Chapter 15 Part Four 6-8

6 The reserves of the attacking force marched forward in endless stretches.The sound of air battles unfolding over the road they are advancing is not only heard by the combatants sitting in the cockpit of combat aircraft. Colonel Ivanov, head of the Guards Fighter Regiment at the airport, also listened to these sounds on the high-power radio station of the command post.As a good pilot with experience, he knew from these sounds in the air that the battle was intense.The enemy is strong and stubborn, and they don't want to give up the sky.News of Fedorov's hard-fought battle over the road quickly spread throughout the airport.All who could get out had come out of the woods to the clearing, and they were looking south worriedly, from where the plane was supposed to be returning.

Doctors in white coats ran out of the cafeteria, chewing as they went.Ambulances with giant red crosses crawled out of the bushes like elephants.The starting motor vibrates, and everything is ready. At first, the first pair of planes popped out from behind the rows of tree tops - the Hero of the Soviet Union Fedorov's "No. 1" and his wingman "No. 2" plane.They landed without circling, gliding along the open field.Immediately after them a second pair of planes landed.The sound of the motor of the returning plane continued to be heard above the forest. "The seventh, the eighth, the ninth, the tenth..." The people standing on the airport counted loudly and looked at the sky more and more nervously.

The landing plane left the airport, taxied into the aircraft shelter, and immediately shut down.But there are still two planes missing. There was silence among the waiting crowd.The minute was unbearably slow. "Milesiev and Petrov." Someone said softly. Suddenly a woman's voice screamed with joy, and spread throughout the airport: "Flying over!" At this moment, the faint rumble of the motor was heard.From behind the birch canopy flew out the Twelfth Plane.Its outstretched undercarriage almost touched a tree branch.The plane was battered and bruised, a piece of the tail had been knocked off, and the severed end of the left wing wobbled and was attached by a steel cable.The plane touched the ground strangely, then jumped high, then touched the ground again, and jumped again.It jumped like this, almost jumping to the very edge of the airport, then raised its tail, and stopped suddenly.The doctor's ambulance stood on the steps, and several "Willys" rushed towards the plane with a large group of waiting people.No one in the cockpit stood up.

People open the lid of the cockpit.Petrov's body sank deep in the chair, lying in a pool of blood.His head drooped limply on his chest.The face was covered with damp locks of long, blond hair.Doctors and nurses undid his belt, removed his bloodstained, shrapnel-slashed parachute, and carefully lifted his immobile body to the ground.The pilot was shot through both legs and injured a hand.The crimson blood spots soon soaked all over the blue flight suit. Petrov was immediately bandaged and put on a stretcher to be loaded into an ambulance.Then he opened his eyes and whispered something, but the voice was too small to be heard clearly.The colonel bent over him.

"Where is Milesyev?" asked the wounded man. "It hasn't landed yet." The stretcher was raised again.But the wounded shook his head resolutely, and even moved his body, wanting to jump down from above. "Stop, don't take me away, I don't want to go! I'm going to wait for Milesyev. He saved my life." The pilot protested so obstinately that he threatened to remove the bandage.The colonel waved his hand, then turned around, and forced out a sentence through his teeth: "Okay, put it down. Do whatever you want. Milesyev's gasoline is enough for a minute at most. He can't die."

The colonel watched the red second hand of his stopwatch go round and round.Everyone looked at the blue-gray woods—the last plane should emerge from behind the gap in the woods, and the hearing was extremely tense.Yet there was nothing to be heard except the distant shelling and the deliberate tap-tap of a woodpecker not far away. How long a minute sometimes is! 7 The reserves of the attacking force marched forward in endless stretches.The sound of air battles unfolding over the road they are advancing is not only heard by the combatants sitting in the cockpit of combat aircraft. Colonel Ivanov, head of the Guards Fighter Regiment at the airport, also listened to these sounds on the high-power radio station of the command post.As a good pilot with experience, he knew from these sounds in the air that the battle was intense.The enemy is strong and stubborn, and they don't want to give up the sky.News of Fedorov's hard-fought battle over the road quickly spread throughout the airport.All who could get out had come out of the woods to the clearing, and they were looking south worriedly, from where the plane was supposed to be returning.

