The battalions ask for fire (story). “The idea of creating the story “Battalions Ask for Fire” Full content of the novel Battalions Ask for Fire

“Books about war affect our memory”

Yuri Bondarev

Yuri Vasilyevich Bondarev was born on March 15, 1924 in the city of Orsk, Orenburg region. In 1931, the Bondarevs moved to Moscow. In 1941, Yuri, together with thousands of young Muscovites, participated in the construction of defensive fortifications near Smolensk. Then there was an evacuation, where he graduated from the 10th grade.

In the summer of 1942, Yuri Bondarev was sent to study at the 2nd Berdichev Infantry School in the city of Aktyubinsk. In October of the same year, the cadets were transferred to Stalingrad. Yu. Bondarev was assigned as the commander of the mortar crew of the 308th regiment of the 98th Infantry Division.

During the Great Patriotic War, the writer, as an artilleryman, traveled a long way from Stalingrad to Czechoslovakia. His frontline path is marked with orders and medals, including military awards.

After the war, Yuri Bondarev graduated from the Gorky Literary Institute in Moscow. In 1949 he began publishing. In 1951 he was elected a member of the USSR Writers' Union. The first collection of his stories, “On the Big River,” was published in 1953. Very soon Yu.V. Bondarev became one of the most published authors. Bondarev's works have been translated into more than 70 languages. Feature films have been made based on his works.

Yuri Vasilievich Bondarev lives and works in Moscow.

Yuri Bondarev devoted all his work to the hardships of war, to the destinies scorched by its hot breath, to the heroism of soldiers and officers who paid a high price for the Victory.

"The battalions are asking for fire" - a story by Yuri Bondarev, the action of which takes place in Ukraine in 1943. First published in the magazine “Young Guard” in 1957. “Battalions...” is Yu. Bondarev’s second work about the war, but his first story, in which the talent of the writer was so clearly demonstrated, combining in his works the analysis of the human soul and the understanding of philosophical problems.

This is also the very first and most daring work of those years, in which there were no patriotic cries: “Hurray, we won! Long live our great socialist Motherland!”– but there was only the bare truth about the war. For the first time, the question was raised about the means by which this victory was achieved.

The plot is based on an important stage of the Great Patriotic War, the crossing of the Dnieper by Soviet troops during the summer-autumn campaign of 1943, namely the events at the Bukrinsky bridgehead south of Kiev.

The battalions were given the order: having fortified themselves on the bridgehead, starting a battle, give a signal to the division "we ask for fire" after which the entire divisional artillery was supposed to strike the enemy. To support the battalions at the time of crossing and starting the battle, two guns from the artillery regiment and two crews of artillerymen with them, under the command of Lieutenant Eroshin and Captain Ermakov, were allocated.

That was the plan...

Watch the film “Battalions Ask for Fire” (1985), based on the story by Yuri Bondarev (dir. V. Chebotarev, A. Bogolyubov).

Quote from Yuri Bondarev’s story “Battalions Ask for Fire”:

“...This small strip of land on the right bank of the Dnieper, opposite the island, was called in the division reports a bridgehead, moreover, a springboard necessary for the deployment of a further offensive. In addition, reports from Iverzev’s division headquarters repeatedly reported that this bridgehead was firmly and heroically held, listed the number of German counterattacks, the number of destroyed tanks and guns, the number of killed Nazi soldiers and officers, and brought to the attention of the high command that our troops were concentrating and grouping in the area of the island on a narrow but constantly expanding strip of the right bank and are preparing to strike. Since the end of last night, there has been an unexpected calm, and it is known that in a state of even unstable defense, the highest headquarters require more detailed reports than during the offensive, and in reports from the division, everything on the bridgehead naturally looked more planned...”

Books of raised dot font

Bondarev, Yu. V. Choice [Braille]: novel / Yu. V. Bondarev. – M.: Education, 1982. – 6 books. – From the ed.: M.: Mol. Guard, 1982.

Bondarev, Yu. V. Hot snow [Braille]: novel / Yu. V. Bondarev. – M.: Education, 1973. – 6 books. – From the ed.: M.: Sov. writer, 1971.

Bondarev, Yu. V. Stories [Braille] / Yu. V. Bondarev. – M.: Education, 1975. – 6 books.

Bondarev, Yu. V. Silence [Braille]: novel / Yu. V. Bondarev. – M.: MediaLab, 2010. – 6 books. – From the ed.: M.: Soviet Russia, 1980.

Talking books on cassettes

Bondarev, Yu. V. Battalions ask for fire [Sound recording]: story / Yu. V. Bondarev. – M.: “Logos” VOS, 1993. – 3 mfk., (10 hours 27 minutes): 2.38 cm/s, 4 extra. – From the ed.: M.: Khudozh. lit., 1984.

Bondarev, Yu. V. Battalions ask for fire. The last salvos [Sound recording]: story / Yu. V. Bondarev. - Mn. : Zvukotex, 2007. – 11 mfk., (15 hours 24 min.): 4.76 cm/s, 2 additional. – From the ed.: M.: Sovremennik, 1984.

Bondarev, Yu. V. Bereg [Sound recording]: novel / Yu. V. Bondarev. – M.: “Logos” VOS, 1994. – 5 mfk., (18 hours 10 minutes): 2.38 cm/s, 4 extra. – From the ed.: M.: Khudozh. lit., 1985.

Bondarev, Yu. V. Hot snow [Sound recording]: novel / Yu. V. Bondarev. – M.: “Logos” VOS, 1993. – 5 mfk., (17 hours 21 min.): 2.38 cm/s, 4 extra. – From the ed.: M.: Khudozh. lit., 1984.

Bondarev, Yu. V. Youth of commanders [Sound recording]. – M.: “Logos” VOS, 1998. – 4 mfk., (16 hours 15 minutes): 2.38 cm/s, 4 extra. – From the ed.: M.: Voenizdat, 1980.

