Steel Soviet Union

"Legs, my legs! Doctor, doctor, where are my legs? Where are my legs? Ahhhh!!!"

"Calm down, comrade, calm down. Your life is more important than your legs. You must live before you can think about other things."

"There's another one here, Alena, bring the stretcher over here! Hurry!"

A brutal battle for positions resulted in heavy casualties for both warring parties. The repeated changes of main positions caused the infantrymen who were constantly pulling and fighting to face each other to suffer huge casualties, both on the German and Soviet sides.

Malashenko, who was walking among the positions, had to lift his legs from time to time to step over the three or five corpses piled up at his feet.

It doesn't necessarily have to be either the German or the Soviet army. More often than not, there are three or five corpses in military uniforms from different camps, stacked together like sandbags, and each one has long since lost its breath.

But the Red Army medical soldiers who searched the battlefield still tried their best to find living comrades among the corpses, and they were determined not to miss any one even if the hope was slim.

"Comrade, do you have a cigarette? I can't move now and can't find anyone else to ask for it. Can you give me one?"

Malashenko stood on the edge outside the trench, looking around at the busy positions cleaning the battlefield and rescuing people, and at the scene where his soldiers were helping the people of the 267th Infantry Division to repair and strengthen the positions.

But he never thought that at this moment, in the trench beside him that he had not noticed just now, a hoarse voice suddenly spoke quietly. Judging from the tone, he should be greeting him.

Following the direction of the sound, Malashenko subconsciously turned his head to look. Only then did Malashenko see that it was an elderly soldier, dragging an injured leg and sitting against the trench wall, holding Mo in his arms. Xinagan looked at him with a simple smile.

The wound on the leg has been simply bandaged to stop the bleeding. The medical soldiers who have completed the emergency treatment have left to treat other wounded people. It is estimated that there will be some time before the stretcher team can free up manpower.

"Of course, I happen to be addicted too, so we can smoke one together."

During wartime, Malashenko was the same as before. He did not have any insignia on his body that could distinguish military ranks. He was just wearing an ordinary, old and rumpled tank soldier's fire-proof combat uniform, with a helmet on his head. Top it with a fleece winter tank hat.

If you hadn't recognized this face at a glance, you would have thought it was a Red Army tank soldier. It just so happened that this old soldier was sitting in the trench dragging his injured leg and unable to move.

"Oh, young man, this is a good thing from you. I haven't smoked cigarettes in a box for a long time. Are you an officer?"

Malashenko, who had just taken out the cigarette case from his pocket and was squatting next to the veteran, grinned. Just like many young soldiers of the same age who were fighting in ordinary tank crew positions at a similar age, he looked honest and honest. Respect, the veterans who are still carrying guns and fighting the fascists in their forties and fifties do deserve this respect.

"No, I'm just an ordinary soldier. This is a reward from our leader for meritorious service in battle, hehe."

Malashenko deliberately concealed his identity, not because of anything else, but sometimes it’s good to re-experience the feeling of being an ordinary tank soldier.

Being immersed in the glory of a general for too long may lead to losing oneself. Malashenko wanted to understand something personally as a soldier, and that was all.

"Then you must be very popular with your leaders. You should work hard, young man. The future of our motherland and the Red Army belongs to you. You are the hope."

Listening to the earnest teachings of the veteran soldier, Malashenko smiled and handed the cigarettes to the boss and lit them, but the lighter in his hand also attracted attention.

"The lighter is not bad either. Did the German steal it from him? There are so many good things."

"Um"

Malashenko, who lit a cigarette for himself with his backhand, sat back in the trench, sitting side by side with the veteran soldier. Feeling the unusually rich taste between his lips and teeth, the veteran soldier soon spoke again.

"It's such a good cigarette. I've never smoked it before. Is this the school officer's?"

Different military ranks have different supplies. The veteran soldiers guessed that these may be items smoked by school officers such as regiment commanders or brigade commanders. Malashenko did not lie this time.

"No, it's general-level. This is the only box I have here."

"Oh? General level? Then you must have achieved some military merit and received a commendation from the comrade division commander or comrade corps commander, right? This is even more remarkable. I have to pay tribute to you."

Before the words were spoken, the veteran soldier had already put down Mosin Nagant, who had been holding him in his arms, and saluted Malashenko. Malashenko, who was caught off guard, quickly raised his hand to return the salute and then smiled.

"It's not a big deal, old comrade. But you, there are not many soldiers as old as you. Can you tell me your story? Just tell it to the younger generation."

""

I don't know if it was an illusion, but Malashenko just felt that the old soldier was moved and slightly startled for a moment, but he quickly covered it up with the same smile as before.

"Okay, I haven't talked to anyone for a while. Young people have young people's topics and don't like to talk to an old guy like me. It's rare to meet someone who wants to listen to a story, and it just happens to relieve my boredom."

Malashenko put the cigarette box at hand and did not put it back into his pocket. After finishing one cigarette, he could take another one at any time. There was still enough left in the cigarette box. The story can continue slowly. Now Just be quiet and listen.

"Let me think about it, where should I start?"

"By the way, let's start with the children. Fighting side by side with you young people always reminds me of the past. At that time, I was a middle school teacher. My children and students were all about the same age as you, even Even younger, some of them are only fifteen or sixteen years old.”

"Teacher? You said you were a middle school teacher before, is that true?"

Malashenko looked slightly surprised, but the smiling veteran just nodded.

"Yeah, I'm a middle school teacher, teaching history, at least I used to be."

"Then why?"

As soon as the words came out of his mouth, Malashenko felt a little regretful. Perhaps such a question that could obviously predict the possible outcome should not be asked at all, but the old soldier just leaned against the trench wall and continued to smile.

"When I took my children to evacuate from Minsk, the German planes roared above us. The head teacher stood on the haystack and shouted loudly for the students to get down, but by then it was too late."

"The German bomb exploded right next to us. For just a moment, my eyes went dark and I couldn't remember anything. I only knew that when I woke up, I was already being carried to the car and was already far away from Minsk and evacuated to rear."

"Later, I tried to find my children. I took 73 student ID cards, such a thick stack, and searched among the refugees and at any evacuation point. But I couldn't find any of them. It was like It was as if these children had never existed at all. All that was left were those 73 cold student ID cards, and me holding this thick stack of student ID cards in my arms and crying in the dark. I never thought that one day It will become like this”