Alekseev Mikhail Nikolaevich. Mikhail Alekseev. The novel “Soldiers Alekseev Mikhail Nikolaevich soldiers

Mikhail Nikolaevich Alekseev

"Soldiers"

BOOK ONE "TERMIC SUMMER"

* PART ONE *

CHAPTER FIRST

A sparse veil of fog hung over the Donets. Not far, to the north, beyond

the river, shrouded in haze, revealed the outlines of Belgorod. The war was dormant.

The guns boomed rarely and lazily, like the deep sighs of an awakening earth. IN

There were two soldiers standing in a small outpost trench. One of them,

broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, squinting from the sun and knitting his black eyebrows,

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

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

said already louder:

Akim, can’t you hear?.. Why don’t you write it down? Erofeenko!..

What?.. Oh, yes... - Akim answered, catching himself and hastily corrected

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

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

Where did you see her?

There you go! Look straight ahead. You see - next to the bush

trunks stick out.

Akim looked at the bushes visible through the veil of fog, and suddenly

laughed.

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

Breadboards, brother, this is not a battery! Can't you see?

That is... I don't understand you, Akim.

Erofeenko grinned again.

And there’s nothing to understand here. Take a good look. Germans instead

mortars were placed on logs. True, they acted a little stupidly - at least

would be disguised for show.

Amazed, Uvarov could not tear his surprised gaze away from Akim. "Here

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

funny Akim! Good girl!..”

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

Akim shuddered slightly.

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

You're kind of strange, Akim. I do not understand you.

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

blue eyes gleamed restlessly behind the glasses. He's tense

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

Uvarov did not interfere with Akim. He began to diligently record data

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

the pencil would jump out of his large, chair-burnt fingers every now and then

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

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

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

smeared with chemical pencil.

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

fence of three stakes. But it’s okay, we’ll get through somehow.

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

again looked in surprise at this strange fighter, immersed in

some thoughts and at the same time managing to notice something that he, Uvarov, did not

could detect.

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

more, but he was afraid to interfere with Akim.

He took out his pouch. I lit a cigarette. Flaring his nostrils, he inhaled greedily along with

spicy, intoxicating air filled with bitter smoke from shag

coolness and healthy pine smell. Thought about it. Uvarov was worried

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

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

operations. He didn’t seem to have accomplished any special feats, and he wasn’t rich in awards:

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

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

send soldiers so far on reconnaissance missions and even burn a bridge behind enemy lines?

Are the Germans really planning something?..

Now the right bank of the river looked completely peaceful and even welcoming. Neither

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

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

through binoculars, there were even several motley hillock cows grazing.

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

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

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

villages, large and small, with typical

Russian names - Aleksandrovka, Krapivka, Bezlyudovka, Maryevka,

Ivanovka, Petrovka - ordinary villages that huddle together in the dark

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

to the sweet singing of the native Kursk nightingale.

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

crossed the Donets, and Soviet regiments hastily transferred

here from near Stalingrad, where a great massacre had just died down.

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

years, Donets, strict and unapproachable, separated both sides - ours and

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

inevitable...

On the Belgorod sector of the front, something familiar to

front-line soldiers are in a restless lull, when the enemy does not even take any action

strong attacks, but bothers him with frequent night raids, patrol actions,

bombings, sudden and therefore especially insidious artillery and mortar

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

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

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

unknown villages, which appear only in the commander’s

kilometers - right here, after just over two months

menacing and majestic events will unfold.

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

Did Cannes get to see even a hundredth of what they soon became

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

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

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

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

that they are so carefully and even lovingly straightening out the trench they have just opened; And

scouts, friends of Akim Erofeenko and Yakov Uvarov, slowly putting on

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

for an evening walk; and a signalman who pulled a “thread” along the trench until

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

crawls along the damp earth, rakes frozen clods with numb hands, placing

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

Perhaps the noise of the recent battle had not yet calmed down - he sat down at his

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

sees off the fiery lines of tracer bullets flying over him - this

you won’t be surprised or frightened by anything: the machine gunner has seen nothing like this; and those that

Having fought off another enemy attack, now, concentrated and stern, they are burying

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

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

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

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

Documentary narration, a story about real persons whom the author names "bravest and smartest" encourage the reader to think: how many such people, the color of the nation, did not return from the war and how hard this was reflected in the post-war fate of the country.

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

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

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

Quote from the novel Mikhail Alekseev “Soldiers”:

“A thin veil of fog hung over the Donets. Not far away, to the north, across the river, shrouded in haze, the outlines of Belgorod appeared. The war was dormant. The guns boomed rarely and lazily, like the deep sighs of an awakening earth. There were two soldiers standing in a small outpost trench. One of them, broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, squinting from the sun and knitting his black eyebrows, peered across the river, towards the enemy, and occasionally said something to his comrade. He didn't answer. This obviously did not please the dark-skinned man, and he...”