Audiobooks on flash cards

Bogomolov, V. O. “My life, or did I dream about you...”[Electronic resource]: novel / V. O. Bogomolov; read by M. Roslyakov. Shore: novel / read by V. Gerasimov; The last salvos: story / read by E. Kochergin; Youth of commanders: a story / Yu. Bondarev; read by E. Kochergin. – M.: “Logos” VOS, 2014. – 1 fk., (79 hours 11 minutes).

Bondarev, Yu. V. Battalions ask for fire: a story[Electronic resource]. Hot snow: a novel / Yu.V. Bondarev; read by Yu. Zaborovsky. Alpine ballad: a story / V. V. Bykov; read by N. Savitsky. Greetings from Baba Lera... ; The house that Grandfather built; Don't shoot white swans; Skobelev, or There is only a moment: novels and stories / B. L. Vasiliev; read by N. Dorodnaya. – Stavropol: Stavrop. edges b-ka for the blind and visually impaired. V. Mayakovsky, 2011. – 1 fk., (80 hours 35 min.).

The bombing lasted about forty minutes. In the sky, black to the zenith, German planes, clumsily lining up, were leaving with a tight roar. They walked low over the forests to the west, towards the dull red ball of the sun that pulsated in the swirling darkness.

Everything was burning, tearing, cracking on the tracks, and where until recently there had been an old smoky water pump behind the warehouse, now a mountain of charred bricks was smoking among the rails; shreds of hot ash fell in the heated air.

Colonel Gulyaev, wincing from the ringing in his ears, carefully rubbed his burned neck, then climbed out to the edge of the ditch and shouted hoarsely:

- Zhorka! Well, where are you there? Come to me quickly!

Zhorka Vitkovsky, Gulyaev’s driver and adjutant, walked out of the station kindergarten with a flexible, independent gait, gnawing on an apple. His boyish, insolent face was calm, a German machine gun was casually slung over his shoulder, and spare pencil magazines protruded from his wide boots in different directions.

He squatted down next to Gulyaev, gnawing an apple with an appetizing crackle, and smiled cheerfully with his plump lips.

- Here are the tramps! - he said, looking into the cloudy sky, and added innocently: - Eat Antonovka, Comrade Colonel, you haven’t had lunch...

This frivolous calm of the boy, the sight of the burning carriages, the pain in his burnt neck and this apple in Zhorka’s hand suddenly caused an angry irritation in Gulyaev.

– Have you already used it? Did you win any trophies? “The colonel pushed away the adjutant’s hand and stood up gloomily, shaking off the ashes from his shoulder straps. - Well, find the station commandant! Where the hell is he!..

Zhorka sighed and, holding the machine gun, slowly moved along the station fence.

- Run! - the colonel shouted.

What was now burning at this Dnieper station was bursting, exploding and flying out of the cars like crimson lightning, and what was covered on the platforms with smoldering covers - all of this seemed to be the property of Gulyaev, all of this had arrived in the army and was supposed to go to division, into his regiment, and support in the impending breakthrough. Everything was destroyed, lost in the fire, charred, fired without a target after more than half an hour of bombing.

“Stupid, fools! - Gulyaev thought angrily about the station commandant and the division's logistics chief, walking heavily along the broken glass towards the station. “There aren’t enough sons of bitches on trial!” Both!” People had already begun to appear at the station: soldiers with sweaty faces, tank crews in dust-covered helmets and dirty overalls were running towards us. Everyone looked dejectedly at the smoky horizon, and a frail, short tankman-lieutenant, needlessly grabbing his holster, rushed among them on the platform, yelling in a broken voice:

- Get the logs! To the tanks! To the tanks!..

And, stumbling upon Gulyaev with a confused look, he only curled his thin mouth.

Ahead, about fifty meters from the platform, under the cover of the stone walls of the miraculously intact station, stood a group of officers, muffled voices were heard. In the middle of this crowd, the tall division commander Iverzev, a young, ruddy colonel, in an open steel-colored raincoat, with new field shoulder straps, stood out tall. One of his cheeks was redder than the other, his blue eyes exuded cold contempt and anger.

-You ruined everything! Dude! Do you understand what you've done? Y-you!.. Do you understand?..

He briefly, awkwardly raised his hand, and the man standing next to him, as if expecting a blow, involuntarily threw his head up - Colonel Gulyaev saw the white face of the elderly major, the chief of the division's rear services, trembling with flabby folds, his eyelids swollen from a sleepless night, his gray tousled hair. What caught my eye was the unkempt, baggy jacket hanging on the rounded shoulders, the unclean collar, the dirt clinging to the major’s crumpled shoulder strap; a storekeeper, who apparently worked as a business executive before the war, “father and summer resident”... Drawing his head into his shoulders, the division's logistics chief blankly looked at Iverzev's chest.

– Why didn’t they unload the train? Do you understand what you've done? What will the division fire at the Germans with? Why weren't they unloaded?..

- Comrade Colonel... I didn’t have time...

- Ma-alchita! The Germans made it!

Iverzev took a step towards the major, and he again raised his soft chin, the corners of his lips twitched finely, he cried in helplessness; the officers standing nearby looked away.

Shells were exploding in nearby carriages; one, apparently armor-piercing, with a harsh snort, crashed into the stone side wall of the station. Plaster fell down and flew in pieces at the feet of the officers. But no one moved from their place, they just looked at Iverzev: a dense blush flooded his other cheek.

Gulyaev, straightening his jacket, approached with readiness; but this uncontrolled anger of the division commander, this tired, exhausted face of the logistics chief was now unpleasant for him to see. He frowned with displeasure, glancing sideways at the burning carriages, and said in a dull voice:

“Before we lose everything, Comrade Colonel, we need to uncouple and disperse the carriages.” Where have you been, my dear? – involuntarily succumbing to Iverzev’s contemptuous tone, Gulyaev turned to the division’s logistics chief, looking at him with that painfully compassionate expression with which one looks at a tortured animal.

The major, indifferently lowering his head, was silent; his gray, matted hair stood up in unkempt pigtails at his temples.

