintessence of the technical thought of the gloomy Teutonic genius, is opposed not by a machine, but only by a person.

One single person is able to fight the monster, and only he passionately desires this. A tanker, overwhelmed by a thirst for revenge and only living with it. Without a family and without a tribe, nameless, forgetful, half-mad, almost ethereal, faceless and scary at the same time. Mechanic and driver from God. The true meaning of the name becomes clear and understandable: Tankman or "White Tiger", Man or Machine, two symbols of that war - an unknown Russian soldier and an ideal German killing machine - who wins?

The symbolism of the novel rolls over, reaching the cliché. What are only the faithful companions of the Tanker - "the crew of the combat vehicle" (c). The best tank crew of the Red Army. A sniper-gunner, a sergeant-guardsman who drives a shell into a shell for two kilometers is an absolute bastard, a rapist and a marauder. The loader-loader, the foreman-Yakut, with one hand easily turning pound gun shells - a deep drunkard, a complete alcoholic. In general, "Sweep, everything that lies badly" and "Drink everything that burns, e ... everything that moves." But at the same time, "To the target - from the first shell" and "All shells - to the target."

But the other numerous characters of the novel are practically not spelled out. Soldiers burning only with the desire to survive at any cost, and young lieutenants who died in the thousands in the very first battle, experienced majors-scouts and corrosive majors-specialists, rear rats and brave front-line soldiers, legendary Soviet marshals and general designers, even the great friend of all pioneers and athletes - they all appear in the story for a short moment and then disappear. All of them are just scenery, a bright frame for the story of the confrontation between the Tanker and the White Tiger, leading armadas of armored vehicles opposing each other into a ruthless meat grinder.

Among other things, this creates a sense of a kind of cinematic novel. The rapid change of frames, plans, angles. And although at the same time there can be no talk of any deep disclosure of images, this does not seem to be a shortcoming of the book. Consciousness immediately throws up stable archetypes. Before the mind's eye immediately appear images familiar to us from numerous films about the war. This is an undoubted plus and at the same time a minus of the novel, because what kind of films they turn out to be depends on the personal taste of the reader-spectator. For some, these will be the heroes of the film adaptation of Kurochkin’s “In War, Like in War”, while someone will be satisfied with the Polish “Three Tankmen and a Dog”, or even, in general, with some American “Enemy at the Gates”.

It is difficult to say what meanings the author himself tried to put into the text, it remains only to rely on the epigraph chosen by Boyashov: “Would you be so kind to think about the question: what would your good do if evil did not exist, and what would the earth look like if would the shadows disappear from it? (c) M. Bulgakov "Master and Margarita". Obviously, this implies that the Tanker personifies goodness. But personally, I am afraid of such a comparison, because for this the image of the "White" Tiger "must be truly demonic. And he didn't look like that to me. Maybe my late grandfather, the commander of a tank platoon, who ended the war still near Rzhev, having received under his heart a fragment of his own armor, which broke off after a hit on the side of a German blank - maybe he could appreciate this image, feel all the horror emanating from such character? We, the modern ones, can't really feel it.

Or maybe it's for the best?

I cannot fail to note the excellent preparation of Boyashov to work on a novel on such a rather specific topic. The text is provided with extensive notes explaining some subtleties of technical nuances and historical details, which in no way reduce the rapid pace of the narrative, but will prove to be very useful to a reader who is not familiar with the subject.

All in all, a great book that I read in one night. I highly recommend it to anyone interested in literature about the Great Patriotic War.

Would you be kind enough to think about the question: what would your good do if evil did not exist, and what would the earth look like if shadows disappeared from it?

M. Bulgakov. "The Master and Margarita"

Seven days after the Battle of Prokhorov 1
The attitude of historians to the famous collision is very ambiguous. For a long time, the well-known point of view dominated, according to which on July 12, 1943, a grandiose oncoming tank battle took place in the area of ​​the Prokhorovka railway station, which changed the course of the Battle of Kursk. The bearer of this view was none other than a direct participant in the events, the commander of the Fifth Tank Army, P. Rotmistrov. According to him, the situation developed in such a way that: the opponents began to attack each other at the same time. The battle formations of the Fifth Panzer, which was dominated by the "main horses" of the Soviet tank troops "T-34-76", at full speed crashed into a wedge of motorized divisions of the SS "Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler", "Reich" and "Dead Head", numbering up to 500 tanks and assault guns. About 1,200 combat vehicles of various types took part in the grandiose dump from both sides. The battlefield was left behind us - the SS men were drained of blood, defeated and began to retreat.
Representatives of another point of view are sure that there was no “oncoming” battle at all: the Germans went on the defensive in advance and met the attacking “thirty-fours” of Rotmistrov with massive fire from “tigers”, “panthers”, assault guns and anti-tank artillery, as a result of which the Fifth Tank suffered unnecessarily large losses. Its commander failed to fulfill the assigned task, despite the fact that, acting in a band of up to 20 kilometers, he was able to achieve a density of attacking combat formations of up to 45 tanks per 1 square. kilometer. As a result of the undoubted advantage of German anti-tank artillery and tank guns (recall, the armor of the "thirty-fours" was guaranteed to break through at distances of up to 1.5 kilometers, and the shells of the 76-mm T-34 guns broke into the protection of the same "Tiger" at a distance of no more than 500 meters, and even then not always) the losses amounted to about 330 tanks and self-propelled guns (excluding the group of General Trufanov). German losses were less - up to 220 tanks (however, leapfrog with calculations is still going on: each side at that time underestimated its own and repeatedly increased others, so it is impossible to believe the reports and reports that have been preserved in the archives one hundred percent unambiguously). Some modern researchers accuse Rotmistrov of a deliberate lie - fearing the wrath of "Uncle Joe", the general simply distorted the real state of affairs (Stalin would not forgive him for the practical destruction of the Fifth Army), and, on top of everything else, fell upon the designers, accusing them of the creation of inefficient models of equipment, which, in terms of the two most important parameters (armor and artillery), were inferior to the German one.

At the same time, critics also refer to the data of the enemy. Judging by the reports, memoirs and studies, neither German eyewitnesses nor German historians simply “noticed” the oncoming battle - their sources speak only of heavy battles in the Prokhorovsky and Oboyansky directions and numerous Russian attempts to counterattack.
The truth, as always, is in the middle: the battle on the southern ledge of the Duga was really grandiose, it lasted more than one day and occupied a huge territory. In a number of cases, battle formations were mixed up, tanks fired from the shortest distances, at which the advantages of "panthers" and "tigers" were lost. There were cases of rams. In many Soviet sources from the war, the number of new German cars is somewhat exaggerated. 144 "Tigers" took part in Operation Citadel - they could not have an influence on the course of events. With the use of "panthers" in general, there was an embarrassment: the cars arrived at the front so imperfect that most simply broke down - what is the cost of spontaneous combustion of engines! "Impenetrable" self-propelled guns "Ferdinand" Model used completely mediocre (for neat, thoughtful Germans, this is generally uncharacteristic), simply sending them as an armored ram into Soviet minefields. Those few super-self-propelled guns that managed not to be blown up by land mines and reach our positions were destroyed by infantry (a couple of grenades in the engine compartment), since they had neither cover (the grenadiers were cut off at the distant approaches), nor machine guns to fight back (as Guderian put it, "they fired cannons at the sparrows"). And in general, anti-tank guns and the notorious "marders" and "artillery assaults" played the main role in the fight against the "thirty-fours". A sad fact: near Prokhorovka, the obsolete T-34-76 got to the fullest; losses were measured in hundreds of burned and broken cars (hereinafter the author's notes).

the repairmen hooked up a cable to another torn-up "thirty-four". The mechanic's hatch fell off - everyone yelled "Stop!" smoky tractor. And they crowded around the car. The reason turned out to be commonplace - a blackened something: the overalls turned into a scab, the soles of the boots melted. True, some muscles remained on the skull, not all the skin peeled off, the eyelids stuck together before his eyes: but the “specialists” had no illusions: this was the end of another sufferer who could not get out of the car. However, no one managed to pull off the cap - a firebrand opened her eyes.

No, the rear did not rush about in search of orderlies (where the orderlies come from), they did not run to the authorities. The fact that the driver, after spending a week in a burned-out "box", somehow existed, did not change the matter: he should have been left alone. The unfortunate one was pulled out - it's good that he hasn't fallen apart yet! Not a single groan was heard - a sure sign that he was about to give his soul to God. They served a flask of muddy water - and again not a single convulsion. The find was taken under a shed where the tools were stored and lowered onto boards. One of the youngest soldiers rushed to the nearest pits - to ask the funeral team to wait a little.

In the evening, ten hours after the tanker was given the opportunity leave, the same repairmen hardly persuaded the driver of a passing lorry to pick up still outgoing. The car was stuffed with empty cans, mattresses and sheets, and the driver did not want to load into it any known dead man. However, pressed - spitting, the sergeant agreed. On a piece of tarpaulin, the tanker was shoved into the body. The lorry was tossed and thrown along the semi-steppe impassability - the driver, being late for dinner, did not even look back, because that black, charred, with cracked skin that was imposed on him had no chance of reaching the nearest village.

In a dirty field hospital, where the wounded constantly brought in from the front lines writhed right on the straw scattered on the ground before they were sorted out - the lucky ones in a surgical tent, the hopeless in a blood-brown, dull forest - the fate of the tankman was decided instantly. The major-surgeon had a second:

“I won’t even look at it—ninety percent burn!”

The paramedic helpfully handed the doctor a new cigarette - and the nameless one was immediately crossed off the list. The major has been pulling the strap since the age of 41 - he knew what he was talking about.

A day later, removing the tormented ones in the woods and taking them to the trenches (there were already such graves throughout the district), the orderlies, having raised the next stretcher, were forced to stop - the eyes of the burned-out man opened wide, he let out a groaning for the soul, the first for all this time.

- It can't be like that! - the major was surprised, warming himself (so as not to fall on the move) with trophy ersatz cognac. Breathing in bedbugs, the practitioner bent over the stretcher brought in - and was forced to state - the sentenced lived. Only habit allowed the major to carefully examine this skull with bared teeth - and the body with the remains of the overalls stuck to it. Only experience did not allow him to suffocate. The orderlies, also worldly-wise, once again thanked fate for the fact that they do not fight in damned iron coffins - and, therefore, it may well happen, they will last until the end of the massacre.

Right there, in the brown forest, a council was convened - the major himself and his two assistants, female military doctors of indeterminate age, in whose eyes a dog's fatigue simply glazed over. Faithful assistants smelled of tobacco and sweat for a kilometer, despite the fact that they were constantly wiped with an alcohol solution.

