Hello, friends!

This year, as always, for the May holidays, I went to my small homeland in the ancient Ryazan town of Sapozhok. Reading a local newspaper, I was surprised to find an article about the opening of a museum exposition in the children's library dedicated to the life and work of our fellow countryman, writer and journalist, participant in the Great Patriotic War Anatoly Vasilyevich Mityaev.

Anatoly was the eldest of three children. I have been able to read since the age of five. He went to a school located in the neighboring village of Alabino, where his mother taught. Later, the family moved to Sapozhok, and the writer continued his studies at school number 1. Before the war, his father was transferred for work, first to the Kaluga region, then to the Moscow region. There, in the village of Klyazma, Anatoly finished 9 classes and was going to enter the forestry technical school of Petrozavodsk, he Since childhood, I wanted to become a forester.
But the Great Patriotic War began, my father went to the front. Anatoly got a job as a mechanic at the factory, dreamed of becoming a scout or a partisan. When the Germans approached Stalingrad, without waiting for the call, he became a volunteer, got into the division of heavy mortars and after 3 days was at the forefront. He fought on the Bryansk, Volkhov, North-Western and Belorussian fronts. He was shell-shocked and awarded the medal "For Courage".

After the war, Anatoly Vasilievich's main activity chose journalism. From 1950 to 1960 Mityaev was the executive secretary of the Pionerskaya Pravda newspaper, and then until 1972 - the editor-in-chief of the children's magazine "Murzilka". Writers and artists still remember the work of Mityaev as an editor with gratitude, his authority was extremely high.
In those years, A. Mityaev wrote for children "The Book of Future Commanders" and "The Book of Future Admirals", with his submission, military topics flourished on the pages of the magazine. "Murzilka" talked about orders and medals, about military specialties, published the "Heroic ABC".

Later, Anatoly Vasilyevich worked as the editor-in-chief of the Soyuzmultfilm film studio. According to his scripts, 11 cartoons for children were shot (“Granddaughter Lost”, “Penguins”, “Alien Colors”, “Adventures of a Point and a Comma”, “Three Pirates”, “Six Ivans - Six Captains” and others).

In the 1990s, Mityaev headed the editorial staff of the magazine “New Toy. Russian magazine for children”.

But Anatoly Vasilyevich devoted the lion's share of his non-working time (more precisely, sleep) to writing stories and fairy tales for children.

Many talented works for children and adolescents came out from under his pen. Among them are fairy tales, stories, historical narratives, and retellings of Russian epics.

Mityaev's fairy tales are kind, fascinating and witty. Sometimes the most ordinary objects become the heroes of his fairy tales. In Mityaev's best fairy tales there is a deep sense of the native land.

From a fairy tale, the author came to history - these are books about the history of Russia, great battles and the art of war. For guys who dream of becoming military men, Anatoly Vasilievich wrote such unique works as "Book of Future Commanders" and "The Book of Future Admirals". The writer talks about the historical events of our Motherland briefly, at the same time fascinatingly, and everything is easy to remember.

An interesting and well-known fact: according to the historical books of Mityaev, using them as textbooks, students of general education schools and students of military academies equally successfully pass exams.

The theme of the Great Patriotic War occupies a special place in Mityaev's work. About what the writer personally saw and experienced during the war years - stories collected in books "Sixth Incomplete", "The feat of a soldier" and etc.

For teenagers, A. Mityaev created a serious book based on documentary material One thousand four hundred and eighteen days. She talks about the Great Patriotic War from the initial period to Victory Day. The author himself sincerely cherished stories about the war.
“The Russian fleet in stories about ships, admirals, discoveries and battles at sea” and "Thunders of Borodino" were published after the death of the author in 2008 and in 2012. In total, Anatoly Vasilievich wrote more than 40 books for children of different ages - from kindergarteners to young men. The Book of Future Commanders and The Book of Future Admirals were published in millions of copies.

The books of A.V. Mityaev. They are repeatedly republished, translated into other languages.

In his small homeland, in the village of Sapozhok, Ryazan region, where Mityaev was not from the 30s of the twentieth century until 2004, the front-line writer is remembered and honored. On the occasion of the 85th anniversary of the birth of the writer, a solemn opening of a memorial plaque in honor of A. V. Mityaev took place. In school number 1, where he once studied, lessons are regularly held dedicated to his work, and classes with junior students are conducted by high school students.


A landmark event was the opening of a museum exposition dedicated to the life and work of Anatoly Vasilievich Mityaev, whose name is the children's library Sapozhka.

The opportunity to create a museum appeared due to the cooperation of the library with the widow of the writer Iya Nikolaevna. Last autumn personal belongings of Anatoly Vasilievich were transferred to the children's library.

The library was given photographs of Anatoly Vasilyevich from different periods of his life, books from his personal library, many of which are with inscriptions of the authors of the books: Bulat Okudzhava, Valentin Berestov, Eduard Uspensky and many others.

The center of the exhibition is a large desk and bookcase of the writer, his manuscripts, typewriter, radio, table lamp. According to his personal belongings, it is clear that Anatoly Vasilievich loved hunting and fishing, and handicrafts made of wood told us about another of his talents, the talent of an artist.
But the most valuable thing that he left as a legacy to future generations
A.V. Mityaev is his books.

Current page: 1 (total book has 2 pages)

Anatoly Mityaev
THE FEAT OF A SOLDIER
stories

Dear friend!

I'll tell you about the war with the Nazis. I'll tell you quite a bit - six cases from the life of soldiers at the front. These cases are only drops in the endless sea of ​​soldier's exploits, because millions of Soviet people fought against the Nazis, and everyone put their military labor into victory.

The Great Patriotic War began in the summer of 1941 and ended in the spring of 1945. During this time, the starlings flew away from us four times to warm lands and four times returned to their native birdhouses. The children who entered the first grade in the first military year finished primary school by the end of the war. And all this long, long time, bloody battles, fierce battles did not subside. The enemy was strong. He managed to go far to our land. The greatest courage was needed, military skill was needed, and selfless labor was needed to throw the invaders out of the borders of the Motherland and finally finish them off on their own land.

We all - both adults and children - are indebted to those who did not return from the war, who gave their lives for the Motherland to live. How can this debt be paid? There is only one answer to this question - love for the Motherland, readiness to defend it from any enemy, constant work for the benefit of the Motherland. You, my little friend, know this and grow up as an honest, hardworking, courageous person worthy of your country.

triangular letter

The division of heavy guards mortars stopped in an oak forest until a new order. The oak forest was young, the trees were sparse, enemy bombers could notice the cluster of cars. Therefore, the mortars immediately began to dig shelters for cars and mask them with branches. Finished work late at night. It was still visible, and the soldier Boris Mikhailov took up the letter. He tried to write more often, he knew that his mother worries about him every day and every hour.

"Dear mommy! Boris wrote. - I'm alive and well. They feed well. The weather is warm. We are standing in the forest. Don't worry about me. We are resting now. I hug you tightly and kiss you tightly. Your Borya.

Boris did not have an envelope. Much was missing during the war. Bread, such as salt. And such simple things as envelopes. They somehow learned to do without them ... Boris folded a paper sheet along the upper corner - it turned out to be an oblique sail, bent the sail - it turned out to be a house with a roof; he also bent the lower corners of the house and tucked it under the roof - it turned out a triangle, a letter and an envelope together ...

It was too late to go to the clerk who sent the mail. Boris put the letter in the pocket of his tunic - until morning, lay down on his overcoat under a bush, wrapped himself up with his head so that mosquitoes would not bite, and sleep immediately came to him.

The dream was short. As soon as dawn broke, the division was alerted.

A column of cars with launchers and eres - rockets, leaving the oak forest, moved through an open field. The sun was rising behind the column. Big, red. Dust covered it. But the sun rose above the dusty cloud, as if it wanted to see where the guards mortarmen were going.

The front line was ahead. From there, because of this line, a projectile flew. Boris in the cab of the truck did not hear his whistle, so he was not afraid, but surprised when the black earth rose up in the field. The cars picked up speed. Shells exploded either in the field or on the road. Fortunately, the road descended into a ravine. Enemy observers now did not see cars, and the shelling stopped.

The ravine was wide, deep, with steep walls. Through it, as if through a safe tunnel, soldiers walked to the front line, cars drove - with guns, with shells, with kitchens and bread. In the opposite direction, the tractor was dragging a tank with a downed turret. A horse harnessed to a buggy carried two wounded, they lay motionless, their heads were wrapped in bandages.

“Now, if they wound me like that or kill me? ..” thought Boris. “When my mother finds out that I was killed, she will cry for a long time.”

Low over the ravine, with the roar of an engine and the sound of machine guns, a Messerschmitt, a German fighter, swept by. Our machine guns, disguised on the slope, fired at him. Immediately a fighter with red stars appeared. Chased after the enemy.

So the mortars went. Without accidents. Artillery shelling, shelling from an airplane is a common thing in a war.

We stopped in a lowland overgrown with bushes.

From the lowland began the ascent to a wide hillock. The slope of the hillock was a yellow wheat field. From the top, frequent shooting, booming explosions were heard. There was a fight going on.

