Steel Soviet Union

There is a large military cap on his small head, and the large-brimmed hat of a tank soldier lieutenant colonel with the residual warmth of Malashenko's forehead is indeed a little out of size when it is buckled on the head of a ten-year-old boy.

A pair of small hands raised up to his cheeks and timidly touched the big gift on his head. A surprise smile soon appeared on his sallow little face.

"Is this really my gift? Captain Malashenko."

"Of course, you acted bravely for your mother, and I approve you to become a reserve soldier of the First Guards Heavy Tank Breakthrough Regiment. Remember to report when you grow up, and I will personally wait for you next to the tank! This is a matter between men. Promise!”

Malashenko, who had cleared away the gloom, made a promise to Yegor without any falsehood. Every word he said was true.

The big rough hand covered with calluses stretched out in front of the young child, and the small hand, which was less than a quarter of the surface area of ​​the big hand, gave a high-five and made a promise.

Having done everything he had to do, Malashenko left quietly at the last moment. All that was left to the children behind him was his unusually tall and resolute back with some long hair. His true face after taking off his military cap was already there. It is engraved in the young mind and will never be forgotten.

"Damn, it's been so long since I've had my hair cut that it's so long, it's almost catching up with Natalia, fuck!"

Malashenko, who had lost his hat, returned to the boat side of the pier with a strange look. Lavrinenko, who was carrying a Bobosha submachine gun behind him and carrying Malashenko's Somi submachine gun in his hand, followed him. A wave of his hand.

"Where's your hat? Why is it missing?"

Raising his hand to take the weapon thrown by Lavrinenko, Malashenko smiled faintly and was still immersed in the memories just now.

"I gave it away, do you have anything else to ask?"

""

"You actually gave it away. It's your uniform. What's the use of giving away such an important thing?"

Malashenko did not explain the situation to Lavrinenko, who was completely confused. He just boarded the deck with a smile.

"Anyway, new uniforms will be issued soon, and even you will have them. Rather than keeping them and throwing them in the box, it's better to send them out to play some role. Why are you still standing there? Get on the ship!"

Various strange and inexplicable situations made Lavrinenko seem to give up thinking. He simply shook his head and was the last to board the deck, following Malashenko's footsteps.

What came to pick up Malashenko and his group of more than 100 people was a small cargo ship. According to Malashenko's estimation, it was at most a little bigger than a fishing boat.

When it arrived, the small cargo ship was loaded with enough weapons and ammunition to continue the battle, as well as the minimum food to allow the soldiers to maintain necessary physical strength and to prevent the refugees from starving to death.

When it left, the ship was loaded with a battle-scarred heroic force, a group of the bravest soldiers who had lost countless comrades and defended their oaths under the red flag with their blood and lives.

The bright moonlight that emerged from the clouds filled the river, reflecting silvery white rippling light.

Malashenko, who was holding something unknown in his hand, sat alone on the deck at the stern, facing the dilapidated city that was drifting away, as if he was deep in thought. His lonely back was soon followed by the sound of the second voice. The footsteps of the two.

"looking at what?"

What came to Malashenko was not only the political commissar Petrov, who was sitting together on the stern deck of the ship, but also the cigarette that was handed to Malashenko with one arm.

"Nothing, I was just looking at the cities that my comrades, whose names I didn't even have time to remember, defended with their lives."

Political Commissar Petrov, who had connected himself to the fire, moved the unextinguished lighter to Malashenko's mouth and lit the cigarette in Malashenko's mouth. The silent moonlight and the river echoed with only the sound of The sound of waves is faintly heard.

"I heard about you giving away the food. You did a good job. If I were here, I would support you in doing so. There are always things worth protecting with our lives. You did the right thing. Choose, Malashenko.”

The cigarette in his mouth was so light that it seemed tasteless. However, Malashenko's right hand kept shaking, as if the thing he held in his hand was as heavy as a thousand pounds and he couldn't hold it.

With the moonlight shining on the deck almost as bright as day, Commissar Petrov saw what was in Malashenko's hand out of the corner of his eye.

It was a photo, a photo of Nikolai, a former electromechanical member of the No. 177 car crew, who forever fixed his young life on the battlefield of Stalingrad. It was the only military uniform that was preserved in the archives of the regiment. ID Photo.

"I can't save anything, I can't hold on to anything! When Maxim and Yakov died, I swore again and again that I would not let the same tragedy happen again, and I would be a good car commander and regimental commander. It’s my duty to live up to the trust they entrusted me with their lives, but in the end, nothing has changed!”

All in all, in Commissar Petrov's memory, the scene of Malashenko's two lines of tears streaming down his chin was the first time he had seen it before he was old enough to lose his memory.

"No one said that you didn't hold on to anything. You held on to the position, the victory, and the mission assigned to our regiment by your superiors. You fulfilled the greatest responsibility within your ability, and no one can even do it better than you. ”

The small freighter that was speaking had already reached the middle of the river. During the day, the bodies of the Red Army soldiers who had been knocked off the ship and killed by German air raids on the river were still floating on the water.

It was unclear whether the smell floating in the wind was the fishy smell of the river itself or the blood of the corpse. Malashenko quietly closed his eyes and wiped away his tears and stood up from the deck again.

"I will make the Krauts pay the price for taking something important from me, Uncle Peter. They cannot escape the steel tracks and the roar of the main gun. I swear with everything I have, Stalingrad is their graves."

Malashenko, with his hands in his pockets, turned around and walked into the lower cabin with his disheveled hair against the evening wind blowing in his face. Commissar Petrov remained seated on the stern deck of the ship, feeling the long-lost quiet night breeze. .

Sometimes, even the strongest warrior needs a little time to release the memories and self in his heart.

Political Commissar Petrov, who was not used to showing his hidden side in front of others, reached into the lining of his coat and pulled out the wrinkled black-and-white photo that only he had seen and that even Malashenko had never known.

In the photo, two young people who look almost exactly the same are holding each other's shoulders and smiling brightly. The red stars on the two big leather hats are still within reach even in the black and white photo. It took too long. Commissar Petrov, who had never smiled before, finally raised the corners of his mouth slightly.

"He's exactly the same as when we were young, right? My brother."