The stretcher moved to the surgical tent. Everything that was possible was removed from the tanker. Everything that can be done has been done. Relieving suffering, the operating sisters did not spare Vishnevsky's ointment. But even they, putting on bandages, constantly turned away - to look at such it was simply impossible. The patient's remaining eyes lived and testified to the excruciating pain.

Before the evacuation of the wounded to the rear, the surgeon was distracted for a minute from his meat cutting room and approached the tanker, whose torso and remains of the face were already covered with gauze soaked in ointment.

Again there was a groan and some throat gurgling.

- I have never seen this before. the doctor confessed, blowing another cigarette.

- Two or three days, no more. squeaked, just out of curiosity, one of the female doctors was nearby - and, turning away from her colleague so as not to breathe on him with rotten teeth, she also blew out her cigarette, passing the verdict. - Complete sepsis ...

The tanker was loaded into an ambulance bus, then into a train, then for forty days and nights, without any documents, under the name "unknown" fell off in the burns department of a gray Ural hospital that smelled of feces and all the same smoldering. Wrapped in gauze and bandages, smelling of ointments, he lay in the intensive care unit, then was taken to the dead room, then, to the surprised exclamations of the Hippocratic ministers, he was returned back - the first week had passed, and he was still lived. This phenomenon was no longer touched and not transferred anywhere. Every morning, they approached the tanker with the hope that he was no longer breathes but every time the living dead met the detour with barely audible groans and gurgles. And they changed bandages and gauze for him, and wiped him with tampons, and poured him broth. His bunk was in the darkest corner of the ward. Since the end of the hopeless was put after the first examination, the doctors have since made a bet - how many days the undoubted unique will last. Two weeks passed. Sooner or later, much less burnt neighbors “removed” around. Those who had departed for the other world were stripped naked (the linen was given to the laundry), and sometimes they took away ten a day, preparing their place for other doomed. But that bed in the corner, which had already become known to everyone, was not touched - the phenomenon continued to exist in the midst of the bacchanalia of Death.

The tanker was nicknamed Thanatos. He became famous in his own way. Professors in general uniforms would come from somewhere, and each time they came to the conclusion that they were dealing with a one-of-a-kind pathology. Convalescents began to look into the ward - someone (there is always this “someone” in such places) started a rumor; the unknown brings good luck - the lucky one who touches him will never burn out. The bets fell away of their own accord when it became clear in the third week; the patient's sepsis had inexplicably subsided. After the next meeting, they decided to remove the bandages and dressings; an amazing sight presented itself to the eyes of specialists - the skin of Thanatos, although it grew in ugly scabs, nevertheless recovered. True, the doctors and nurses tried once again not to look in his direction. Violet scars crawled one on top of the other, the fire left a black slit in place of the mouth, the nostrils turned into holes. No eyebrows, no eyelids, no hair. The eyes were bloody. Nevertheless, this time the tanker was sensibly looking at the academicians crowding over him. The head of the hospital - and the colonel could not help but be present at the first case of such a recovery - tried to extort from the patient what he should have known: “Last name, first name, patronymic? Part number? Thanatos heard the question addressed to him. He struggled to raise his head. He was desperately trying to remember something.

Since then, recovery has accelerated incredibly. The patient was transferred to the general ward, he was still popular; entire delegations poured out from other hospitals. A month later, Thanatos was already getting up from his bed. Several visits to the hospital authorities - once in the personnel department there was also a "special officer" - they did not give anything; the memory of the unknown was completely cut off. He understood the speech - he got up when asked, washed the floors, helping the nurses, carried the dishes with food. He already answered in monosyllables “yes and no” to the neighbors. Once, he even laughed at something. It has been noticed more than once that lately he has been moving the remnants of his lips more and more silently. They somehow got used to his appearance, and the old-timers no longer recoiled when he appeared in the corridor - thin, in faded pajamas, shuffling around in ridiculous slippers, more like bast shoes, purple-ugly, burned as much as a person can burn. In that convalescent ward, where they played cards, where laughter was heard more often than groans, where the majority were cheerful youth, they soon began to call him Ivan Ivanovich.

- Ivan Ivanovich! - they called. "It's time for dinner...

He jumped up and walked.

It was already deep autumn.

- Ivan Ivanovich! Help unload the wood ...

He put on a padded jacket and went out into the yard, strewn with leaves, to where a truck with firewood was already waiting.

As before, the only thing that was known about him was that he arrived unconscious from the Kursk Bulge. Scant information was delivered along the most unreliable chain: repairmen - the driver of a lorry - a field evacuation hospital. The major-surgeon, for lack of other data, hastily scratched out in the accompanying documents: "unknown tanker."

In winter, Ivan Ivanovich finally recovered. True, he was never able to tell anything about himself and for the time being he could hardly pronounce simple words. However, he completely consciously carried out any commands, and, moreover, willingly responded to his new name. Finally, he was examined and found fit. Already quite obvious cripples were sent to their native places - the rest, shell-shocked, burned, even if they had lost their memory, they were driven to reform. Merchants from various parts constantly came for the "lucky ones". Those who were especially lucky fell into regiments of guards jet mortars; it was believed that among the "katyushnikovs" the smallest percentage of losses. "trophy workers" and airfield attendants were quoted. The infantrymen and artillerymen had considerable chances to sit out in the convoy. But the future of Ivan Ivanovich seemed completely hopeless - the losses in the iron herds were such that he issued an order himself - to send all the survivors back to the mechanized corps. It would not have turned out to be this escort issued by the major with an inscription-sentence, Ivan Ivanovich could easily have been written into the guards. But here we decided not to risk it. The commission knew from sad experience that those who squander valuable personnel by supplying rear units with them will face the most severe trial. In the hospital, they didn’t guess for a long time with the documents either - they gave the terrible man a new book, where they wrote down in black and white - Ivan Ivanovich Naydenov. They didn’t suffer with nationality either - there is no accent, which means Russian. Place of birth - address of the hospital. Party affiliation - non-party (What's the point if he used to be a communist). Specialty - tanker. (They will then figure out where it is). Stuttered only with age. No matter how they tried at least offhand to determine the years - (Ivan Ivanovich, in an already issued faded form from someone else's shoulder, worn to whiteness, all this time stood at attention in front of the writers of his new life) - but, in view of the complete burntness, they could not and, waving his hand , recorded as the same age as the century.

All unoccupied doctors and sisters came out to see Naydenov - the case was unique and inexplicable by medical science. The one who spent a week in a mangled tank, who had a ninety percent burn and no chance of survival, now, as if from the next world, in boots taken from another deceased, in a long-brimmed overcoat, not tall, shot through in many places, in a soldier's hat , tied with ribbons under the chin on the occasion of frost, descended from the porch. A skinny "sidor" was stuck to the back of the tanker, and in it was a bar of soap, a bread brick and a can of American stew - a generous gift from the Aesculapius. In the breast tunic pocket was a new soldier's book, explaining who he was now.

The truck took him away.

The appearance of Ivan Ivanych made an indelible impression on the newly formed brigade near Chelyabinsk. When the personnel were lined up, its commander, himself covered in burns and scars, a thirty-year-old veteran, who was nicknamed Goat's Leg for his constant command, could not help but growl:

- Yes, on his face, a goat's leg, there is no living place!

Then the rude brigade commander ordered the newcomer to get out of line:

- Where?

Ivan Ivanovich himself did not know "from where".

The company boy, confused, explained the essence to the lieutenant colonel.

– So who modicum, goat's leg!? Baschner? Mechanic? the brigade commander inquired.

- The documents say - a tanker, - the lieutenant blurted out in despair.

- Then - loaders!

And the very embodiment of this wild war was recorded in towers - only brute force is needed there: you know, bring shells and throw shells out of the hatch. “Fragmentation” and “armor-piercing” would be distinguished even by a complete fool. Nothing more was required from Private Naydenov, nicknamed the Skull behind his back. No one in that hastily knocked together part was not particularly interested in him (that's just the appearance attracted attention). However, nowhere was there such a turnover as in tank crews: three or four weeks of bad preparation and the front, and there, after the first battle, the “thirty-four”, it’s good that it didn’t burn to the ground. Those who jumped out were again mixed up - and put into action.

The forgetful Ivan Ivanovich, together with everyone, obediently slurped gruel, and died from the cold in the barracks (they covered themselves with overcoats on bare boards). But, at least, his fate was determined in the near future. The crew was very motley: the same lieutenant-boy was appointed commander, an elderly Uzbek was identified as a driver, a former Moscow urka, cheeky and courteous, volunteered to be a radio operator himself.

In less than a month, all this hastily (and not for long) assembled four ended up at the Chelyabinsk Tractor Plant, where one of the latest T-34-76 series was assembled. 2
“Thirty-four” is an exceptional tank, it makes no sense to dwell on its formation in detail: it is enough to refer readers to numerous publications in which the car is literally taken apart by screws. Note: throughout the war, the tank was greatly modernized (basically, while retaining the appearance so characteristic of it). Of course, the T-34 of the forty-first year cannot be compared with the T-34-85 that ended the war.
In the 41-42s., Having practically impenetrable armor for German tanks and anti-tank guns and a gun capable of "breaking" not only the sides, but also the forehead of the rather weak Pz T-11, Pz T-111, Pz T-V1, as well as the captured Czech Pz 35 (t) and Pz 38 (t) completely unsuitable for combat with a Russian tank from a distance of 1000 meters, the “thirty-four” had an unfinished engine that constantly failed. But the engines of German cars deserve the highest praise - not least, thanks to their endurance, the Germans ended up near Moscow. At the end of the war, the situation changed exactly the opposite - well-armored German tanks ("Panthers" and "Tigers") experienced constant problems with engines. But their shells pierced the "thirty-four" for one and a half, or even two kilometers. However, the new 85-mm cannon of the medium Soviet tank operated no worse than the vaunted German "8-8", and the improved V-2 engine allowed it to make five hundred-kilometer throws behind enemy lines.
As for artillery, throughout the war, designers made attempts to arm the T-34 with the most powerful and suitable for enhanced operation gun. Until 1944, the tank was armed with a 76 mm gun. Thus, a series of « T-34 -76". But, starting from the 42nd year, after the Germans moved away from the shock (the first meetings with the “thirty-four” shocked the German tankers so much that they demanded that the German industry copy exactly the same tank) and created worthy tank and anti-tank models, it penetration was clearly not enough not only for the "tigers" and "panthers", but also for the modernized German "triples" and "fours". We settled on an 85-mm cannon capable of adequately fighting "cats". From the winter of the 44th, the T-34 -85 ", which was our main tank at the end of the war.
"T-34-76" had a lot of shortcomings: in particular, a very cramped tower, which could hardly fit two crew members (the Americans were perplexed how Russian tankers fit there in winter, in sheepskin coats and quilted jackets). Due to the impossibility of placing another person in the tower, the commander was forced to combine with his direct duties the function of a gunner, which negatively affected the effectiveness of both command and shooting (the Germans had five crew members - the commander, gunner and loader operated in tank towers) . In addition, the extremely poor visibility from the tank made it impossible to assess the situation and respond to it in time. So, the driver had to constantly keep the hatch ajar. The gunner-radio operator from his place saw almost nothing and during the battle he often hit blindly. The first walkie-talkies were very bad and stood only on the so-called. "radio" tanks. The location of the fuel tanks on the sides of the fighting compartment turned out to be unsuccessful: igniting, they often left no chance for the crew. All these shortcomings were corrected during the war (although the fuel tanks were left in their original places). So, the crew of the T-34-85 with the new turret was already “full-fledged” and, as expected, consisted of five people, although the tankers sometimes refused the gunner-radio operator and fought in four (three turrets plus a driver).