Doctors in white coats ran out of the cafeteria, chewing as they went.Ambulances with giant red crosses crawled out of the bushes like elephants.The starting motor vibrates, and everything is ready. At first, the first pair of planes popped out from behind the rows of tree tops - the Hero of the Soviet Union Fedorov's "No. 1" and his wingman "No. 2" plane.They landed without circling, gliding along the open field.Immediately after them a second pair of planes landed.The sound of the motor of the returning plane continued to be heard above the forest. "The seventh, the eighth, the ninth, the tenth..." The people standing on the airport counted loudly and looked at the sky more and more nervously.

The landing plane left the airport, taxied into the aircraft shelter, and immediately shut down.But there are still two planes missing. There was silence among the waiting crowd.The minute was unbearably slow. "Milesiev and Petrov." Someone said softly. Suddenly a woman's voice screamed with joy, and spread throughout the airport: "Flying over!" At this moment, the faint rumble of the motor was heard.From behind the birch canopy flew out the Twelfth Plane.Its outstretched undercarriage almost touched a tree branch.The plane was battered and bruised, a piece of the tail had been knocked off, and the severed end of the left wing wobbled and was attached by a steel cable.The plane touched the ground strangely, then jumped high, then touched the ground again, and jumped again.It jumped like this, almost jumping to the very edge of the airport, then raised its tail, and stopped suddenly.The doctor's ambulance stood on the steps, and several "Willys" rushed towards the plane with a large group of waiting people.No one in the cockpit stood up.

People open the lid of the cockpit.Petrov's body sank deep in the chair, lying in a pool of blood.His head drooped limply on his chest.The face was covered with damp locks of long, blond hair.Doctors and nurses undid his belt, removed his bloodstained, shrapnel-slashed parachute, and carefully lifted his immobile body to the ground.The pilot was shot through both legs and injured a hand.The crimson blood spots soon soaked all over the blue flight suit. Petrov was immediately bandaged and put on a stretcher to be loaded into an ambulance.Then he opened his eyes and whispered something, but the voice was too small to be heard clearly.The colonel bent over him.

"Where is Milesyev?" asked the wounded man. "It hasn't landed yet." The stretcher was raised again.But the wounded shook his head resolutely, and even moved his body, wanting to jump down from above. "Stop, don't take me away, I don't want to go! I'm going to wait for Milesyev. He saved my life." The pilot protested so obstinately that he threatened to remove the bandage.The colonel waved his hand, then turned around, and forced out a sentence through his teeth: "Okay, put it down. Do whatever you want. Milesyev's gasoline is enough for a minute at most. He can't die."

