Rear railroad station on the way to the front. Water tower. Two straight old poplars. A low brick station surrounded by thick acacia trees.
The military train stops. Two village children run up to the carriage with wallets in their hands.
Lieutenant Martynov asks:
How much are currants?
The elder answers:
We don’t take money from you, comrade commander.
The boy conscientiously fills the glass so that the currants spill onto the hot dust between the sleepers. He tips the glass into the pot he has placed, lifts his head and, listening to the distant roar, announces:
- “Henkel” is buzzing... Wow! Wow! Choked. Don't be afraid, Comrade Lieutenant, there are our fighters. There is no way for the Germans to cross the sky here.
Axis! There's a thump there...
Lieutenant Martynov is interested in this message. He sits on the floor by the door and, dangling his legs outside, eating currants, asks:
Hm! And what, lad, are people doing in that war?
They shoot,” the boy explains, “they take a gun or cannon, point it... and bang!” And you're done.
What's ready?
That's what! - the boy exclaims with annoyance. - They point the trigger, press it, and there will be death.
Death for whom - me? - And Martynov calmly pokes his finger into his chest.
No way! - the boy, surprised by the commander’s lack of understanding, cries out sadly. - Some kind of evil has come, throwing bombs on huts, on barns. That's where the grandmother was killed, two cows were torn to pieces. “Why,” he mockingly shamed the lieutenant, “he’s got a revolver on, but he doesn’t know how to fight.”
Lieutenant Martynov is confused. The commanders around him laugh.
The locomotive blows its whistle.
The boy, the one who carried the currants, takes his angry brother by the hand and, walking towards the moving carriages, explains to him in a drawn-out and condescending manner:
They know! They're joking! These are the kind of people who are coming... cheerful, desperate! One commander handed me a three-ruble note for a glass of currants while walking. Well, I ran and ran after the carriage. But still he put the piece of paper into the carriage.
Here... - the boy nods his head approvingly. - What do you care? And there, during the war, let him buy kvass or sitra.
What a fool! - The elder man says condescendingly, accelerating his pace and keeping level with the carriage. - Do they drink this during war? Don't cling to my side! Don't turn your head! This is our “I-16” fighter, and the German one hums heavily, with a break. The war is in its second month, and you don’t know your planes.
Combatant zone. Passing the herds of collective farm cattle, which go to the quiet pastures to the east, to the crossroads of the village, the car stops.
A boy of about fifteen jumps up on the step. He's asking for something. The cattle moo, a long whip cracks in the clouds of dust.
The engine rumbles, the driver honks his horn desperately, driving away the stupid beast, which will not turn over until it hits its forehead on the radiator. What does the boy need? We don't understand. Money? Of bread?
Then suddenly it turns out:
Uncle, give me two cartridges.
What do you need cartridges for?
And so... for memory.
They don't give you ammo for souvenirs.
I slip him a lattice shell from a hand grenade and a spent, shiny cartridge case.
The boy’s lips curl contemptuously:
Here you go! What's the use of them?
Oh, dear! So do you need a memory that you can use to make sense? Maybe I should give you this green bottle or this black egg-shaped grenade? Maybe you should unhook that small anti-tank gun from the tractor? Get into the car, don’t lie and say everything straight.
And so the story begins, full of secret omissions and subterfuges, although in general everything has long been clear to us.
A dense forest closed harshly around, deep ravines lay across the road, and marshy reed swamps spread out along the banks of the river. Fathers, uncles and older brothers are leaving to join the partisans. And he is still young, but dexterous and brave. He knows all the hollows, the last paths for forty kilometers in the area.
Fearing that they won’t believe him, he pulls a Komsomol card wrapped in oilcloth from his bosom. And not having the right to say anything more, licking his cracked, dusty lips, he waits greedily and impatiently.
I look into his eyes. I put the clip in his hot hand. This is a clip from my rifle. It's written on me.
I take responsibility for the fact that each bullet fired from these five cartridges will fly exactly in the right direction.
What is your name?
Listen, Yakov, why do you need cartridges if you don’t have a rifle? What, are you going to shoot from an empty can?
The truck starts moving. Yakov jumps off the step, he jumps up and cheerfully shouts something awkward, stupid. He laughs and mysteriously shakes his finger at me. Then, hitting the cow spinning around with his fist in the face, he disappears in a cloud of dust.
Oh, No! This guy will not put the clip in an empty container.
Children! The war fell on tens of thousands of them in the same way as on adults, if only because the fascist bombs dropped over peaceful cities have the same force for everyone.
Acutely, often more acutely than adults, teenagers - boys and girls - experience the events of the Great Patriotic War.
They are greedy last point, listen to the messages of the Information Bureau, remember all the details of heroic deeds, write down the names of the heroes, their ranks, their surnames.
With boundless respect they see off the trains leaving for the front, and with boundless love they greet the wounded arriving from the front.
I saw our children deep in the rear, in the troubled front line, and even on the front line itself. And everywhere I saw their great thirst for business, work and even achievement.
Before the battle, I recently met a boy on the bank of a river.
While looking for a missing cow to shorten the route, he swam across the river and unexpectedly found himself among the Germans.
Hidden in the bushes, he sat three steps away from the fascist commanders, who were talking for a long time about something, holding a map in front of them.
He came back to us and told us what he had seen.
I asked him:
Wait a minute! But you heard what their bosses said, this is very important for us.
The boy was surprised:
Well, comrade commander, they spoke German!
I know it's not in Turkish. How many classes have you completed? Nine? So you should have understood at least something from their conversation?
He threw up his hands sadly and sadly:
Eh, comrade commander! If only I had known about this meeting earlier...
Years will pass. You will become adults. And then, in a good hour of rest after a lot of peaceful work, you will joyfully remember that once, in terrible days for the Motherland, you did not dangle under your feet, did not sit idly by, but did what you could to help your country in its difficult times. and the very important fight against man-hating fascism.
Active Army
At the passage through a heavy barricade lined with rough planks, a policeman checked my pass to leave the besieged city. Read...
I was thirty-two years old then. Marusya is twenty-nine, and our daughter Svetlana is six and a half. Only at the end of the summer did I get a vacation, and for the last warm month we rented a dacha near Moscow.
Frontline essay
Rear railway station on the way to the front. Water tower. Two straight old poplars. A low brick station surrounded by thick acacia trees.
The military train stops. Two village children run up to the carriage with wallets in their hands.
Lieutenant Martynov asks:
How much are currants?
The elder answers:
We don’t take money from you, comrade commander.
