The year was 1941. It was autumn. This year has been especially difficult, and there is so much more to endure ahead. The battalion commander ordered the military group to perform a seemingly impossible task. It was necessary to delay in any possible way the German troops, who were advancing from afar, but would soon be here. The group is only six people. They were supposed to detain the Germans near the railway track, or rather, near the crossing. Sergeant Major Karpenko was assigned to command a group of six people. As soon as the order was accepted, the group of the small battalion disappeared from sight to begin preparations for the future battle, which promised to be difficult and dangerous. The foreman immediately assigned roles to everyone.

In the morning, when one of them, Pshenichny, woke up, the distant echoes of a machine gun burst were heard. As soon as Pshenichny learned that they were gradually surrounded, and even by a many times greater number of Germans, he promised himself in his soul to surrender immediately. His life was not rosy, his family was once wealthy. After all, my father was a kulak until he was deprived of this title and all his wealth. Then the father was sent to Siberia, as well as the rest of the family. At that time, Pshenichny was studying at a seven-year school, and therefore remained alive and free. But he did not love his father, although he spoiled him very much. In his youth, the guy met a farm laborer, which grew into a strong friendship, and therefore he began to hate his father, the kulak. And he did everything against him.

Each of those guys who were in the battalion group had their own past. For everyone it was good and joyful in their own way, and for everyone in their own sad way. But still, compared to this time of war, their lives were not bad then, and everyone agreed on this opinion in the end. Everyone told their life story while it was raining outside and it was night. During this time, they seemed to relive all the wonderful moments of their past life for the last time. After all, no one knew what would happen longer.

Picture or drawing of a crane cry

Other retellings for the reader's diary

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• Summary of Magus Fowles

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Vasil Bykov

Crane cry

It was an ordinary railway crossing, of which there are many scattered along the steel roads of the earth.

He chose a convenient place for himself here, on the edge of a sedge swamp, where the embankment ended and the rails of the compacted single-track ran along the gravel almost level with the ground. The dirt road, descending from the hill, crossed the railway and turned towards the forest, forming a crossroads. It was once surrounded by striped posts and two similar striped barriers were placed next to it. Right there, a lonely plastered guardhouse huddled, where in the cold, some grumpy old guard dozed by the hot stove. Now there was no one in the booth. The persistent autumn wind kept creaking the wide open door; like a crippled human hand, a broken barrier stretched out to the icy sky; there was no second one at all. Traces of obvious abandonment lay on everything here; apparently, no one was thinking about this railway building anymore: new, much more important worries took possession of people - both those who had recently managed here, and those who were now staying at an abandoned deserted crossing.

Raising the collars of their frayed, clay-stained greatcoats from the wind, six of them stood in a group at the broken barrier. Listening to the battalion commander, who explained to them a new combat mission, they huddled together and looked sadly into the autumn distance.

“The road needs to be closed for a day,” said the captain, a tall, bony man with an overgrown, tired face, in a hoarse, cold voice. The wind angrily whipped the hollow raincoat over his dirty boots and tore the long strings of ties on his chest. - Tomorrow, when it gets dark, you will go beyond the forest. And the day is to hold on...

There, in the field where they were looking, there was a hillside with a road onto which two large, stocky birch trees were dropping the remains of yellowed foliage, and behind them, somewhere on the horizon, an invisible sun was setting. A narrow strip of light, breaking through the clouds, like the blade of a huge razor, glittered dimly in the sky.

The gray autumn evening, permeated with a cold, annoying darkness, seemed to be filled with a premonition of inevitable disaster.

What about the entrenching tool? - Sergeant Major Karpenko, the commander of this small group, asked in a rough bass voice. - Shovels are needed.

Shovels? - the battalion commander asked thoughtfully, peering into the brilliant strip of sunset. - Look for it yourself. No shovels. And there are no people, don’t ask, Karpenko, you know it yourself...

“Well, yes, it wouldn’t hurt to have people,” the foreman picked up. - What about five? And even that one new guy and this “scientist” are also warriors for me! - he grumbled angrily, standing half-turned to the commander.

They gave you anti-tank grenades and cartridges for the peter, as much as possible, but there were no people,” the battalion commander said wearily. He was still peering into the distance, not taking his eyes off the sunset, and then, suddenly perking up, he turned to Karpenko - stocky, broad-faced, with a determined look and a heavy jaw. - Well, I wish you good luck.