The mortarmen unanimously removed the launchers from the trucks. They put it on the ground. Eres uploaded. They dragged them, heavy, to the machines. When the last truck left, the Guards mortars were ready to fire.

The battle on the hillock then calmed down, judging by the shooting, then flared up again. What was there and how? The sun saw what and how. It rose quite high.

It was hot. Not a breath of wind. But suddenly the wheat at the far end of the field swayed. It was as if the wind had blown over there. He blew, pumped the wheat harder and harder. Peering, Boris saw the discordant lines of foot soldiers. It was they, and not the wind, that shook the wheat, descending from the hillock lower and lower. "Retreat!" Boris guessed and was frightened of his guess.

The infantrymen had already withdrawn to the middle of the field, when fiery jets roared, escaping from the eres. Drawing smoky arcs, rocket shells flew over the hillock. It blew over the hillock - the first eres, the fastest, the most impatient, crashed down on the Nazis. Another one followed. And thrashed, pounded on the ground.

The foot soldiers stopped. They looked at the sky, surprised. Someone shouted. Someone threw up a cap. And everyone ran to the hillock, to its peak, which had just been abandoned.

Not seeing who was nearby, but feeling his comrades, the soldier Mikhailov ran, skirting the bushes, jumping over the bumps. He flew into the wheat, got tangled in it with his boots. But he soon got used to it, pushed it apart, like a bather in water. In those moments, he forgot everything. He only knew that he had to run and run forward. And he had no fear of anything.

When Boris ran to the top of the mound, there were no infantrymen there. They went down another slope, chasing the enemies. Only one - young, like Boris - was sitting on the edge of the trench.

“The Guardsmen are with us… The Guardsmen are with us…” he repeated quietly.

Boris thought that the soldier had been left to thank them for their help. But he suddenly realized that the soldier was wounded, and he shouted or whispered the words “the guardsmen are with us” when the infantry stopped in the wheat and saw traces of formidable eres above them.

- Where did you hurt? Boris asked. - Hurt?

- Shoulder. Hurt! answered the infantryman.

Boris Mikhailov had never bandaged the wounded before and was surprised at the dexterity with which he cut the tunic and exposed his injured shoulder.

He quickly tore open the individual bag and bandaged the gauze pad to the soldier's shoulder. Then a girl appeared with a sanitary bag. She straightened the bandage and led the soldier to where the wounded gathered.

- Let's go, honey! Let's go, you're good! she said to the wounded man.

... The division moved to a new parking lot, to a grove. The sun was going down. It again looked after the column from behind the dusty cloud. Not hot, not bright, as if praising everyone who won the battle for the hillock, but in a military way - in the battle for the height.

This time the enemy's guns did not fire on the road.

All around was calm. The Nazis, having fled from a height, also fled from neighboring areas.

As soon as they arrived at the place, Boris went to the headquarters dugout to the clerk - to give the letter. He stopped in front of the dugout, unfolded the little triangle, and reread it:

"Dear mommy! I'm alive and well. They feed well. The weather is warm. We are standing in the forest. Don't worry about me. We are resting now. I hug you tightly and kiss you tightly. Your Borya.

Boris always, from an early age, told his mother only the truth. And, having reread the letter, I thought that it was necessary to rewrite it. But, if you tell everything that happened during the day, mom will be very alarmed, will not calm down until the next letter. And he gave the triangle to the clerk - without amendments. And there was no lie in the letter, after all. They, the guards, were actually resting in the forest now, and the evening was warm. And he, Boris, is really alive and well.

Donkey earrings

The Marines held the defense in the mountains. One squad settled down very smoothly: it took its place among the sheer cliffs. It was almost impossible for the Nazis to climb these rocks from below. True, a bomber often flew to the rocks and threw bombs. But the soldiers were hiding in a cave. And the bombs did no harm, only crushed the stone. A cloud of rock dust hovered over the squad's position for hours. It was difficult to breathe stone dust, it creaked on the teeth, clogged the eyes. But this is not the hardest thing in the war. This can be tolerated and had to be tolerated. After all, the department, under the fire of their weapons, kept the road along which the Nazis moved. And many enemies overtook death there.

It was a good position. One thing was bad there - no stream, no fontanel. And in the hot summer, when the sun heats the rocks so that the stone burns, oh, how you want to drink! Soldiers valued water worth its weight in gold. Yes, that's gold! If a person is not greedy, not vain, he lives perfectly well without gold. But you can't live without water. The water in the rocks was measured with a strict measure. And only for drinking. For washing - not a drop.

However, after some time, it got better with water. Once the sailor Shalva Davizhba, who went to the economic company for groceries, saw a donkey not far from its location. The donkey stood in the shade of a thick tree, kicked its legs, wagged its tail, shook its ears - it drove away the flies. It turned out that he had nothing else to do. He is nobody. Left because of the war without a master. Davizhba led the donkey to the kitchen and fed it so deliciously, so satisfyingly, as the donkey never dreamed of. Then he loaded two thermoses with spring water on him, heaved a bag of food on his back. And both walked along the narrow path up into the rocks.

The entire squad, led by the commander, rejoiced at the appearance of the assistant. And Shalva Davizhba said that these are still flowers. Berries will be ahead. It is only necessary not to be stingy and feed the donkey in the department no worse than he ate in the economic company. Nobody understood Shalva's mysterious advice, but the sailors were generous. And the donkey, lying down in the shade of a large stone, showed with all appearance that he likes it here.

By evening, when the heat began to subside, Shalva Davizhba loaded empty thermoses on the donkey and led him down the path to the household company. There, although the burden was light this time, the donkey again received delicious food.

All night the donkey was grazing by the stream. And in the morning the sailor again loaded him with water, again led him into the rocks ... It's just that they say that donkeys are stupid. In any case, that donkey soon realized: for each flight he will receive a considerable reward. And he began alone, without an escort, as the most diligent worker, to carry water to the rocks and return with empty thermoses to the economic company.

The sailors loved the donkey. They named him Yasha.

In war, everything changes. Today is good, but tomorrow something bad will happen. One day Yasha came to the rocks with a bloodied head. The sailors quickly took off his luggage. A medical officer came running with a medical bag. It turned out that there was no dangerous wound. Both ears were shot through with a rifle bullet. From these wounds, blood flowed onto the head. The medical instructor bandaged Yasha's ears with bandages. The sad donkey lay near the stone. He was weak from loss of blood, and his ears hurt.

By evening, when the time came to descend from the rocks to the household company, Davizhba brought food to the donkey so that Yasha would stay in place. The donkey ate a little, and then went to the thermoses and stood up, waiting to be loaded.

- Well, Yashka! the Marines were surprised and moved. - You and the wounded do not leave the battlefield!

- What to do? - Shalva Davizhba asked the squad leader. - Tie him? Or let him go?

“Let him go,” the commander said. - But first, let Ivan Rubakhin go on the trail. It was a German sniper who shot at Yasha. A sharp shooter, but Yasha is not visible because of the stones on the path. But in some place his ears stuck out. They leaned out for a minute, but he still managed to make a hole in them. Now the fascist will not rest until he shoots the donkey.

Ivan Rubakhin was a Siberian hunter. He shot just fine and knew how to sneak up on the beast so carefully that the beast did not know about him. Our sniper examined the path and the protective wall made of stones along the path, and found the place where Yasha's ears stuck out. After that, he examined the mountains through binoculars and determined where he could shoot from, where the enemy sniper was hiding.

Three places seemed suspicious. Ivan Rubakhin prepared for the duel. The sun shone in the back of our sailor's head, in the face of the enemy. As soon as the enemy touches his rifle, the glass of his optical sight will flash under the sunbeam. This is how the enemy will give himself away.

Ivan Rubakhin listened to Yasha's hooves tapping on the stones. Here they are rattling behind him. In a second or two, the donkey will be at a dangerous place. Part of his head will be visible to the German. A second has passed. In the distance, in a low bush, glass gleamed in the sun. Rubakhin pulled the trigger...

The shot did not frighten the donkey. But he stopped, as if bewildered. He pricked up his ears in white bandages. Ivan Rubakhin rose to his full height, approached the donkey, and patted his neck:

- Well, friend, go easy. He won't shoot again...

Yasha's ears healed, freed from bandages. But there were holes in them. Once someone decorated Yasha's ears with daisies, inserted a flower into the holes.

The Marines joked:

- Yasha is a fashionista. He purposely put his ears under the shot, so that there were holes where to hang the earrings.

- And what, sailors, can you get more expensive jewelry for Yasha?

“Won’t the Marine Corps thank Yasha properly?”

- The Marine Corps was not and will not be a debtor. Wait, Yasha, a gift.

After such conversations, a little time passed, and the sailors kept their promise.

The Nazis had special troops - mountain rangers. They climbed rocks, descended into abysses, walked on glaciers like real climbers. And so two mountain rangers, two fascist climbers, began to climb a completely sheer rock to throw grenades at our fighters. The enemies did not know that the sailors had already discovered them, they were watching them. They all climbed up. When both huntsmen were hanging on a rope high above the abyss, Ivan Rubakhin appeared from behind the stones with a sniper rifle and ordered in German:

- Throw the weapon into the abyss. Continue climbing by yourself.

