Read "girls team" online. Petr Zavodchikov - Girls' team

First of all, yay!!! The book is in my hands, and I can evaluate not only its content, but also the design and concept of the publication. The expectations were justified. Everything is immaculate. It is very good that the book includes biographical information about the authors for the first time. The quality of printing, including illustrative material, is at a high level, which we are accustomed to seeing from Rech; font size, headings - everything is thought out, modest, harmonious, appropriate. Colored endpapers.
But secondly... I ask the reading community to forgive me for trying to introduce an element of discussion into the discussion of the book. I tried to refrain from making comments, but “Klaas’s ashes are knocking,” as they say. I love this book too much. But Olga Fidirko hardly read it. Otherwise, I cannot explain the false pathos that her review breathes and which, in my opinion, can damage the book in the eyes of those who are not yet familiar with it. Let me remind you that the book is still aimed at children and teenagers. This is not Sholokhov's "Science of Hate", not his brilliant "The Fate of Man", after which you really think hard and bitterly about the past. This book does not leave any heavy feelings, it is very light and lyrical. It gives rise to gratitude to those who did not live to see the Victory, and breathes hope, even confidence, that the modest but selfless work in the war will not be forgotten by posterity, the memory will not depreciate or be erased. Now about “non-fiction”. This is the author's subtitle, emphasizing the documentary basis of the book. Olga Fidirko is apparently unfamiliar with the concept of “fiction.” It seems to her that everyone who wrote about the war did not invent anything. How is it possible?! It is possible and necessary, this is literature and its specific tasks. Even in this book, the facts have probably undergone some processing. But these are just facts, these are not invented people with specific names and surnames, not invented situations.
And one last thing. I would like to see in reviews not only emotions, but also basic respect for the interlocutors, albeit in absentia. And re-read what you write with a dictionary, if necessary. Then there will be no gross errors in the text, and even in words highlighted in capital letters (“BROKED!”)
But thanks again to the reviewer pippilotta for the information provided. What is called “I always wait for you with interest,” as the unforgettable Viktor Golyavkin wrote.

P.S. Sorry, Olga, for my harshness, but I couldn’t keep quiet. For the first time, doubts crept into my mind that you had read the books you were writing about a long time ago, after reading the review of the book “The Amazing Mortgage.” I quote: “The book is necessary and instructive. It is somehow truthful. The time and actions of the story are very complex and terrible - this is the time of the civil war. Here we are talking about a twelve-year-old boy who, despite his young age, already knows what war and death are. But he is still a child with an open look and an unclouded consciousness of that terrible time. He has not reflected (SIC-!) a sense of mutual assistance and compassion."
Etc. But that’s not what the book is about; the action takes place BEFORE the REVOLUTION, and not during the civil war. I don't understand anything......

Based on materials from the magazine "LEV", issue No. 2, 2005. From the history of the Russian Mine Investigation Service.
...The book, read to the core as a child in the Trans-Ural city of Kurgan, still lies in front of me on the table. The book "Girl Team" was published in the seventy-fourth year. I was probably eight when I read it for the first time. Now, thirty years later, she had to meet one of her heroines.

Elizaveta Aleksandrovna Eranina, before Samoilovich’s marriage, a sergeant of that same “girl team” - the 34th separate engineering battalion of mine searchers and tank destroyers, was taciturn at first. She began her story dryly and with military restraint. I insistently demanded details. Gradually the ice of reticence melted and the memories were embellished with amazing details that gave the story a touching authenticity. Like it was yesterday...