The captain offered his hand, and the foreman, already completely overwhelmed by new worries, indifferently said goodbye to him. The “scientist,” the tall, stooped fighter Fischer, also shook the cold hand of the battalion commander with the same restraint; without offense, the newcomer, about whom the foreman was complaining, openly looked at the commander - young, sad-eyed Private Glechik. "Nothing. “God won’t give it away, the pig won’t eat it,” joked the Petersburger Svist, a blond guy in an unbuttoned overcoat, a roguish-looking guy, blithely. With a sense of dignity, the clumsy, big-faced Pshenichny offered his plump palm. The dark-haired handsome man Ovseev respectfully said goodbye, tapping his dirty heels. He shouldered his machine gun, the battalion commander sighed heavily and, sliding through the mud, set out to catch up with the column.

Upset by the farewell, all six of them remained and for some time silently looked after the captain, the battalion, whose short, not at all battalion column, swaying rhythmically in the evening darkness, was quickly moving away towards the forest.

The foreman stood dissatisfied and angry. The still not entirely conscious anxiety for their fates and for the difficult task for which they had remained here was taking possession of him more and more persistently. By an effort of will, Karpenko, however, suppressed this unpleasant feeling in himself and habitually shouted at people:

Well, what are you worth? Get to work! Glechik, look for some scrap! Whoever has shovels, let's dig.

With a deft jerk, he threw a heavy machine gun onto his shoulder and, breaking dry weeds with a crunch, walked along the ditch. The soldiers reluctantly followed their commander in single file.

Well, this is where we’ll start,” said Karpenko, kneeling down by the ditch and peering at the slope over the railway. - Come on, Pshenichny, you’ll be the flanker. You have a spatula, start.

The stocky, well-built Pshenychny came forward with a lounging pace, took the rifle from behind his back, put it in the weeds and began to pull out the sapper's shovel tucked into his belt. Having measured ten steps from the fighter along the ditch, Karpenko sat down again, looked around, searching with his eyes for someone to appoint to the new place. Concern and angry dissatisfaction with those random people who were allocated to his subordination did not leave his rude face.

Well, who's here? To you, Fischer? Although you don’t even have a shoulder blade. I'm also a warrior! - the foreman got angry, rising from his knee. “There’s so much at the front, but you still don’t have a blade.” Maybe you're waiting for the foreman to give it? Or will the German send you a gift?

Fischer, feeling awkward, did not make excuses or object, only hunched awkwardly and unnecessarily adjusted his black metal-framed glasses.

In the end, dig whatever you want,” Karpenko said angrily, looking somewhere down and to the side. - My business is small. But to equip the position.

He moved on - strong, economical and confident in his movements, as if he were not a platoon commander, but at least a regiment commander. Svist and Ovseev followed him obediently and indifferently. Looking back at the preoccupied Fischer, Whistling pulled his cap onto his right eyebrow and, showing his white teeth in a smile, quipped:

Here's a problem for the professor, green yarina! Help me not to get tired, but I need to know the matter!..

Do not chat! “Go over there to the white post on the line, and dig there,” the foreman ordered.

Whistle turned into a potato patch and once again looked back with a smile at Fischer, who stood motionless at his position and worriedly fingered his unshaven chin.

Karpenko and Ovseev approached the guardhouse. The foreman, stepping on the threshold, touched the warped, creaky door and looked around like a proprietor. There was a piercing draft coming out of two broken windows, and on the wall hung a tattered reddish poster calling for bees to be raised. Pieces of plaster, lumps of dirt, and straw dust lay on the trampled floor. It stank of soot, dust and something else uninhabited and disgusting. The foreman silently examined the meager traces of human habitation. Ovseev stood at the threshold.

If only the walls were thicker, there would be shelter,” Karpenko said judiciously in a kinder tone.

Ovseev extended his hand and felt the broken side of the stove.

What do you think, is it warm? - Karpenko grinned sternly.

Let's drown it out. Since we don’t have enough tools, we can take turns digging and warming up,” the fighter perked up. - Eh, sergeant major?

Did you come to your mother-in-law for pancakes? Bask! Wait, the morning will come - he will give you a light. It's going to get hot.

Well, let it be... In the meantime, what's the point of freezing? Let’s light the stove, cover the windows... It’ll be like heaven,” Ovseev insisted, his black gypsy eyes sparkling.

Karpenko left the booth and met Glechik. He was dragging a crooked iron rod from somewhere. Seeing the commander, Glechik stopped and showed the find.

Here, instead of scrap, crush it. And you can throw away handfuls.