The boy conscientiously fills the glass so that the currants spill onto the hot dust between the sleepers. He tips the glass into the pot he has placed, lifts his head and, listening to the distant roar, announces:
- "Henkel" is buzzing... Wow! Wow! Choked. Don't be afraid, Comrade Lieutenant, there are our fighters. There is no way for the Germans to cross the sky here.
Axis! There's a thump there...
Lieutenant Martynov is interested in this message. He sits on the floor by the door and, dangling his legs outside, eating currants, asks:
Hm! And what, lad, are people doing in that war?
They shoot,” the boy explains, “they take a gun or cannon, point it... and bang!” And you're done.
What's ready?
That's what! - the boy exclaims with annoyance. - They point the trigger, press it, and there will be death.
Death for whom - me? - And Martynov calmly pokes his finger into his chest.
No way! - the boy, surprised by the commander’s lack of understanding, cries out sadly. - Some kind of evil has come, throwing bombs on huts, on barns. That's where the grandmother was killed, two cows were torn to pieces. “Why,” he mockingly shamed the lieutenant, “he’s got a revolver on, but he doesn’t know how to fight.”
Lieutenant Martynov is confused. The commanders around him laugh.
The locomotive blows its whistle.
The boy, the one who carried the currants, takes his angry brother by the hand and, walking towards the moving carriages, explains to him in a drawn-out and condescending manner:
They know! They're joking! These are the kind of people who are coming... cheerful, desperate! One commander handed me a three-ruble note for a glass of currants while walking. Well, I ran and ran after the carriage. But still he put the piece of paper into the carriage.
Here... - the boy nods his head approvingly. - What do you care? And there, during the war, let him buy kvass or sitra.
What a fool! - The elder man says condescendingly, accelerating his pace and keeping level with the carriage. - Do they drink this during war? Don't cling to my side! Don't turn your head! This is our I-16 fighter, and the German one is buzzing heavily, with a break. The war is in its second month, and you don’t know your planes.
Combatant zone. Passing the herds of collective farm cattle, which go to the quiet pastures to the east, to the crossroads of the village, the car stops.
A boy of about fifteen jumps up on the step. He's asking for something. The cattle moo, a long whip cracks in the clouds of dust.
The engine rumbles, the driver honks his horn desperately, driving away the stupid beast, which will not turn over until it hits its forehead on the radiator. What does the boy need? We don't understand. Money? Of bread?
Then suddenly it turns out:
Uncle, give me two cartridges.
What do you need cartridges for?
And so... for memory.
They don't give you ammo for souvenirs.
I slip him a lattice shell from a hand grenade and a spent, shiny cartridge case.
The boy’s lips curl contemptuously:
Here you go! What's the use of them?
Oh, dear! So do you need a memory that you can use to make sense? Maybe I should give you this green bottle or this black egg-shaped grenade? Maybe you should unhook that small anti-tank gun from the tractor? Get into the car, don’t lie and say everything straight.
And so the story begins, full of secret omissions and subterfuges, although in general everything has long been clear to us.
A dense forest closed harshly around, deep ravines lay across the road, and marshy reed swamps spread out along the banks of the river. Fathers, uncles and older brothers are leaving to join the partisans. And he is still young, but dexterous and brave. He knows all the hollows, the last paths for forty kilometers in the area.
Fearing that they won’t believe him, he pulls a Komsomol card wrapped in oilcloth from his bosom. And not having the right to say anything more, licking his cracked, dusty lips, he waits greedily and impatiently.
I look into his eyes. I put the clip in his hot hand. This is a clip from my rifle. It's written on me.
I take responsibility for the fact that each bullet fired from these five cartridges will fly exactly in the right direction.
What is your name?
Listen, Yakov, why do you need cartridges if you don’t have a rifle? What, are you going to shoot from an empty can?
The truck starts moving. Yakov jumps off the step, he jumps up and cheerfully shouts something awkward, stupid. He laughs and mysteriously shakes his finger at me. Then, hitting the cow spinning around with his fist in the face, he disappears in a cloud of dust.
Oh, No! This guy will not put the clip in an empty container.
Children! The war fell on tens of thousands of them in the same way as on adults, if only because the fascist bombs dropped over peaceful cities have the same force for everyone.
Acutely, often more acutely than adults, teenagers - boys and girls - experience the events of the Great Patriotic War.
They greedily, to the last point, listen to the messages of the Information Bureau, remember all the details of heroic deeds, write down the names of the heroes, their titles, their surnames.
With boundless respect they see off the trains leaving for the front, and with boundless love they greet the wounded arriving from the front.
I saw our children deep in the rear, in the troubled front line, and even on the front line itself. And everywhere I saw their great thirst for business, work and even achievement.
Before the battle, I recently met a boy on the bank of a river.
While looking for a missing cow to shorten the route, he swam across the river and unexpectedly found himself among the Germans.
Hidden in the bushes, he sat three steps away from the fascist commanders, who were talking for a long time about something, holding a map in front of them.
He came back to us and told us what he had seen.
I asked him:
Wait a minute! But you heard what their bosses said, this is very important for us.
The boy was surprised:
Well, comrade commander, they spoke German!
I know it's not in Turkish. How many classes have you completed? Nine? So you should have understood at least something from their conversation?
He threw up his hands sadly and sadly:
Eh, comrade commander! If only I had known about this meeting earlier...
Years will pass. You will become adults. And then, in a good hour of rest after a lot of peaceful work, you will joyfully remember that once, in terrible days for the Motherland, you did not dangle under your feet, did not sit idly by, but did what you could to help your country in its difficult times. and the very important fight against man-hating fascism.
Active Army
Rehearsal work in the Russian language in the form of the OGE
Option 108
Part 1
Listen to the text and complete task 1 on a separate sheet of paper.
First write the task number, and then the text of the summary .
1. Listen to the text and write a concise summary. Please note that you must convey the main content of both each micro-topic and the entire text as a whole. The volume of presentation is at least 70 words. Write your summary in neat, legible handwriting.
Part 2
Read the text and complete tasks 2–14.
Active Army, Komsomolskaya Pravda,
(1) Children! (2) The war fell on tens of thousands of them in the same way as on adults, if only because the fascist bombs dropped over peaceful cities have the same force for everyone. (3) Acutely, often more acutely than adults, adolescent boys and girls experience the events of the Great Patriotic War. (4) They greedily, to the last point, listen to the messages of the Information Bureau, remember all the details of heroic deeds, write down the names of the heroes, their titles, their surnames. (5) With boundless respect they see off the trains leaving for the front, and with boundless love they greet the wounded arriving from the front.