In the spring of 1942, I turned 18. “I’m going to the front as a volunteer!” - I told the elders. - “You're crazy! War is a man's business!” Mom scolded me, begged me, and then she humbled herself and blessed me. “Go and serve honestly,” she told me at the door of the military registration and enlistment office on Shamshin Street, on the Petrograd side. I only asked the military commissar for one thing: “Anywhere, as long as there are dogs!” And she received an appointment to Sosnovka! Consider it close to home. Although the front was also close to the house.
The first person I saw in the unit was Rita Menshagina - my closest friend from the Young Dog Breeder Club! "Lisa! Lisa! Your moment is here! In the enclosure, let's go, I'll take you to him!" It was such happiness. I cried, hugging the dog. And he whined and licked my cheeks. The commander of the unit, Pyotr Alekseevich Zavodchikov, our unforgettable Father, ordered Miga to be handed over to me. And what kind of miracle? Girls aged 18-19 began to gather in the unit. And the commanders and foremen were serious, adult men, front-line soldiers.

P. A. Zavodchikov O. D. Koshkina Sergeant Samoilovich Margarita Menshagina
We, the instructors and trainers, were junior command staff - corporals, sergeants. We taught girls the same age the basics of training. The commanders taught us minecraft, taught us very harshly. Although, no, not harshly - strictly. Can you imagine, in the midst of war - a hundred girls behind the fence?! But Dad was not only strict, he was a real father! Not a single soldier dared to look askance at us, not a single officer! Dad watched over us like chickens under his wing. No one would dare to mess with Zavodchikov.

Our "girls' team" - a separate 34th battalion - remained a girls' team. In our battalion, only one girl was demobilized at the end of the war due to pregnancy. And the rest saved their honor! As I remember - thin, big-eyed, besieged girls. Everyone was so hungry! And the rations, although larger than in civilian life, are not very large. We even, I’m ashamed to say, at first secretly stole boiled horse meat (dead meat!) from the dogs. You cry, ask the dog for forgiveness, and slowly turn away and eat a piece from the bowl. Then, more or less, they ate. We were given men's uniforms. Boots size 41-43, smaller ones were not found.
Once during drill lessons we agreed and jokingly turned around in our boots to the command “Around!” The foreman shouts: “Samoilovich! Butyrkina! Why are your feet heels forward?” - “The boots are big, comrade sergeant major!” - and we ourselves try not to laugh. He just sighed, waved his hand at us and sent us to wrap three pairs of foot wraps around our feet. By evening we could no longer drag our feet in these boots. Combat service, mine work, dog training, shooting, but still we remained girls and quietly let our eyes roll, then blushed. Plus litters - the dog had to be combed, the equipment had to be kept in order, it was very strict with this. Harnesses, leashes, collars, ambulance sledges, harnesses, depots - all this was considered combat equipment. To “put a dog” in a minefield, to deliver it efficiently and reliably, requires a year of work, very professional and subtle. The price of a mistake is a dead dog, dead people. But dogs are different. Some are afraid of shooting, some are careless.
They retrained, forced, corrected. There wasn't much to choose from. In Leningrad, dogs were born only in our kennel. Dogs were not only rare, they were the greatest value! We worked with them patiently, with food reinforcement - we dried slices of horse meat and gave them our sugar. What clever people they were! We worked from morning to night and from night to morning to break the blockade.
Minefields were cleared, reports were delivered, communications were unwound, and the wounded were taken out on sleds. Shepherd dogs were harnessed in groups of four. Mutts and little huskies - five to seven each. The wounded and seriously wounded kissed the dogs and cried.
My Migulya drove a team to the front line under fire. A team of dogs crawled to hand the sledge to the wounded man. Just imagine - crawling for one hundred to one hundred and fifty meters. There and back - over potholes, through snow, over the ground. Once a seriously wounded, overweight man shouted to me: “Stop, stop, sister, stop!” I thought I needed to bandage it. And with the last of his strength he tells me: “Sister, I have sausage and sugar in my duffel bag, give it to the dogs. Now, give it to me in front of me!” My team carried seventy-two people to the breakthrough. And our other teams are no less.