Jaegers carried out the order implicitly.

Both captives had iron crosses - fascist orders. The prisoners were taken to the headquarters of the regiment. And the sailors made earrings for the donkey from iron crosses.

Yasha wore trophy jewelry before our victory in the mountains. There were other donkeys in other divisions. And Yasha was the most famous.

long gun

Gleb Ermolaev went to war as a volunteer. Of his own free will, he applied to the draft board and asked to be sent to the front as soon as possible to fight the Nazis. Gleb was not eighteen years old. He could have lived at home for six months or a year, with his mother and sisters. But the Nazis were advancing, and our troops were retreating; in such a dangerous time, Gleb believed, one should not hesitate, one must go to war.

Like all young soldiers, Gleb wanted to get into intelligence. He dreamed of making his way behind enemy lines, taking "tongues" there. However, in the rifle platoon, where he arrived with replenishment, he was told that he would be an armor-piercer. Gleb hoped to get a pistol, a dagger, a compass and binoculars - intelligence equipment, but he was given an anti-tank rifle - heavy, long, awkward.

The soldier was young, but he understood how bad it was if you did not like the entrusted weapon. Gleb went to the platoon commander, a lieutenant with a not very good surname Krivozub, and told everything frankly.

Lieutenant Krivozub was only three years older than the soldier. His hair was black, curly, his face swarthy, and his mouth was full of white, even teeth.

“So, you mean intelligence?” the lieutenant asked and, smiling, showed his beautiful teeth. - I think about intelligence myself. Let's rename the rifle platoon into a reconnaissance platoon and all move to the rear of the Nazis. I,” said Krivozub in a whisper, “would have done it long ago, but I just can’t figure out who will defend this site instead of us. Do you know by any chance?

“I don’t know,” Gleb answered in a whisper, too. He was offended by the lieutenant for such a conversation and blushed with resentment.

“Brave people are needed not only in intelligence,” the lieutenant said after a pause. - You got a difficult job, soldier Ermolaev. Oh, how difficult! You and your PTR will sit in the very front trench. And you will certainly knock down the enemy tank. Otherwise, he will approach the trench where the platoon is defending, and will crush everyone with caterpillars. While we are quiet, an experienced armor-piercer will deal with you, beginners. Then you get an assistant. You are the first number in the calculation, he will be the second. Go...

It was really quiet on that sector of the front at that time. Somewhere the earth shook from explosions, somewhere people died, but here, on a flat dry meadow enclosed between two groves, only grasshoppers chirped. With stubborn zeal, they extracted monotonous sounds from their withered little bodies - without a break, without stopping. The grasshoppers did not know what kind of tornado would sweep over the meadow, they did not know how hot and tight the blast wave was. If they knew, if they knew, they would hasten with high jumps - through sagebrush bushes, over hummocks - away from these places.

Soldier Gleb Ermolaev did not hear grasshoppers. He worked diligently with a shovel - dug his trench.

The place for the trench had already been chosen by the commander. Resting, when his hands were weakening, Gleb tried to imagine where the Nazi tank would go. It turned out that the tank would go where the commander had intended - along a hollow that stretched across the entire meadow to the left of the trench. A tank, like a person, also tries to hide in some kind of recess - to make it harder to get into it. And our guns disguised in groves will shoot at the tank. The trench is away from the hollow. When the tank is on the same line with the trench, the soldier Ermolaev will slam an armor-piercing incendiary bullet into his side. It's hard to miss at that distance. The bullet will pierce the armor, fly into the tank, hit the gas tank, or the projectile, or the engine - and the job is done.

But what if there are two or three tanks? What then?

Imagine how he would fight with three tanks, Gleb could not. But he could not allow in his thoughts that the enemy vehicles would pass to the trench. “The cannons will kill,” he reassured himself and, reassured, again began to pound the hardened clay with a shovel.

By evening the trench was ready. So deep that one could stand upright in it, Gleb liked it. Gleb believed in the reliability of the shelter, and for another hour he was busy making it better. I dug a niche for cartridges in the side wall. I also dug a hole for a water bottle. Several times he carried away clay in a raincoat - away from the trench, so that the brown spot would not betray his shelter to the enemies. For the same purpose, he poked the embankment in front of the trench with branches of wormwood.

The second number - the assistant promised by the lieutenant, came to Gleb only at dusk. Together with a platoon, he was also engaged in earthworks - the soldiers deepened the trenches, dug communications.

The second number was three times older than Gleb. His unshaven face shone with mischievous blue eyes. The reddish nose stuck out like an awl. The lips were stretched forward, as if constantly blowing into an invisible pipe. He was small in stature. His legs seemed very short to Gleb - in shoes and windings. No, the armor-piercer Ermolaev was waiting for such a comrade. He was waiting for an experienced fighter, whom he would obey with respect and joy, whom he would obey in everything. And for the first time in the whole week that he was at the forefront, Gleb became alarmed. He felt sad, there was a premonition of something bad, irreparable.

- Semyon Semyonovich Semyonov, - the second number called himself.

He sat down on the edge of the trench, put his feet down and tapped his heels against the clay wall.

- Strong ground. It won't collapse," he said knowingly. But very deep. I can only see the sky from this trench, and we are not supposed to shoot at planes - at tanks. You overdid it, Ermolai Glebov.

- I dug according to my height. My name is Gleb Ermolaev. You mixed up your first and last name.

“I got it mixed up,” the second number agreed very willingly. “And my nickname is very convenient. Replace the surname with the patronymic, the patronymic with the given name - it will still be correct.

Semyon Semyonovich looked into the distance, to where at the end of the meadow a country road could be seen as a gray obscure stripe, and said:

- You have a long gun, but you should have even longer. To get through the meadow to the road. Tanks will go from there ... Or bend the barrel - with the letter G. Sat down in the trench - and shoot safely ... However, - then Semyon Semyonovich's voice became strict, - you, Gleb Yermolaev, made another mistake - you dug a trench for one. Should I lie in the meadow? No shelter? To kill me in the first minute?

Gleb blushed, as in a conversation about intelligence with Lieutenant Krivozub.

- That's it! You are number one, Commander. I am number two, subordinate. And I have to teach you. Well, all right, - Semyon Semyonovich finished generously, - tomorrow we'll dig a hole for me too. Not great work. I'm not big...

The last words touched Gleb. At night he could not sleep for a long time. Through an overcoat laid on the ground, either pebbles or hard roots were pricked. He turned to make himself more comfortable, listened to the sentry walking along the trench, and thought about Semyon Semyonovich. “He is indeed a kind person. They will definitely get along. And Gleb will finish the trench himself. Let Semyon Semyonovich rest. He is also old. He is small. It’s hard for him in the war!”

It was not possible to dig a trench. There were explosions at dawn.

Planes dived into the groves and dropped bombs. Worse than the explosions was the howl of dive-bombers. The lower the plane glided to the ground, the more unbearable the roar of its engines and sirens became. It seemed that with this heartbreaking scream the plane would crash into the ground and it would shatter like glass. But the plane above the ground itself came out of the dive, steeply climbed into the sky. And the earth did not shatter like glass, it trembled, black waves of lumps and dust swelled on it. On the crests of those waves, birches, uprooted, swayed and tumbled.

- In places! In places! shouted Lieutenant Krivozub. He stood at the trench, looked at the sky, trying to determine whether the Nazis would bomb the platoon, or drop all the bombs on those who were defending along the edges of the groves.

The planes took off. The lieutenant turned, looked around at the soldiers, who had fallen silent in their places. Directly in front of him, he saw Gleb with an anti-tank rifle and Semyon Semyonovich.

- Well, what are you? Go! he said softly. - There will be an attack...

- I'm alone. Number two stay in the trench! shouted Gleb, climbing out onto the parapet. And he added, explaining his decision: - We have a trench for only one ...

Gleb was worried that he would not have time to prepare to repel the attack. He hurriedly set up the bipod of an anti-tank rifle, loaded the gun, straightened the sagebrush branches in front of the trench - so as not to interfere with looking and shooting, took off the flask from the belt, put it in the hole ...

And there were no enemies. Then he looked back at the platoon trench, and did not see it - either it was so cleverly disguised, or it was very far away. Gleb felt sad. It seemed to him that he was alone in this bare meadow and everyone forgot about him - both Lieutenant Krivozub and Semyon Semyonovich. I wanted to run away to check if the platoon was in place? This desire was so strong that he began to get out of the trench. But here - both close and far - mines began to burst with a formidable crack. The Nazis fired at the position of the platoon. Gleb crouched down in his trench, listened to the explosions and thought - how to look out of the trench to look around? If you stick your head out, it will kill you with a shrapnel! And it’s impossible not to look out - maybe the enemies are already very close ...

And he looked out. A tank rolled across the meadow. Behind a rare chain, bending down, ran submachine gunners.