The colonel watched the red second hand of his stopwatch go round and round.Everyone looked at the blue-gray woods—the last plane should emerge from behind the gap in the woods, and the hearing was extremely tense.Yet there was nothing to be heard except the distant shelling and the deliberate tap-tap of a woodpecker not far away. How long a minute sometimes is! 8 Petrov's ears buzzed from the blood loss, and everything—the airport, familiar faces, the golden sunset—suddenly began to shake, then slowly turned upside down and blurred.He moved the punctured leg, but a sharp pain woke him up. "Didn't you fly back?" "Not yet. Don't talk," someone answered him. Could it be that he, Alexey Milesyev - who today, like a God with wings, suddenly appeared before the Germans in inconceivable ways at the moment when Petrov thought everything was over - now became A charred, mangled mass lying on the hideous, shell-disfigured ground?Could it be that Sergeant Petrov could no longer see the lead pilot's dark eyes, which were somewhat presumptuous, with a good-natured sneer?never see it... The regimental commander lowered the sleeves of his military shirt.The watch is out of use.He smoothed his smooth, center-parted hair with his hands, and said in a nonchalant voice: "It's over now." "Is there no hope at all?" someone asked him. "It's over. Out of gas. He landed somewhere or parachuted... Hey, get the stretcher away!" The regimental commander turned around and began whistling something, completely out of tune.Once again Petrov felt a hot lump in his throat.It's so hot, so solid, it's almost deadly.Suddenly, there was a strange coughing sound.At this moment, the people who were still standing silently in the middle of the airport turned around to look, but turned around immediately: the wounded pilot was crying on the stretcher. "Hurry up and take him away, why do this!" The regiment leader shouted in an unfamiliar voice.He turned his back to the crowd, squinted his eyes as if he was standing in a gust of wind, and then walked away quickly. People started to disperse slowly from the airport.But at this moment, a plane slipped out from the edge of the woods quietly like a shadow.Its tires skidded over the tops of the birch trees.It clung to the ground like a ghost, gliding above people's heads, and it seemed to be attracted by the earth, the three wheels landed on the grass at the same time, and then there was a hoarse sound: sand and stone The creak and the rustle of the grass.It was so unusual that the pilots were so used to hearing the roar of those spinning motors that they didn't hear it at all.All this happened so suddenly that no one could understand what happened, although the thing itself was very common: a plane landed, that is, number eleven, the plane everyone was waiting for landed. "It's him!" someone shouted in a frantic and unnatural voice.Everyone also immediately became awakened from a dream. The plane had stopped gliding, its brakes screamed and stopped at the very edge of the airport, stopping like a wall of young birches with leafy branches and snow-white trunks, reflected in the golden sunset glow by the woods. Still no one got up from the cockpit.People had a premonition that something unfortunate would happen, and they ran to the plane with all their strength and panting.The regiment leader was the first to run over. He quickly jumped onto the wing, opened the hatch, and looked into the cockpit.Alexey Milesyev sat there without his flying cap, his face as pale as a white cloud.His pale, somewhat blue lips smiled.Two streams of blood flowed from his bitten lower lip and flowed down his chin. "Alive? Injured?" He smiled feebly, looked at the colonel with extremely tired eyes, and said: "No, not hurt at all. I was terrified... I flew back with an empty fuel tank for about six kilometers." The pilots congratulated him noisily and shook his hand.Alexey smiled and said: "Guys, don't break the wing. How's this going to work? Look how many people are sitting... I'll be right out." Then, from below, from behind the heads surrounding him, he heard a familiar, but very faint voice, as if it came from very far away: "Alyosha, Alyosha!" Milesyev immediately perked up.He jumped up, propping himself up on his hands, sticking his hulking feet out of the cabin, nearly bumping into someone as he jumped to the ground. Petrov's face was glued to the pillow.In his deep-set, blackened eyes stood two large tears. "Old fellow! You're alive! . . . Oh, how you've become a bandaged brat!" The pilot knelt down heavily in front of the stretcher, hugged the comrade's head lying there powerlessly, looked at his light blue eyes that were suffering, but at the same time shone with happiness, and said: "you are still alive?" "Alyosha, thank you for saving me. Alyosha, you are, you are..." "Get the wounded away, hell! Don't just open your mouth!" Suddenly, the colonel's voice came from nearby. The leader stood aside, shaking slightly.He was short in stature, but active, with strong legs.A pair of well-fitting leather boots, polished to a shine, peeked out from under the legs of the blue jumpsuit. "Captain Milesyev, please report the flight. Did you shoot down the plane?" "Yes, Comrade Colonel, two 'Fokker-Furleaves' were shot down." "How's the battle going?" "One was shot down during a vertical attack and it bit Petrov's tail. The second was shot down during a frontal attack about three kilometers north of the main battlefield." "I know. The ground observers reported it just now...Thank you." "Serving the country..." Alexey wanted to answer briefly and formally.However, the head of the regiment, who has always been serious and abided by the regulations, interrupted him in a casual tone: "Very good! Tomorrow you will take over a flight group to replace... the