Chapter 16 Author postscript

The battle of Orel was drawing to a close, and some advance regiments attacking from the north were already reporting that they had seen a burning city from the Krasnogors heights.At this time, the Bryansk Front Command received a report: the pilots of the Guards Fighter Regiment operating in the area had shot down a total of forty-seven enemy planes in the last nine days, and they themselves only lost Five planes, three people lost.Because two men parachuted from the plane that had been shot down, and returned to their regiment on foot.Such a record, even when the Red Army is on the offensive, is extremely rare.I arrived at the regiment on a liaison plane to write an article for Pravda about the combat exploits of the Guards pilots.

The regiment's airport was actually located on the pasture of an ordinary farmer's family, and the original mounds and mounds picked up by voles had been leveled out.The plane was hidden like a flock of pheasants on the edge of a small birch forest.In short, this is the most ordinary field airfield on a stormy battle day. The regiment had a very difficult day.In the evening, they were preparing to close.At this time, we landed at this airport.In the skies near Orel the Germans were particularly "active".On this day, the fighter jet completed seven combat flights.By the time the sun was setting, the last crew had returned from their eighth flight.The regimental commander was a small, tanned, quick-moving man in a tightly laced belt, in a new blue flight uniform, with hair neatly combed.He said convincingly that in today's state he couldn't say anything coherent.Because he has been at the airport since six o'clock in the morning and has personally flown into the air three times, he is so tired that he is going to lie down now.On this day, other commanders did not care about news interviews.I see, the interview has to be postponed until tomorrow, and it's too late anyway to go back.The sun shone on the tops of the birch trees, and its rays sprinkled the tops of the trees like molten gold.

The last group of planes landed.Before the motors were turned off, they glide straight toward the woods.Mechanics manually adjusted the direction of the aircraft.The aircraft shelter was horseshoe-shaped, covered with green turf.Only when the plane stopped in the earth bunker did the pilots slowly emerge from the cabin.They were pale and tired. The plane of the captain of the Third Air Group was the last to fly back.The crystal-clear and translucent cabin cover was opened, and a big mahogany cane was thrown out first and fell on the ground.It is encased in gilt monograms.Then a broad-faced, dark-haired man with tanned skin appeared.Supported by his strong hands, he quickly stood up, nimbly rolled over the side of the cabin, got down onto the wing, and then walked down inconveniently.I was told that this man was the best pilot in the regiment.In order not to waste the evening in vain, I resolved to speak to him now.I remember very well that his dark gypsy eyes had the warmth of a child in them.This passion is strangely combined with the wisdom of the weather-beaten, experienced and worn-out.He smiled, looked at me happily, and said:

"Give me a break! To be honest, I'm about to fall down, my ears are ringing. Have you eaten? No? That's great! Let's go to the cafeteria for dinner. We have a rule here that every fight On the plane, I will be given 200 grams of vodka for dinner, and today I should give you 400 grams, which is just enough for us to drink. How about it, let’s go? If you can’t wait, we can chat while eating.” I said yes, I like this frank and cheerful person very much.We walked along the path through the forest.This trail was trodden by pilots.My new friend walked briskly, and often, stooping, picked some black strawberries or a large bunch of pale rose lingonberries as he went, and stuffed them into his mouth.He may be very tired today, and walk with heavy steps, but he does not use his strange walking stick.His cane hung from one elbow, and he held it in his hand only occasionally, to knock down poisonous plants or tap the crimson willow-flowers.We walked through canyons and climbed steep, slippery mud slopes.At this point the pilot was crawling slowly, holding on to the bushes with his hands, even then without using his cane.