The most unexpected and therefore very terrible thing was that the tank did not move along a hollow, as the lieutenant assumed, not away from the trench, but directly into the trench of the armor-piercer. Lieutenant Krivozub reasoned correctly: the tank would have driven along the hollow if it had been shot at from the cannon groves. But our guns did not fire, they died under the bombardment. And the Nazis, being careful that the hollow was mined, went directly. Gleb Ermolaev was preparing to shoot at the side of the Nazi tank, where the armor is thin, but now he had to shoot at the frontal armor, which not every projectile would take.

The tank approached, rattling its tracks, swaying as if bowing. Forgetting about the submachine gunners, the armor-piercer Ermolaev squeezed the butt of the gun into his shoulder, took aim at the driver's viewing slot. And then a machine gun suddenly struck from behind in a long burst. Bullets whistled next to Gleb. Without having time to think about anything, he released the anti-tank rifle from his hands and sat down in the trench. He was afraid that his machine gunner would catch him. And when Gleb realized that the machine gunner and the platoon shooters were hitting the fascist machine gunners in order to keep them from reaching the Glebov trench, that they knew perfectly well where his trench was, it was already too late to shoot at the tank. It became dark in the trench, as at night, and breathed with heat. The tank ran into a trench. Rumbling, spinning in place. He buried the armor-piercer Ermolaev in the ground.

As if from deep water, Gleb rushed out of his covered trench. The fact that he was saved, the soldier realized, inhaling air through his mouth clogged with earth. He immediately opened his eyes and saw in the blue gasoline smoke the stern of the outgoing tank. And I saw my gun. It lay half-buried, with the butt to Gleb, the barrel towards the tank. That's right, the PTR got between the tracks, spinning along with the tank over the trench. In these difficult moments, Gleb Ermolaev became a real soldier. He jerked the anti-tank rifle towards him, took aim, fired out of resentment for his oversight, expiating his guilt before the platoon.

The tank smoked. Smoke came not from the exhaust pipes, but from the body of the tank, finding cracks to exit. Then dense, black clubs entwined with ribbons of fire broke out from the sides and from the stern. "Killed!" - still not believing in complete luck, Gleb said to himself. And he corrected himself: “I didn’t knock it out. I set it on fire."

Behind the cloud of black smoke that drifted across the meadow, nothing could be seen. Only shooting could be heard: the platoon soldiers completed the fight with an enemy tank. Soon, Lieutenant Krivozub jumped out of the smoke. He ran with a machine gun to the hollow, where the enemy machine gunners took refuge after the death of the tank. Soldiers followed the leader.

Gleb didn't know what to do. Also run to the hollow? With an anti-tank rifle, you can’t really run, the thing is heavy. And he couldn't run. He was so tired that his legs could barely support him. Gleb sat down on the parapet of his trench.

The last to emerge from the smoke screen was a small soldier. It was Semyon Semyonovich. For a long time he could not climb the embankment in front of the trench and fell behind. Semyon Semyonovich rushed about in the meadow - he rushed to the hollow after everyone, then rushed towards Gleb, seeing him sitting on the ground. I thought that the first number of the armor-piercing crew was wounded and needed dressing, and ran to him.

- Not injured? Not? Semyon Semyonovich asked and calmed down. - Well, Ermolai Glebov, you hit him hard ...

“Yes, I’m not Yermolai,” said Gleb with annoyance. When will you remember this?

- I remember everything, Gleb! So I say this out of embarrassment. We both had to beat him. And you, you see, left me in the trench...

- And rightly so, the trench was for one.

- That's right, but not really. Two would be more fun...

Gleb from these words and from everything that happened, it became so good that he almost cried.

- Close. The Nazis jumped out of it directly to us on rifles.

... A few more anxious days passed - with bombings, with artillery and mortar shelling, and then everything calmed down. The Nazi offensive failed. On quiet days, Gleb Ermolaev was summoned to the headquarters of the regiment. Lieutenant Krivozub told me how to get there.

At the headquarters of the regiment, in a ravine overgrown with thick bushes, a lot of people had gathered. It turned out that these were fighters and commanders who distinguished themselves in recent battles. From them, Gleb learned what was happening to the right and left of his platoon: the Nazis were advancing in a strip of several kilometers and nowhere did they manage to break through our defenses.

From the staff dugout, dug in the slope of the ravine, came the regiment commander. The brave men were already lined up. They were called according to the list, they went out in turn and received awards.

They called out Gleb Ermolaev.

The colonel, a strict man, but, judging by his eyes, and cheerful, seeing a very young soldier in front of him, went up to Gleb and asked how a father asks his son:

- Was it scary?

“It’s scary,” Gleb replied. - I got scared.

- He's the one who got scared! the colonel suddenly shouted in a fervent voice. - A foxtrot tank danced on it, and he endured the dances and mutilated the car for the Germans, like a god a turtle. No, tell me straight, don't be modest - you weren't afraid, were you?

“He was afraid,” Gleb said again. - I hit the tank by accident.

- Here, do you hear? the colonel shouted. - Well done! Who would have believed you if he had said he was not a coward. How not to be afraid when such a thing climbs on you alone! But you're wrong about randomness, son. You knocked him out right. You overcame your fear. He drove his fear into his shoes under his heels. Then he aimed boldly and fired boldly. For the feat you are entitled to the Order of the Red Star. Why didn't you pierce the hole in the gymnast? Keep in mind, as soon as you burn the tank, so pierce a hole - there will be another order.

Gleb Ermolaev was embarrassed by the commander's praise. However, having received a box with an order, he did not forget to say.

stories

A. Mityaev
Drawings by N. Zeitlin
Moscow. Publishing House "Children's Literature" 1976

CONTENT

Dugout

All night the artillery battalion raced along the highway to the front. It was frosty. The moon illuminated the sparse woods and fields along the edges of the road. Snow dust swirled behind the cars, settled on the rear sides, covered the cannon covers with growths. The soldiers dozing in the truck under the tarpaulin hid their faces in the prickly collars of their overcoats and clung closer to each other.

Soldier Mitya Kornev was driving in one car. He was eighteen years old and had not yet seen the front. This is not an easy task: during the day to be in a warm city barracks far from the war, and at night to be at the front among the frosty snows.
The night was quiet: no guns fired, no shells exploded, no rockets burned in the sky.
Therefore, Mitya did not think about battles. And he thought about how people can stay all winter in the fields and forests, where there is not even an inferior hut to warm up and spend the night! This worried him. It seemed to him that he would certainly freeze.
Dawn came. The division turned off the highway, drove through a field and stopped at the edge of a pine forest. Cars, one after another, slowly made their way between the trees into the depths of the forest. The soldiers ran after them, pushing them if the wheels were slipping. When a German reconnaissance plane appeared in the brightened sky, all the machines and guns were under the pines. Pine trees sheltered them from the enemy pilot with shaggy branches.
The foreman came to the soldiers. He said that the division would be here for at least a week, so dugouts had to be built.
Mitya Kornev was entrusted with the simplest task: to clear the site of snow. The snow was shallow. Cones, fallen needles, green, as if in summer, lingonberry leaves fell on Mitya's shovel. When Mitya hit the ground with a shovel, the shovel glided over it like over a stone.
"How can you dig a hole in such stone ground?" thought Mitya.
Then a soldier came with a pickaxe. He dug grooves in the ground. Another soldier pushed a crowbar into the grooves and, leaning on it, picked out large icy pieces. Under these pieces, like a crumb under a hard crust, there was loose sand.

The foreman walked around and looked to see if everything was being done correctly.
- Do not throw sand far, - he said to Mitya Kornev, - a fascist reconnaissance aircraft will fly by, see yellow squares in a white forest, call bombers on the radio ... Get it for nuts!
When the wide and long hole became Mitya waist-deep, they dug a ditch in the middle - a passage. On both sides of the passage turned out bunks. Poles were placed at the edges of the pit, and a log was nailed to them. Together with other soldiers, Mitya went to cut surveillance.
Surveillance was placed with one end on a log, with the other - on the ground, just like a hut is made. Then they were showered with spruce branches, frozen earthen blocks were placed on the spruce branches, the blocks were covered with sand and powdered with snow for masking.
- Go for firewood, - the foreman said to Mitya Kornev, - prepare more. You hear, the frost is getting stronger! Yes, cut only alder and birch - they burn well even raw ...
Mitya was chopping wood, his comrades at that time covered the bunks with small soft spruce branches, rolled an iron barrel into the dugout. There were two holes in the barrel - one at the bottom for putting firewood, the other at the top for the pipe. The pipe was made from empty cans. So that the fire could not be seen at night, a visor was strengthened on the pipe.
The first front-line day of Mitya Kornev passed very quickly. It got dark. The frost has intensified. The snow crunched under the guards' feet. The pines stood as if petrified. Stars twinkled in the blue glass sky.
And it was warm in the dugout. Alder firewood burned hot in an iron barrel. Only the hoarfrost on the cape, which hung the entrance to the dugout, reminded me of the bitter cold. The soldiers spread out their overcoats, put duffel bags under their heads, covered themselves with overcoats and fell asleep.
"How good it is to sleep in a dugout!" thought Mitya Kornev, and fell asleep too.
But the soldiers had little sleep. The division was ordered to immediately go to another sector of the front: heavy fighting began there. The night stars were still trembling in the sky, when cars with cannons began to drive out of the forest onto the road.
The division raced along the highway. Snow dust swirled behind cars and cannons. Soldiers were sitting in the bodies on boxes with shells. They pressed closer to each other and hid their faces in the prickly collars of their overcoats so that they would not burn so much with frost.