In the workshops, at the sight of Naydenov, rarely anyone could restrain gasps and sighs. Teenagers and women did not hide their frightened interest. Ivan Ivanovich, not paying attention to the curious, unlike the Uzbek with the urka, who were only interested in the additional ration of the factory canteen, volunteered to bring the details himself. The boy lieutenant, struggling to maintain authority in relations with his subordinates, was grateful to him at least for this. To the undisguised annoyance of the Moscow thief-radio operator and the horror of the Uzbek, the tank grew before our eyes: the box acquired a transmission, rollers and tracks, it was the turn of the engine and the unassuming internal filling, then the turret was lowered into place.

The day everyone expected with trembling came: the commander received a penknife, a watch and a compass. The crew was given a huge piece of tarpaulin. The newborn “thirty-four” were preparing to be driven from the workshop to a huge factory yard, where a new batch was waiting to be sent.

And here Ivan Ivanovich showed himself.

It can be seen that something sparkled in his head, finished and broke the total unconsciousness. Just before the tank was driven through the workshop, Ivan Ivanovich found himself inside the car - the lieutenant asked to get some rags. When Naydenov was called several times, he, like a devil from a snuffbox, leaned out of the mechanic's hatch to the waist - his look was excited. The crew and workers shuddered. Ivan Ivanovich disappeared again. In the darkness of the “box”, like ominous headlights, the eyes turned on. No one had time to say a word as the tank started up. The lieutenant with a Muscovite and a resident of Kokhand jumped off in one direction - the adjusters in the other. The T-34 took off and rushed down the aisle between two rows of its identical counterparts to the narrow gate. Naydenov, who had gone mad, did not slow down - everyone on his way managed to hide and get ready for the drama. The tank developed all the speed it was only capable of. Throwing clouds of gases behind him, mercilessly rumbling rollers, he was inexorably approaching a real disaster. Many, including the crazed lieutenant commander, already imagined the rattle and crackle. But, without slowing down, the "thirty-four" at full speed slipped through Scylla and Charybdis, turned around, and, after driving another thirty meters, maneuvering between cars, stood in the yard, as if rooted to the spot.

The frightened commander ran up. An Uzbek ran up with an attached radio operator. The curious poured out into the yard. Ivan Ivanovich jumped out to meet them. He grinned his terrible smile. He was trembling and couldn't calm down. He remembered- or rather, remembered the hands.

There was no doubt; in a past life, this burnt, forgetful, compassionate and pitiful horror tanker was a mechanic and, apparently, a driver from God!

The Uzbek immediately happily moved to the tower, despite the fact that the chances of surviving in battle were halved. The clever Moscow thief, now a radio operator, immediately figured out with whom he needed to make friends - and since then, while Ivan Ivanovich's hands were busy, he rolled cigarettes for him, lit them up and inserted them into his terrible black mouth. In addition, on the march, he always helpfully picked up and pulled the gearshift lever together with the Skull, because for some reason this T-34-76 still had an uncomfortable four-speed gearbox cursed by all drivers. 3
One of the biggest drawbacks of the first T-34s was the weak and cranky four-speed gearbox. When switching, the teeth often crumbled, ruptures of the box crankcase were noted. In order to change gear, the gunner-radio operator had to pick up the lever and pull it along with the driver - the latter simply did not have enough strength for this. So for the new tank, drivers with very good training were required (and there were sorely lacking such drivers). An inexperienced mechanic could stick the fourth instead of the first gear (it is also back), which led to a breakdown. The situation changed dramatically only when the famous 183 plant developed a five-speed box with constant gear engagement.

Before loading into the echelon, the brigade traveled fifty kilometers and fired back at the training ground. Winter cracked at thirty degrees, the "box" froze to the ringing. The tank driven by the Skull roared mercilessly on the turns, climbed the slopes, raising the cannon, slid down from them, while everyone was mercilessly chatting, the Uzbek was barely audible praying, the boy commander, having stuffed enough cones, gritting his teeth, hopelessly tried to follow the road from the commander's cupola - nuts. The radio operator, who couldn't see a damn thing, masterfully cursed, risking biting his tongue. And only Ivan Ivanovich, making sounds very similar to a roar, mercilessly directed the "thirty-four" along the virgin lands and broken roads. All the time now he was rushing somewhere, alarming even the urka, not to mention the Uzbek with the commander. There was something to be frightened of - an open mouth, impatience, trembling, a desire to drive and drive - such was the previously harmless Skull. Its hatch was wide open, a fan was working behind it - all living things should have stiffened at the same time, but the crazy mechanic, the only one from the whole exhausted crew, was hot. By radio communication, the lieutenant received an order to stop, however, the boy did not shout to Ivan Ivanovich. The column froze - and Nadenovsky's tank, turning out of action, began to describe an arc across the field, almost drowning in snowdrifts and throwing columns of snow dust in front and behind.

It ended with the brigade commander himself rushing across. The Goat's Leg appeared, almost in front of the "thirty-four", falling into the snow up to the waist. Here Ivan Ivanovich finally came to his senses. The young commander who appeared from the tower hatch was ready to burst into tears, however, the authorities did not pay any attention to the confused babble.

- The driver - to my car! the young lieutenant-colonel yelled. “Come here, skeleton!” - ordered Naydenov. “Show me, goat’s leg, what you can do!”

So, Ivan Ivanovich took a place in the commander's tank - and the lieutenant, Uzbek and Urka got the driver of the brigade commander, such an inexperienced doomed youth as they are. And in front of the whole brigade, Ivan Ivanovich showed- "thirty-four" just did not spin around. The crews that were getting out of the cars opened their mouths.

The brigade commander roared with excitement no worse than Ivan Ivanovich. He habitually put his feet on the shoulders of the crazy ace - a kick with his boot - a brief stop, another blow - the continuation of the movement. Ivan Ivanovich remembered it. He forgot everything else, but This he remembered. To the admiration of the newcomers, on a field overgrown with bushes, with ravines and hillocks, the command vehicle threw out a real circus.

"Come on, come on, you baldhead!" croaked Goat Leg, no longer doubting that this mechanic would not get away from him now, that the terrible Skull would be with him to the very end, and he would not give such a mechanic to anyone for anything, for any price, because in the near future the only chance for salvation is the carrier, always knowing, as and where to turn as maneuver as rev, and, therefore, jump out in time; after all, in a battle, and even more so in a tank battle, a meaningless human life disappears in a split second.

- How did you get caught on the Duga then? he yelled at the mechanic after the thirty-four had stopped. Ivan Ivanovich, staring at his new commander, not understanding the question, tensed up.

- How did you manage to burn yourself, your goat's leg? - the brigade commander continued to pry. - The board did not have time to substitute?

And here Ivan Ivanovich again remembered, Something for a second highlighted his gloomy past.

“Tiger,” Skull replied suddenly. - "White Tiger"!

His eyes blazed, he trembled with hatred.

By the winter of 1942, the Germans rolled out to the front line their answer to the omnipotence of the "thirty-fours"; 4
The "Tiger" turned out to be the heaviest in the world, the most armed, and until 1944, almost invulnerable German tank, which spoiled a lot of blood for us.
Suffice it to say about its weight - almost 60 tons. In order for the giant not to fall under its own weight, the rollers on it were placed in a checkerboard pattern. Pz T-V1 - the first tank that had a steering wheel instead of levers - the colossus could be easily controlled. The frontal armor was 100 millimeters and was practically invulnerable for our tankers. You also had to tinker with the sides - you had to get up to a distance of no more than 500 meters (and even closer in the reality of the battle), but the Pz T-V1 rarely let anyone close to him. His 88-mm tank gun is perhaps the most formidable and best of all existing at that time. As for the famous for its quality optics, as well as traditional, very good learning crew (here we were simply hopelessly behind for a long time), it remains only to state the unfortunate fact - it was extremely difficult for our guys to fight such a beast. Tankers literally felt naked when faced with these damned machines. So, in the 43rd year, from their 76-mm cannon, they could hit the "Tiger" at close range (all the same 500-300 meters) and then only with a new sub-caliber projectile (and they were issued on receipt for three pieces per ammunition). The difficulty was that even under all favorable circumstances, not all, but certain places were affected. It was necessary to contrive and slam the “sub-caliber” into the side between the road wheels (behind it was the Tiger ammunition rack), or under the base of the tower (then it was wedged), or along the gun barrel, or along the back (gas tanks were located there). Or, at worst, they beat on the idler wheel, on the drive wheel, on the track roller or caterpillar. The shells simply bounced off the rest of the parts. It got to the point that the "tigers" calmly crawled out towards the "T-34", without any fear of the latter. Here, as an example, is the recollection of tanker N.Ya Zheleznov: “...they (“tigers” - author's note) are standing in an open area. And try to come? He will burn you for 1200-1500 meters! We were impudent!.. We ran like hares from the “tigers” and were looking for an opportunity to somehow wriggle out of it and slap him on the side. It was hard. If you see that a “Tiger” is standing at a distance of 8000-1000 meters and starts to “baptize” you, then while moving the barrel horizontally, you can still sit in the tank, as soon as you start driving vertically - better jump out! You will burn!
The appearance of 85-mm guns on the "thirty-fours" corrected the situation - it became even possible to go one on one. But still, until the end of the war, the notorious Pz T-V1 remained the most undesirable opponents for us.