- Take action! Do it! Y-you, you bungler from the rear! – Iverzev shouted furiously. - March! Comrade officers, everyone to work! Colonel Gulyaev, unloading ammunition is your responsibility!

“I obey,” answered Gulyaev.

Iverzev understood that this muffled “I obey” did not solve anything, and, barely restraining himself, he turned his attention to the station commandant - a lean, narrow-shouldered lieutenant colonel, smoking secludedly near the station fence - and added more quietly:

– And you, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, will answer to the army commander for everything at once!..

The lieutenant colonel did not answer, and, without waiting for an answer, Iverzev turned - the officers made way for him - and walked with large steps towards the Jeep, accompanied by a young, also seemingly angry adjutant, smartly wearing new belts.

“He will go to the division,” Gulyaev thought without condemnation, but with some hostility, because from the experience of his long service in the army he knew well that in any circumstances the senior authorities are free to assign responsibility to subordinate officers. He knew this from himself and therefore did not condemn Iverzev. The hostility was explained mainly by the fact that Iverzev appointed him in charge, a reliable hard worker of the front, as he sometimes called himself, and not anyone else.

- Comrade officers, please come to me!

Gulyaev only now saw the station commandant closely; The chalky pallor of his face, the trembling thin fingers holding a cigarette, made it possible to guess what this man was just going through. “They will bring you to justice. And let’s get to work,” Gulyaev thought and nodded dryly to the lieutenant colonel, meeting his searching gaze.

- Well, let's act, commandant!

When a few minutes later the station commandant and Gulyaev gave the order to the officers and a shunting engine with a frightened driver leaning out of his head rolled up to the burning trains, hissing steam, and the heavy tanks began, roaring dully, to slide down from the smoldering platforms to the colonel, coughing, gasping, blinking watery eyes , the division's logistics chief ran up and shook his gray head.

“We can’t save ammunition with one locomotive!” Let's destroy the locomotive and the people, Comrade Colonel!..

“Oh, my brother,” Gulyaev said annoyedly. - Should you serve in the army? Where did you lose your cap?

The major smiled sadly.

“I’ll try... I’ll do everything I can...” the major spoke pleadingly. “The commandant said: the train has arrived. From Zaitsev. Stands behind the semaphore. I'm behind the locomotive now. Will you allow me?

- Instantly! - Gulyaev commanded. – One leg here... And, for God’s sake, don’t trump. Raise your hand like a snag, damn you! And without a cap!..

In this article we will look at the work “Battalions Ask for Fire”. A brief summary of it, as well as an analysis, will be presented below. Vasilyevich created a story about the feat and valor of a Russian soldier, about the harsh everyday life of war, as well as about everyone’s love for the Motherland. The work “Battalions Ask for Fire”, a summary and analysis of which interests us, was written in 1957.

The weapon cannot be saved

The bombing lasted about forty minutes. Everything cracked, tore and burned on the tracks. Gulyaev, a colonel, sends Zhorka Bitkovsky, his driver, to find the station commandant. The logistics chief could not explain to Iverzev, the division commander, why it was not possible to unload the cars on time. But they contained weapons. Iverzev sends furious officers to unload what remained of the fire. Gulyaev sends the logistics chief to fetch the locomotive in order to uncouple the cars. Boris Ermakov, the captain, appears during this commotion. He came here from the hospital.

Ermakov and Gulyaev

Gulyaev tells him that Ermakov’s battery crossed the Dnieper at night under the leadership of Kondratyev. Ermakov approves of the choice of leader. The "Willis" with Ermakov and Gulyaev went around the column of cars. Tanks were crossing. The sky fell on them like fire. Belated shots from anti-aircraft guns were heard from the depths of the forest. Once again the Willys rushed along the road to the Dnieper. Ermakov was afraid of a stupid, accidental death.

She seemed humiliating to him. Gulyaev did not let him go to the battery, taking him into his “farm”. Six-barreled mortars were flying over the river and playing on the right side. It was cold, damp and windy on an autumn night.

Shurochka's relationship with Kondratiev and Ermakov

Under a tarpaulin, 150 meters from the shore, a fire smoldered in a bomb crater. Several artillerymen lay near him. Bobkov joins them, whom Sergeant Kravchuk scolds for leaving his post. However, he was replaced by Kondratyev, a senior lieutenant who sits on the shells with Shurochka, according to Bobkov. Kondratyev sends Sklyar to look for the foreman in order to deliver the kitchen. Kondratyev himself sits in a wet overcoat. Shurochka clings to the lieutenant, for which he condemned her, since he knew about this girl’s relationship with Captain Ermakov. Kondratyev doubts that they will be able to cross this night. In two hours, the sappers killed eight people. He went to find out how things were going with the ferry. There, the sapper captain asks him for ten more people.

Ermakov, near the fire, learns from Kondratyev that his battery is actually gone. At first the captain refuses, after which he sends foreman Tsygichko, as well as five riders, to the sappers. He himself goes for a walk with Shurochka, asking her if she has stopped loving him. She is sure that Ermakov treats her like any woman. Here Zhorka takes the captain: he is called to the division headquarters. For the guys, Sklyar is given a bag of biscuits that were found in a German car.

When Colonel Gulyaev finished interrogating the prisoners, Ermakov joined them. We learned from one of the Germans that the defense stretched several kilometers deep into several echelons. Artillery and tanks blocked the way to the Dnieper. The order of the German army is not to take a step back. The Germans retreated to the river - it was a tactical move. The prisoners are confident that the Dnieper will be the turning point of the war. After interrogation, Gulyaev and Ermakov are sent to division headquarters.

Decision of Iverzev, division commander

Iverzev, the division commander, was more hasty and cruel in comparison with General Ostroukhov, the previous commander. The next task that he sets for everyone is described by Yuri Bondarev (“The battalions ask for fire”). By 5 o'clock in the morning, two battalions of the 85th regiment are concentrated in the forestry area (Maksimov's battalion) and the village of Zolotushkino (Bulbanyuk). Two guns, commanded by Captain Ermakov, are sent to help Bulbanyuk. Maximov is helped by Lieutenant Zharov’s battery. The goal of the battalions is to divert the Germans' attention to themselves, maintaining bridgeheads in the villages. At this moment, the division will strike in order to occupy a wide bridgehead south of the Dnieper, on the right bank. The battalions should be signaled: “Give fire” (hence the title of the work - “The battalions ask for fire”).