© Mityaev A.V., heirs, 2010

© Yudin V.V., illustrations, 2002

© Rytman O. B., illustration on cover, 2015

© Design of the series. JSC "Publishing House" Children's Literature ", 2015

Dugout

All night the artillery battalion raced along the highway to the front. It was frosty. The moon illuminated the sparse woods and fields along the edges of the road. Snow dust swirled behind the cars, settled on the sides, covered the covers of the guns with growths. The soldiers dozing in the truck under the tarpaulin hid their faces in the prickly collars of their overcoats and clung closer to each other.

Soldier Mitya Kornev was driving in one car. He was eighteen years old and had not yet seen the front. This is not an easy task: during the day to be in a warm city barracks far from the war, and at night to be at the front among the frosty snows.

The night was quiet: no guns fired, no shells exploded, no rockets burned in the sky.

Therefore, Mitya did not think about battles. And he thought about how people can stay all winter in the fields and forests, where there is not even an inferior hut to warm up and spend the night! This worried him. It seemed to him that he would certainly freeze now.

Dawn has come. The division turned off the highway, drove through a field and stopped at the edge of a pine forest. Cars one after another slowly made their way through the trees. The soldiers ran after them, pushing them if the wheels slipped. When a German reconnaissance aircraft appeared in the brightened sky, all the machines and guns were under the pines. Pine trees sheltered them from the enemy pilot with shaggy branches.

The foreman came to the soldiers. He said that the division would be here for at least a week and that dugouts had to be built.

Mitya Kornev was entrusted with the simplest task: to clear the site of snow. The snow was deep. Cones, fallen needles, green, as if in summer, lingonberry leaves fell on Mitya's shovel. When Mitya hit the ground with a shovel, the shovel glided over it like over a stone.

“How can you dig a hole in such stone ground?” Mitya thought.

Then a soldier came with a pickaxe. He dug grooves in the ground. Another soldier thrust a crowbar into the groove and, leaning on it, picked out large icy pieces. Under these pieces, like a crumb under a hard crust, there was loose sand.

The foreman walked and looked to see if everything was done correctly.

“Don’t throw sand far away,” he said to Mitya Kornev. - A fascist reconnaissance aircraft will fly by, see yellow squares in a white forest, call bombers on the radio ...

When the wide and long hole became Mitya waist-deep, they dug a ditch in the middle - a passage. On both sides of the passage turned out bunks. Poles were placed at the edges, a log was nailed to them. Together with other soldiers, Mitya chopped perches. They were placed with one end on a log, with the other on the ground - just like a hut is made. Then they were thrown with spruce branches, frozen earthen blocks were placed on the branches, the blocks were covered with sand and powdered with snow for disguise.

- Go for firewood, - said the foreman to Mitya Kornev, - prepare more. You hear, the frost is getting stronger! Yes, cut only alder and birch: they burn well even raw ...

Mitya was chopping wood, and his comrades at that time covered the bunk with small spruce branches, rolled an iron barrel into the dugout. There were two holes in the barrel - one at the bottom for putting firewood, the other at the top for the pipe. The pipe was made from empty cans. So that the fire could not be seen at night, a visor was strengthened on the pipe.

The first front-line day of Mitya Kornev passed quickly. It got dark. The frost has intensified. The snow crunched under the guards' feet. The pines stood as if petrified. Stars twinkled in the blue glass sky. And it was warm in the dugout. Alder firewood burned hot in an iron barrel. Only the hoarfrost on the cape, which hung the entrance to the dugout, reminded me of the bitter cold. The soldiers spread out their overcoats, put duffel bags under their heads, covered themselves with overcoats and fell asleep.

“How good it is to sleep in a dugout!” thought Mitya Kornev, and fell asleep too.

But the soldiers had little sleep. The division was ordered to immediately go to another sector of the front: heavy fighting began there. The night stars were still trembling in the sky, when cars with guns began to drive out of the forest.

The division raced along the highway. Snow dust swirled behind cars and cannons. Soldiers were sitting in the bodies on boxes with shells. They pressed closer to each other and hid their faces in the prickly collars of their overcoats so that they would not burn so much with frost.

Samovar

All winter there were stubborn battles. And finally, closer to spring, the Nazis could not stand it, retreated.

Mitya Kornev still did not really know what was happening. He watched with surprise and joy as our soldiers rushed towards the enemy positions. Infantrymen, sappers, signalers with coils fled. Sledges with ammunition, field kitchens hurried along the trail, dented by tanks. In a few minutes, the trenches, dugouts and dugouts that had been inhabited during the winter were empty. Only the Mitin division remained in place: the guns fired after the Nazis.

But then they stopped shooting. Tractors drove out of the shelters at once. The gunners attached guns to them, threw their belongings into the bodies, and climbed in themselves. Mitya also wanted to get into the back of the car. But then the sergeant came up. He handed Mitya a duffel bag and said:

- Here, Kornev, food. You stay to guard the shells. We can't take everything. In three days we will come for them and for you.

And the division left.

Everything happened so quickly, so unexpectedly, that Mitya did not immediately understand what position he was in.

Left alone, Mitya counted the boxes that had been painted for camouflage with lime and adjusted them so that they lay flat. And there was nothing else to do. Mitya walked near the shells. I listened. I peered.

But there was no movement around, and there were no sounds. There was dead silence. The people went on the offensive. And the birds and animals disappeared from these places even earlier. Bombs and shells fell so thickly here that they broke and cut down every tree in the forest. From the pines there were only torn stumps - tall, taller than a man. In the advancing twilight, the remains of the trees seemed fantastic creatures. They pulled broken pieces of wood in all directions and seemed to complain to Mitya about their bitter fate. Mitya looked at them, and his heart became more and more anxious.

It got dark. Mitya climbed into the dugout. The owners took away the stove and the lamp. Mitya groped for a bed, raked the straw against the wall, and lay down, arranging a sack of groceries under his head. The machine was placed next to it. The heat from the dugout is gone. Together with the night cold, fears began to creep up on Mitya.

“What if the Nazis sneak up? Mitya thought. “Maybe a cannibal wolf will come?” Right now, his paws are scratching at the door ... The door is thin ... And there is no constipation ... ”Mitya wanted to jump up, shoot at the door with a long burst from a machine gun. But he did not jump up, forced himself to lie down. And so, lying down, he waited for other thoughts: that he was a soldier, he was not supposed to be afraid. He not only spends the night in the dugout, he guards the ammunition depot, and woe to those who try to blow them up or steal them. "Time to post!" Mitya said to himself. After these words, he got up, put the machine gun on a combat platoon and opened the door.

The night was not black as it seemed in the dugout. She was grey. Weak light came from the snow. In this gray light, Mitya made out a pile of boxes of shells. With a slow step, he walked around him several times and returned. "Now sleep!" Mitya told himself. He pulled on his hat deeper, curled up, tucked up the flaps of his greatcoat to keep him warm. But in the cold and loneliness, sleep did not go. Mitya dozed off a bit.

In the morning, after warming up by the fire and chewing some crackers, Mitya went to look for the stove. Otherwise I'll freeze, he thought. “At least some poor little stove must remain. So many people lived all winter ... "

Mitya climbed dugouts and dugouts. He came across a lot of stuff. He found a lamp made from a shell casing, there were even concentrates of millet porridge, but there was no stove. Who would leave such a treasure in the winter! But suddenly, in a half-collapsed dugout, where Mitya was not going to look in, but for some reason looked in, he saw a samovar. The copper samovar was huge and round. He stood on a pine block on four paws, wide, like those of a thoroughbred dog. The handle of the short tap was intricate, similar to the number eight, on the eight sat a lot of small rings and curlicues. On top of the samovar there was a burner with patterned cutouts - like a royal crown. It was the king-samovar. From such a find, Mitya became cheerful. With concentrates in his bosom, with a lamp under his arm, with a samovar on his shoulder, he went to his place.

The post was perfect. Mitya took up the arrangement of his affairs. First, he lit a large fire to kindle coals for the samovar. Then he began to cut the bottom of the cans with a knife. There were many empty cans, and soon, sticking one into another, Mitya assembled a long pipe. Still had to get water. Mitya stuffed a bowler hat with snow and hung it over the fire. While the snow was melting, he brought a handful of sand and a rag from the dugout and began to scrub his find.

Copper was well cleaned, the samovar shone. In the red side of the samovar, Mitya saw his own face - with a thick nose, with a flattened forehead and chin, with cheeks that were swollen to the sides. Mitya winked at his reflection, and the face on the samovar answered with a wonderful, cheerful grimace.

"Nothing, you can live!" Mitya thought.

It became cozy in the dugout with the samovar, and when Mitya lit it up, it got warm. And Mitya got quite warm after tea. To drink plenty of real samovar tea - not everyone succeeds in a war! Walking by the shells, Mitya kept looking at the dugout, at the chimney, from which gray smoke was rising. There was no smoke visible at night. But sparks became visible, they flew up like red midges.