The square brontosaurs of the Henschel firm were impenetrable, but the cannons caused a special thrill, from which even the KV burned out for a kilometer. Equipped with incomparable Zeiss optics, "eight-eight" swept away any target. For the smooth running of the "tigers" and acceptable pressure on the ground, meticulous German mechanics arranged the rollers in two rows. For ease of control, steering wheels were used. Massive, like the covers of sarcophagi, slabs stuck 76-mm shells. Armored on all sides, these beetles slowly crawled across the Kursk fields, and each of their shots, resounding sharply and loudly (the sound could not be confused with anything), sent another "thirty-four" to the forefathers. They were terrible in ambush. Thrown with hay and branches, the Cyclopes stopped the attacks of the T-34s, Grants and Churchills, and when the tankers, stupefied with pain and smoke, threw themselves out of the boxes, all the same solid German machine guns at a speed of one thousand two hundred rounds per minute completed what they had begun , 5
"MG-42" is a terrible weapon. Our soldiers called them "Hitler's braids." Hitting the bone, a bullet from such a machine gun simply tore it out of the body.

Slicing the flesh the way a knife cuts a vinaigrette. But even among his brethren, the Ghost was a special machine. For the first time he made himself known under Mgoa; the rest of the heavyweights got stuck in the swamps, but the "White Tiger" seemed to be transported through the air - and shot entire battalions. At first he was not recognized - in winter all tanks are white - except for those who encountered him, invariably burned after the first shot. But in the spring, when the Wehrmacht switched to camouflage, the monster finally stood out, and since then it has raged either in the North or in the South; smoke and the stench of burned-out cars trailed behind him everywhere. The phantom ambushed, every time, somehow, finding itself in the Russian rear - and, having stabbed ten or even fifteen T-34s, it dissolved.

Tanker, or "White Tiger"

novel

Would you be kind enough to think about the question: what would your good do if evil did not exist, and what would the earth look like if shadows disappeared from it?
M. Bulgakov. "The Master and Margarita"