captain of the third flight group did not return to the base today..." They walked to the command post on foot.Because today's flight is over, everyone walks behind them.The command post was approaching on the green hill, when an officer of the watch ran towards them from there.He stopped in front of the head of the regiment. He didn't wear a military cap, he was very happy, and he just opened his mouth to shout something.But the colonel said in a stern, dry voice: "Why don't you wear a military cap? Are you a pupil at recess?" "Comrade Colonel, please allow me to report to you!" The excited lieutenant straightened up, panting heavily, and finished speaking in one breath. "What's up?" "Our neighbor, the head of the 'Jacques' regiment, please answer the phone." "Neighbor? What's the matter?..." The colonel hurried to the cave. "It's talking about you over there..." said the officer on duty to Alexei. Suddenly, the captain's voice came. "Tell Milesyev to come to me!" When Milesyev was standing beside him in a daze with his hands down straight, the regimental commander covered the receiver with his hand and reproached him: "How did you lie to me? The neighbor called and asked: 'Who in your regiment flew the 11th plane?' I said: 'Captain Milesyev.' He asked: 'How many planes did you record for him today that were shot down? ?' I replied, 'Two.' He said, 'Put him one more: he knocked out another Fokker-Furleaf off my tail today.' I - he said —I saw it hit the ground with my own eyes. Hey, why don’t you say anything?” The colonel frowned at Alexei, and it was hard to figure out whether he was joking or really angry, “Is there such a thing?  … ... Well, talk to yourself! Here you are. Hello, are you listening? Captain Milesyev is at the phone. I'll give him the receiver." A strange, hoarse voice came faintly from my ear: "Hey, Captain, thank you! It was a first-class thrash, I admire it, it saved me. Yes. I sent it all the way to the ground, and saw it hit the ground... Do you drink vodka? To Come, my command post, let's have a drink. Hello, thank you, shake your hand. Please come!" Milesyev put down the receiver.He was so exhausted by what he had been through that he could hardly stand up.Now all he wanted was to hurry back to Vole Town, back to his cave, and ditch the prosthetic feet and sprawl out on the bed.He paced awkwardly up and down by the phone, then walked slowly toward the door. "Where are you going?" The head of the regiment blocked his way.He seized Milesyev's hand, and squeezed it painfully in his dry little hand, "Well, what can I say to you? Well done! I'm proud, I have Such people... well, what can you say? Thank you... isn't your friend Petrov bad? And the others... well, with such a people, the war cannot be lost!" Once again he squeezed Milesyev's hand painfully. It was midnight when Milesyev returned to the cave, and he could not fall asleep.He turned the pillow over, counted a thousand and counted backwards.He thought of his acquaintances, starting with the letter "A," then the letter "B," and on and on.He stared intently at the dim flame of the oil lamp again.However, all these tried and tested methods of hypnosis do not work today.As soon as Alexei closed his eyes, a familiar image began to flash in front of him, sometimes clearly and sometimes vaguely: the silver-haired old Mikhaila looking at him worriedly; Andrei Tegogalenko with eyelashes like a cow; Vasily Vasilyevich, scolding and shaking his gray hair furiously; ; lying on a white pillow, looking at the sallow face of Alexei's regimental commissar Vorobyov with bright, penetrating, penetrating, mocking eyes; blowing in the wind, Zinotchka's flashing fiery red hair; smiling, sympathetic and understandingly blinking short, nimble instructor Naumov... so many lovely, friendly faces in the dark Looking at him, smiling, aroused his kind memories and a heart that was already filled with warmth!But among these friendly faces was Olya's face.It was the face of a teenager in military uniform with big tired eyes.It instantly obscures everyone else's faces.Alexei saw this face so clearly, as if the girl was really standing in front of him, and he had never seen her like this before.The vision was so vivid that he even stood up. How can I still sleep now!Alexei felt a surge of uncontrollable joy and urge all over him.He jumped out of bed, lit the "Stalingrad" oil lamp, tore a page from his exercise book, sharpened the point of a pencil on the sole of his shoe, and began to write: "My darling!" he scribbled, barely registering the fleeting thoughts. "I knocked out three Germans today. But that's not the case, my comrades do it almost every day now. I won't brag about it to you... My dear, far away lover! I think I have the right today to tell you everything that happened to me eighteen months ago. I regret it, and I regret it very much, I have kept it from you. Today I finally decide... ", Alexei pondered.The mice screeched behind the sheathing panels on the four walls of the cave, digging up the dry sand.Yejia's low and hard-working cry, accompanied by the fresh and moist smell of birch trees and blooming flowers and plants, poured into the unclosed aisle.In the far back of the ravine, probably near the booths of the officers' mess, a male voice and a female voice sang "Sorberry Tree" in deep harmony.Due to the distance, the melody of the singing becomes softer, and it has a special and gentle charm at night, which awakens the joyful sadness deep in my heart-it is a kind of expectant sadness, hopeful sadness... The distant and muffled roar of cannons can barely reach this field airfield, which has become deep in the rear.The roar could neither overpower the melody of the song, nor the song of the nightingale, nor even the quiet, sleepy rustle of the woods at night.