There are other books by Mikhail Alekseev:

Books of raised dot font

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

Alekseev, M. N. Uncrying willow [Braille]: novel / M. N. Alekseev. – M.: Education, 1978. – 6 books. – From the ed.: M.: Soviet writer, 1975.

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

Talking books on cassettes

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

Alekseev, M. N. Ivushka uncrying [Sound recording]: novel / M. N. Alekseev; read by Yu. Zaborovsky. – M.: Logosvos, 1995. – 7 mfk., (26 hours 10 minutes): 2.38 cm/s, 4 extra. – From the ed.: M.: Young Guard, 1989.

Mikhail Alekseev

SOLDIERS

Novel

BOOK ONE

"TERMIC SUMMER"

PART ONE

CHAPTER FIRST

A sparse veil of fog hung over the Donets. Not far away, to the north, across the river, shrouded in haze, the outlines of Belgorod appeared. The war was dormant. The guns boomed rarely and lazily, like the deep sighs of an awakening earth. There were two soldiers standing in a small outpost trench. One of them, broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, squinting from the sun and knitting his black eyebrows, peered across the river, towards the enemy, and occasionally said something to his comrade. He didn't answer. This obviously did not please the dark-skinned man, and he said louder:

Akim, can’t you hear?.. Why don’t you write it down? Erofeenko!..

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

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

Where did you see her?

There you go! Look straight ahead. You see - trunks sticking out next to the bushes.

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

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

That is... I don’t understand you, Akim.

Erofeenko grinned again.

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

Amazed, Uvarov could not tear his surprised gaze away from Akim. “Here it turns out that this quiet, thoughtful, absent-minded and a little funny Akim is! Good girl!..”

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

Akim shuddered slightly.

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

You're kind of strange, Akim. I do not understand you.

Akim did not answer. His long face became thoughtful again. Mild blue eyes gleamed restlessly behind the glasses. He peered intensely at the Donets, as if he saw something there that the other could not notice.

Uvarov did not interfere with Akim. He began diligently recording his observations in his tattered notebook. His face wrinkled all the time. A pencil stub jumped out of his large fingers, burnt with a chair, and every now and then fell under his feet, into the yellowish-gray mud. The soldier bent down with difficulty, took a long time to find the pencil, cursing in an undertone.

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

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

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

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

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

Now the right bank of the river looked completely peaceful and even welcoming. Not a single movement. The green wall of the grove stood silently on the horizon. Winding ravines ran down to the water. In one distant ravine, if you look through binoculars, there were even several colorful hillock cows grazing.

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

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

On the Belgorod sector of the front, that restless calm familiar to front-line soldiers has established itself, when the enemy, although not launching strong attacks, bothers us with frequent night raids, patrols, bombings, and sudden and therefore especially insidious artillery and mortar raids. So it was at that time here, near Belgorod, and so it must have been in thousands of other combat areas stretching from the Barents to the Black Sea. Who could have thought in those spring days of 1943 that here, near Belgorod, and near these unknown villages, which appear only on commanders’ kilometers, it was here that, in just over two months, terrible and majestic events would unfold.

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

However, our soldiers did not think about this then. So far, they were all busy with their everyday front-line affairs: and there are those two infantry soldiers who are so carefully and even lovingly straightening the trench they just opened; and scouts, friends of Akim Erofeenko and Yakov Uvarov, leisurely putting on camouflage robes, as if preparing not for a campaign in the enemy rear, but for an evening walk; and a signalman who pulled a “thread” along the trench to the observation post of the battery commander; and that sapper who crawls on the damp ground at night, rakes frozen clods with numb hands, laying anti-tank mines; and here is this experienced machine gunner, in whose ears the noise of the recent battle must still not have calmed down - he sat down next to his faithful "Maxim", covered with a raincoat, and with an indifferent gaze watched the fiery lines of tracer bullets flying over him - this you won’t be surprised or frightened by anything: the machine gunner has seen nothing like this; and those who, having repulsed another enemy attack, are now, concentrated and stern, burying the comrades who fell in this battle, with whom they shared more than one joint; and that infantry foreman, who, in the light of a smokehouse made from a shell casing, grimy and preoccupied, for the fifth time, it seems, is counting and sorting the precious sets of new summer uniforms in order to issue them at dawn to the soldiers, those who are in the vigilant silence of the trenches keep vigil at their weapons.