However, as soon as he arrived at the cafeteria, his tiredness and sleepiness seemed to disappear in a flash.He sat by the window, from which he could see the cold red sunset.According to the experience of the pilot, this is the windy forecast tomorrow.He drank a large glass of water greedily, gurgling.Then he joked with a pretty curly-haired waitress that she made all the soup salty because of his friend who was lying in the hospital.He had a good appetite and ate a lot. He gnawed the lamb ribs clean with his powerful teeth, and made a squeaking sound when he gnawed.He joked with his friends across a table, asked me some news about Moscow, new news in the literary world, and asked about the performances of the Moscow theater.According to him, alas, what a pity he never went there even once.We ate up the third course—a jelly with black lingonberries, called a "thundercloud" here.At this time, he asked:

①This is a common saying, which means that when a person is in love, he will add salt to the dishes when he is in love, making the dishes very salty. "Actually, where do you want to spend the night? Is there no place? That would be great, please come and spend the night in my cave!" He frowned for a moment, remained silent, and then explained in a hoarse voice: "My roommate did not come back from a combat mission today... In other words, there is an empty bed. I will definitely find a cleaner quilt. Let's go." It seems that he is a person who likes to socialize with people, especially likes to chat with strangers, trying to find out everything he wants to know from them.I agreed.We came to a canyon.The slopes on both sides of the canyon are densely packed with marlin berries, lung grass and willow orchids.They stink of rotten leaves and damp mushrooms, and the place has been dug for cave dwellings.

Homemade "Stalingradka" lamps ignited sooty flames, which illuminated the cave dwellings.It turned out that the residence was quite spacious and very comfortable to live in.There is a straw mattress in a niche in the earthen wall, on which are two neatly folded quilts.The straw mattresses were military tarpaulins stuffed with fragrant fresh hay.In the corner stood a few young birch trees, their leaves not yet wilted.According to the pilot, it was "to liven up the cave a little bit".There are some very regular steps chiseled on the upper wall above the bed, and some newspapers are laid inside the steps, and there are several stacks of books and some washing and shaving utensils on them.There is a self-made transparent plexiglass photo frame on the headboard of a bed, which has a unique style, and there are two photos in it, but they are too blurred to see clearly.This kind of picture frame was made by the craftsmen of each regiment out of loneliness during the intermission of the battle, and made it out of the fragments of enemy planes.An army pot, covered with small burdock leaves, was placed on a table and filled with marlin berries from the forest.Marlin berries, young birches, grasses, and fir boughs that spread on the floor, they give off a rich smell that is cheerful and cheery.The cave dwelling is filled with a kind of coolness, as well as that very desirable humidity.The grasshoppers in the canyon squeaked, making people drowsy.For these reasons, my host and I felt at once a very pleasant drowsiness all over us, and decided to postpone the conversation and the marlin berries we had already begun to eat until tomorrow.

The pilot is out.He's brushing his teeth loudly, taking cold showers, and he's hi-hah'ing and wheezing with excitement, all of which seem to be heard throughout the forest.He came back happily, renewed, with beads of water on his brows and hair.He twisted the wick down and began to undress.Something fell heavily to the ground with a thud.I looked back and saw something I didn't even believe myself: he had left his own feet on the ground!A pilot without feet!A fighter pilot!A pilot who just flew seven combat flights today and also shot down two planes!This seems implausible at all.

However, his feet, or rather - a pair of prosthetics fitted properly with a pair of army shoes, fell to the ground.The lower half of the artificial foot protruded from under the bed, as if a person was hiding under the bed, exposing his feet to the outside.At this moment, my eyes may be puzzled.Because after taking one look at me, the master asked slyly with a satisfied expression: "Didn't you find out before?" "Didn't even think about it." "That's wonderful! Thank you very much! But I don't understand, why didn't anyone tell you? We have as many good talkers in our group as the master pilots, how can they miss this opportunity: not to a stranger , and besides, someone from Pravda to praise this miracle?"

"However, this is unprecedented! God knows such a feat: flying a fighter plane without feet! I didn't know there was such a thing in the history of aviation." The pilot whistled happily and preached: "Hey, history of aviation! . . . There's a lot it hasn't experienced, but the Soviet pilots in this war have made it feel. But what's the big deal? Seriously, I'd be happier with the Real feet instead of these pair of artificial feet to fly. But what to do? Things are already like this.” The pilot took a breath, “But to be precise, there have been similar examples in the history of aviation.”