The worst thing was clearing the mines. Mines, land mines, mine traps. If the dog makes a mistake, if you make a mistake yourself, you will die. The dog indicated the charge by sitting in front of the mine. Until the mine is defused, the dog should not move. I remember Migulya sat in the water near Peterhof, in the swamps - in icy water, in slurry. I lifted thirty-four mines from this slurry. One after another - small anti-personnel ones, in wooden boxes. Picked it up and neutralized it. Such mines could not be searched for with instruments - the body “does not ring.” They were the most insidious. For several hours of work, the dog sat motionless in a mess of water and snow...
Our dogs walked on broken bricks, on glass in ruins, cut their paws, we cut ourselves on the fragments. But they worked! Eight to ten hours. The dog's paws will freeze, take off the mittens, rub his paws and go! To the front line - "engineering equipment", shells, mines, boxes of ammunition. From there - the seriously wounded. Then - to the minefields, to the tanks! Tanks... Breeder had tears in his eyes when the dogs went under the tanks. Once he gathered us, commanders, sergeants in a dugout: “We are losing highly qualified trained dogs. Today five went to tanks, tomorrow another five will go. A year of work! A year of work! With whom will we clear the mines?! Fighters must be trained separately, ours cannot Let the dogs run under the tanks. I'll go and report!" The chief of staff understood him. The battalion stopped training fighters, we were looking for mines.
On the Karelian Isthmus alone, Mig and I raised 3,400 mines. In total, about forty thousand were identified and neutralized. Forty thousand times death has passed by, just think. Still, I blew myself up. Nina Butyrkina was blown up before me; an explosion of an anti-personnel mine tore off her leg. We were so scared. No, not death - they were afraid to be left without legs and promised each other to finish shooting the one who blew himself up. For us then, with our youthful maximalism, it was understandable, albeit stupid. After all, the dogs that were blown up had to be shot. And so I missed the “anti-infantry” myself. Whose mistake? Miga or mine? Or a fatal coincidence? I'm lucky that I didn't step on a mine with my full foot. My heel was crushed, my legs were burned, scorched, and all my clothes were torn off and charred. I remember that men ran towards me: soldiers and our commanders. I only shouted: “Don’t come, I’m naked! Turn away, don’t come!” They ran up, tore off their uniforms and wrapped me in shirts and an overcoat. I woke up in the infirmary, and above me was Valya (Valentin Vasilyevich Ermolinsky - officer, editor's note). I reproached him: “After all, they promised, they promised to finish shooting!” - And he said to me: “And the legs, here they are! In boots.” The boots had not yet been cut. I started crying, and Valya bent down and said: “Liza, you and I will dance a waltz after the victory.” How many times did we dance with him after the Victory! They gathered at our place, at Rita's. Dad called us girls. “Girls! You’ll have pies and snacks, I’ll buy vodka myself.” So we remained for him - girls, girls.
More about Miga. He was not only a worker, he was a stud dog. The first post-blockade exhibition! It was a real holiday for us. There were very few dogs in the ring: some bitch in heat flashed by, and someone else. Our males were either stupefied with joy, or we relaxed. Mig somehow foolishly lifted his tail and neck and ended up with a “ferret.” That is, “good,” which is essentially very, very bad. You won't believe it, but I was so upset. It's funny to remember now.
Then we cleared the mines from Narva and moved on. No matter what they say, the locals were very welcoming to both our dogs and us. After all, we removed mines, land mines, and traps from their fields, from their houses. Residents brought treats for the dogs and vodka for us. I took vodka, sinful, but exchanged it for candy.
I remember in Estonia, right in front of us (me and Rita Menshagina), an air shell hit a cow. The cow was torn apart two steps away from us. What's your first thought? "Oh! How much meat has been left for the dogs!" Everyone rushed to sort out the scraps of this meat to pamper their dogs.
It's hard to believe now, but it happened. They rushed out of the hospitals to return to their unit, to their own people. Migulya remained in the unit - I simply had nowhere to take him. He worked for a long time clearing mines in Leningrad. After the war, I left it in very good hands. I chose the most peaceful profession for myself - I became a hairdresser. I had students, I had a job that I loved and taught.
Every night I dream of either dogs or other people's curls. In a dream, I do my hair, haircut, or the dogs, one after another, pass before my eyes: into a minefield, on a sled. I remember everyone, everyone! It's time to go to the table, Victory is coming, will I make it? I really want to celebrate.