Seven days after the Prokhorov massacre, repairmen hooked up a cable to another torn-up "thirty-four". The mechanic's hatch fell off - everyone yelled "Stop!" smoky tractor. And they crowded around the car. The reason turned out to be commonplace - a blackened something: the overalls turned into a scab, the soles of the boots melted. True, some muscles remained on the skull, not all the skin peeled off, the eyelids stuck together before his eyes: but the “specialists” had no illusions: this was the end of another sufferer who could not get out of the car. However, no one managed to pull off the cap - a firebrand opened her eyes.
No, the rear did not rush about in search of orderlies (where the orderlies come from), they did not run to the authorities. The fact that the driver, after spending a week in a burned-out "box", somehow existed, did not change the matter: he should have been left alone. The unfortunate one was pulled out - it's good that he hasn't fallen apart yet! Not a single groan was heard - a sure sign that he was about to give his soul to God. They served a flask of muddy water - and again not a single convulsion. The find was taken under a shed where the tools were stored and lowered onto boards. One of the youngest soldiers rushed to the nearest pits - to ask the funeral team to wait a little.
In the evening, ten hours after the tanker was given the opportunity leave, the same repairmen hardly persuaded the driver of a passing lorry to pick up still outgoing. The car was stuffed with empty cans, mattresses and sheets, and the driver did not want to load into it any known dead man. However, pressed - spitting, the sergeant agreed. On a piece of tarpaulin, the tanker was shoved into the body. The lorry was tossed and thrown along the semi-steppe impassability - the driver, being late for dinner, did not even look back, because that black, charred, with cracked skin that was imposed on him had no chance of reaching the nearest village.
In a dirty field hospital, where the wounded constantly brought in from the front lines writhed right on the straw scattered on the ground before they were sorted out - the lucky ones in a surgical tent, the hopeless in a blood-brown, dull forest - the tankman's fate was decided instantly. The major-surgeon had a second:
- I won’t even examine it - a ninety percent burn!
The paramedic helpfully handed the doctor a new cigarette - and the nameless one was immediately crossed off the list. The major has been pulling the strap since the age of 41 - he knew what he was talking about.
A day later, removing the exhausted ones in the woods and taking them to the trenches (there were already such graves throughout the district), the orderlies, having raised the next stretcher, were forced to stop - the eyes of the burned-out man opened wide, he let out a groaning for the soul, the first for all this time.
- It can't be like that! - the major was surprised, warming himself (so as not to fall on the move) with trophy ersatz cognac. Breathing in bedbugs, the practitioner bent over the stretcher brought - and was forced to state - the sentenced lived. Only habit allowed the major to carefully examine this skull with bared teeth - and the body with the remains of the overalls stuck to it. Only experience did not allow him to suffocate. The orderlies, also worldly-wise, once again thanked fate for the fact that they do not fight in damned iron coffins - and, therefore, it may well happen, they will last until the end of the massacre.
Right there, in the brown forest, a council was convened - the major himself and his two assistants, female military doctors of indeterminate age, in whose eyes dog fatigue simply glazed over. Faithful assistants smelled of tobacco and sweat for a kilometer, despite the fact that they were constantly wiped with an alcohol solution.
The stretcher moved to the surgical tent. Everything that was possible was removed from the tanker. Everything that can be done has been done. Relieving suffering, the operating sisters did not spare Vishnevsky's ointment. But even they, putting on bandages, constantly turned away - to look at such it was simply impossible. The patient's remaining eyes lived and testified to the excruciating pain.
Before the evacuation of the wounded to the rear, the surgeon was distracted for a minute from his meat cutting room and approached the tanker, whose torso and remains of the face were already covered with gauze soaked in ointment.
Again there was a groan and some throat gurgling.
- I have never seen this before. - admitted the doctor, blowing another cigarette.
- Two or three days, no more. squeaked, just out of curiosity, one of the female doctors was nearby - and, turning away from her colleague so as not to breathe on him with rotten teeth, she also blew out her cigarette, passing the verdict. - Complete sepsis ...
The tanker was loaded into an ambulance bus, then into a train, then for forty days and nights, without any documents, under the name "unknown" fell off in the burns department of a gray Ural hospital that smelled of feces and all the same smoldering. Wrapped in gauze and bandages, smelling of ointments, he lay in the intensive care unit, then was taken to the dead room, then, to the surprised exclamations of the Hippocratic ministers, he was returned back - the first week had passed, and he was still lived. This phenomenon was no longer touched and not transferred anywhere. Every morning, they approached the tanker with the hope that he was no longer breathes but every time the living dead met the detour with barely audible groans and gurgles. And they changed bandages and gauze for him, and wiped him with tampons, and poured him broth. His bunk was in the darkest corner of the ward. Since an end to the hopeless was put after the first examination, a bet has been made between the doctors since then - how many days the undoubted unique will last. Two weeks passed. Sooner or later, much less burnt neighbors “removed” around. Those who had departed for the other world were stripped naked (the linen was given to the laundry), and sometimes they took away ten a day, preparing their place for other doomed. But that bunk in the corner, which had already become known to everyone, was not touched - the phenomenon continued to exist in the middle of the bacchanalia of Death.
The tanker was nicknamed Thanatos. He became famous in his own way. Professors in general uniforms would come from somewhere, and each time they came to the conclusion that they were dealing with a one-of-a-kind pathology. Convalescents began to look into the ward - someone (there is always this “someone” in such places) started a rumor; the unknown brings good luck - the lucky one who touches him will never burn out. The bets fell away of their own accord when it became clear in the third week; the patient's sepsis had inexplicably subsided. After the next meeting, they decided to remove the bandages and dressings; an amazing sight presented itself to the eyes of specialists - the skin of Thanatos, although it grew in ugly scabs, nevertheless recovered. True, the doctors and nurses tried once again not to look in his direction. Violet scars crawled one on top of the other, the fire left a black slit in place of the mouth, the nostrils turned into holes. No eyebrows, no eyelids, no hair. The eyes were bloody. Nevertheless, this time the tanker was sensibly looking at the academicians crowding over him. The head of the hospital - and the colonel could not but be present at the first case of such a recovery - tried to extort from the patient what he should have known: “Last name, first name, patronymic? Part number? Thanatos heard the question addressed to him. He struggled to raise his head. He was desperately trying to remember something.
Since then, recovery has accelerated incredibly. The patient was transferred to the general ward, he was still popular; entire delegations poured out from other hospitals. A month later, Thanatos was already getting up from his bed. Several visits to the hospital authorities - once in the personnel department there was also a "special officer" - they did not give anything; the memory of the unknown was completely cut off. He understood the speech - he got up when asked, washed the floors, helping the nurses, carried the dishes with food. He already answered in monosyllables “yes and no” to the neighbors. Once, he even laughed at something. It has been noticed more than once that lately he has been moving the remnants of his lips more and more silently. Somehow they got used to his appearance, and the old-timers no longer recoiled when he appeared in the corridor - thin, in faded pajamas, shuffling around in ridiculous slippers, more like bast shoes, purple-ugly, burned as much as a person can burn. In that convalescent ward, where they played cards, where laughter was heard more often than groans, where the majority were cheerful youth, they soon began to call him Ivan Ivanovich.
- Ivan Ivanovich! - they called. - It's time to bring dinner...
He jumped up and walked.
It was already deep autumn.
- Ivan Ivanovich! Help unload the wood ...
He put on a padded jacket and went out into the yard, strewn with leaves, to where a truck with firewood was already waiting.
As before, the only thing that was known about him was that he arrived unconscious from the Kursk Bulge. Scant information was delivered along the most unreliable chain: repairmen - the driver of a lorry - a field evacuation hospital. The major-surgeon, for lack of other data, hastily scratched out in the accompanying documents: "unknown tanker."
In winter, Ivan Ivanovich finally recovered. True, he was never able to tell anything about himself and for the time being he could hardly pronounce simple words. However, he completely consciously carried out any commands, and, moreover, willingly responded to his new name. Finally, he was examined and found fit. Already quite obvious cripples were sent to their native places - the rest, shell-shocked, burned, even if they had lost their memory, they were driven to reform. Merchants from various parts constantly came for the "lucky ones". Those who were especially lucky fell into regiments of guards jet mortars; it was believed that among the "katyushnikovs" the smallest percentage of losses. "trophy workers" and airfield attendants were quoted. The infantrymen and artillerymen had considerable chances to sit out in the convoy. But the future of Ivan Ivanovich seemed completely hopeless - the losses in the iron herds were such that he issued an order himself - to send all the survivors back to the mechanized corps. It would not have turned out to be this escort issued by the major with an inscription-sentence, Ivan Ivanovich could easily have been written into the guards. But here we decided not to risk it. The commission knew from sad experience that those who squander valuable personnel by supplying rear units with them will face the most severe trial. In the hospital, they did not guess for a long time even with the documents - they gave the terrible man a new book, where they wrote down in black and white - Ivan Ivanovich Naydenov. They didn’t suffer with nationality either - there is no accent, which means Russian. Place of birth - address of the hospital. Party affiliation - non-party (What's the point if he used to be a communist). Specialty - tanker. (They will then figure out where it is). Stuttered only with age. No matter how they tried at least offhand to determine the years - (Ivan Ivanovich, in an already issued faded form from someone else's shoulder, worn to whiteness, all this time stood at attention in front of the writers of his new life) - but, in view of the complete burntness, they could not and, waving his hand , recorded as the same age as the century.
All unoccupied doctors and sisters came out to see Naydenov - the case was unique and inexplicable by medical science. The one who spent a week in a mangled tank, who had a ninety percent burn and no chance of survival, now, as if from the next world, in boots taken from another deceased, in a long-brimmed overcoat, not tall, shot through in many places, in a soldier's hat , tied with ribbons under the chin on the occasion of frost, descended from the porch. A skinny "sidor" was stuck to the back of the tanker, and in it was a bar of soap, a bread brick and a can of American stew - a generous gift from the Aesculapius. In the breast tunic pocket was a new soldier's book, explaining who he was now.
The truck took him away.
The appearance of Ivan Ivanych made an indelible impression on the newly formed brigade near Chelyabinsk. When the personnel were lined up, its commander, himself covered in burns and scars, a thirty-year-old veteran, who was nicknamed Goat's Leg for his constant command, could not help but growl:
- Yes, on his face, a goat's leg, there is no living place!
Then the rude brigade commander ordered the newcomer to get out of line:
- Where?
Ivan Ivanovich himself did not know "from where".
The company boy, confused, explained the essence to the lieutenant colonel.
– So who modicum, goat's leg!? Baschner? Mechanic? - asked the brigade commander.
- The documents say - a tanker, - the lieutenant blurted out in despair.
- Then - loaders!
And the very embodiment of this wild war was written down in towers - only brute force is needed there: know, bring shells and throw shells out of the hatch. “Fragmentation” and “armor-piercing” would be distinguished even by a complete fool. Nothing more was required from Private Naydenov, nicknamed the Skull behind his back. No one in that hastily knocked together part was not particularly interested in him (that's just the appearance attracted attention). However, nowhere was there such a turnover as in tank crews: three or four weeks of bad preparation and the front, and there, after the first battle, the “thirty-four”, it’s good that it didn’t burn to the ground. Those who jumped out were mixed up again - and put into action.
The forgetful Ivan Ivanovich, together with everyone, obediently slurped gruel, and died from the cold in the barracks (they covered themselves with overcoats on bare boards). But, at least, his fate was determined in the near future. The crew was very motley: the same lieutenant-boy was appointed commander, an elderly Uzbek was identified as a driver, a former Moscow urka, cheeky and courteous, volunteered to be a radio operator himself.
In less than a month, all this hastily (and not for long) assembled four ended up at the Chelyabinsk Tractor Plant, where one of the latest T-34-76 series was assembled. In the workshops, at the sight of Naydenov, rarely anyone could restrain gasps and sighs. Teenagers and women did not hide their frightened interest. Ivan Ivanovich, not paying attention to the curious, unlike the Uzbek with the urka, who were only interested in the additional ration of the factory canteen, volunteered to bring the details himself. The boy lieutenant, struggling to maintain authority in relations with his subordinates, was grateful to him at least for this. To the undisguised annoyance of the Moscow thief-radio operator and the horror of the Uzbek, the tank grew before our eyes: the box acquired a transmission, rollers and tracks, it was the turn of the engine and the unassuming internal filling, then the turret was lowered into place.
The day everyone expected with trembling came: the commander received a penknife, a watch and a compass. The crew was given a huge piece of tarpaulin. The newborn “thirty-four” were preparing to be driven from the workshop to a huge factory yard, where a new batch was waiting to be sent.
And here Ivan Ivanovich showed himself.
It can be seen that something sparkled in his head, finished and broke the total unconsciousness. Just before the tank was driven through the workshop, Ivan Ivanovich found himself inside the car - the lieutenant asked to get some rags. When Naydenov was called several times, he, like a devil from a snuffbox, leaned out of the mechanic's hatch to the waist - his look was excited. The crew and workers shuddered. Ivan Ivanovich disappeared again. In the darkness of the “box”, like ominous headlights, the eyes turned on. No one had time to say a word as the tank started up. The lieutenant with a Muscovite and a resident of Kokhand jumped off in one direction - the adjusters in the other. The T-34 took off and rushed down the aisle between two rows of its identical counterparts to the narrow gate. Naydenov, who had gone mad, did not slow down - everyone on his way had time to hide and get ready for the drama. The tank developed all the speed it was only capable of. Throwing clouds of gases behind him, mercilessly rumbling rollers, he was inexorably approaching a real disaster. Many, including the crazed lieutenant commander, already imagined the rattle and crackle. But, without slowing down, the "thirty-four" at full speed slipped through Scylla and Charybdis, turned around, and, after driving another thirty meters, maneuvering between cars, stood in the yard, as if rooted to the spot.
The frightened commander ran up. An Uzbek ran up with an attached radio operator. The curious poured out into the yard. Ivan Ivanovich jumped out to meet them. He grinned his terrible smile. He was trembling and couldn't calm down. He remembered- or rather, remembered the hands.
There was no doubt; in a past life, this burnt, forgetful, compassionate and pitiful horror tanker was a mechanic and, apparently, a driver from God!
The Uzbek immediately happily moved to the tower, despite the fact that the chances of surviving in battle were halved. The clever Moscow thief, now a radio operator, immediately figured out with whom he needed to make friends - and since then, while Ivan Ivanovich's hands were busy, he rolled cigarettes for him, lit them up and inserted them into his terrible black mouth. In addition, on the march, he always helpfully picked up and pulled the gearshift lever together with the Skull, because for some reason this T-34-76 still had an uncomfortable four-speed gearbox cursed by all drivers.
Before loading into the echelon, the brigade traveled fifty kilometers and fired back at the training ground. Winter cracked at thirty degrees, the "box" froze to the ringing. The tank driven by the Skull roared mercilessly on the turns, climbed the slopes, raising the cannon, slid down from them, while everyone was mercilessly chatting, the Uzbek was barely audible praying, the boy commander, having stuffed enough cones, gritting his teeth, hopelessly tried to follow the road from the commander's cupola - nuts. The radio operator, who couldn't see a damn thing, masterfully cursed, risking biting his tongue. And only Ivan Ivanovich, making sounds very similar to a roar, mercilessly directed the "thirty-four" along the virgin lands and broken roads. All the time now he was rushing somewhere, alarming even the urka, not to mention the Uzbek with the commander. There was something to be afraid of - an open mouth, impatience, trembling, a desire to drive and drive - such was the previously harmless Skull. Its hatch was open, a fan was working behind him - all living things should have stiffened at the same time, but the crazy mechanic, the only one from the whole exhausted crew, was hot. By radio communication, the lieutenant received an order to stop, however, the boy did not shout to Ivan Ivanovich. The column froze - and the Nadenovsky tank, turning out of action, began to describe an arc across the field, almost drowning in snowdrifts and throwing columns of snow dust in front and behind.
It ended with the brigade commander himself rushing across. The Goat's Leg appeared, almost in front of the "thirty-four", falling into the snow up to the waist. Here Ivan Ivanovich finally came to his senses. The young commander who appeared from the tower hatch was ready to burst into tears, however, the authorities did not pay any attention to the confused babble.
- The driver - to my car! yelled the young lieutenant colonel. - Come on, skeleton! - ordered Naydenov. - Show me, goat's leg, what you can do!
So, Ivan Ivanovich took a place in the commander's tank - and the lieutenant, Uzbek and Urka got the driver of the brigade commander, such as they are, an inexperienced doomed youth. And in front of the whole brigade, Ivan Ivanovich showed- "thirty-four" just did not spin around. The crews that were getting out of the cars opened their mouths.
The brigade commander roared with excitement no worse than Ivan Ivanovich. He habitually put his feet on the shoulders of the crazy ace - a kick with his boot - a brief stop, another blow - the continuation of the movement. Ivan Ivanovich remembered it. He forgot everything else, but This he remembered. To the admiration of the newcomers, on a field overgrown with bushes, with ravines and hillocks, the command vehicle threw out a real circus.
"Come on, come on, you baldhead!" croaked Goat Leg, no longer doubting that this mechanic would not get away from him now, that the terrible Skull would be with him to the very end, and he would not give such a mechanic to anyone for anything, for any price, because in the near future the only chance for salvation is the carrier, always knowing as and where to turn as maneuver as rev, and, therefore, jump out in time; after all, in a battle, and even more so in a tank battle, a meaningless human life disappears in a split second.
- How did you get caught on the Duga then? he yelled at the mechanic after the thirty-four had stopped. Ivan Ivanovich, staring at his new commander, not understanding the question, tensed up.
- How did you manage to burn yourself, your goat's leg? - the brigade commander continued to pry. - Board did not have time to substitute?
And here Ivan Ivanovich again remembered, Something for a second highlighted his gloomy past.
“Tiger,” Skull replied suddenly. - "White Tiger"!
His eyes blazed, he trembled with hatred.
By the winter of 1942, the Germans rolled out to the front line their answer to the omnipotence of the "thirty-fours"; the square brontosaurs of the Henschel firm were impenetrable, but the cannons caused a special thrill, from which even the KV burned out for a kilometer. Equipped with incomparable Zeiss optics, "eight-eight" swept away any target. For the smooth running of the "tigers" and acceptable pressure on the ground, meticulous German mechanics arranged the rollers in two rows. For ease of control, steering wheels were used. Massive, like the covers of sarcophagi, slabs stuck 76-mm shells. Armored on all sides, these beetles slowly crawled across the Kursk fields, and each of their shots, resounding sharply and loudly (the sound could not be confused with anything), sent another "thirty-four" to the forefathers. They were terrible in ambush. Thrown with hay and branches, the Cyclopes stopped the attacks of the T-34s, Grants and Churchills, and when the tankers, stupefied with pain and smoke, threw themselves out of the boxes, all the same solid German machine guns at a speed of one thousand two hundred rounds per minute completed what they had begun , slicing the flesh the way a vinaigrette is shredded with a knife. But even among his brethren, the Ghost was a special machine. For the first time he made himself known under Mgoa; the rest of the heavyweights got stuck in the swamps, but the "White Tiger" seemed to be transported through the air - and shot entire battalions. At first he was not recognized - in winter all tanks are white - except for those who encountered him, invariably burned after the first shot. But in the spring, when the Wehrmacht switched to camouflage, the monster finally stood out, and since then it has raged either in the North or in the South; smoke and the stench of burned-out cars trailed behind him everywhere. The ghost struck from an ambush, every time, somehow, finding itself in the Russian rear - and, having stabbed ten or even fifteen T-34s, it dissolved.
In the summer of 1943, a white killer found himself near Kursk in the area of ​​​​the iconic Prokhorovka. Aerial reconnaissance warned Katukov and Rotmistrov about him. Stormtroopers were immediately sent out, but the attempt, as always, failed. Despite the dump with the use of hundreds of machines, the Flying Dutchman invariably stood out here in white, and this time he walked ahead of his battle formations, shining with armor, like a Teutonic knight. "Thirty-fours" furiously opened useless fire on the "Tiger". For the whole day, not a single shell of the famous and disastrous for the rest of the "tigers" and "panthers" SAU-152 did not break through its towers. Repelling the pursuers pressing from all sides with fire, he, in turn, receiving dozens of “sub-caliber” and “armor-piercing” ones on board, the “White Tiger” remained invulnerable - and by the end of the great battle it was finally lost in smoke and flame.