He rummaged through the picture bag for a while, and pulled out a newspaper clipping.It was cut from a magazine and was so worn that the contents were blurred at the creases.It is carefully pasted on cellophane.This page is about a pilot who is missing a foot. "But he's got a good foot after all! Besides, he's not a fighter pilot, he's flying an old Farman." "But I'm a Soviet pilot! Don't think I'm talking nonsense. I didn't say these words, but a good man, a real man told me..." He emphasized the "real" The word, "This individual is now deceased." The pilot's strong and resolute broad face was covered with a gentle and melancholy expression, and his eyes shone with affection and bright light. He suddenly became ten years younger, almost a half-grown boy.In this way, I am astonishedly convinced that my master, who seemed a middle-aged man a minute ago, is really only twenty-three years old. "Usually I really hate when people ask 'when are you, how are you? But at this moment, everything in the past is suddenly recalled... You are a foreigner, we will break up tomorrow, and we will probably never see each other again... You want me to tell you the story of my feet ? " He sat down on the bed, pulled the covers up to his chin, and began to talk.He seemed to speak as he pleased, forgetting that there was an interlocutor.But his narrative is interesting and vivid.In his narration, we can see his intelligence and wisdom, his extraordinary memory, and his broad and kind heart.I understood immediately that what I was about to hear was of great significance, something that had never been heard before, and which I would never hear again.I picked up a student exercise book on the desk—it had the words "Flying Diary of the Third Air Group" written on it, and began to record his story. Night, quietly moved to the forest.The small crude oil lamp on the table often made crackling and rustling sounds, and many careless moths with their wings burned off fell beside the lamp.At first, the night wind carried the chirping of an untuned accordion; then, the accordion stopped, and only the sounds of the forest at night remained: the piercing wail of cormorants, the distant moaning of owls , the frogs on the nearby swamp screamed vigorously, and the squeaks of grasshoppers.His narrating voice was a little hoarse, thoughtful, and balanced in rhythm.This narration is accompanied by the various voices mentioned above. The story of this man fascinated me so miraculously that I tried to record it in detail, and when I finished one exercise book I found a second on the shelf.When I finished writing the second book, I didn't notice that the sky had turned white—it was seen from the narrow exit of the cave passage.Alexei Maresyev1 tells his story to this day, after shooting down three German planes of the "Lichtgofen" Air Division, he felt again that he had the same rights as everyone else , pilots of equal value. ①The protagonist of the work is named "Malesiev", which the author will mention later. "Oh, I've been talking nonsense with you so much. I have to fly tomorrow morning." He cut off a sentence, "Are you tired of listening too? Go to sleep now." "Hey, what happened to Olya? How did she answer you!" I asked.Then I wanted to change the subject, "But this question may be unpleasant to you, so please don't answer it." "It's nothing, why should it be like this?" He smiled. "She and I are both big weirdos. It turns out that she knows everything. My friend Andrei Tegogalenko wrote to her at the time. She wrote a letter—first about my tragedy, then about my amputated feet. But she saw that I was hiding it for some reason, and thought I must be very sad, and she didn't want to talk about it, so she also kept pretending as if Looks like you don't know. How it turned out—we've been deceiving each other for no apparent reason. Would you like to see her?" After he snatched up the wick of the crude little oil lamp, he moved it in front of the photo.The photographs were in that curious plexiglass frame that hung above the head of the bed.The picture taken by the photographer is almost faded and worn out, and it is difficult to see that it is a girl: she is sitting among the flowers in the summer meadow, smiling carefree.Another photo is of the same girl, wearing the uniform of a technician lieutenant, with a thin, serious face, full of wisdom, and a focused expression.She is small and thin, and her military attire gives people the impression that she is a half-grown boy with good looks.However, the eyes of this "underage boy" were a little tired, not as bright and sharp as ordinary boys. "Do you like her?" "I like it very much." I replied