(6) I saw our children deep in the rear, in the alarming front line, and even on the front line itself. (7) And everywhere I saw them have a great thirst for business, work, and even achievement.
(8) Front strip. (9) Passing herds of collective farm cattle, which go to quiet pastures to the east, to the intersection of the village, the car stops. (10) A boy of about fifteen jumps up on the step. (11) He asks for something. (12) What does the boy need? (13) We don’t understand. (14) Bread? (15) Then suddenly it turns out:
- (16) Uncle, give me two cartridges.
- (17) What do you need cartridges for?
- (18) And so... for memory.
- (19) They don’t give you cartridges for memory.
(20) I give him a lattice shell from a hand grenade and a spent shiny cartridge case. (21) The boy’s lips curl contemptuously.
- (22) Well! (23) What's the use of them?
- (24) Oh, dear! (25) So, do you need a memory that you can use to make sense? (26) Maybe I should give you this black egg grenade? (27) Maybe you should unhook that small anti-tank gun from the tractor? (28) Get into the car, don’t lie and tell everything straight. (29) And so the story begins, full of secret omissions and subterfuges, although in general everything has long been clear to us.
(30) A dense forest closed sternly around, deep ravines lay across the road, and marshy reed swamps spread out along the banks of the river. (31) Fathers, uncles and older brothers are joining the partisans. (32) And he is still young, but dexterous and brave. (33) He knows all the hollows, the last paths for forty kilometers in the area. (34) Fearing that they won’t believe him, he pulls a Komsomol card wrapped in oilcloth from his bosom. (35) And not having the right to tell anything more, licking his cracked, dusty lips, he waits greedily and impatiently.
(36) I look into his eyes. (37) I put the clip in his hot hand. (38) This is a clip from my rifle. (39) It is written on me. (40) I take responsibility for the fact that each bullet fired from these five cartridges will fly exactly in the right direction.
- (41) What is your name?
- (42) Yakov.
- (43) Listen, Yakov, why do you need cartridges if you don’t have a rifle? (44) What, are you going to shoot from an empty clay jar?
(45) The truck starts moving. (46) Yakov jumps off the step, he jumps up and cheerfully shouts something awkward, stupid. (47) He laughs, mysteriously shakes his finger at me and disappears in a cloud of dust.
(48) Oh, no! (49) This guy will not put the clip in an empty container.
(50) Another case. (51) Before the battle, I met a boy on the bank of a river. (52) Looking for the missing cow to shorten the path, he swam across the river and unexpectedly found himself in the position of the Germans. (53) Hidden in the bushes, he sat three steps away from the fascist commanders, who were talking for a long time about something, holding a map in front of them. (54) He returned to us and told us about what he had seen. (55) I asked him:
- Wait a minute! (56) But you heard what their bosses said, and you understood that this was very important for us.
(57) The boy was surprised:
- Well, comrade commander, they spoke German!
- (58) I know it’s not in Turkish. (59) How many classes have you completed? (60) Nine? (61) So you should have understood at least something from their conversation?
(62) He threw up his hands sadly and sadly:
- (63) Eh, comrade commander! (64) If only I had known about this meeting earlier...
_______________
*Krynka – jug, pot for milk.
(According to A.P. Gaidar*)
* Gaidar Arkady Petrovich ( real name– Golikov, 1904–1941) – children’s writer, film scriptwriter, participant in the Civil and Great Patriotic Wars.
2. Which answer option contains the information necessary to substantiate the answer to the question: “Why did the boy, having overheard the conversation of the German commanders, not be able to convey its contents to the Soviet soldiers?”
1) The German commanders spoke very quietly.
2) The boy didn’t understand the content of this conversation because he didn’t teach well German At school.
3) The boy was inattentive, he was in a hurry, he was looking for his cow.
4) The boy didn’t hear a lot because he was drawing a map of military operations.
3. Indicate a sentence in which the means of expressive speech is
phraseological unit.
1) Acutely, often more acutely than adults, adolescent boys and girls experience the events of the Great Patriotic War.
2) Maybe I should give you this black, egg-shaped grenade?
3) I put the clip in his hot hand.
4) He threw up his hands sadly and sadly.
4. From sentences 5–7, write down a word in which the spelling of the prefix is determined by the meaning - proximity to something.
5. From sentences 2–4, write down a word in which the spelling of the suffix is determined by the rule: “In suffixes of full passive past participles, NN is written.”
6. Replace the colloquial word “kaby” in sentence 64 with a stylistically neutral synonym. Write this synonym.
7. Replace the phrase “clay jar” (sentence 44), built on the basis of agreement, with a synonymous phrase with the connection management. Write the resulting phrase.
8. Write down the grammatical basis of sentence 19.
9. Among sentences 27–34, find a sentence complicated by a separate common agreed upon definition. Write the number of this offer.
10. In the sentences below from the text read, all commas are numbered. Write down all the numbers indicating commas in the introductory word.
So do you need a memory (1) that you can use to make sense? Maybe (2) give you this black, (3) egg, (4) grenade? Maybe (5) you should unhook that small anti-tank gun from the tractor? Get into the car, (6) don’t lie and tell everything straight.
11. Indicate the number of grammatical bases in sentence 34. Write the answer in numbers.
12. In the sentences below from the text read, all commas are numbered. Write down all the numbers indicating commas between parts complex sentence connected by a subordinating connection.
I saw our children deep in the rear, (1) in the alarming front line and even on the front line itself. And everywhere I saw their great thirst for work, (2) work and even achievement. Combatant zone. Passing the herds of collective farm cattle, (3) which go to the quiet pastures to the east, (4) to the crossroads of the village, (5) the car stops.
13. Among sentences 52–57, find a complex sentence with heterogeneous (parallel) subordination of subordinate clauses. Write the number of this offer. 15. 1. Write an essay-reasoning, revealing the meaning of the statement of the famous linguist Ruben Aleksandrovich Budagov: “Syntax is always at the service of the person himself, his thoughts and feelings.” When justifying your answer, give 2 (two) examples from the text you read. When giving examples, indicate the numbers of the required sentences or use citations. You can write a paper in a scientific or journalistic style, revealing the topic using linguistic material. You can start your essay with the words of R. A. Budagov. The essay must be at least 70 words. Work written without reference to the text read (not based on this text) is not graded. If the essay is a retelling or completely rewritten of the original text without any comments, then such work is scored zero points. Write your essay neatly and in legible handwriting.