The following further events are summarized. The note handed over to Gulyaev by Boris Ermakov attracts Iverzev’s attention. It says that Boris does not have two guns on the island (two of the four are on the bridgehead, the other two are broken at the crossing). Alekseev tells Ermakov that two guns along with crews are being placed at his disposal.

Preparing to cross the Dnieper

Boris directs Zhorka to send people to Zolotushino, and he himself arrives at the artillery regiment. Here he takes the guns, but does not want to take Lieutenant Proshin. But he went with his platoon: the captain drove him at a trot. Ermakov goes to the battalion headquarters, where Orlov was suffering with his teeth. Major Bulbanyuk joined them. He said that it was decided to cross the Dnieper at night, and during the day he should not show himself to anyone on the shore. Ermakov, having checked the combat readiness of the people, gave the all clear.

Iverzev's plan

So, the order was given to the battalions of Balbanyuk and Maksimov to create the appearance that Soviet troops were advancing south of the Dnieper. While the battle was going in this direction, the command pulled the main forces to the north in order to deliver a decisive blow to the fascist fortifications. The divisional artillery regiment was supposed to support the battalions. However, he was transferred at the last moment to the north. Officers and privates had to fight the invaders without artillery support. They showed courage and resourcefulness.

There is a place for love in war. Ermakov and Kondratyev are in love with Shurochka. She's flattered

A practically impossible task is crossing the Dnieper. The soldiers cannot even raise their heads under fire from the fascists from the other side. It is necessary to transport not only people, but also ammunition, fodder, horses, and two soldiers built rafts for the attack. It was not possible to cross unnoticed. The losses were heavy, but the battalion was still able to land on the other side.

Further events of the work "Battalions Ask for Fire"

The book continues with a description of the following events. It was now necessary to occupy two villages and hold positions until the main troops were prepared for the main attack. Thinned battalions are fighting hard. Help never comes from the division.

Only a few people remain alive. Ermakov blames Iverzev for the deaths. And at this time the main troops successfully crossed the river, advancing north of the Dnieper. This is how the work “Battalions Ask for Fire” ends, a brief summary of which we have described.

Analysis of the work

This is the second work about the war by Yu. Bondarev, but the first story in which the writer’s talent was demonstrated so clearly. In his work, he combined the understanding of philosophical problems with the analysis of the human soul. Also, the story “Battalions Ask for Fire” (Bondarev) is the most daring and very first work of those years in which there were no patriotic cries. There was only the bare truth about the war. For the first time, the writer raised the question of the means by which victory was achieved.

Main problem

The main problem of the story “Battalions Ask for Fire” is the contradiction between the fate of the operation and the fate of specific people. Is it acceptable to sacrifice people's lives for the sake of a common goal? Can such a sacrifice be justified?

At the level of the conflict between Iverzev and Ermakov, Bondarev tries to solve these problems in the work “Battalions Ask for Fire.” You can add Gulyaev here. Understanding perfectly well the position of Iverzev, since they were both colonels, he still entirely takes the side of Ermakov, his friend. In battalions and divisions, he sees, first of all, individual soldiers, their tragedies and lives. But in disapproving of Iverzev, this hero does not reach open conflict, like Ermakov. He restrains himself, realizing that he cannot judge them.

In the story “Battalions Ask for Fire,” the writer does not give answers to the questions posed. The contradiction between the common goal and the means of achieving it, that is, the lives of people, remains unresolved. “Battalions Ask for Fire” is a story in which the psychology of the heroes is revealed. The war tests each of them, turns their souls inside out. At the same time, none of Bondarev’s characters turns out to be a traitor.

This concludes the brief description of the work “Battalions Ask for Fire.” The analysis can be continued, but we have highlighted the main points.

"The battalions are asking for fire"- a story by Yuri Bondarev, the action of which takes place in Ukraine in 1943. First published in the magazine “Young Guard” in 1957. In 1985, a film of the same name was made based on the story.

Plot

Two battalions of the 85th Infantry Regiment under the command of Majors Bulbanyuk and Maksimov must cross the Dnieper, create a bridgehead in the area of the village of Novomikhailovka, south of the city of Dnieper (fictitious name) for the subsequent development of the division’s offensive - this was the combat mission. The battalions were given an order: having fortified themselves on the bridgehead, starting a battle, give the signal to the division “we ask for fire”, after which all the division artillery was to fire at the enemy. To support the battalions at the time of crossing and starting the battle, two guns from the artillery regiment and two crews of artillerymen with them were allocated, under the command of Lieutenant Eroshin and Captain Ermakov, who, before his injury, commanded the battery of the rifle regiment of Colonel Gulyaev.

That was the plan. However, soon the command changed the plan of attack, ordering this division to withdraw from its positions, move north of the Dnieper and, joining with another division, which had suffered heavy losses in recent battles, attack the city from the north. The battalions that have already entered the battle are ordered not to retreat - now their actions must be of a distracting nature. The division commander, Colonel Iverzev, urgently recalls all regiments, including artillery, leaving the battalions without fire support, thereby dooming them to certain death... Out of several hundred people, only five will survive, including the main character, Captain Boris Ermakov. Then he will reproach the division commander: “I cannot consider you a man and an officer.”

At the end of the story, at the moment of the attack, when the offensive has stalled, Iverzev, the division commander whose place is at the command post, takes a machine gun and goes to raise the soldiers himself to the attack.

Additional Information

Episodes of the story were used by Yu. Bondarev in the script of the second film of the epic “Liberation” - “Breakthrough” (1969).
In 2013, the story was included in the list of "

Current page: 1 (book has 26 pages total) [available reading passage: 18 pages]

Yuri Vasilievich Bondarev
Battalions ask for fire

“I am happy when I work...”