Glechik smiled guiltily, the foreman looked at him vaguely, wanted to pull him back as usual, but, softened by the naive look of the young soldier, he said simply:

Come on. Here, on this side of the gatehouse, and I’m already on the other side, in the center. Come on, don't delay. While it's light...

It was getting dark. Gray dark clouds were crawling from behind the forest. They covered the entire sky heavily and tightly, covering the shiny strip above the slope. It became dark and cold. The wind, with furious autumn fury, tugged at the birch trees along the road, swept out ditches, and drove rustling flocks of leaves across the railway line. Muddy water, splashing out of puddles from the strong wind, splashed onto the side of the road in cold, dirty drops.

Vasil Bykov

Crane cry

It was an ordinary railway crossing, of which there are many scattered along the steel roads of the earth.

He chose a convenient place for himself here, on the edge of a sedge swamp, where the embankment ended and the rails of the compacted single-track ran along the gravel almost level with the ground. The dirt road, descending from the hill, crossed the railway and turned towards the forest, forming a crossroads. It was once surrounded by striped posts and two similar striped barriers were placed next to it. Right there, a lonely plastered guardhouse huddled, where in the cold, some grumpy old guard dozed by the hot stove. Now there was no one in the booth. The persistent autumn wind kept creaking the wide open door; like a crippled human hand, a broken barrier stretched out to the icy sky; there was no second one at all. Traces of obvious abandonment lay on everything here; apparently, no one was thinking about this railway building anymore: new, much more important worries took possession of people - both those who had recently managed here, and those who were now staying at an abandoned deserted crossing.

Raising the collars of their frayed, clay-stained greatcoats from the wind, six of them stood in a group at the broken barrier. Listening to the battalion commander, who explained to them a new combat mission, they huddled together and looked sadly into the autumn distance.

“The road needs to be closed for a day,” said the captain, a tall, bony man with an overgrown, tired face, in a hoarse, cold voice. The wind angrily whipped the hollow raincoat over his dirty boots and tore the long strings of ties on his chest. - Tomorrow, when it gets dark, you will go beyond the forest. And the day is to hold on...

There, in the field where they were looking, there was a hillside with a road onto which two large, stocky birch trees were dropping the remains of yellowed foliage, and behind them, somewhere on the horizon, an invisible sun was setting. A narrow strip of light, breaking through the clouds, like the blade of a huge razor, glittered dimly in the sky.

The gray autumn evening, permeated with a cold, annoying darkness, seemed to be filled with a premonition of inevitable disaster.

– What about the entrenching tool? – Sergeant Major Karpenko, the commander of this small group, asked in a rough bass voice. - We need shovels.

- Shovels? – the battalion commander asked thoughtfully, peering into the brilliant strip of sunset. - Look for it yourself. No shovels. And there are no people, don’t ask, Karpenko, you know it yourself...

“Well, yes, it wouldn’t hurt to have people,” the foreman picked up. - What about five? And even that one new guy and this “scientist” are also warriors for me! – he grumbled angrily, standing half-turned to the commander.

“They gave you anti-tank grenades and ammunition for the PTE, as much as possible, but there were no people,” the battalion commander said wearily. He was still peering into the distance, not taking his eyes off the sunset, and then, suddenly perking up, he turned to Karpenko - stocky, broad-faced, with a determined look and a heavy jaw. - Well, I wish you good luck.

The captain offered his hand, and the foreman, already completely overwhelmed by new worries, indifferently said goodbye to him. The “scientist,” the tall, stooped fighter Fischer, shook the battalion commander’s cold hand in the same restrained manner; without offense, the newcomer, about whom the foreman was complaining, openly looked at the commander - young, sad-eyed Private Glechik. "Nothing. “God won’t give it away, the pig won’t eat it,” joked the Petersburger Svist, a blond guy in an unbuttoned overcoat, a roguish-looking guy, blithely. With a sense of dignity, the clumsy, big-faced Pshenichny offered his plump palm. The dark-haired handsome man Ovseev respectfully said goodbye, tapping his dirty heels. He shouldered his machine gun, the battalion commander sighed heavily and, sliding through the mud, set out to catch up with the column.

Upset by the farewell, all six of them remained and for some time silently looked after the captain, the battalion, whose short, not at all battalion column, swaying rhythmically in the evening darkness, was quickly moving away towards the forest.

The foreman stood dissatisfied and angry. The still not entirely conscious anxiety for their fates and for the difficult task for which they had remained here was taking possession of him more and more persistently. By an effort of will, Karpenko, however, suppressed this unpleasant feeling in himself and habitually shouted at people:

- Well, what are you worth? Get to work! Glechik, look for some scrap! Whoever has shovels, let's dig.