2. Write an essay-reasoning. Explain how you understand the meaning of the sentences in the text: “I saw our children in the deep rear, in the alarming front line and even on the front line itself. And everywhere I saw them have a great thirst for business, work and even achievement.” In your essay, provide 2 (two) arguments from the text you read, confirming your reasoning. When giving examples, indicate the numbers of the required sentences or use citations. The essay must be at least 70 words. If the essay is a retelling or completely rewritten of the original text without any comments, then such work is scored zero points. Write your essay neatly and in legible handwriting.
3. How do you understand the meaning of the phrase POWER OF SPIRIT? Formulate and comment on the definition you have given. Write an essay-discussion on the topic "What is fortitude" taking the definition you gave as a thesis. When arguing your thesis, give 2 (two) examples-arguments that confirm your reasoning: give one example-argument from the text you read, and the second from your life experience. The essay must be at least 70 words. If the essay is a retelling or completely rewritten of the original text without any comments, then such work is scored zero points. Write your essay neatly and in legible handwriting.
The essay is a discussion of the Unified State Examination on the topic Front Line. Passing the herds of collective farm cattle that are leaving
Assignment to essay on the Unified State Exam. Option 10:
Essay questions 15.1, 15.2, 15.3: How do you understand the meaning of the phrase: Front line. Passing the herds of collective farm cattle that are leaving? Formulate and comment on the definition you have given. Write an essay-argument on the topic Front Line. Passing the herds of collective farm cattle that are leaving
When arguing your thesis, provide 2 (two) examples-arguments and answers confirming your reasoning: give one example-argument from the text you read, and the second from your life experience.
The essay or composition must be at least 70 words. If the essay is a retelling or completely rewritten of the original text without any comments, then such work is scored zero points. Write an essay carefully, legible handwriting.
Sample and example of short essay No. 1 on the topic: Front line. Passing the herds of collective farm cattle that are leaving. How to write a mini essay with a plan
The focus of the writer A.P. Gaidar's problem is the attitude of children to the events taking place in the country.
The author talks about meeting a teenager who needed ammunition. After describing this meeting A.P. Gaidar reflects on the behavior of children who matured during the war. They listen carefully to every word of the Information Bureau reports, they want to know all the cases of heroism, they rejoice when they see military equipment, leaving for the front railway, care for the wounded on an equal basis with adults. In the deep rear, children stood at machines and exceeded the adult's quota several times over, fought in partisan detachments, and as scouts obtained invaluable information. Do everything for victory - this motto was obligatory for them, because, contrary to the prohibitions of the adults who took care of them, they wanted to perform feats, they wanted to take revenge on the Nazis.
The author conveys to us, descendants, his recognition of the heroism of children. Not only adults, but also teenagers showed a sense of patriotism. He is convinced that these children, when they become adults, will be proud of their deeds and the fact that they contributed to the cause of victory.
The author’s information about the participation of children in the war, about their thirst for heroism makes me respect these people. I am glad that the writers left thoughts about this generation of children. It’s only a pity that time chose them and that fate did not reward them with a happy childhood.
The main character of Bogomolov's story "Ivan" went through a harsh school of life: he became an orphan, was in a death camp, ended up in partisan detachment, became a scout. He knew how to get through German patrols and swam across the river in the fall. So, risking his health and life, he obtained information that adult intelligence officers could not obtain. When he ended up in another military unit and they didn’t know him there, Ivan talked to the military like a real intelligence officer. He insistently demanded only that they call the other unit that he was on this side of the river. Before writing the reconnaissance data on a piece of paper, he took out a dirty handkerchief and poured out grains of rye and wheat, sunflower seeds and pine needles, and then laid them out in piles.
He did everything clearly, measuredly, and concentrated. He wrote for a long time, all the time covering what he wrote with his sleeve. Then he sealed the information first in one envelope, then in a larger one. They wanted to adopt him, but he said that he would study after the war, and even ran away from the unit. Then senior lieutenant Galtsev lost track of him and learned about him only at the end of the war from accidentally leftover German archival materials. The boy was captured and shot. Thus, during the war, the younger generation did not remain indifferent to what was happening in the country at that time. Wanting to take revenge on their enemies, they, like adults, performed tasks that led them to death.
Yesterday's schoolchildren, heroes of the novel by A.A. Fadeev's "Young Guard": Ivan Turkenich, Oleg Koshevoy, Lyubka Shevtsova, Sergei Tyulenin and many others - persistently sought connections with underground communists, then under their leadership they created the Komsomol organization "Young Guard". They posted leaflets that were so necessary to raise the morale of people, punished traitors, and carried out sabotage in the city’s workshops. To make people feel that the country is not giving up, that the great holidays are not forgotten, the Young Guard hung red flags on buildings on holidays and set fire to the German labor exchange.
So, children, along with adults, in harsh times felt responsible for what was happening in the country. They not only dreamed of victory, but in fact, by helping the country, they brought it closer.
Sample and example of short essay No. 2 on the topic: Front line. Passing the herds of collective farm cattle that are leaving. Arguments from literature. Text problem
The 20th century children's writer A.P. Gaidar raises the problem of children's attitude to events in the country. Having told about a meeting with a fifteen-year-old teenager Yakov, who asked the author for cartridges, A. Gaidar comes to the conclusion that “the war fell on children in the same way as on adults.” The writer believes that children perceived the events of the war “more acutely than adults.”
The teenagers felt everything that happened at the front and in the rear: messages from the USSR Information Bureau, heroic deeds of people, seeing off trains to the front, the arrival of the wounded - with all their hearts. Wherever A. Gaidar met them, he noticed in them a tremendous desire to bring victory closer, a desire to commit a heroic act.
There are many pages in the history of our country that reflect the indifference of teenagers to the fate of their relatives. About how four teenagers fought with bandits during civil war, the film was staged. It's called "The Elusive Avengers". Subsequently they become Red Army soldiers. V. Kataev’s book “Son of the Regiment” tells about Van Solntsev, who was left an orphan during the war. They tried to send him to the rear, but he escaped several times.
The boy certainly wanted to be a participant in military events. Then he became the son of the regiment and participated in combat missions. He was then assigned to Suvorov School. For sixteen-year-old Petya Rostov, one of the young heroes of Leo Tolstoy’s novel “War and Peace,” the main thing in life is a strong and constant desire to be, like an adult, in the most important place. Therefore, during guerrilla warfare with the French, Petya decided to stay in Denisov’s detachment.