Optimists say that fine literature is a form of second life. Pessimists argue that literature is a tragic act of self-discovery. I would like to define literature as an activity of self-knowledge, self-affirmation and self-punishment. Self-punishment gains strength when a person departs from the highest moral category, which is called conscience.

What I value most in people is kindness, humanity, and culture. However, not the external culture of changeable fashion, but the culture of the spirit, which unconditionally denies greed, profit, and calculation. In general, graduating from college does not mean being a cultured person. You can graduate from three institutes and be a dark person. I don’t mean a culture of mechanical knowledge, but an internal state, spiritual fulfillment, respect for one’s neighbor, which, by the way, comes to a person along with books that comprehend life, search for the meaning of life.

Each person puts his own spin on the concept of “meaning of life.” I believe that a person, having been born, must fulfill his, so to speak, duty programmed by birth itself. Just actions of a person, those that are consistent with moral laws and conscience, give life the highest meaning that unites all people. On the path of difficult knowledge of the truth, duty, as it were, lifts a person above himself.

Therefore, one act or chain of acts, committed by duty and conscience, express the highest meaning of humanity, which I would define as kindness. There is nothing higher than this concept of kindness, if only you put a social, ethical, philosophical meaning into it. Kindness is love, and anger, and struggle, and movement towards a goal, and an attitude towards the existing world, towards a woman, towards a child, towards falling snow, towards rain, towards the shine of August stars... Kindness is a purely moral concept, but only a moral one ultimately makes a person a person.

One day an architect asked me, “Why do people care so much about the bridge? What is the mystery here? Think too and try to remember the image and feeling of a bridge, or a railway bridge, or a bridge in the mountains - and you will really feel some excitement. Frankly, since childhood I have loved bridges, train stations, railways, I love the fuel oil smell of sleepers and gravel heated by the sun. And I thought: in fact, why do I still care about this architectural structure - the bridge. Maybe because the bridge is the completion of overcoming space. No, not overcome space, but overcoming space. I think that every person has a feeling that is associated with movement, hope and anticipation of approaching a distant or near goal. Building bridges between people, between life and truth on the path to the goal - isn’t this the meaning of human existence?

How to answer the question: “Are you happy?” First, you first need to define what happiness is. State of feeling? State of mind? Satisfying a need? A moment of self-respect? Harmony of personality and society? Or is it the return of some memorable spring moment in your life, when you were prepared for happiness?

One way or another, being happy does not mean being materially rich and doing nothing. The concept of “happiness” and the concept of “meaning of life” cannot be separated from each other, as a consequence from the cause, and vice versa. Happiness is not a gift of nature, not a property of the mind, not a feeling of taste, but a moment of comprehension, a minute of discovery, a moment of insight on the long road of consistent approach to the goal.

I am happy when I work, although the state of “sweet hard labor” cannot be called happiness, that is, dissatisfaction with oneself, doubts, and endless work on the text. Sometimes I seem to be happy at the moment of getting ready, when I need to change the place, go somewhere, the imagination is involved in this, and you experience the promise of something new, something you have not yet experienced. I also thank fate when I meet a person who is able to argue with conviction, disagree with you and at the same time understand you, although often two people see the same truth differently.

I experienced my happiest hours in those years when my children were small. Yes, truly I was happy then, regardless of any life and everyday problems of instability.

"Are you happy?" – everyone should ask themselves this from time to time. And yet, after a self-satisfied person answers: “Yes, I am absolutely happy,” he will undoubtedly lose something very significant. He will lose the energy of comprehension, the nerve of desire and search, the obsession of the creator. Complete satisfaction, in general, is always associated with loss.

The stimulus for creativity, I think, can be the desire for fame and ambitious aspirations. However, is it really all about success, about a career, about satisfying vanity? No, vanity is a temporary category, art is endless. The fact is that the work of a serious writer, as a rule, is not a career parabola, not a movement towards success, but destiny. And only those artists who pursued their goal not in the reins of calculation, but along the difficult path of fate, reached the Olympian heights, the highest point of true success and glory. And at the same time, the artist does not experience complete satisfaction, because he constantly strives for the ultimate expression of truth, for the perfection of form - and there is no end to hard labor.

Why did Leo Tolstoy need to rewrite each of his works several times? Why did Edouard Manet force the lithographer Emile Bello to pose for eighty sessions for the painting “Over a Glass of Beer”? The Demon's head was remade by Vrubel forty times. “Dead Souls” was rewritten by Gogol eight times. As you know, Goncharov wrote his famous novel “The Cliff” for twenty years. What made them work? Ambition, vanity, desire for success or life-destiny? Success is not eternal - it passes. A true work of art is incorruptible.

But along with outstanding works, we are surrounded by many gray, colorless ones. In art there cannot be limitless possessions of masterpieces alone, just as beauty alone cannot dominate the human race. Literature is a huge river with a wide current, reaches, shallows and green islands, and there is nothing terrible for it if it carries rafts of different sizes on its waters. I want to say that in history, perhaps, it has never happened that only talents worked in literature. Let me add: time is the most conscientious, fair judge.

Art is of great importance in a person's life. Take poetry, for example. I always feel a sense of admiring surprise at a talent capable of expressing its thoughts in the beautiful clothing of poetry.

Poetry probably occupies the position of resilient wisdom in human life. Poetry is an understanding of feelings, a philosophy of the heart, it makes a person more humane, kinder, younger in feelings. Poetry is a heavenly region that lies between the state of prose and the immense space of music. If we take a risk and say that music is, as it were, the captured sounds of the Universe, dissolved by the forces of the elements, nature itself, divine and demonic feelings, then poetry is the inexhaustible hope of youth.