With a deft jerk, he threw a heavy machine gun onto his shoulder and, breaking dry weeds with a crunch, walked along the ditch. The soldiers reluctantly followed their commander in single file.

“Well, let’s start from here,” said Karpenko, kneeling down by the ditch and peering at the slope over the railway. - Come on, Pshenichny, you’ll be the flanker. You have a spatula, start.

The stocky, well-built Pshenychny came forward with a lounging pace, took the rifle from behind his back, put it in the weeds and began to pull out the sapper's shovel tucked into his belt. Having measured ten steps from the fighter along the ditch, Karpenko sat down again, looked around, searching with his eyes for someone to appoint to the new place. Concern and angry dissatisfaction with those random people who were allocated to his subordination did not leave his rude face.

- Well, who's here? To you, Fischer? Although you don’t even have a shoulder blade. I'm also a warrior! – the foreman got angry, rising from his knee. “There’s so much at the front, but you still don’t have a blade.” Maybe you're waiting for the foreman to give it? Or will the German send you a gift?

Fischer, feeling awkward, did not make excuses or object, only hunched awkwardly and unnecessarily adjusted his black metal-framed glasses.

“In the end, dig whatever you want,” Karpenko said angrily, looking somewhere down and to the side. - My business is small. But to equip the position.

He moved on - strong, economical and confident in his movements, as if he were not a platoon commander, but at least a regiment commander. Svist and Ovseev followed him obediently and indifferently. Looking back at the preoccupied Fischer, Whistle pulled his cap onto his right eyebrow and, showing his white teeth in a smile, quipped:

- Here’s a problem for the professor, green Yarina! Help me not to get tired, but I need to know the matter!..

- Do not chat! “Go over there to the white post on the line, and dig there,” the foreman ordered.

Whistle turned into a potato patch and once again looked back with a smile at Fischer, who stood motionless at his position and worriedly fingered his unshaven chin.

Karpenko and Ovseev approached the guardhouse. The foreman, stepping on the threshold, touched the warped, creaky door and looked around like a proprietor. There was a piercing draft coming out of two broken windows, and on the wall hung a tattered reddish poster calling for bees to be raised. Pieces of plaster, lumps of dirt, and straw dust lay on the trampled floor. It stank of soot, dust and something else uninhabited and disgusting. The foreman silently examined the meager traces of human habitation. Ovseev stood at the threshold.

“If only the walls were thicker, there would be shelter,” Karpenko said judiciously in a kinder tone.

Ovseev extended his hand and felt the broken side of the stove.

- What do you think, is it warm? – Karpenko grinned sternly.

- Let's drown it out. Since we don’t have enough tools, we can take turns digging and warming up,” the fighter perked up. - Eh, sergeant major?

- Did you come to your mother-in-law for pancakes? Bask! Wait, the morning will come - he’ll give you a light. It's going to get hot.

- Well, let it be... In the meantime, what's the point of freezing? Let’s light the stove, cover the windows... It will be like in heaven,” Ovseev insisted, his black gypsy eyes sparkling.

Karpenko left the booth and met Glechik. He was dragging a crooked iron rod from somewhere. Seeing the commander, Glechik stopped and showed the find.

- Instead of scrap, crush it. And you can throw away handfuls.

Glechik smiled guiltily, the foreman looked at him vaguely, wanted to pull him back as usual, but, softened by the naive look of the young soldier, he said simply:

- Come on. Here, on this side of the gatehouse, and I’m already on the other side, in the center. Come on, don't delay. While it's light...

It was getting dark. Gray dark clouds were crawling from behind the forest. They covered the entire sky heavily and tightly, covering the shiny strip above the slope. It became dark and cold. The wind, with furious autumn fury, tugged at the birch trees along the road, swept out ditches, and drove rustling flocks of leaves across the railway line. Muddy water, splashing out of puddles from the strong wind, splashed onto the side of the road in cold, dirty drops.

The soldiers at the crossing set to work together: they dug and bit into the hardened deposit of earth. Less than an hour had passed before Pshenichny was buried almost up to his shoulders in a gray pile of clay. Far around, throwing away crumbly clods, Whistling easily and cheerfully dug his position. He took off all his belts and clothes and, remaining in his tunic, deftly wielded a small infantry shovel. Twenty steps away from him, also above the line, stopping from time to time, resting and looking back at his friends, Ovseev dug in with somewhat less diligence. Karpenko expertly set up a machine-gun position right next to the booth; on the other side of him, a flushed, sweaty Glechik was diligently hammering the ground. Having loosened the soil with a rod, he threw out the clods with his hands and hammered again. Only Fischer sat sadly in the weeds where the sergeant-major had left him, and, hiding his chilled hands in his sleeves, leafed through some book, from time to time looking down at its tattered pages.