He tried “not to miss any case of real heroism...” L.N. Tolstoy showed a teenager who could not stay away from military events and died in battle. So, generations of children at all times wanted to accept Active participation in the fate of the country, they did not spare life in difficult times for the Motherland, they overcame severe trials along with adults. The events taking place in the country were a serious school of life for teenagers.
Sample and example of short essay No. 3 on the topic: Front line. Passing the herds of collective farm cattle that are leaving. Examples from life and works of literature with arguments
War is an event that leaves no one indifferent. Some fought the enemy on the battlefield, others supported life in the rear and inspired the soldiers with their faith. But how did children experience the war events? And what was their participation in the fight against the enemy? These are the questions A.P. invites us to reflect on in his text. Gaidar.
The hero of the text given to me is Yakov, a little boy, trying to beg cartridges “as a souvenir” from a front-line driver. The author focuses on the fact that the child’s true need is not at all what he wanted to show. The boy “greedily and impatiently,” with his characteristic heroism, like his father and grandfather, is waiting for cartridges so that in the future he can use each of them for its intended purpose. The writer draws the reader’s attention to the fact that Yakov is not detached from all events - he is filled with a thirst for action. A.P. Gaidar believes that during the war years, children felt involved in everything that was happening, felt a thirst for action, and, like Yakov, went to any lengths to help the country in the fight against the enemy. The author's idea is clear to me.
Indeed, children whose personal development occurred during the war considered their main goal in life to be helping their Fatherland. Their role models were selfless soldiers and their wives, from which, of course, flowed the enthusiasm and fire in the eyes with which children of that time related to everything that happened. Petya Rostov, the hero of the epic novel by L.N., had the same view of the war. Tolstoy "War and Peace". The author in his work contrasted children and war, and on this contrast he built the plot and revealed one of the main ideas of the epic novel.
Thus, the death of Petya Rostov, a gifted, kind, not yet revealed boy, with his dreams and love for people, showed that there is nothing more merciless than war. And although the writer reveals the image of Petya Rostov as a young hero, driven by the worthy goal of helping his Fatherland, the author’s main goal is to show everyone that children and war are an inappropriate combination, because, being very young, they do not fully understand the essence of his heroism. In V. Bykov’s story “Obelisk” the theme of children and war is also clearly revealed. The author, like L.N. Tolstoy, shows the fire in the eyes of children, but at the same time reveals the lack of understanding of children's heroism. The death of the children in the story is as “heroic” as the death of Petya Rostov.
Yes, teacher Moroz invested a lot of effort in their patriotic education, but later he is torn by a feeling of guilt because he was unable to save these very young heroes. And even despite the fact that obelisks were subsequently installed on the graves of these children, the reader for a long time there remains a clear aftertaste of wasted victims and unjustly cut short destinies. In conclusion, I would like to note once again that, of course, children in wartime were always filled with heroism and a desire to help their soldiers.
Perhaps it was impossible to exist otherwise at that time, but it seems to me that even with the level of patriotism that needed to be maintained, these children should have also been told about how important and valuable the life of each of them is. Perhaps in this case there would have been fewer such unnecessary victims.
Source text in full version for writing the Unified State Examination
(1) Front strip. (2) Passing herds of collective farm cattle, which go to quiet pastures to the east, the car stops at the crossroads of the village. (3) A boy of about fifteen jumps up on the step.
- (4) Uncle, give me two cartridges.
- (5) What do you need cartridges for?
- (6) And so... for memory.
- (7) They don’t give out cartridges for memory.
(8) I slip him a lattice shell from a hand grenade and a spent shiny cartridge case.
(9) The boy’s lips curl contemptuously:
Here you go! (10) What's the use of them?
- (11) Oh, dear! (12) So do you need a memory that you can use? (13) Maybe you want this green bottle or this black grenade? (14) Maybe you should unhook that small anti-tank gun from the tractor? (15) Get into the car, don’t lie and speak straight.
(16) And so the story begins, full of secret omissions and subterfuges, although in general everything has long been clear to us.
(17) Fathers, uncles and older brothers join the partisans. (18) And he is still young, but dexterous and brave. (19) He knows all the hollows, the last paths for forty kilometers in the area.
(20) Fearing that they won’t believe him, he pulls a Komsomol card wrapped in oilcloth from his bosom. (21) And not having the right to tell anything more, licking his cracked, dusty lips, he waits greedily and impatiently.
(22) I look into his eyes. (23) I put the clip in his hot hand. (24) This is a clip from my rifle. (25) It is written on me.
(26) I take responsibility for the fact that each bullet fired from these five cartridges will fly exactly in the right direction.
- (27) Listen, Yakov, why do you need cartridges if you don’t have a rifle? (28) What, are you going to shoot from an empty can?
(29) The truck starts moving. (30) Yakov jumps off the step, he jumps up and cheerfully shouts something awkward, stupid. (31) He laughs and mysteriously shakes his finger at me. (32) Then, hitting the cow spinning around with his fist in the face, he disappears in a cloud of dust.
(33) Children! (34) The war fell on tens of thousands of them in the same way as on adults, if only because the fascist bombs dropped over peaceful cities have the same force for everyone.
(35) Acutely, often more acutely than adults, teenagers - boys and girls - experience the events of the Great Patriotic War. (36) They greedily, to the last point, listen to the messages of the Information Bureau, remember all the details of heroic deeds, write down the names of the heroes, their ranks, their surnames. (37) With boundless respect they see off the trains leaving for the front, and with boundless love they greet the wounded arriving from the front.
(38) I saw our children deep in the rear, in the alarming front line, and even on the front line itself. (39) And everywhere I saw them have a great thirst for business, work, and even achievement.
(40) Years will pass. (41) You will become adults. (42) And then, in a good hour of rest after a lot of peaceful work, you will joyfully remember that once, in the days that were threatening for the Motherland, you did not get in the way, did not sit idly by, but helped your country in its a difficult and very important fight against misanthropic fascism.
Arkady Petrovich Gaidar (real name - Golikov, 1904-1941) - Russian Soviet children's writer, film scriptwriter, participant in the Civil and Great Patriotic Wars.
War and children
Rear railway station on the way to the front. Water tower. Two straight old poplars. A low brick station surrounded by thick acacia trees.
The military train stops. Two village children run up to the carriage with wallets in their hands.
Lieutenant Martynov asks:
– How much are currants?
The elder answers:
– We don’t take money from you, comrade commander.