I’ll say a few words about painting. In prose, “to prove” characters, various kinds of collisions, this or that situation, a field of activity, space, novel time, for example, is needed. In painting, a plan, an idea is realized in an extremely narrow space, where one canvas or triptych expresses the beginning and end of the idea. Everything is concentrated in painting using the energy of colors and, of course, composition. And the life phenomenon taken by the artist appears before your eyes immediately, instantly reflected in the soul and evoking emotional feelings. Of course, not only the energy of colors creates a mood, a plot, but also the plastic arrangement of the objects themselves. I know that some art critics consider motive and plot to be only a pretext for a riot of colors, for the expression of color and light - and one cannot blindly argue with this. In my favorite painting, I always need a semantic load, an idea that is revealed by both the plot and color.

Writers are often asked which of their works is their favorite. If I said that my favorite story is “The Battalions Ask for Fire,” which I wrote in a state of some kind of obsession, then this would not be the whole truth. With the same feeling of blood, family ties, I treat, for example, the novels “Silence”, “Shore”, “Hot Snow”, because the writer puts a part of his life, his soul into each thing. Otherwise, there is no point in writing, otherwise the work loses all the power of influence, since it has not conveyed to others even a grain of what tormented you. After all, in order to write any serious scene, you need a generous, reckless expenditure of nerve cells, that is, you need to be in the mental and physical state in which your heroes live, act, fight, suffer, love, to know the path of trials, and therefore - spend part of yourself.

Well, a writer is born and dies several times along with his heroes. Therefore, it is difficult to “count” on which thing more effort was spent and on which less.

If we talk about my attitude towards my own stories and novels, it resembles love for my children. I cannot give preference to one at the expense of the other, divide my love unfairly and rationally, and tell myself that I love my children unequally.

I myself was a participant in the events that I wrote about, for example, in “Hot Snow.” And I think that in every work of art, whether the reader likes it or not, the author himself, his biography, his feelings and thoughts are always present. However, in my prose, for example, there is no need to look for prototypes; it is useless to recognize the author in the main character and compare them, as I have recently noticed in letters, in questions from readers, when it comes to “The Shore” or “Moments.” Nikitin (“Shore”), lyric "I" and Bondarev are one and the same person for many, but this is not the case at all. At the same time, in every image - both positive and negative (let's call it that, although I don't really like these definitions), of course, there is a particle of the soul and feelings of the author himself. After all, what is a novel? This is fiction, truthfully fashioned from real life. If the novel is the philosophy of the mind, and poetry is the philosophy of the heart, then literature is the feeling of the era fixed in our consciousness.

The reader is always interested in how a writer comes up with an idea for a future work. This is what I can tell you about the birth of the idea for the novel “The Shore”. In 1966, I had to sit at one western airfield all day. It was very foggy, damp, planes were landing at the wrong time, and the waiting rooms were overcrowded. I was alone and with nothing to do, I sat at the bar, drank coffee, smoked, and watched the passengers. I cannot answer how the shadow of an idea arises, this first moment of excitement, but it seems to me that the novel is already being written long before the first line is written on paper. And at that moment, when I saw a woman entering the waiting room with a bag, for some reason the thought suddenly flashed that a meeting of a certain person with this woman was about to take place after a long separation, equal to a lifetime, an entire eternity.

I thought about this and began to watch the woman, and she sat down on the sofa, lit a cigarette, unfolded the magazine, and began to slowly leaf through it and look through it. This was the first impulse, the first feeling of the plan...

What is the meaning of the title of this novel? The shore is the search for happiness, self-knowledge, the search for the shore in oneself.

Many readers consider the mood of the novel “The Shore” to be mystical. In my opinion, the definition of “mystical mood” cannot be called accurate. Nevertheless, I want to say that in addition to consciousness, there is also the area of the subconscious, there are reflexes and feelings that are not fully explained by algebra and geometry, the logic of a mathematical formula common to all, and if it were otherwise, a person would appear as a too primitive machine. In order to comprehend a literary hero, to reveal him to you not only through verbal action, but, if you want, through his self-knowledge and self-punishment, you should not easily brush aside this mysterious category of the subconscious. We don’t need to think that we know everything about ourselves. Look at your face in the mirror - we know too little about it too. We sometimes cannot clearly define our own action, why we did it, and sometimes we do not know how to explain the feelings we experienced. So, literature is the study of human consciousness and the human subconscious, opening the doors to the depths of the psyche and life’s passions.

I don’t know whether my heroes are highly moral or not. The word “high” is too obligatory to be buttoned up and combed in an exemplary salon, but I didn’t want to embellish them or demean them. Many years ago I realized: if a writer does not go into the lands of pink dreams and azure distances, but relies on reality, he is the most moral. Based on the truth, a writer must see in a person not only the sun, but also the night. And this, too, is morality.

Morality is not a collection of dry edifications; not a code of complete dogmatic prohibitions, but a person’s conscientious attitude towards life, towards the world around him. Of course, much in the understanding of morality depends on what first life impressions a person experienced in childhood. By the way, all the sources of good lie there.

Finally, I would like to add that I have been working on a novel about the intelligentsia for several years now. Although it is still too early to talk about this thing.

And recently I continue to publish “Moments,” the genre of which has nothing to do with either memories or lyrically memoirs. Their form allows, as it seems to me, the most personal, sincere expression of what requires a brief, rather than novelistic expression. I am convinced that in the future world literature will increasingly turn to the genre of the short novel.

Yu. V. Bondarev

Battalions ask for fire
Tale

Chapter first

Everything was burning, torn, crackling on the tracks, and where until recently it had stood behind the warehouse 1
Warehouse– a warehouse for short-term storage of goods at railway stations, ports, customs, etc.

An old, smoky water pump, now a mountain of charred bricks smoking among the rails; shreds of hot ash fell in the heated air.

Colonel Gulyaev, wincing from the ringing in his ears, carefully rubbed his burned neck, then climbed out to the edge of the ditch and shouted hoarsely:

- Zhorka! Well, where are you there? Come to me quickly!

He squatted down next to Gulyaev, gnawing an apple with an appetizing crackle, and smiled cheerfully with his plump lips.

- Here are the tramps! - he said, looking into the cloudy sky, and added innocently: - Eat Antonovka, Comrade Colonel, you haven’t had lunch...