sincerely. "Me too." He smiled kindly. "And what about Struchkov? Where is he now?" "I don't know. I received his last letter from Greater Lucca in winter." "And what about this tanker? ... What do you call him? ..." "Grisha Gvozdev? He's now a major. He took part in the famous battle of Prokhorovka, and then in the tank breakthrough in the Battle of the Kursk Arc. We've been fought together, but never met. He's currently commanding a tank regiment. For some reason he hasn't been writing lately. Oh, that's all right, as long as we live, there will always be a chance to meet. And we And why not live? Well, go to sleep, go to sleep, it is already morning." He blew out the simple little oil lamp.It was getting dark in the cave, but it was diluted by the half-clear light of dawn.Mosquitoes started buzzing, which was probably the only blemish in this lovely woodland abode. "I am very eager to write your story and publish it in Pravda." "Then what's the matter, you can write it down." The pilot agreed without any particular enthusiasm.About a minute later, he added in a sleepy voice: "Perhaps it is not worth writing. If this kind of article falls into the hands of Goebbels, then he will make a big fuss, saying, is it useful in Russia? Go to war with a foot, and so on, that's what fascist gangsters do." In a blink of an eye, he fell asleep, and I couldn't fall asleep.The unexpected confession shocked me with its simplicity and sublime.It would all seem like a beautiful fairy tale if the self-narrating hero himself hadn't been sleeping nearby, if his dew-covered false feet hadn't fallen to the ground and were clearly visible in the milky morning light. ... After that I never met Alexey Maresyev again.But wherever the war threw me, I carried with me the two exercise books--these were the strange experiences I had recorded about this pilot below Orel.I don't know how many times I've tried to write a feature about him during the war, in the days between battles, and later in my travels through liberated European countries, but each time I put it aside because I What can be written seems to be only a dim shadow of his whole life experience. Once, in Nuremberg, I attended an International Military Tribunal.At that time, the trial of Hermann Göring was coming to an end.At this time, the questions raised by the Soviet public prosecutor drove the "Nazi No. 2 of Germany" against the wall.He trembled in the face of a large amount of criminal evidence, and reluctantly stated to the judge in a reluctant voice how the victorious fascist army was dismembered and collapsed under the heavy damage of the Red Army when fighting on the vast territory of our country.While cleaning himself up for his crimes, Goering raised his lifeless eyes, looked up into the sky, and said, "It's God's will." "Do you admit that you perfidiously attacked the Soviet Union, which resulted in the destruction of Germany and committed a heinous crime?" Soviet prosecutor Roman Rudenko asked Goering. "This is not a crime, but a preordained fault." Goering lowered his eyes sullenly, and said in a muffled voice: "I can only admit that our actions were too reckless, because we can only find out in the course of the war that we There are so many things we don't know, and there are many things we simply can't predict. The main mistake is that we don't know and understand Soviet Russians. They were a mystery and they are still a mystery. Any good None of the spy agencies could reveal the real military potential of the USSR. I'm not talking about the number of cannons, planes and tanks, which we generally know. I'm not talking about industrial power and industrial mobilization. I'm talking about people. In a foreign country Russia has always been a mystery to man, and even Napoleon failed to figure it out, and we are only repeating Napoleon's mistakes." We listened with pride to this forced "confession" - about the "enigmatic Russians", about the "mysterious military potential" of our motherland.Everyone believes that the Soviets are capable and talented, full of indomitable and heroic spirit of sacrifice, so they shocked the whole world during the war.These characteristics are indeed an insoluble mystery to all Goerings.Moreover, for the inventors of the poor "theory" that the Germans are an "excellent race", how could they understand the spirit and great strength of people who grew up in a socialist country!Then, I suddenly thought of Alexei Maresiev.Right here, in this solemn oak-decorated hall, his forgotten image stood before me, vivid and persistent.Therefore, I especially want to tell the story of an ordinary Soviet man here, in Nuremberg, in the city where