The boy conscientiously fills the glass so that the currants spill onto the hot dust between the sleepers. He tips the glass into the pot he has placed, lifts his head and, listening to the distant roar, announces:
– Henkel is buzzing... Wow! Wow! Choked. Don't be afraid, Comrade Lieutenant, there are our fighters. There is no way for the Germans to cross the sky here.
He picks up his wallet and rushes on. His blond, barefoot brother, about seven years old, remains by the carriage. He listens intently to the distant drone of anti-aircraft guns and seriously explains:
– Axis! There's a thump there...
Lieutenant Martynov is interested in this message. He sits on the floor by the door and, dangling his legs outside, eating currants, asks:
– Hm! And what, lad, are people doing in that war?
– They shoot,” the boy explains, “they take a gun or cannon, point it... and bang!” And you're done.
– What's ready?
– That's what! – the boy exclaims with annoyance. “They point the trigger, they press it, and there will be death.”
– Death for whom - me? - And Martynov calmly pokes his finger into his chest.
– No way! – the boy, surprised by the commander’s lack of understanding, cries out sadly. - Some kind of evil has come, throwing bombs on huts, on barns. That's where the grandmother was killed, two cows were torn to pieces. “Why,” he mockingly shamed the lieutenant, “he’s got a revolver on, but he doesn’t know how to fight.”
Lieutenant Martynov is confused. The commanders around him laugh.
The locomotive blows its whistle.
The boy, the one who carried the currants, takes his angry brother by the hand and, walking towards the moving carriages, explains to him in a drawn-out and condescending manner:
– They know! They're joking! These are the kind of people who are coming... cheerful, desperate! One commander handed me a three-ruble note for a glass of currants while walking. Well, I ran and ran after the carriage. But still he stuck the piece of paper into the carriage.
– Here...” the boy nods his head approvingly. - What do you care? And there, during the war, let him buy kvass or sitra.
– What a fool! – the elder man says condescendingly, accelerating his pace and keeping level with the carriage. – Do they drink this during war? Don't cling to my side! Don't turn your head! This is our “I 16” - a fighter, and the German one hums heavily, with a break. The war is in its second month, and you don’t know your planes.
Combatant zone. Passing the herds of collective farm cattle, which go to the quiet pastures to the east, to the crossroads of the village, the car stops.
A boy of about fifteen jumps up on the step. He's asking for something. The cattle moo, a long whip cracks in the clouds of dust.
The engine rumbles, the driver honks his horn desperately, driving away the stupid beast, which will not turn over until it hits its forehead on the radiator. What does the boy need? We don't understand. Money? Of bread?
Then suddenly it turns out:
– Uncle, give me two cartridges.
– What do you need cartridges for?
– And so... for memory.
– They don't give you ammo for souvenirs.
I slip him a lattice shell from a hand grenade and a spent, shiny cartridge case.
The boy’s lips curl contemptuously:
– Here you go! What's the use of them?
– Oh, dear! So do you need a memory that you can use to make sense? Maybe I should give you this green bottle or this black egg-shaped grenade? Maybe you should unhook that small anti-tank gun from the tractor? Get into the car, don’t lie and say everything straight.
And so the story begins, full of secret omissions and subterfuges, although in general everything has long been clear to us.
A dense forest closed harshly around, deep ravines lay across the road, and marshy reed swamps spread out along the banks of the river. Fathers, uncles and older brothers are leaving to join the partisans. And he is still young, but dexterous and brave. He knows all the hollows, the last paths for forty kilometers in the area.
Fearing that they won’t believe him, he pulls out a Komsomol card wrapped in oilcloth from his bosom. And not having the right to say anything more, licking his cracked, dusty lips, he waits greedily and impatiently.
I look into his eyes. I put the clip in his hot hand. This is a clip from my rifle. It's written on me.
I take responsibility for the fact that each bullet fired from these five cartridges will fly exactly in the right direction.
– What is your name?
– Yakov.
– Listen, Yakov, why do you need cartridges if you don’t have a rifle? What, are you going to shoot from an empty can?
The truck starts moving. Yakov jumps off the step, he jumps up and cheerfully shouts something awkward, stupid. He laughs and mysteriously shakes his finger at me. Then, hitting the cow spinning around with his fist in the face, he disappears in a cloud of dust.
Oh, No! This guy will not put the clip in an empty container.
Children! The war fell on tens of thousands of them in the same way as on adults, if only because the fascist bombs dropped over peaceful cities have the same force for everyone.
Teenagers - boys and girls - experience the events of the Great Patriotic War acutely, often more acutely than adults.
They greedily, to the last point, listen to the messages of the Information Bureau, remember all the details of heroic deeds, write down the names of the heroes, their titles, their surnames.
With boundless respect they see off the trains leaving for the front, and with boundless love they greet the wounded arriving from the front.
I saw our children deep in the rear, in the troubled front line, and even on the front line itself. And everywhere I saw their great thirst for business, work and even achievement.
Before the battle, I recently met a boy on the bank of a river.
While looking for a missing cow to shorten the route, he swam across the river and unexpectedly found himself among the Germans.
Hidden in the bushes, he sat three steps away from the fascist commanders, who were talking for a long time about something, holding a map in front of them.
He came back to us and told us what he had seen.
I asked him:
– Wait a minute! But you heard what their bosses said, this is very important for us.
The boy was surprised:
– Well, comrade commander, they spoke German!
– I know it's not in Turkish. How many classes have you completed? Nine? So you should have understood at least something from their conversation?
He threw up his hands sadly and sadly:
– Eh, comrade commander! If only I had known about this meeting earlier...
Years will pass. You will become adults. And then, in a good hour of rest after a lot of peaceful work, you will joyfully remember that once, in the terrible days for the Motherland, you did not dangle under your feet, did not sit idly by, but did what you could to help your country in its difficult and difficult times. a very important fight against human-hated fascism.
Active Army
At the leading edge
At the passage through a heavy barricade lined with rough planks, a policeman checked my pass to leave the besieged city.
He advised me to drive up to the front line in a passing car or cart, but I refused. It was a good day and the journey was not far. And besides, on the hills, mines were sometimes fired at cars. Spending a minute on a person walking alone is not a good idea. And if something happens, it is always easier for a person on foot to fall into a roadside ditch in time.
I walked past empty, abandoned houses with boarded up windows and closed gates. It was quiet. The rattle rattled, and hungry cats hunted for sparrows.
Through the gardens, among which rain-washed bomb-proof trenches were yellow, I went out onto the slope of the ravine and hooked my foot on the field wire. Having figured out the direction, I took a direct route along the wire, because I needed people.