And the next night, Mitya also did not fall asleep for a long time, he also thought. But the thoughts were calm, not disturbing, not terrible. He imagined the people who in peacetime were sitting at the samovar. It must have been a big family. Mother and father, children, grandparents. On the table they had all sorts of delicious things: bagels, cakes, jam, sweets ... And above this deliciousness, above the cups and saucers, a samovar towered. Then the Nazis attacked. The owner of the samovar, of course, went to war. And where did the mother with the children, the grandparents go? They left the front. They left the samovar - there it is! Carry him ... The infantrymen, to whom he got, did not carry him either. Of course, they were sorry to part with him. But nothing can be done - the infantry already has a lot of cargo: a rifle, cartridges, grenades, a gas mask, a shovel ... So Mitya reasoned to himself and imperceptibly fell asleep.

Three days, promised by the foreman, have passed. But they didn’t follow the shells and Mitya. “It’s true, the Nazis were driven far away,” Mitya guessed. - Why, without shells, how to drive them? That is OK. I'll wait. Now you can wait."

Once, it was on the sixth day, the samovar suddenly began to sing. In its hot middle, a thin buzzing with bells was heard. The tiny bells rang louder and louder every minute. Soon the separate sounds merged into one - as if a pipe hummed. Mitya remembered a playful omen: the samovar was singing towards the road. Indeed, the cars arrived that day.

Mitya's comrades, as soon as the shells were loaded, began to drink tea. Some brewed a birch twig in a mug, some a burnt cracker. And everyone clapped the round sides of the samovar, as if thanking them for the pleasure.

Mitya arranged a place for himself in the truck among the boxes. I sat there comfortably and laid the still warm samovar on my knees. So he drove him to his division.

night blindness

Mitin's comrade, Corporal Savkin, captured a tanker. Savkin was lying under a fascist tank, lined up in a no-man's land, watching through binoculars from where enemy machine guns were firing. At this time, the fascist crawled to the tank. Apparently, he wanted to find out what kind of damage the car had, in order to take it to him later. The corporal let the fascist in about ten meters, threw off the disguise with the barrel of the machine gun and said: “Hyundai hoch!” The German rushed to the side, but immediately realized that it was useless to run, and, kneeling, raised his hands.

Savkin brought the prisoner to the location of the division. The commander praised the corporal, rejoiced at his good luck and ordered the German to be brought for interrogation at the brigade headquarters. Savkin lay under the tank all day in the morning, he was cold and hungry. Mitya Kornev was assigned to lead the prisoner further.

Headquarters was three kilometers away. The road went through the forest.

Mitya followed the fascist. The barrel of Mitya's machine gun looked at the back of the enemy. And Mitya's eyes looked at nature. Spring began. True, there was no greenery yet, but there was no more snow either. The birches stood quiet, solemn - waiting for a meeting with real warmth. Mitya broke a kidney. The brown kidney was, as it were, entangled with a green thread. These scales began to disperse, slowly releasing the leaf.

Twilight has come. It got cold. Birches have become strict, almost winter. Twilight was gathering rapidly, as if in a hurry to hide the trees from frost. It was still far from the headquarters of the brigade, when suddenly everything was dragged on by a dark haze. Nothing became visible: neither the prisoner nor the white birches. “A strange evening,” thought Mitya, and stumbled over a bump. He rubbed his eyes with his hand, but they seemed to be covered with a veil.

Mitya's hearing strained. He heard the pounding of his heart in his chest. And I also heard the German walking, poking his boots into the damp road. The steps were measured, without failure. “That means,” thought Mitya, “the German sees where he is advancing. He doesn't stumble like I do. What's wrong with my eyes? Is it blind? This is night blindness.”

Mitya was scared. He remembered the soldiers who had night blindness. During the day they saw well. And as the sun went down, they were collected from the trenches, from firing positions, and they, helpless, holding each other by the straps of their overcoats, followed the sighted guide soldier. We walked away from the front line, to a safe place. They couldn't fight at night.

Anxious thoughts raced through Mitya's head.

“If a fascist runs away, what will I tell the commander? Okay - he will run away, but if he kills one of ours on the way, will he blow up something? Tell him to lie down? And wait for someone to come down the road? A fascist might guess that I don't see."

Here - either the road became harder, or the prisoner went far - the steps became barely distinguishable. Mitya increased his speed, hurried, his foot fell into the hole, and he almost fell. Then, out of vexation or despair, Mitya, unexpectedly for himself, suddenly shouted:

“Hitler kaput,” the German agreed close by.

“He has no idea,” Mitya understood. “Until you figure it out.”

Fifty paces later Mitya asked again:

- Kaput Hitler?

“Hitler kaput,” the German replied. This time angrily: they say, what to ask, and so everything is clear.

Mitya felt somehow embarrassed, as if ashamed of such a monotonous, frivolous conversation. But he did not know other German words and soon again asked the question that had bothered the prisoner. What was to be done? By the voice of the captive, Mitya determined where he was, and checked himself to see if he was going astray. When Mitya, having swallowed saliva, again prepared for the question, the German himself said in an arrogant tone:

- Kaput, kaput. Hitler Kaput.

He decided that the young guard, who looked like a teenager, was amusing himself in such a stupid way out of boredom.

"Consider yourself smart, consider me stupid," thought Mitya, "I'll put up with it." A new concern overcame him - not to pass the headquarters of the brigade. The headquarters was located in the forest about two hundred meters from the main road. How to find a fork?

Fortunately, patrolmen were posted at the fork for the night. When there was a cry: "Stop, who's coming?" - Mitya even shuddered with joy.

- Yours! he shouted. He immediately corrected himself: “Your own and a German!” - And he spoke passionately, hastily, fearing that the patrolman would not listen to the end, he would leave: - I'm taking the prisoner to the headquarters. But the eyes do not see. You are going to take us. I'm afraid to miss the fascist, run - I can not see. I have night blindness.

“Sure,” the patrolman said. - And I’m thinking: why are two people walking and one yelling like clockwork: “Hitler kaput!”?

The patrolman took Mitya by the hand, said to the prisoner: “Blow forward!” - yes, with such intonation that the fascist understood him, and all three walked towards the headquarters.

In the morning Mitya began to see well again. He came to his division when breakfast began. This time, a sanitary instructor was standing next to the cook at the camp kitchen. And first it was necessary to give him a spoon, and then a bowler hat to the cook. The sanitary instructor poured a thick liquid from a bottle into a spoon for each and demanded that the artilleryman immediately drink it.

- What it is? Mitya asked when it was his turn. - Fish fat? I don’t like fish oil,” Mitya began to refuse.

- Drink, Kornev, without talking! - the sanitary instructor got angry. “If I had started giving this medicine earlier, you wouldn’t have had to toil with the prisoner yesterday. You do not have the necessary vitamin in your body, so your vision is impaired.

Mitya drank and licked the spoon.

“Thank you,” he said to the instructor.

- To your health! he replied.

Indeed, Mitya Kornev became healthy in a few days. He could fight the Nazis not only during the day, but also after sunset - at any time of the day.

Dust

Wheels and soldiers' feet have worn the ground on the country road into fine dust. Everything around was covered with dust: grass, bushes, and grasshoppers.

Private Mitya Kornev was riding in a truck next to the driver. Their cabin was slitted, tarpaulin - there was not enough metal for iron ones then - and the dust in it stood, as they say, a pillar. Mitya dreamed of how they would get to their division, how they would shake out their gymnasts, wash themselves with water.

There was little left to go. But suddenly there was a thud in front of me. The truck sank like a limp. Dropped a wheel.

In about thirty minutes the driver and Mitya did what was needed. Checked other wheels. It was possible to go. And then Mitya saw: only the ribbon from the medal was hanging on his tunic, the medal itself - a silver circle with the inscription "For Courage" - was lost.

“I dropped the medal,” Mitya said.

- How did you drop it? the driver was surprised. - When?

- Probably, when the wheel was being repaired ...

"We'll find it," said the driver.

He knelt by the wheel, plunged his hands up to his elbows into the hot dust, and began to rummage about.

Mitya leaned over at the other wheel.

- What, Slavs, are you looking for? Isn't it money? I will find - half of me.

A wagon stopped next to the truck. The rider, without waiting for an answer, jumped off. From the outside, it might seem that a shell hit the road - such a whirlwind of dust rose.

- The medal was lost, - Mitya admitted, - "For courage."

“This is a serious matter,” said the rider.

He threw a whip into the wagon and also began to rake the dust.

The three of us searched until the lorry honked. The wagon prevented her from passing. In a lorry, nurses were sitting on hospital mattresses. In order not to dust their hair, they put it under caps and looked like boys.

- Brothers! What are you, like chickens, rummaging? the little nurse asked, and the friends laughed.

The rider got up from the wheel. Leading the horse away, he explained:

This one lost his medal.

- Well?! gasped the nurses in unison.

When the lorry started off, the little nurse called out to Mitya:

- Oh you! We need you to the hospital for treatment!