The story “The Crane Cry,” a brief summary of which is given, belongs to the early works of the front-line writer V. Bykov. The action takes place in October 1941. A platoon of six people, including Sergeant Major Karpenko, must delay the Germans and cover the battalion’s retreat.

Preparing for battle

An ordinary crossing, a guardhouse, a piercing wind... Soldiers armed with rifles, grenades and a fighter jet. The task is to contain the enemy's onslaught. This is how Bykov’s story “The Crane Cry” begins. A summary of the scene that followed the battalion commander’s departure introduces the characters.

The foreman, angry and displeasedly looking at the soldiers, ordered trenches to be dug. The first - stocky Pshenichny - swaggered up to the indicated place. The intelligent Fischer - bespectacled, hunched over, without a shoulder blade - felt uncomfortable. Whistling took a cheerful approach to everything. Ovseev looked indifferent. And young Glechik smiled guiltily. These are the six heroes of the story “The Crane Cry”.

A summary of what is happening is as follows. After a while, Karpenko went to check. Everyone except Fischer worked. Glechik, who also did not have a shovel, picked the ground with a rod. Pshenichny's trench was already quite deep. And only the “scientist” read the book. The dissatisfied foreman led him to a slope to set up a security post. On the way, I learned that Fischer was a candidate in art history, far from him. Karpenko even felt respect for this thin man, unsuited for military life. At the same time, he was sure that he would be of no use in battle. Having ordered to dig a trench, the foreman left his shovel and returned to the guardhouse.

Wheat

The biographies of the heroes are an important part of the story “The Crane Cry”. A brief summary of what happened to them before the war helps to understand the motives for their actions. First we meet Pshenichny.

Having dug a trench, he settled down on an armful of weeds and took out lard and bread. The hero considered it wrong to share the spoils with others. His thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of gunfire. The soldier climbed out of the trench and began to be indignant that they were left to die. Karpenko came running and immediately interrupted the conversation and ordered to dig a trench. Pshenichny returned to the trench. Surrendering is the only way to survive. He remembered the past. This is how V. Bykov describes him.

“The Crane Cry” (a summary of the stories of the fighters proves this) is a work about a person. Pshenichny grew up in a wealthy family. His father was domineering and cruel. One day Ivanko saw him beating the farmhand Yashka for a broken braid. From then on, the boys became friends. Having matured, Pshenichny began to become a peasant, and Yashka served and matured. It was then that Ivan’s fate could change. But he chose family, not Yashka’s ideas. Soon the father was dispossessed and exiled. Ivan lived with his uncle, but his past would not let him go. They didn’t take me to the technical school. I was not accepted into the Komsomol. I was not allowed to take part in the important run, although I was the best skier. Ivan became a class enemy, so he decided: he needed to live for himself. And he saw the Germans as salvation.

“The Crane Cry”: a summary of Whistle’s story

They gathered in the lodge and lit a fire. We cooked porridge and settled down to rest. During the conversation, they asked Swist how he got to the camp. The story turned out to be long and self-critical.

He was born in Saratov, and from childhood he was crazy and headless. Having grown up, I went to the bearing one, but soon got tired of it. An acquaintance of Frolov got a job in a bread store, where Svist illegally sold goods. The profit was big, life was interesting. Then I met Lelka. Because of her, he got into a fight with Frolov and ended up in the bullpen. Out of anger, he confessed to the deeds, and later found out that he was only a small link. They gave me five years, but after two years they released me. He left the sailors for the war - he could not sit out in the rear. This was the life of the second hero of the story “The Crane Cry” by Bykov. In the summary, of course, much is missed, but it is clear that the hero is critical of his past.

Ovseev

The soldier sent to the post felt cold. Ovseev understood that six of them could not cope with the enemy. And although he didn’t consider himself a coward, he didn’t want to die. He thought that there was still so much unknown in life, and to die at twenty years old was a crime.