Petr Alekseevich Zavodchikov, Semyon Samoilovich Samoilov

Girls' team

(Fictional stories)

About the homeland, exploits, heroes

AGENDA

That June evening, Rita returned home later than usual. She stayed late at work, then walked for a long time along the bright and deserted streets of Leningrad. Rita was very tired, her swollen legs did not obey her. Previously, she had no idea what hard work it is - washing clothes, when the bill comes to hundreds and thousands of pieces. The laundry room where she now worked was damp and stuffy. In large, deep cauldrons, gray water constantly gurgled, covered with large soap bubbles. The linen, mostly soldier's, was slowly tossing and turning, as if it were alive. It had to be dumped in heavy bales into cauldrons, then pulled out; swollen with water, it became very heavy.

After the blockade winter, Rita was weak and tired quickly. But I tried not to complain to anyone. Is it easier for others?

Everyone is working. And not for eight hours, as before the war, but for twelve or even longer. Any work in besieged Leningrad is considered important, front-line work.

Rita walked slowly along the deserted streets, listening to the usual roar of shells exploding in the distance. Then the roar intensified and became very close. Rita quickened her pace, and then a woman with a bandage on her sleeve stopped her.

Take cover! Don't you hear, or what? - the woman said sternly and dragged Rita under the gate arch.

The gray loudspeaker pipe repeated for the umpteenth time: “The area is under artillery fire. Stop traffic! The population should take cover!”

Here we go again, take cover! - Rita grumbled. - It’s not the first day they’ve been shooting, it seems they’ve gotten used to it a long time ago.

Several explosions were heard almost nearby. One shell hit the house opposite. Plaster and bricks fell onto the pavement, and glass shards rang in the long-broken windows.

Let's go there! - the woman shouted. - We need to help people.

They ran across the street to the house, above which a thick, heavy cloud of pinkish-gray dust rose.

Are there any victims? - out of breath, the woman asked the duty officer of the house damaged by shelling.

It shouldn’t happen this time,” said the attendant. - It hit the fifth floor, but no one lives upstairs. Everyone was moved downstairs. Still, you know, it’s safer there.

OK then. - The woman with the bandage turned to Rita: - And you, girl, drop such words - “still have to cover yourself, we’re used to it.” Whether he hurts you or kills you in vain, who benefits from this? To the fascists. So it seems we are not going to help them.

She did not allow Rita to leave until the shelling stopped. Because of all this, Rita came home later than usual.

I inserted the key into the lock as usual and suddenly noticed that there was something white in the holes of the mailbox.

“Is it really a letter?” - Her heart sank. The post office had not brought her letters for a long time. The girl's fingers trembled when she opened the drawer: maybe from fatigue, maybe from anxiety. Who knows what the letter means? Too often, white triangles served as harbingers of trouble, reporting the death of relatives and friends. During the terrible winter of the siege, Rita lost almost all her relatives. The last one she lost was her father. He did not want to leave Leningrad, he worked at a factory, making shells for the front. My father died at the machine. He collapsed when the last of his strength dried up from hunger, cold and constant stress. His comrades ran up to him - he was not breathing. Since then, Rita lived completely alone.

Who is the letter from? - she said anxiously, not noticing that she was thinking out loud.

But there was no letter in the box. Rita took out the summons.

“The district military commissariat asks you to receive this to appear at the address: Rubinshteina Street, 40.”

She knew this house well. Previously, there was a service dog breeding club there, and Rita was constantly there. But what to do there now? The siege of Leningrad has been going on for ten months. There hasn't been a single dog left in the city for a long time. No dogs, no cats, no animals at all.