This frivolous calm of the boy, the sight of the burning carriages, the pain in his burnt neck and this apple in Zhorka’s hand suddenly caused an angry irritation in Gulyaev.

– Have you already used it? Did you win any trophies? “The colonel pushed away the adjutant’s outstretched hand and stood up gloomily, shaking off the ashes from his shoulder straps. - Well, find the station commandant! Where the hell is he!..

Zhorka sighed and, holding the machine gun, slowly moved along the station fence.

- Run! - the colonel shouted.

People had already begun to appear at the station: soldiers with sweaty gray faces, tank crews in dust-covered helmets and dirty overalls were running towards us. Everyone looked dejectedly at the smoky horizon, and a frail, short tankman-lieutenant, needlessly grabbing his holster, rushed among them on the platform, yelling in a broken voice:

- Get the logs! To the tanks! To the tanks!..

And, stumbling upon Gulyaev with a confused look, he only curled his thin mouth.

-You ruined everything! Dude! Do you understand what you've done? Y-you!.. Do you understand?..

He briefly, awkwardly raised his hand, and the man standing next to him, as if expecting a blow, involuntarily raised his head up - Colonel Gulyaev saw the white face of the elderly major, the division's logistics chief, trembling with flabby folds, his eyelids swollen from a sleepless night, his gray tousled hair. What caught my eye was the unkempt, baggy jacket hanging on rounded shoulders, the unclean collar, the dirt clinging to the major’s crumpled shoulder strap - a reserve man who apparently worked as a business executive before the war, “a dad and a summer resident”... Drawing his head into his shoulders, the division’s logistics chief He stared blankly at Iversev’s chest.

– Why didn’t they unload the train? Do you understand what you've done? What will the division fire at the Germans with? Why weren't they unloaded?..

- Comrade Colonel... I didn’t have time...

- Ma-alchita! The Germans made it!

Iverzev took a step towards the major, and he again raised his soft chin, the corners of his lips twitched finely, he cried in helplessness; the officers standing nearby looked away.

The major, indifferently lowering his head, was silent; his gray, matted hair stood up in unkempt pigtails at his temples.

- Take action! Do it! Y-you, you bungler from the rear! – Iverzev shouted furiously. - March! Comrade officers, everyone to work! Colonel Gulyaev, unloading ammunition is your responsibility!

“I obey,” answered Gulyaev.

– And you, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, will answer to the army commander for everything at once!

- Comrade officers, please come to me!

Gulyaev only now saw the station commandant closely; the chalky pallor of his face, the trembling thin fingers holding a cigarette, made it possible to guess What this man is now experiencing. “They will bring you to justice. And let’s get to work,” Gulyaev thought and nodded dryly to the lieutenant colonel, meeting his searching gaze.

- Well, let's act, commandant!

“We can’t save ammunition with one locomotive!” Let's destroy the locomotive and the people, Comrade Colonel!..

“Oh, my brother,” Gulyaev said annoyedly. - Should you serve in the army? Where did you lose your cap?

The major smiled sadly.

- Instantly! - Gulyaev commanded. – One leg here... And, for God’s sake, don’t trump. Raise your hand like a snag, damn it! And without a cap!..

The major backed away in embarrassment and ran at a trot to the platform, clumsily swaying his shoulders, jumping, bumping into the tankers; they swore irritably. His baggy jacket and disheveled head flashed for the last time at the end of the platform, in the bluish-orange smoke near the outer cars, where shells burst with a crash and a squeal of fragments.

- Zhorka! Come on, follow the major! Help! And then he wears it... Do you see? Chasing death! - said Gulyaev.

Zhorka grinned and answered casually:

“Yes,” and he followed the major with his tenacious, sliding gait.

Lieutenant Colonel Gulyaev walked near the station, looking at the burning carriages with raised roofs, realizing that everything here engulfed in fire could only be saved by a miracle. He thought that this fire, destroying ammunition and equipment not only for the battle-weary division, but also for the army, had exposed his regiment, whose battalions had pulled up to the Dnieper during the previous night. And no matter how smart Gulyaev’s orders were now, no matter how much he shouted or inflamed people, all this now did not save the situation, did not solve the matter.

He saw how a shunting engine ran into the smoke and emerged again in the gaps of the fire, whistling, rushing along the tracks with the buffer stuck to the 3
Buffer– a device for softening the impact when cars, locomotives, etc. come into contact.

As a coupler, he separated the cars twisted by shrapnel, deafening them with the clang of iron, pushing them into dead ends. The tanks fell over the edges of the platform onto the logs and rolled to the ground; Roaring dissatisfiedly, like burnt animals, they crawled away to the forest behind the station building.

A tall tankman-lieutenant colonel ran past the station, his face was embittered, everything was covered in dark spots of burning, he did not notice Gulyaev.

- Lieutenant Colonel! – Gulyaev called out loudly, slightly lifting his full belly, as he always did, preparing to give an order.

- What do you want? - The tanker stopped. - I am not subordinate to you!..

– How many tanks are out of action?

- Not counted!

- Then that's it! If people are freed, send them to uncouple the cars! Now another locomotive is coming...

“I don’t intend to throw people around, Comrade Colonel!” How will I fight without people?

- How will the division fight? A? The whole division? - asked Gulyaev, feeling that he was again losing the tone of Iverzev, and irritated with himself for this.

The tanker's inflamed eyelids stubbornly narrowed.

- I can not! I am responsible for my people, Colonel!

In the nearest carriage, several shells exploded with a roar, the roof flew up, and there was a breath of scorching heat. Their faces became hot. For a moment, both turned away, they were covered in smoke; the tanker coughed.

- Comrade Colonel, may I address you? – a mocking voice was heard at that moment behind Gulyaev’s back.

- Wait for it! - Gulyaev said coldly, without turning around, and added harshly: - I will demand... I will demand execution, tanker!

- Comrade Colonel, may I address you?

-Who else is here? - Gulyaev, wincing, turned sharply and exclaimed in surprise: - Captain Ermakov? Boris? Where did the devils bring you from?