Half a day left. He left riding on a horse. But the road is the road, so that they walk along it and drive. A squad of sappers caught up with the truck. The chief was an elderly foreman. His nose is like a beetroot. Even powdered with dust, the nose glowed red.

- Did you lose the nut? the foreman asked sympathetically. “Nothing, you’ll get there without one.”

- Nut would be fine, - the driver answered, - a medal ...

- Sluts! The foreman got angry. - There is no one to teach you!

- Maybe you can look for a mine detector? Mitya asked.

- And what! - agreed one sapper and began to attach headphones to his head. Just drive the car away. There is so much iron in it, it will squeak in the headphones - you will go deaf.

Mitya was very happy. The driver climbed into the cab to start. But the red-nosed foreman commanded:

- Stop searching! Line up! Step march!

And the sappers left.

Mitya just sat down by the wheel. Tears rolled down of their own accord. “Well, what kind of person? Mitya thought. What was the cost of helping?

He did not hear how the foreman explained to the sappers on the move:

- The car must not be touched. So at least you can see where the medal could fall. Here they are, all four wheels, as the song says... And you won’t find a medal with a mine detector: on the road there are nuts, and nails, and bolts, and bullets, and splinters, even soldier’s buttons...

Cossack intelligence drove up to the truck at that time. Even though it's hot, the Cossacks wear Kubanka hats. The trousers of the privates are like those of the generals, with stripes. On the belts checkers, pistols, machine guns on the back. And each scout has a chest full of orders and medals. Shine - Cossacks dust is not dust.

The riders stopped their horses. One leaned over from the saddle to Mitya:

- What's pissed off? Who offended?

Mitya was ashamed to explain. Yes, they do ask.

Dropped the medal. We are looking for time...

- Kozlov! shouted from the middle of the platoon. - You have a lot of medals. Give them one.

“I won’t,” said the scout seriously. - They didn’t save their own - they’ll even sow someone else’s.

The Cossacks touched the horses. The platoon was enveloped in dust like a cloud, and with this cloud disappeared around the bend.

The cook arrived in the field kitchen. Smoke oozed from the chimney. In the cauldron behind the iron wall, porridge puffed and roared. The cook was young, Mitin's age.

- Yes, I would, - he said, - if I had received a medal, I would have saved it ... After the war, you will go down the street with a medal - everyone will say: "This one was not a coward in front of the Nazis." And I can't get a reward. I am with porridge all the time. You, - he consoled Mitya, - do not grieve. You'll get more. And even an order. You gunners have where to get it. Excuse me for not helping you find it. Roth needs to be fed. I would put porridge for you, but you can’t open the boiler in such dust ...

- What's there ... - said Mitya, touched by participation, and shook the cook's hand in parting. - Everything! he decided when the kitchen left. - Can not found.

Mitya sat on the footboard of the truck. The driver sat next to me. They thought about one thing: it's time to go. The division is already worried. A medal is simply impossible to find. Nothing to do about. Many people have misfortune. Now misfortune happened to Mitya. The driver went to the roadside, tore off a thorny bush and began to knock the dust off his trousers. Mitya didn't have the strength for such an easy task. Then a "goat" rolled up - a short little car with a canvas top. He braked near the truck, so famously that the dust that was spinning behind him flew forward. "Goat" as if deceived her. The door opened, the lieutenant looked out:

- Why are you standing? Has the fuel run out?

Mitya jumped up from the footboard:

“There is fuel, Comrade Lieutenant. Let's go now. Looking for a medal. Lost while the wheel was being repaired.

- Did you find it? the lieutenant asked.

“Not at all,” Mitya replied.

- Search again. And find! I'll give you fifteen minutes. - The lieutenant looked at his watch, then at Mitya, slammed the door, and the "goat", rushing from his place, sped away.

- Should I look for more? Mitya said uncertainly.

“We are looking for fifteen minutes,” the driver agreed, “as the lieutenant ordered.

And they again began to feel the dust near the wheels. The dust was so dry, so light, that it flowed between my fingers. It was impossible to take it in a pinch. In a handful, she weighed nothing, the handful was as if empty. And suddenly it seemed to Mitya that there was something heavy in his hand. He slowly opened his fingers, the dust escaped from his palm, and on his palm, in the very middle of it, lay a silver circle.

- Found! Found! Found! Mitya shouted and began to kick up the dust with his boots.

- Yes, you stop, - the driver was delighted, - come on, show me!

They looked at the medal for a long time, as on the day when Mitya was awarded it for courage in repulsing the attack of German tanks.

Gleb Ermolaev went to war as a volunteer. Of his own free will, he applied to the draft board and asked to be sent to the front as soon as possible - to fight the Nazis, Gleb was not eighteen years old. He could have lived at home for six months or a year, with his mother and sisters. But the Nazis were advancing, and our troops were retreating; in such a dangerous time, Gleb believed, one should not hesitate, one must go to war.

Like all young soldiers, Gleb wanted to get into intelligence. He dreamed of making his way behind enemy lines, taking "tongues" there. However, in the rifle platoon, where he arrived with replenishment, he was told that he would be an armor-piercer. Gleb hoped to get a pistol, a dagger, a compass and binoculars - intelligence equipment, but he was given an anti-tank rifle - heavy, long, awkward.

The soldier was young, but he understood how bad it was if you did not like the entrusted weapon. Gleb went to the platoon commander, a lieutenant with a not very good surname Krivozub, and told everything frankly.

Lieutenant Krivozub was only three years older than the soldier. His hair was black, curly, his face swarthy, and his mouth was full of white, even teeth.

“So, you mean intelligence?” the lieutenant asked, smiling and showing his fine teeth. I'm thinking about intelligence myself. Let's rename the rifle platoon into a reconnaissance platoon and all wave to the rear of the Nazis, I, - said Krivozub in a whisper, - would have done this long ago, but I just can’t figure out who will defend this sector instead of us. Do you know by any chance?

“I don’t know,” Gleb answered in a whisper, too. He was offended by the lieutenant for such a conversation and blushed with resentment.

“Brave people are needed not only in intelligence,” the lieutenant said after a pause. “It was not an easy task for you, soldier Ermolaev. Oh, how difficult! You and your PTR will sit in the very front trench. And you will certainly knock down the enemy tank. Otherwise, he will approach the trench where the platoon is defending, and will crush everyone with caterpillars. While we are quiet, an experienced armor-piercer will deal with you, beginners. Then you get an assistant. You are the first number in the calculation, he will be the second. Go...

It was really quiet on that sector of the front at that time. Somewhere the earth shook from explosions, somewhere people died, but here, on a flat dry meadow, enclosed between two groves, only grasshoppers chirped. With stubborn, zeal, they extracted monotonous sounds from their withered little bodies - without a break, without stopping. The grasshoppers did not know what kind of tornado would sweep over the meadow, they did not know how hot and tight the blast wave was. If they knew, if they knew, they would hasten with high jumps - through sagebrush bushes, over hummocks - away from these places.

Soldier Gleb Ermolaev did not hear grasshoppers. He worked diligently with a shovel - dug his trench. The place for the trench had already been chosen by the commander. Resting, when his hands were weakening, Gleb tried to imagine where the Nazi tank would go. It turned out that the tank would go where the commander had intended - along a hollow that stretched across the entire meadow to the left of the trench. A tank, like a person, also tries to hide in some kind of recess - to make it harder to get into it. And our guns disguised in groves will shoot at the tank. The trench is away from the hollow. When the tank is on the same line with the trench, the soldier Ermolaev will slam an armor-piercing incendiary bullet into his side. It's hard to miss at that distance. The bullet will pierce the armor, fly into the tank, hit the gas tank, or the projectile, or the engine - and the job is done.

But what if there are two or three tanks? What then? Imagine how he would fight with three tanks, Gleb could not. But he could not allow in his thoughts that the enemy vehicles would pass to the trench. “The cannons will kill,” he reassured himself, and, reassured, he again began to pound the hardened clay with a shovel.

By evening the trench was ready. So deep that one could stand upright in it, Gleb liked it. Gleb believed in the reliability of the shelter, and for another hour he was busy making it better. I dug a niche for cartridges in the side wall. He also dug a hole for a flask of water. Several times he carried away clay in a cape - away from the trench, so that the brown spot would not betray his shelter to the enemies. For the same purpose, he poked the embankment in front of the trench with branches of wormwood.

The second number - the assistant promised by the lieutenant, came to Gleb only at dusk. Together with the platoon, he was also engaged in earthworks - the soldiers deepened the trench, dug the communications.

The second number was three times older than Gleb. His unshaven face shone with mischievous blue eyes. The reddish nose stuck out like an awl. The lips were stretched forward, as if constantly blowing into an invisible pipe. He was small in stature. His legs seemed quite short to Gleb, in shoes and windings. No, the armor-piercer Ermolaev was not waiting for such a comrade, He was waiting for an experienced fighter, whom he would obey with respect and joy, whom he would obey in everything. And for the first time in the whole week that he was at the forefront, Gleb became alarmed. He felt sad, there was a premonition of something bad, irreparable.

- Semyon Semenovich Semenov, - the second number called himself.

He sat down on the edge of the trench, put his feet down and tapped his heels against the clay wall.