Before loading into the echelon, the brigade traveled fifty kilometers and fired back at the training ground. Winter cracked at thirty degrees, the "box" froze to the ringing. The tank driven by the Skull roared mercilessly on the turns, climbed the slopes, raising the cannon, slid down from them, while everyone was mercilessly chatting, the Uzbek was barely audible praying, the boy commander, having stuffed enough cones, gritting his teeth, hopelessly tried to follow the road from the commander's cupola - nuts. The radio operator, who couldn't see a damn thing, masterfully cursed, risking biting his tongue. And only Ivan Ivanovich, making sounds very similar to a roar, mercilessly directed the "thirty-four" along the virgin lands and broken roads. All the time now he was rushing somewhere, alarming even the urka, not to mention the Uzbek with the commander. There was something to be frightened of - an open mouth, impatience, trembling, a desire to drive and drive - such was the previously harmless Skull. Its hatch was wide open, a fan was working behind it - all living things should have stiffened at the same time, but the crazy mechanic, the only one from the whole exhausted crew, was hot. By radio communication, the lieutenant received an order to stop, however, the boy did not shout to Ivan Ivanovich. The column froze - and Nadenovsky's tank, turning out of action, began to describe an arc across the field, almost drowning in snowdrifts and throwing columns of snow dust in front and behind.

It ended with the brigade commander himself rushing across. The Goat's Leg appeared, almost in front of the "thirty-four", falling into the snow up to the waist. Here Ivan Ivanovich finally came to his senses. The young commander who appeared from the tower hatch was ready to burst into tears, however, the authorities did not pay any attention to the confused babble.

- The driver - to my car! the young lieutenant-colonel yelled. “Come here, skeleton!” - ordered Naydenov. “Show me, goat’s leg, what you can do!”

So, Ivan Ivanovich took a place in the commander's tank - and the lieutenant, Uzbek and Urka got the driver of the brigade commander, such an inexperienced doomed youth as they are. And in front of the whole brigade, Ivan Ivanovich showed- "thirty-four" just did not spin around. The crews that were getting out of the cars opened their mouths.

The brigade commander roared with excitement no worse than Ivan Ivanovich. He habitually put his feet on the shoulders of the crazy ace - a kick with his boot - a brief stop, another blow - the continuation of the movement. Ivan Ivanovich remembered it. He forgot everything else, but This he remembered. To the admiration of the newcomers, on a field overgrown with bushes, with ravines and hillocks, the command vehicle threw out a real circus.

"Come on, come on, you baldhead!" croaked Goat Leg, no longer doubting that this mechanic would not get away from him now, that the terrible Skull would be with him to the very end, and he would not give such a mechanic to anyone for anything, for any price, because in the near future the only chance for salvation is the carrier, always knowing, as and where to turn as maneuver as rev, and, therefore, jump out in time; after all, in a battle, and even more so in a tank battle, a meaningless human life disappears in a split second.

- How did you get caught on the Duga then? he yelled at the mechanic after the thirty-four had stopped. Ivan Ivanovich, staring at his new commander, not understanding the question, tensed up.

- How did you manage to burn yourself, your goat's leg? - the brigade commander continued to pry. - The board did not have time to substitute?

And here Ivan Ivanovich again remembered, Something for a second highlighted his gloomy past.

“Tiger,” Skull replied suddenly. - "White Tiger"!

His eyes blazed, he trembled with hatred.

By the winter of 1942, the Germans rolled out to the front line their answer to the omnipotence of the "thirty-fours"; the square brontosaurs of the Henschel firm were impenetrable, but the cannons caused a special thrill, from which even the KV burned out for a kilometer. Equipped with incomparable Zeiss optics, "eight-eight" swept away any target. For the smooth running of the "tigers" and acceptable pressure on the ground, meticulous German mechanics arranged the rollers in two rows. For ease of control, steering wheels were used. Massive, like the covers of sarcophagi, slabs stuck 76-mm shells. Armored on all sides, these beetles slowly crawled across the Kursk fields, and each of their shots, resounding sharply and loudly (the sound could not be confused with anything), sent another "thirty-four" to the forefathers. They were terrible in ambush. Thrown with hay and branches, the Cyclopes stopped the attacks of the T-34s, Grants and Churchills, and when the tankers, stupefied with pain and smoke, threw themselves out of the boxes, all the same solid German machine guns at a speed of one thousand two hundred rounds per minute completed what they had begun , slicing the flesh the way a vinaigrette is shredded with a knife. But even among his brethren, the Ghost was a special machine. For the first time he made himself known under Mgoa; the rest of the heavyweights got stuck in the swamps, but the "White Tiger" seemed to be transported through the air - and shot entire battalions. At first he was not recognized - in winter all tanks are white - except for those who encountered him, invariably burned after the first shot. But in the spring, when the Wehrmacht switched to camouflage, the monster finally stood out, and since then it has raged either in the North or in the South; smoke and the stench of burned-out cars trailed behind him everywhere. The phantom ambushed, every time, somehow, finding itself in the Russian rear - and, having stabbed ten or even fifteen T-34s, it dissolved.

In the summer of 1943, a white killer found himself near Kursk in the area of ​​​​the iconic Prokhorovka. Aerial reconnaissance warned Katukov and Rotmistrov about him. Stormtroopers were immediately sent out, but the attempt, as always, failed. Despite the dump with the use of hundreds of machines, the Flying Dutchman invariably stood out here in white, and this time he walked ahead of his battle formations, shining with armor, like a Teutonic knight. "Thirty-fours" furiously opened useless fire on the "Tiger". For the whole day, not a single shell of the famous and disastrous for the rest of the "tigers" and "panthers" SAU-152 did not break through its towers. Driving away pursuers from all sides with fire, he, in turn, receiving dozens of “sub-caliber” and “armor-piercing” ones on board, the “White Tiger” remained invulnerable - and by the end of the great battle it was completely lost in smoke and flame.

– He, damn! - Ivan Ivanovich said again in incredible anger, and the brigade commander immediately realized who his not quite healthy mechanic had encountered.

But Naydenov gritted his teeth.

Two weeks later, the brigade, having crossed the Dnieper, began to crush the Right-Bank Ukraine with caterpillars. A day later, from the march, they attacked a certain Becherevka. From the launch of the rocket launcher to the response of the disguised "eight-eight", some five minutes passed - but this time was more than enough. Of the sixty-five "boxes" five reached the Khokhlyat huts. Burnt, doused with splashed diesel fuel, a boy lieutenant, an Uzbek and an urka, along with a young driver. Affected by fragments of armor when hit by "blanks", experienced gunners and unfired commanders, young towers and elderly mechanics (in the world, drivers and tractor drivers) perished. The smoke of another tank sacrifice covered half the horizon. However, the Germans could not resist. By nightfall, in the next tiny point, liberated at the cost of the death of thousands of people, the remnants of the attached infantry brigade (its dead chains lay in front of the trenches), the artillerymen, miraculously dragging their "76" through the field chewed by caterpillars and pits, crying from impotence of the nurse girl, gathered, captains and colonels, hoarse from inexhaustible swearing, and the few remaining "horseless" tankers. Smeared with blood and soot, the latter could not come to their senses. But not so much the ordinary horrors of an ordinary massacre as the tricks of the commander's "T-34" shocked them all to the liver.

At the beginning of the battle, the Goat's Leg, still unaware of anything, ordered the mechanic to drive the commander's car to a hillock near the edge of the fishing line - the self-propelled guns assigned to him turned around on their gasoline "lighters". From here the roofs and the bell tower were clearly visible - a favorite place for spotters and snipers. Ignoring the danger, the brigade commander habitually sat on the tower. However, this time there was no need to lead. From a sudden jerk, he fell back into the open "double hatch". In the tank itself, the turret was mercilessly thrown onto the ammunition rack - but feeling nothing, rabid, Naydenov was already yelling so that he sometimes drowned out the engine. Having hit his forehead on the gun breech, the brigade commander lost consciousness for a moment, and the “thirty-four” rushed with jerks and tacks to the ill-fated village packed with SS men.

Everything that followed for those who were in the tank turned into horror. The commander, the turret and the gunner - the passengers, on whom nothing now depended - could only feel with all their soft (and hard) places, like a T-34, God knows how, avoiding the inevitable "blanks" under the tower, from the entire run ran into a German cannon, crossed it, and flew along the only street. Ivan Ivanovich was insane and wielded levers with the rapture of a maniac. The burning eyes of the Skull (the hatch was wide open) terrified the grenadiers, suddenly, nose to nose, who found themselves in front of a monster that had jumped out of the underworld. Ivan Ivanovich, meanwhile, picked up another cannon, turned around and rolled back and forth along the next hesitant calculation. Everything else fled. "T-V1", in the rear of which a crazy "thirty-four" suddenly jumped in, stunnedly tossed the towers, but at home and general panic interfered with the gunners. Finally climbing into the seat, Goat Leg fiddled uselessly with the radio link. Then, with might and main, he began to thrash the mechanic on the back with his officer's chrome boots. "White Tiger"! - Ivan Ivanovich roared in response, throwing the car to the left, then to the right. At the same time, he did not forget to stop and spin in place - every time something crunched under the tracks. The frightened brigade commander clung to the crack of the commander's hatch, but he could not see anything in this bedlam - either mud huts, then black snow, or alarmists scattered in all directions.

- "White Tiger!" howled Ivan Ivanovich. There was no point in stopping him. The trio, who were held hostage by the madman, now hoped for a “maybe” - the gunner-radio operator pressed the trigger, firing into the sky and into the ground, the brigade commander, who was saved from a sure concussion by a tank helmet pulled on in time, cursed himself for having contacted an idiot (he it occurred to me to shoot the driver, but for some reason the hand did not reach for the captured "Walter"). Baschner miraculously recalled all previously forgotten prayers. And Ivan Ivanovich, crushing people like bedbugs, and not paying attention to the clicking of bullets on the armor, with his merciless roar, challenged the semi-mythical enemy to battle. He was just incredibly lucky. Two "blanks", marked by sheaves of sparks, slid along the side and pierced the low clouds. Another projectile - now "eight-eight" directed for sure from a distance of less than five hundred meters - (Goat's Leg, the only one from the crew who noticed the "T-V1", died) - touched the handle of a plow frozen into the ground and flew away with a farewell screech that blocked the roar motor and driver.