In her room, Rita went to the table, took an old primus stove and shook it. Kerosene splashed faintly. She was glad: after all, she could warm the kettle. She pumped up the primus and pulled out a piece of bread from the gas mask bag that she constantly carried on her side - the remainder of the day's rations. The bread was already real, unusually tasty - not the same as what we had eaten last winter. In winter they mixed everything into bread! And ground wood, and dust swept from the walls of warehouses where flour was previously kept. Now we managed without it. Food was transported through Ladoga to Leningrad: in winter - on ice, in summer - on steamships and barges. The bread was now real, and they provided more of it than in winter, but after many months of hunger, Rita could not get enough to eat. Receiving the daily ration, it was difficult to refrain from swallowing it right away. During the day, she often stuck her hand into the gas mask bag and plucked off a piece. Now you can eat the rest. Rita cut the bread into thin slices and began to toast it over the fire. Toasted bread tastes better, and most importantly, it is not eaten so quickly.

Rita chewed hot slices, washed it down with steaming boiling water and kept thinking about the agenda, about the house on Rubinstein Street. When did she come to this house for the first time?

Perhaps almost ten years have passed since then - more than half of her entire life. She had to go there because of Jalma.

When Rita turned nine years old, she was given a puppy. Rita did not immediately believe such happiness. She had long wanted to have a dog. Many times she started a conversation about this: “I will look after her myself. I’ll feed her myself and take her for walks.” Mom just shook her head: “You see how cramped it is in our room, you can’t turn around in the room. Where else can you bring your dog?”

Rita sighed, listening to her mother. Still, she continued to dream of a dog, but she no longer hoped that the dream would come true. And suddenly dad brought this fluffy gray creature. The warm, living lump trembled in Rita’s hands and poked her wet, cold nose into her palms.

“This is for your A’s,” said dad, “for being a good student.” My mother and I figured we’d find a corner for her somehow.

Rita quietly stroked the puppy’s soft fur:

Djalma, my dear!

The puppy already knew his name. Hearing him, he began to wag his tail joyfully. He couldn't do anything else yet. But how much can you ask from such a tiny creature?

“You are the most beautiful, the smartest,” Rita whispered in Djalma’s ear.

Then, already in a club on Rubinshteina Street, she realized that her Dzhalma was not special at all - an ordinary German shepherd, not a very pure breed. Champion dogs and celebrity dogs were brought to the club. Combed and well-groomed, as if they had just come from the hairdresser, they walked importantly, jingling their medals.

Rita was interested in looking at these famous dogs. Only for her, Djalma still remained the best. The best, the smartest, the most understanding. She really understood her mistress perfectly. Rita whispered something in her ear, and Djalma twirled her tail or tried to lick Rita's face.

Even then, when Dzhalma couldn’t even hold her ears, Rita firmly decided that her dog would not remain a simple domestic creature, a four-legged companion in children’s games and fun. A completely different life awaited Jalma.

Rita has already read about dogs guarding state borders, about sniffer dogs that help solve crimes. If others are capable of this, then her Djalma is certainly capable.

And Dzhalma grew and changed before our eyes. Within a year, she had turned from a gray lump into a large, adult dog with long legs, a straight reddish-black back and sharp fangs that sparkled eerily when she was angry or yawned from boredom.

Annotation

This book tells about the girls-miners, about their team, which, in addition to the usual equipment and weapons, also had live equipment - dogs.

“Girl Squad” is not a story, not a memoir. These are living stories about life during the war, where everything went together - work and feat, self-sacrifice and love.

Petr Alekseevich Zavodchikov, Semyon Samoilovich Samoilov

AGENDA

Sergeant Major

IN SOSNOVKA

WOMEN CYCLISTS

COMMUNICATION LINE

LEGEND-FALE

KRASNY BOR

VANYA NOGAEV

NEW, FORTY-FOURTH

ON THE MOVING

QUIET VALYA

SUICIDE BEAR

ON THE RIVER VORONKA

MISSING BOMB

THE RETURN OF NINA BUTYRKINA

"PENSIONER"

VERA ALEXANDROVA SCHOOL

AFTER THE VICTORY

Petr Alekseevich Zavodchikov, Semyon Samoilovich Samoilov

Girls' team

(Fictional stories)

About the homeland, exploits, heroes

AGENDA