Suddenly there was a blow. It seemed that he crashed right above the crest of my steel helmet. I quickly flew into an old crater, looked around carefully and saw nearby a camouflaged hillock of a bunker, from the dark crack of which protruded the barrel of a stocky cannon.
I went down to the bunker and, after saying hello, asked the senior sergeant what his people were doing now.
It is clear that before answering, the sergeant checked my pass and documents. I asked how life was in Moscow. Only after that was he ready to answer my questions.
But then in the distance, to the right, very frequent explosions were heard.
The telephone operator loudly asked the neighboring bunker through the telephone receiver:
– What do you have? Speak louder. Why are you talking so quietly? Ah, mines are exploding near you! And you think that if you speak loudly, they will be scared!
From such simple words smiles flashed in the quiet, wary bunker. Then a stern command was heard, and our cannon roared.
Her neighbors supported her. The enemies responded. They fired with 205 shells and long-range mines.
Mines... Much has already been written about them. They wrote that they roar, howl, hum, and snore. No! The sound of the mine in flight is thin and melodiously sad. The explosion is dry and sharp. And the squeal of flying fragments is like the meowing of a cat whose tail has suddenly been stepped on with a heavy boot.
The rough beams of the ceiling, fastened with iron staples, tremble. Dry earth pours through the cracks onto the shoulders and down the collar. The telephone operator hastily covers a bowl of buckwheat porridge with his helmet, without ceasing to shout loudly:
– Right, zero twenty-five shells! Now for sure! Rapid fire!
Five minutes later, the barrage of fire from both sides, as if cut off, falls silent.
Everyone's eyes are burning, their foreheads are wet, people are drinking from the neck of their flasks. The telephone operator asks neighbors what happened and where.
It turns out that one of them had a water tank knocked over by the air; the second had his regimental telephone wire cut off; the third case was worse: they pierced the gun shield through the embrasure with a shrapnel and wounded the best battery gunner in the shoulder; It dug up holes and craters around us, tore it to shreds and carried away, probably behind a cloud, one wet boot, hung by the Red Army soldier Konoplev from a tree under the sun to dry.
– “You are not a miner, but a crow,” the sergeant grumbles reproachfully at the Red Army soldier Konoplev, who stared thoughtfully and perplexedly at the surviving boot. “Now is war time.” You had to take some string and make a connection from here to the boot. Then, just a little, he pulled and pulled his boot out of the firing range and into the shelter. And now you have no view. Secondly, a Red Army soldier wearing only his left boot does not represent any combat value. You take your boot in your hands, take it, as a fact, to the foreman and explain to him your sad situation.
While everyone turned around and listened with curiosity to these teachings, someone entered through the bunker door. At first they didn’t pay attention to the one who came in: they thought it was someone from the gun crew. Then they realized it. The sergeant came up to give his report to the chief.
By some single, subtle movement, it became clear to me that this man was respected and deeply loved here.
The faces began to smile. People hastily straightened their belts and straightened their tunics. And the Red Army soldier Konoplev quickly hid his bare foot behind empty boxes from under the shells.
It was Senior Lieutenant Myasnikov, battalion commander.
We walked with him along the reserve line of defense, where the Red Army soldiers - mostly Donetsk miners - unanimously and skillfully dug communication passages and full-profile trenches.
Each of these fighters is an engineer, armed with an axe, pickaxe and shovel. They build tangled labyrinths, shelters, nests, dugouts, and embrasures under fire quickly, skillfully and firmly. These are experienced, courageous and resourceful people. A Red Army soldier came out from behind the bushes along the ravine to meet us. The commander's presence puzzles him for a moment.
I see that the commander frowned, probably saw some kind of disorder and will now reprimand the Red Army soldier. But he, without being confused, goes straight towards him. He is cheerful, strong, broad-shouldered.
Approaching five to seven meters, he switches to the statutory, “printed” step, puts his hand to his cap and, raising his head, solemnly and bravely walks by.
The commander stops and laughs.
– Well, fighter! Well done! - he bursts out in admiration, looking towards the soldier hiding in the trench.
And he answers my perplexed question:
– He (the fighter) was wearing a cap, and not a helmet, as expected. I noticed the commander, there was nowhere to go. He knows that I love poise and discipline. To hush up the matter, he rushed past me, as if on a parade. Miners! – the commander exclaimed with love. - Experienced and smart people. Send me to another unit, and I will go to headquarters and cry about my miners.
We make our way to the front line. At one of the turns, the commander caught his raincoat on the handle of a shovel. Something flashed very brightly under the lapel of his cloak. On the first ledge, I carefully, squinting my eyes, looked down at the chest of the commander’s tunic.
Oh, here's the thing: there's a Golden Star burning under the cloak. He, lieutenant, is a Hero of the Soviet Union.
But now we are already at the very forefront. There is no fight. The enemy here ran into a solid wall. But beware! Here, at the top, everything is shot through by both the enemy and us. Well-hidden snipers rule here. Here, narrow as a sting, the DS machine gun can fire from seven hundred to a thousand bullets through the embrasure at one point from one barrel in one minute.
Here, on the outskirts of the city, more than one fascist regiment ingloriously laid down its drunken heads. Here the entire ninety-fifth German division was completely destroyed.
Single shooting in progress. Through the narrow gap the camouflaged rampart of the enemy trenches is already clearly visible. Something moved over the hill, shied away and disappeared under the shot.
Dark force! Are you here! You're near! Behind us stands a bright, big city. And you look at me from your black holes with your greedy colorless eyes.
Go! Come on! And accept death from these heavy miner’s hands. From this tall, calm man with his brave heart, burning like a golden star.
Active Army
Rockets and grenades
Ten scouts, under the command of the young sergeant Lyapunov, descend along a steep path to a river ford. The soldiers are in a hurry. It’s getting dark, and we need to have one last smoke break for the night in an abandoned shepherd’s hut, near which the field guard of the outpost is located and dug in.
While ten people lying down - head to head - are greedily inhaling strong tobacco smoke, the intelligence chief, young Sergeant Lyapunov, warns the equally young guard commander, Sergeant Burykin:
– Let's go back, so I won't shout the pass to you, dear, from the other side. And don’t you dare open fire on me about this. I'll send a fighter forward. You shout to him from the shore to the water quietly. He will come and then he will say.
– “I know,” Burykin answers importantly. - The science is simple.