- "White Tiger"! croaked Ivan Ivanovich.

Everything was confused before the eyes of the desperate brigade commander. Finally, higher powers took pity on him and sent the only one, high-explosive fragmentation, which, straight and neatly hitting the engine compartment, stopped the restless driver already outside the outskirts - the search for the damned “tiger” ended there. Realizing that the engine was ruined, Ivan Ivanovich began to cry, and the battle ended. The mechanic should have been shot immediately. However, having ensured the breakthrough of the rest of the forces, he crushed and crippled so many people and equipment in the village that there was no question of any tribunal - it remained to wait for the award (all the more, the victorious outcome was attributed to the dashing courage of the brigade commander himself).

Having almost put on the smart commander's "riding breeches", the Goat's Leg rolled off the armor. Having rounded the immobilized tank and meeting the eyes of the Skull, the lieutenant colonel instantly forgot the whole mat and, shaking and dancing helplessly in front of the hatch, squeezed out a completely childish and unexpected:

- Go to hell! I won't fight with you anymore... Roll anywhere... Climb into any "box" - if there are fools. So that I don't see you again...

Naydenov was assigned to another crew. The tanks remaining in the brigade were somehow put in order, and day and night battles began for similar villages and farms, which were taken on the move and in front of which entire divisions were burned. Awarded with a medal, and then presented to the order, the mechanic gained gloomy fame. They called him Vanka Death. And it's true: as soon as Ivan Ivanych got to the levers, the same ugly picture was repeated - he rushed to the west in search of the Ghost, not listening to the next commander, hoarse to the blue. Surprisingly, for all his suicidal behavior, Vanka Death had an unprecedented intuition - his tank was spinning like a snake in a frying pan, and before the "thirty-four" had time to stop, it invariably broke through to the Wehrmacht trenches. A real bacchanalia began there - the caterpillars tore the infantrymen to pieces, pressed them into the frozen ground, crushed them and buried them in trenches. Soon, already among the Germans, the legend of the Dead Driver began its inevitable circulation - it is clear that one of the survivors still managed to discern the horror sitting behind the levers. But, be that as it may, this was not forgiven even to the dead; unprecedented fire fell on the “box”, in which any other car would not have lasted even a few seconds. However, in the most amazing way, this whole flurry of various “blanks” and “sub-caliber” ones bounced off, ricocheted and flew past. In the end, often already far in the German rear, the enchanted “thirty-four” was burned - only Ivan Ivanovich invariably returned to his own unharmed. How and why he managed to get out of the pile of rubble - no one knew. They began to shy away from the mechanic, especially since he himself was always called into reconnaissance in battle (certain death for the rest). Political workers could not get enough of Ivan. A dull carriage was sent with a volunteer, and there everything was spinning in a circle; the tank broke through somewhere inland - smoke and shots testified to this - then everything calmed down. The tankers commemorated the guys and cursed the driver. Somehow, after another breakthrough, Ivan Ivanovich disappeared for two days, to which everyone, with the exception of the correspondent of one of the front-line newspapers, who had been hanging around all that time in the trenches, was delighted. The revival turned out to be short-lived - at the end of the third, in the morning, Vanka Death, frightening the guards with his appearance, nevertheless fell into his native trench - in a torn, torn overalls, in a torn tank helmet, smoked and ugly. An article appeared (albeit without a photograph) about this amazing hero from all sides. Grabbing another award, he immediately took the place of a mechanic in another doomed tank. The commanders (and there were a lot of them), all, as if on a selection, young guys yelled, threatened with a tribunal, pulled out "TT" and instructed regular PPSh - to no avail. The charmed Naydenov rushed into the very inferno. Surprisingly, no one dared to shoot him. It ended up that the crews were left to burn in broken cars, and Vanka Death got into a new one. The headquarters were proud of him. The personnel - from the battalion commander and below - sullenly hated him.

Everything went on as usual - the Goat's Leg disappeared in the fire, was roasted alive, replacing the brigade commander, a laconic, not even surprised at terrible losses, elderly Belarusian Vorotkevich. Tanks were burned by the dozens. After a week of victorious march across Ukraine, the fifth head of the brigade - fussy like a cur, Colonel Pshenichny, having barely taken command, was already racking his brains, not knowing what to do with Naydenov. The fact that the mechanic was clearly out of his mind was obvious. But no one else So did not fight - and this circumstance turned out to be decisive. In vain, at the suggestion of the commanders of the vehicles, the deputy begged the new colonel to give Ivan Ivanych at least a rest in the reserve. It was completely useless that a proposal was made to send Naidenov to the deepest rear - for a report to a higher headquarters, Pshenichny desperately needed an example of selfless courage. The front-line soldiers with the Skull flatly refused to go into battle - threats did not help - but fortunately, replenishment arrived. Vanka was immediately assigned to the crew of the guard, junior lieutenant Kudryashkin, recruited from the pine forest. A day has not passed - Ivan Ivanovich, raving about the "White Tiger", crawled lonely to his own. He was given a brand new "T-34" by Lieutenant Kolyadko to be torn to pieces - the mechanic immediately grabbed the levers. However, Comrade Kolyadko was not so simple! Having received a famous suicide bomber as a gift and an order to check (again in combat) the density of anti-tank weapons at the forefront, the lieutenant, unlike his friends who had already burned out, prudently kept quiet. The only thing he did in advance was to open the commander's hatch and disconnect the useless TPU from the connector. And, besides, he was not too lazy to examine the clothes, so as not to catch on to anything. We had to wait not so long - no matter how Vanka tried to break through to the trenches, there were no chances this time - the German anti-aircraft guns were standing almost every ten meters. The blank burned through the armor, tearing the loader to shreds, its fragments found the radio operator. Everything that could burn blazed - but Comrade Kolyadko was no longer in the tower.

Then, in the midst of fuming and wrecked cars, he nevertheless found the inconsolable Ivan Ivanovich, who was crying near his dying “box”. This monster did not feel sorry for the people - but the tank. The lieutenant spat out the accumulated scale and said bluntly:

- I'm not going back! Tell them that I'm dead. I went missing... You never saw me again.

And indeed, he died.

And Ivan Ivanovich returned.

His brother-soldiers, among whom there were many murderers released from the camps, most likely did not kill him only because he became obedient and meek outside of battle; to offend such was simply sinful. At a time when the rest only dreamed of having their coffins out of order as soon as possible (getting a shell into the engine or, at worst, into the gun barrel, was considered good luck), the brigade holy fool did not just love "boxes" - he adored them like a horse-crazy groom. At a halt, Vanka Death did not crawl out not only from under his own, but also from under other people's cars, constantly checking and debugging something in them. With the crude engine of the "thirty-four" he was ready to mess around day and night. His hands did wonders. Again, to the hatred of many, the Skull repaired completely hopeless motors, which the repairmen refused; this completely unconscious dead man, dragged out by some miracle from the next world, did not just exist - he lived tanks and war. And this almost vegetative life, without a past, in the present alone, disarmed him! Ivan Ivanovich did not get along with the constantly changing crews. He did not try to remember the faces and names of his comrades; often, in winter, remaining alone in the icy belly of the next T-34. Even against the background of the already primitive way of life, Ivan looked just an ascetic. Others survived as best they could: a trench was dug, the tank ran over it, covered with an indispensable tarpaulin, a stove was hung from the bottom, and a saw attached to the side was removed. Having satiated the "potbelly stove" with firewood, exhausted, all in boils, the front-line soldiers fell asleep, perhaps before the very last day of their penny life. Their entire thrice-cursed existence was saturated with diesel fuel, shell grease, gunpowder fumes and was completely poisoned by lice, for which there was neither strength nor time. Commanders, riflemen, mechanics and turrets pulled on everything they could - civilian jackets, sweaters, cotton trousers, boots and felt boots: the stove could not warm them.

And Naydenov, as if nothing had happened, slept on the seat, freezing to the metal.

Knowing that Vanka Death was left in the unit as a punishment for visible and invisible sins, they tried not to run into him much - however, there was nothing to talk about with the Skull. No one wanted to constantly look at purple scars and crevices instead of mouths and nostrils. This madman in one suit that was spreading at the seams, indifferent to rain and cold, turning away from the others, indifferently ate and drank what they would give.

And he kept talking about his stupid phantom; he really was crazy!

Political instructor Bubentsov, newly appointed to the brigade, in the opinion of many, a comrade with a "big bells and whistles", did not hang around in the rear. This sincere communist (he was frankly laughed at in the political department) was always eager to die first. After taking another village, the party member found Ivan Ivanovich on a field covered with debris. Bubentsov turned out to be the first who, on duty, seriously listened to the muttering - the political instructor, accustomed to a lot, was at a loss this time. It turned out that Naydenov was praying - but again, not fallen comrades were the reason for prayers - Ivan Ivanovich performed a memorial service for dead tanks, in a plaintive cracked voice calling on the Almighty to accept them and reassure them in heaven.

The dumbfounded communist did not give himself away and, hiding in the nearest trench, listened to the end of the monologue. He figured out something - the souls of the killed tanks were met by a special God (in the unpretentious and, without any doubt, sick imagination of Ivan Ivanovich, God seemed to be a huge, immortal tankman in an obligatory tank helmet). Without a doubt, this ubiquitous tank Sabaoth, who is entirely on the side of a just cause, was supposed to help find the "White Tiger" - so that Ivan Ivanovich himself would get even with his personal, hateful enemy.

Being an atheist to the marrow of his bones, moreover, in the most formidable and roaring way he suppresses the attempts of soldiers to turn to the heavenly host, in this special case, the political instructor was completely lost. And then, even somehow ashamed, trying not to betray himself with a single rustle, almost tiptoed back to the positions.

And Vanka kept on his knees.

In the meat grinder near Korsun, where at least fifty thousand Germans were boiled in a "cauldron" in one night, he revealed his terrible and merciless essence. Crashing into the columns and crushing the human mass running towards it, which did not even try to resist, the “box” danced on human bones. It was a real curse. The next boy-commander, who found himself in such a mess for the first time, could not even utter a word, and, clinging to the periscope, felt with horror how twenty-six tons of flesh were being crushed like a cranberry. The "White Tiger" seemed to the Skull in every hillock, but the broken armored personnel carriers and self-propelled guns that came across had nothing to do with the damned ghost. The light "Pz T-111" and "Pz T-1V" sadly met the roaring "thirty-four" - for lack of fuel and ammunition, their crews had long abandoned them; blackened their towers, lying nearby, carried by a storm, empty canisters. Ramming another lifeless tank, Ivan Ivanovich rushed through the human mess to the next, now and then leaning out of the open hatch, and howled like a werewolf when he was convinced of yet another mistake.