- Strong ground. It won't collapse," he said knowingly. But very deep. I can only see the sky from this trench, and we are not supposed to shoot at planes - at tanks. You overdid it, Ermolai Glebov.

— I dug according to my height. My name is Gleb Ermolaev. You mixed up your first and last name.

“I got it mixed up,” the second number agreed very willingly. “And my name is very convenient. Replace the surname with the patronymic, the patronymic with the given name - it will still be correct.

Semyon Semyonovich looked into the distance, to where at the end of the meadow a country road could be seen as a gray obscure strip, and said:

- You have a long gun, but you should have even longer. To get through the meadow to the road. Tanks will go from there ... Or bend the barrel - with the letter G. Sat down in the trench - and shoot safely ... However, - here Semyon Semenovich's voice became stern, - you, Gleb Yermolaev, made another mistake - you dug a trench on one. Should I lie in the meadow? No shelter? To kill me in the first minute?

Gleb blushed, as in a conversation about intelligence with Lieutenant Krivozub.

- That's it! You are number one, Commander. I am number two, subordinate. And I have to teach you. All right," Semyon Semyonovich finished magnanimously, "tomorrow we'll dig a hole for me too. Not great work. I'm not big...

The last words touched Gleb. At night he could not sleep for a long time. Through an overcoat laid on the ground, either pebbles or hard roots were pricked. He turned to make himself more comfortable, listened to the sentry walking along the trench, and thought about Semyon Semyonovich. “He is indeed a kind person. They will definitely get along. And Gleb will finish the trench himself. Let Semyon Semyonovich rest. He is old, He is small. It’s hard for him in the war!”

It was not possible to dig a trench. There were explosions at dawn. Planes dived into the groves and dropped bombs. Worse than the explosions was the howl of dive-bombers. The lower the plane glided to the ground, the more unbearable the roar of its engines and sirens became. It seemed that with this heart-rending scream the plane would crash into the ground and it would shatter like glass. But the plane above the ground itself was coming out of a dive, climbing steeply into the sky. And the earth did not scatter like glass, it trembled, black waves of lumps and dust swelled on it, On the crests of those waves, birch trees uprooted swayed and tumbled.

- In places! In places! shouted Lieutenant Krivozub. He stood at the trench, looked at the sky, trying to determine whether the Nazis would bomb the platoon, or drop all the bombs on those who were defending along the edges of the groves.

The planes took off. The lieutenant turned, looked around at the soldiers, who had fallen silent in their places. Directly in front of him he saw Gleb with an anti-tank rifle and Semyon Semyonovich.

- Well, what are you? Go! he said softly. "Now there will be an attack...

- I'm alone. Number two stay in the trench! shouted Gleb, climbing out onto the parapet. And he added, explaining his decision: - We have a trench for only one ...

Gleb was worried that he would not have time to prepare to repel the attack. He hurriedly set up the bipod of an anti-tank gun, loaded the gun, straightened the sagebrush branches in front of the trench so that they would not interfere with looking and shooting, removed the flask from the belt, put it in the hole ... But there were still no enemies. Then he looked back at the platoon trench, and did not see it - either it was so cleverly disguised, or it was very far away. Gleb felt sad. It seemed to him that he was alone in this bare meadow and everyone forgot about him - both Lieutenant Krivozub and Semyon Semyonovich. I wanted to run away to check if the platoon was in place? This desire was so strong that he began to get out of the trench. But here - both close and far - mines began to burst with a formidable crack. The Nazis fired at the position of the platoon. Gleb crouched down in his trench, listened to the explosions and thought - how to look out of the trench to look around? If you stick your head out, it will kill you with a shrapnel! And it’s impossible not to look out - maybe the enemies are already very close ...

And he looked out. A tank rolled across the meadow. Behind a rare chain, bending down, ran submachine gunners. The most unexpected and therefore very terrible thing was that the tank did not move along a hollow, as the lieutenant assumed, not away from the trench, but directly into the trench of the armor-piercer. Lieutenant Krivozub reasoned correctly: the tank would have driven along the hollow if it had been shot at from the cannon groves. But our guns did not fire, they died under the bombardment. And the Nazis, being careful that the hollow was mined, went directly. Gleb Ermolaev was preparing to shoot at the side of the Nazi tank, where the armor is thin, but now he had to shoot at the frontal armor, which not every projectile would take.

The tank approached, rattling its tracks, swaying as if bowing. Forgetting about the submachine gunners, the armor-piercer Ermolaev squeezed the butt of the gun into his shoulder, took aim at the driver's viewing slot. And then a machine gun suddenly struck from behind in a long burst. Bullets whistled next to Gleb. Without having time to think about anything, he released the anti-tank rifle from his hands and sat down in the trench. He was afraid that his machine gunner would catch him. And when Gleb realized that the machine gunner and the platoon shooters were hitting the fascist submachine gunners in order to prevent them from approaching the Glebov trench, that they knew perfectly well where his trench was, it was already too late to shoot at the tank. It became dark in the trench, as at night, and breathed with heat. The tank ran into a trench. Rumbling, spinning in place. He buried the armor-piercer Ermolaev in the ground.

As if from deep water, Gleb rushed out of his covered trench. The fact that he was saved, the soldier understood, inhaling air through his mouth clogged with earth. He immediately opened his eyes and saw in the blue gasoline smoke the stern of the outgoing tank. And I saw my gun. It lay half-buried, with the butt to Gleb, the barrel towards the tank. That's right, the PTR got between the tracks, spinning along with the tank over the trench. In these difficult moments, Gleb Ermolaev became a real soldier. He jerked the anti-tank rifle towards him, took aim, fired out of resentment for his oversight, expiating his guilt before the platoon.

The tank smoked. Smoke came not from the exhaust pipes, but from the body of the tank, finding cracks to exit. Then dense, black clubs entwined with ribbons of fire broke out from the sides and from the stern. "Killed!" - still not believing in complete luck, Gleb said to himself. And he corrected himself: “I didn’t knock it out. I set it on fire."

Nothing could be seen behind the cloud of black smoke that drifted across the meadow. Only shooting was heard; platoon soldiers completed the fight with an enemy tank. Soon, Lieutenant Krivozub jumped out of the smoke. He ran with a machine gun to the hollow, where the enemy machine gunners took refuge after the death of the tank. Soldiers followed the leader.

Gleb didn't know what to do. Also run to the hollow? With an anti-tank rifle, you can’t really run, the thing is heavy. And he couldn't run. He was so tired that his legs could barely support him. Gleb sat down on the parapet of his trench.

The last to emerge from the smoke screen was a small soldier. It was Semyon Semyonovich. For a long time he could not climb the embankment in front of the trench and fell behind. Semyon Semyonovich rushed about in the meadow - he rushed to the hollow after everyone, then rushed towards Gleb, seeing him sitting on the ground. I thought that the first number of the armor-piercing crew was wounded and needed dressing, and ran to him.

- Not hurt? Not? Semyon Semyonovich asked and calmed down. - Well, Yermolai Glebov, you hit him hard ...

“Yes, I’m not Yermolai,” said Gleb with annoyance. When will you remember this?

- I remember everything, Gleb! So I say this out of embarrassment. The two of us were supposed to beat him. And you, you see, left me in the trench...

- And rightly so, the trench was for one.

- That's right, not really. Two would be more fun...

Gleb from these words and from everything that happened, it became so good that he almost cried.

- Close. The Nazis jumped out of it directly to us on rifles.

A few more anxious days passed - with bombings, with artillery and mortar shelling, and then everything calmed down. The Nazi offensive failed. On quiet days, Gleb Ermolaev was summoned to the headquarters of the regiment. Lieutenant Krivozub told me how to get there.

At the headquarters of the regiment, in a ravine overgrown with thick bushes, a lot of people had gathered. It turned out that these were fighters and commanders who distinguished themselves in recent battles. From them, Gleb learned what was happening to the right and left of his platoon: the Nazis were advancing in a strip of several kilometers and nowhere did they manage to break through our defenses.

From the staff dugout, dug in the slope of the ravine, came the regiment commander. The brave men were already lined up. They were called according to the list, they went out in turn and received awards.

They called out Gleb Ermolaev. The colonel, a strict man, but, judging by his eyes, and cheerful, seeing a very young soldier in front of him, went up to Gleb and asked how a father asks his son:

- Was it scary?

“It’s scary,” Gleb replied. - I got scared.

- He's the one who got scared! the colonel suddenly shouted in a fervent voice. “A foxtrot tank was dancing on it, and he endured the dances and mutilated the car for the Germans, like a god a turtle. No, tell me straight, don't be modest - you weren't afraid, were you?

“I was scared,” Gleb said again. - I hit the tank by accident.

“Here, do you hear? shouted the Colonel. - Well done! Who would have believed you if he said he wasn't a coward. How not to be afraid when such a thing climbs on you alone! But you are mistaken about chance, son. You knocked him out right. You overcame your fear. He drove his fear into his shoes under his heels. Then he aimed boldly and fired boldly. For the feat you are entitled to the Order of the Red Star. Why didn't you pierce a hole in the tunic? Keep in mind, as you burn the tank, so pierce a hole - there will be another order.

---