– That's it, simple! And yesterday the sentry shouted so loudly that the enemy could hear. What's on the other side? Quiet?
– Two missiles like that in the direction. Then two shots,” explains Burykin. - Sometimes the wind blows and something rumbles. Yes! Then a reconnaissance plane arrived. He spun, circled, and over there, the bastard, disappeared.
– The airplane is a predator of the sky,” says Sergeant Lyapunov gravely, “and our job is to roam the ground, through the grass and through the forest.” Well! – he turns sternly. - What, did you have a smoke break? And what a dream I have - this is a non-smoking intelligence service, and they cannot live without a tobacco nipple.
Hanging bandoliers around their necks, holding rifles and grenades above the water, the dark chain crosses the river.
The bright dial of the compass on the sergeant’s hand flickers with a bluish light above the waves.
Having reached the forest edge, the sergeant unfastens the luminous compass, hides it in his pocket, and the silent reconnaissance disappears into the thicket. The reconnaissance core moves along a forest path. Two people in front, two on the left and two on the right. Every ten minutes, without a watch, without a command, the reconnaissance stops on instinct. Pressing their butts into the ground, kneeling down, holding their breath, people listen intently to the night sounds and rustles.
Chu! Somewhere a rooster that had not yet been devoured by the Germans crowed.
Then something in the distance hummed and clinked, as if two empty carriages had bumped into each other with their buffers.
But something began to rattle. This is the motor. There are motorcyclists roaming around here somewhere. They must be found at all costs.
Red Army soldier Melchakov emerges from the darkness and, out of breath, reports:
– Comrade Sergeant, on the hill, across the road, under your feet there is a wire.
The sergeant walks forward. He feels the wire with his hand and wonders: should he follow the wire to the left or to the right? But it turns out that on the left the wire goes into a muddy swamp. The foot gets stuck, and the boot has difficulty getting out of the sticky mud. To the right the same.
Melchakov approaches the sergeant, takes out a knife and offers:
– Allow me, Comrade Sergeant, I'll cut the wire.
Sergeant Melchakov stops. He frowns, then grabs the wire, wraps it around the bayonet sheath and pulls hard. The wire is supplied. Something is chomping in the swamp. And then a heavy stone crawls onto the road.
The sergeant is triumphant. Yeah, that means the wire is fake. And so it is, at the other end of the wire a piece of iron spring is tied and thrown into the sedge.
– “I’ll cut it, I’ll cut it”! – Sergeant Melchakov imitates. - “Comrade Sergeant, I report that the telephone connection between two battalions of swamp frogs has been destroyed.” You, Melchakov, are in a hurry to do everything. Walk straight. Search. There is a real wire somewhere nearby.
The snorting of the engine is heard again ahead. The reconnaissance moves crawling along the sandy edge. From here you can see the silhouette of a hut behind the bushes. The hut has a fence. Behind the fence there is an unclear noise.
The sergeant orders in a whisper:
– Prepare grenades. Crawl to the fence. I go forward with three on the right. Throw grenades exactly in the direction where I will give a shallow blow with a red rocket.
Preparing grenades means: click - cocking, click - safety, click - and the primer is in place.
And here it is, hidden fire, ready to explode, lying near the chest, right at the heart.
A minute passes, then another, five, ten. There is no rocket. Finally Sergeant Lyapunov appears and orders:
– Unload the grenades. The house is abandoned. It is a wounded horse struggling in the yard, near the barn. Get up quickly. Let's take a left. Do you hear? The Germans are somewhere here, behind the hill.
Melchakov approaches the sergeant. He hesitates and right hand, clenched with a fist, he holds it strangely away.
– Comrade Sergeant,” he says, embarrassed, “I have a grenade - not a “bottle”, but an “F 1”, “lemon”. And here is the sad result.
– What result? What are you muttering?
– She, Comrade Sergeant, is on alert.
Instantly, instinctively, everyone shies away from Melchakov.
– Chemist! – the puzzled sergeant exclaims in desperate whispers. - So have you... already pulled the pin?
– Yes, comrade commander. I thought: now there will be a rocket, and I will immediately throw it.
– “I’ll give it up, I’ll give it up”! – the sergeant snaps. “Well, now hold it in your fist and don’t unclench your hands until dawn.”
Melchakov's position is unenviable. He hurried, and the grenade's firing pin is now held only by a clamp clamped in his palm. You cannot insert the fuse without lighting the fire. You can’t throw a grenade into the forest or into a swamp - all reconnaissance will be disrupted. The soldiers scold Melchakov as they walk:
– Where are you going, guy, huddling with people? You go sideways or sideways.
– Where is he going? Let him go along the path where it is smoother, otherwise he will get caught on a root and make a noise.
– Don't wave, not at the parade. You hold it, the grenade, with both hands.
In the end, the offended Melchakov’s rifle is taken away and he is sent forward with a grenade as the lead patrol.
A few minutes later, the reconnaissance core finds him sitting on the edge of the road.
– What are you doing?
– There’s a wire under my foot,” Melchakov says gloomily.
Intelligence is on the wire. Suddenly the sound of engines is heard very close by. The fire flashed and went out. Ahead, near the collective farm barns, there is noise and movement. The sergeant, followed by all the reconnaissance, fall flat to the ground and crawl away from the road, on which there is probably a guard station nearby. The reconnaissance crawls two hundred meters for about forty minutes. Then he lies motionless for a long time, listening to the noise, crackling and sounds of an unfamiliar language. The sergeant pulls Melchakov by the heel and shows him a loaded rocket launcher. Melchakov silently and understandingly nods his head. The sergeant crawls away.
Again one, another, long minutes. Suddenly, a rocket thrown by the sergeant flashes like a red snake, showing the direction.
Melchakov jumps up and, with all his strength, throws his grenade through the roof of the barn.
There is thunder, then a howl, then the deafening crack of engines merges with the crack of German machine guns. The scouts open fire.
The thatched roof of the barn catches fire. Light. Enemies are visible. That’s right – this is a motorcycle company.
But then heavy machine guns get involved in the stupid crackle of machine guns.
Having cut the wire in several places, the reconnaissance team leaves.
The shooting from behind does not stop. Now it will continue until dawn.
Dark. Far on the other side, of course, the company commander woke up. He hears this fire and is now thinking about his reconnaissance.
And his scouts walk through the forest together and quickly. They no longer angrily scold the long-legged Melchakov. They impatiently feel their pockets with shag.
And so that even across the river, in a hut, he would give them plenty to smoke, they unanimously and loudly praise their young sergeant.
Active Army