– Totenkompf! the Germans yelled. And they ran towards.

- "White Tiger"! Ivan Ivanovich roared. And crushed them in droves.

In the morning, when even the Cossacks, who had worked hard with sabers, were exhausted (they fell dead from the lathered horses and immediately fell asleep), Ivan Ivanych’s tank continued to surf the plain alone - every now and then came across torn carts, strings, as if strung on top of each other, cars, tractors and wagons - but the "White Tiger" was not in sight.

"Stop that idiot right now!" - demanded from the brigade commander some major who fluttered out of the tattered "jeep" (being in the retinue of Konev, who arrived at the place of victory, he received an order to find out what was the matter).

Sighing doomedly, Pshenichny and the political commissar briefly reported Naydenov's story, convincing the staff officer that the problem could only be closed with an anti-tank gun. The story amused the rear; the messenger promised to report upstairs about the unfortunate tankman.

Konev immediately on the field granted the hero the Order of the Red Star and promoted him to senior sergeant. Then, trying not to look at face awarded, treated Vanka "Duchovina-Flor", trying to find out under what circumstances he encountered the notorious Flying Dutchman.

Ivan Ivanovich once again hopelessly struggled to remember something. And again, Bubentsov, who represented him, spoke for the memoryless tanker.

The first meeting with the army celestials lasted a matter of minutes; Konev was informed, the body of a German general was found - apparently, Stemmermann. At five minutes the marshal saluted the brave Vanka and the perspiring political instructor and departed, noting in his notebook: “Tankman Naydenov. Back to the conversation…”. The reason for concern was the simplest - the White Ghost was so bloodthirsty that, in the end, it was reported to Stalin. The tyrant demanded to understand.

As for Ivan Ivanovich, surprisingly, he just felt exactly where to look for his offender: in January 1944, the "Tiger" showed up precisely in Ukraine. The German showed miracles of ingenuity: before those who stumbled upon the ambush began to understand what was happening, his "eight-eight" left real gaps in the tank columns. The rate of fire was unprecedented - five or even seven cars were deleted from the lists in a minute! Having marked his presence with smoky tanks, this dude finally showed up; dazzling white, without crosses, and side numbers. For some time, the "Tiger" stood motionless on a hillock, visible from all sides, to the smallest dent in the armor. He himself was exposed to the shot - but the tankers did not even waste useless time aiming! As soon as the Ghost's tower came to life, the crew of the next doomed "thirty-four" jumped out of the car with all the available agility. However, few people left - the invisible machine gunner behind the impenetrable "forehead" showed true skill.

The habit of the all-powerful Commander-in-Chief of pulling out all the specialists related to the problem to the Kremlin within a few hours, Zhukov adopted: designers, metallurgists and even ballistics specialists from Izhevsk arrived at the front headquarters. On the table lay all the available photographs that the intelligence managed to capture.

- As you know, Georgy Konstantinovich, in order to counteract the "tigers", in addition to the "SAU-152" we have prepared "IS". – reported businesslike Morozov. - The tank is already entering the troops. However, I consider it my duty to add that for a successful duel with even one Pz T-V1, at least three new vehicles are needed.

Comrade Zhukov, pacifying his rudeness, listened as attentively as possible to this, recognized by all, generator of tank thought.

- The IS has a 122 mm cannon. In the case of a direct hit, the thing is, of course, deadly. But the whole catch is in the loading mechanism - it is separate. Unfortunately, in terms of rate of fire, we are far behind. The loader is forced to send a charge after the heavy projectile; as a result, it takes at least twenty seconds to prepare. The rest can be imagined - unless, of course, the "German" is killed by the first salvo. I'm talking about serial "tigers" - their guns fire up to six rounds per minute. Consequently, an experienced gunner - and the Germans have them prepared - within the same minute, even adjusted for excitement and force majeure circumstances of the battle, may well deal with two "ISs" until a third one finishes him off during this time.

Zhukov was silent.

- I repeat once again, we are talking about serial "tigers". – continued intrepid specialist. – In the case of the so-called Ghost, everything is much more complicated. I will express a general opinion - the instance we are considering is the only one of its kind! This applies to armor, and weapons, and, above all, the chassis. In the conditions of mud, in which the "thirty-fours" get stuck, the "Tiger" manages to perform maneuvers that are simply unthinkable for its weight. Even if we assume that the Germans managed to install some kind of supernova engine instead of the serial Maybach, it remains unclear how it “carries” sixty-odd tons off-road. In addition, dirt must be clogged between the rollers. Now thaws alternate with frosts - at night it inevitably turns into ice and in the morning it deprives any such machine of motion: the Germans constantly complain about this. But here again is a special case; "Tiger" sneaked in in the morning. And behind the front line was in conditions of complete mudslides.

Now all the roads are covered in mud. - confirmed the head of the Front Intelligence after the famous look of Zhukov stopped on him. - A total swamp...

- And yet, a week ago he passed!

“That’s right, Comrade Marshal!

- Shot fifteen self-propelled guns, did not get a single hole, and somehow returned back?

- Yes sir.

- I think the Germans significantly strengthened the armor. - the representative of the technical department of the NKVD voiced. - It is quite possible that plates are simply welded to the so-called "White Tiger". - especially if the engine makes it easy to move such a colossus, why not make it heavier by an extra five, ten tons? In principle, it is possible to bring the thickness up to two hundred millimeters - the British have already encountered this in Africa. I'm not afraid to answer for the artillerymen - on the "tiger" is an 88-millimeter barrel. Again, suppose the caliber is slightly increased, which allows the projectile to have an even higher muzzle velocity. The quality of German tank guns can not even be mentioned. Plus, all the same optics and a well-trained crew. I don’t know about the engine, but as for the armor and shells, there is no mysticism here….

So it's all about the engine? interrupted the marshal. - Do you realize that we simply missed the creation of a heavier German tank? Yes, and with such protection ?!

“The ghost acts alone. - the head of Front Intelligence rose again. – We can’t talk about mass production, otherwise such tanks would have appeared long ago. I declare with all responsibility - the new engine was created in two or three copies. The scarcity of rare metals does not allow the launch of the new Maybach or whatever, into production. At one time, Porsche and the Directorate of Armored Forces abandoned diesel precisely because of the lack of aluminum. Undoubtedly, the Fritz are good mechanics. In the fourth year of the war, they can create an excellent motor. But the complexity of the technology, the consumption of a huge amount of fuel and again the same deficit will definitely not allow them to make a series. Luckily, we came across a one of a kind machine.

- One tank burns a regiment of self-propelled guns! Comrade Zhukov remarked sullenly. “Are you not strong enough to shut his throat?” Boost intelligence. Set the location. Take three or four "IS", in the end! And get this over with...

- I think we need an improved T-34! Katukov, who was present, raised his voice. - "IS" is still heavy. You need agility. "T-34-85", I think, is quite suitable ...

- Your suggestions.

- Follow the same path. Make a single instance. Reinforce the car with armor. Install a reliable engine. Adjust it well ... Shoot the gun ... "Eighty-five milliliters" at a distance of a kilometer with a sub-caliber will burn through any armor. You can install trophy optics. The Germans rolled out a gift! We, too, are not born with a bast.

- Month! came a confident chorus.

- And what, during this time, bungled a miracle?

- It has already been created. - exchanged glances with colleagues, reported the chief designer. - They did their best at the 183rd plant, Comrade Marshal. There are some improvements left.

“Then two weeks. - ordered the representative of the Headquarters. - Yes. Take care of the crew.

So, Vanka Death ended up in Nizhny Tagil.

Again, with his appearance, the Skull caused "oohs" and "aahs" of the compassionate machine women. Again, the worker boys secretly ran to look at the "charred" boy, for nothing attracts the eyes so much as someone else's ugliness. Naydenov paid no attention to involuntary compassion. Having made a bed of the same shabby overcoat under the tracks of a secret tank, with the help of two seconded factory mechanics who watched the madman with horror and admiration, he was not too lazy to try out the new engine. "V-4" in appearance resembling a standard engine, was twice as powerful and even more reliable. In addition, Ivan Ivanych was met with an improved five-speed gearbox, a heavy-duty air filter, and rollers with reinforced rubber tires. Impressive mufflers were placed on the exhaust pipes. The “experimental” was noticeably different from the “thirty-fours”, which hastily assembled on both sides and went to the front day and night: a special tower was cast with sixty-millimeter armor, to which a larger percentage of nickel was added - the protection had good viscosity and did not crumble, the forehead was strengthened to two hundred millimeters. An 85-millimeter gun pierced one hundred and ten-millimeter slabs from a kilometer. The gun was equipped with a Zeiss telescopic sight. The commander's turret-nut and the loader's hatch opened almost instantly with the help of special springs. Even the triplexes on the driver's hatch, as an exception, were made of special transparent glass; in them, surprisingly, even on the march one could see the road. For reasons of secrecy, the tanker was forbidden to leave the plant, but Naydenov himself stuck to the miracle machine; here his Universe spun, here the meaning of being was concentrated. The tanker dined and dined near his embodied hope, and immediately relieved himself nearby. They were fed in the rear with watery porridge, a thin soup of cabbage and frozen potatoes, and they were given to gnaw black, like coal, pieces of bread, from which heartburn soon set in. But Ivan Ivanovich didn't care at all what got into his stomach. The holy fool, who used to talk to himself and now and then turn to the car, was dragged bowlers from the factory canteen by all the same compassionate Russian women to the point of self-forgetfulness.

The necessary preparations were made within a week: Naydenov was promoted to foreman. Then, almost the next day, the authorities who came to the shop pulled the mechanic out from under the “box” and forced him to sew the shoulder straps of a junior lieutenant to an utterly worn tunic. Without even passing the courses, Vanka became a commander. The decision was the most sensible - the "authorities", unable to get to the bottom of it (the true name and pedigree of Naydenov finally sunk into oblivion), nevertheless, they carefully found out as Ivan Ivanovich is fighting. In this case, they decided not to contradict Nadenov's intuition: soon two members of the future crew, selected by Konev's direct order, arrived at the Tagil 183rd - one more beautiful than the other!

Sergeant Hook disgustedly disliked battles and campaigns, but, with all this, he turned out to be a talented seducer of nurses and collective farmers who fell into his hands. He knew how to cook delicious porridge from a handful of flour, a pinch of salt and a single onion, how to get clothes even in a clean hut, how to dig a trench in ten minutes in the most petrified steppe, and, like a dog before an earthquake, he foresaw the impending bombing In a word, he was a real soldier!

End of free trial.