the Nazis were born.Together with tens of thousands of Soviets, this man defeated Titel's army, Goering's air force, sank Rydal's fleet, and defeated Hitler, a barbaric country, with his powerful attacks.Of the two exercise books with yellow covers, one of which was written "Flying Diary of the Third Air Group" in Maresyev's handwriting, I took them with me to Nuremberg.After returning from the trial, I began to look through the old notes, and sat down to write, trying to get everything I knew about Alexey Maresyev—from his companion's narration, from his What I learned from my own words——I describe it exactly. There were many things I failed to remember at the time, and I have forgotten many more in the past four years.Out of modesty, Alexei Maresyev did not mention many things at first.Therefore, I must think carefully and supplement.He described his friends that night with warmth and clarity.The images of these people are worn out in my memory, and I have to recreate them.It is impossible for me to strictly follow the facts here, so I slightly changed the surname of the protagonist, and I will give thanks to those who appeared in the difficult process of his achievements—those who walked with him and those who helped him. new name.If anyone recognizes themselves in this novel, please don't blame me. I'm going to title this book because Alexei Maresyev was a true Soviet.Such a man was beyond Hermann Göring's comprehension until now, even to the point of his ignominious death.All those who have forgotten the lessons of history, those who secretly fantasize about following the path of Napoleon and Hitler, they still cannot understand. This work—that’s how it came about. When the book was finished and was being prepared for printing, I was eager to have its protagonists read it before it was published.But, it seemed to me, he disappeared without a trace on the messy and long front.Neither mutual friends with the pilot nor the government agencies I turned to could help me find Alexei Petrovich Maresyev. The novel has been published in magazines and many radio stations are broadcasting it.One morning, I got a call: "I hope to meet you very much." A man's voice was speaking through the receiver, a little hoarse, and seemed familiar, but he couldn't remember who it was. "Then who are you?" "I am Alexey Maresyev, Major of the Guards." After a few hours, he came to me with a somewhat waddling gait like a bear.He was alert, cheerful, and as fresh as ever.Four years of war had changed little in him. "...yesterday I stayed at home reading a book and the radio was on, but I was so absorbed in reading that I didn't pay attention to what was on the radio. Suddenly, my mother came up to me excitedly, pointed to the radio and said, 'Listen, son, It's about you here." I listened carefully—yes, it's about me, and I'm broadcasting my past. I wonder: who can write this? You know, I don't seem to be with anyone Having said that, then I suddenly recalled our meeting under the city of Orel—that whole night I told you about myself in the cave without letting you sleep... I thought about it : What happened, it was a long time ago, almost five years ago... But the radio broadcast only a small clip, with the author's name on it, so I decided to find you..." All this he said at a rapid pace, smiling broadly and a little shyly at the same time.This smile is the same as the previous Maresiev smile. Our meeting was one of those usual military reunions after a long absence.It's about the battle, it's about the officers we're all familiar with, and it's about those who didn't live to win with some kind words.About himself, Alexei Petrovich was still reluctant to talk.However, I finally learned that he successfully fought many battles, and successfully participated in all the battles from 1943 to 1945 with the Guards Flying Regiment to which he belonged.After we parted he shot down three more enemy planes under Orel, and later added two more planes to his combat list in the defense of the Baltic coast.In a word, for the feet lost in the war, he and the enemy generously settled the account.He was awarded the title of "Hero of the Soviet Union" by the government. Alexey Petrovich also told about his own family.So I am glad to add a happy ending to this. After the war, he married the girl he loved, and they now have a son, Victor.Her old mother had come to Maresyev from Kamyshin, and now she lived with them and looked after the little Maresyev.She rejoices in the happiness of her children. I wrote the novel about Alexey Maresyev — the real Soviet man — in a different place, and now life itself is writing its sequel. Nuremberg - Moscow 1946