- I wish you good health, Comrade Colonel.

A captain of average height in a faded summer tunic with dark marks from the sword belt stood nearby; the shadow from the visor fell on half of his dark face, brown bold eyes, white teeth sparkled in a joyful smile.

- Well, you won’t recognize it, Comrade Colonel! – he repeated animatedly. - What, you don’t believe me? Should I report?

- Where the hell did you come from? - Gulyaev said again, at first he frowned, then he laughed, roughly squeezed the captain in his arms and immediately pulled him away, looking askance over his shoulder.

“Go,” he muttered to the tanker. - Go.

- Let me eat, Colonel! I haven’t really eaten for four days! - said the captain, smiling. - And a day without smoke allowance!..

- Where are you from?.. Report!

- From the hospital. We waited on the way for you to end here. Then Zhorka appears with the major, and well... they rolled up on a steam locomotive.

- Frivolity? Are you kidding? - Gulyaev muttered, peering at the mended sleeve of the captain’s tunic, and turned a deep shade of purple. – I didn’t write from the hospital, you cinchona soul! A? He was silent, you crazy merchant!

- I don’t want to eat, but to eat! – the captain answered, laughing. - Give me a cracker! I'm not asking for vodka.

- Zhorka! - the colonel shouted. – Take Captain Ermakov to the car!

Zhorka, who had previously stood modestly on the sidelines, brightened his face and conspiratorially winked at the captain with his blue, innocent eye:

- Here in the forest. Near.

Everything that could be done under the circumstances was done. The carriages, driven into dead ends, burned out wearily; with a final, seemingly reluctant crack, the shells exploded belatedly. The fire has subsided. And only now it became clear that it was a warm, fine day of late Indian summer. A clear shining sky with a glassy high blue unfolded over the forest station. And only in the west did soundless anti-aircraft explosions glow subtly in its bottomless depths.

The reddish Dnieper forests, touched by autumn, surrounding the black ashes of the tracks, were clearly visible, as if through binoculars.

Colonel Gulyaev, sweaty, exhausted, not without pleasure, having kicked off his hot boots from his tired feet, exposing his legs to the sun and unbuttoning his jacket on his hairy plump chest, lay in the station garden under a leafless apple tree. Here everything has faded and thinned out like autumn, everywhere there is a dim shine of the sun, everywhere there is a fragile transparent silence, around there is a slight rustle of fallen leaves, a slight whiff of fresh air from the north.

Captain Ermakov was lying next to him, also without boots, belt or cap. The colonel, frowning, examined his emaciated, pale face and straight eyebrows from the side; black hair fell to his temple, moving in the wind.

“So-so,” said Gulyaev. - No way, did you arrive ahead of time? What, I couldn’t stand it, I couldn’t stand it?

Boris turned over a fallen apple leaf and squinted at it thoughtfully.

“It was worth exchanging a hospital bed for this..., honestly,” he answered, blew the paper from his palm, and said half-seriously: “You’ve gotten fat, Colonel.” Are you on the defensive?..

“Don’t screw me around,” Gulyaev interrupted displeasedly. – I ask: why did you come running?

Boris reached out to the apple tree, picked off a bare twig, examined it carefully, and said:

- So, I tore off this branch - and it died. Right? Okay, let's leave the lyrics. How is my battery, is it still alive? - And, smiling slightly, he repeated: - Alive?

– Your battery crossed the Dnieper at night. Clear? “Gulyaev fidgeted, shifted his stomach on the yellow grass, on dry leaves, and asked: “What other questions?”

-Who commands the battery?

- Kondratiev.

- This is good.

- What well?

- Kondratiev.

“That’s what,” Gulyaev said rudely and decisively, “I want to warn you, no jokes, my dear.” If you catch bullets with your chest like a fool, like a donkey, and show courage, I’ll damn you write you off to the reserve regiment! And that's it! I’ll write it off and that’s it! They'll kill the fool! What?

“I see,” said the captain. - All clear.

The colonel's weathered, large, sloping, wrinkled forehead slowly lost its expression of dissatisfaction, something similar to a smile faintly touched his lips, and he said with sad merriment:

- A severed branch! Tell! Philosopher! There is no one to flog you!

Lying on his back, Ermakov still looked thoughtfully into the cold blue sky, and Gulyaev thought that this young healthy officer cared little about his words, about outright concern, not provided for by any regulations - they knew each other from Stalingrad. The colonel was lonely, widowed, childless, and he would definitely have seen his youth in Ermakov and forgave him a lot, as sometimes happens with many lonely people who have lived in the world and are not entirely happy.

They lay in silence for a long time. The empty garden, tangled with cobwebs, was permeated through and through by the golden sun. The leaves fluttered in the warm air, silently knocking against the branches, clinging to the cobwebs on the apple trees. Into the silence came the distant hum of tanks from the forest, the subtle hiss of a shunting engine on the tracks, echoes of life.

A dry leaf fell on the colonel's shoulder. He slowly crushed it in his fist and squinted his eyes at Ermakov.

- We will break through the defenses. A tough nut to crack on the right bank. Why did you stop speaking?

- I think so. And I don’t know what I’m talking about,” Ermakov said.

From the direction of the station, approaching, voices were heard that seemed strange here - women's voices, sonorous and as if glassy in the quiet air of the half-flying garden. Colonel Gulyaev, awkwardly turning his burned neck, grunted in pain, looked around in bewilderment and asked:

- What is this?

Along the path to the left of the station, two women were moving through the garden, carrying a huge chest intertwined with ropes. One, young, barefoot, in a faded blouse, carelessly tucked into a skirt, walked bending over, straining her strong calves, the other, older, was in a padded jacket, boots, her dark face was haggard, her hair was disheveled, and the sun, beating from behind, shone through them.

- How far is it, beauties? - Gulyaev shouted and, groaning, sat down and rubbed his knees.

The women lowered the chest; The young woman straightened up, unashamedly looked at Gulyaev’s heavy figure, glanced at Ermakov’s face with a playfully impudent glance and suddenly snorted and laughed.