From childhood, Alik’s mother instilled in him the idea of ​​his exclusivity. In an effort to prove this, Ovseev took on many things (art, sports, military affairs), but did not succeed anywhere. He believed that he was underestimated everywhere. Going to the front, I dreamed of a feat. However, the very first battle caused Alik to now suffer: how to survive? Angry at those sitting in the guardhouse, Ovseev pulled the door open. Pshenichny asked for the post.

Night conversation. Glechik

Whistling with Karpenko, everyone was talking about the war. The foreman insisted: the enemy would soon be stopped. Ovseev began to doubt: we’ve been retreating for three months already. The whistle supported Karpenko: maybe this is a strategy. Glechik just listened, notes Vasily Bykov. “Crane Cry” continues the story of his life.

Timid and silent Vasil was eighteen, but his heart had already hardened. And my soul was tormented by memories of the past. Until he was fifteen, Glechik lived a calm life. And he loved his mother very much. Everything changed after my father's death. Vasil grew up and felt responsible for his family. Then a stepfather appeared in the house, and Glechik left for Vitebsk. He refused to talk to his mother, who found him, and did not answer letters. And now Vasil could not forgive himself for this.

Karpenko is the main character of the story “The Crane Cry”

We learn a brief summary of the life of the foreman from his dream. Here he is, Gregory, protecting his father from his brothers, who announced that the land would go to the eldest Alexei. The guy’s neck was squeezed by fingers, and the old man urged: “So it’s him...” And this is Karpenko by the lake, where he and his friend fought off the Finns for three days. Suddenly they were replaced by the Germans, who were not killed by the bullet. Grigory was afraid of captivity and swung a lemon... Then he saw his wife Katerina, accompanying him to the front... Karpenko woke up from her sobs and remembered how, after being wounded in the Finnish army, he went into the reserve. He worked at a factory, got married, waited for the birth of a child - and again there was war. I was lucky before, he thought. Sleep did not come, and the foreman went out into the street.

Fisher

Left alone, Boris began to dig. He wanted to please Karpenko, whom he did not like. Fischer saw the superiority of the foreman and felt guilty for the failures and retreats. Grew up in Leningrad. Since childhood I was interested in painting. I tried to draw, but settled on studying art.

I never got used to war, although I discovered that my previous hobbies were increasingly fading. I fell asleep at dawn, thinking how difficult it is to become a fighter. This is the sixth hero of the story “The Crane Cry” - you are reading a summary of it.

Pshenichny's betrayal

Leaving the lodge, Ivan set off on his way. On the way, I threw away the rifle and imagined the future. When he surrenders to the Germans, he will tell about the regiment. And they might appoint him headman. Hearing voices, he saw the Germans and went to the village. However, everything did not work out as I dreamed. The Germans let him go, and when the disappointed Ivan walked a hundred meters away, pain burned through his chest. He fell, experiencing hatred for the whole world at the last minute of his life.

The battle

The shots that killed Pshenichny reached the station. Fischer painfully watched the motorcycles, but did not dare to run to his own. I got my rifle ready. The second shot killed the German in the carriage. At that moment, pain pierced his head... Later Karpenko would say that he did not expect such courage from the “scientist”.

The rest were preparing for battle. Ovseev, who had seen through Pshenichny, regretted that he had stayed. The soldiers repulsed the first attack. Then tanks and infantry appeared. Karpenko was mortally wounded. Whistling died when a tank blew up. The fleeing Ovseev was shot by Glechik.

Left alone, the young man looked at the sky, from where the sad cry of a crane could be heard. Bykov - the summary and writings of other authors show a symbolic attitude towards this bird - notes: the wounded chick could not keep up with the flock and felt doomed.

A German column was approaching. Gechik remembered his childhood, grabbed a grenade and began to wait, holding back the despair caused by the scream...

Vasil Bykov

Crane cry

It was an ordinary railway crossing, of which there are many scattered along the steel roads of the earth.

He chose a convenient place for himself here, on the edge of a sedge swamp, where the embankment ended and the rails of the compacted single-track ran along the gravel almost level with the ground. The dirt road, descending from the hill, crossed the railway and turned towards the forest, forming a crossroads. It was once surrounded by striped posts and two similar striped barriers were placed next to it. Right there, a lonely plastered guardhouse huddled, where in the cold, some grumpy old guard dozed by the hot stove. Now there was no one in the booth. The persistent autumn wind kept creaking the wide open door; like a crippled human hand, a broken barrier stretched out to the icy sky; there was no second one at all. Traces of obvious abandonment lay on everything here; apparently, no one was thinking about this railway building anymore: new, much more important worries took possession of people - both those who had recently managed here, and those who were now staying at an abandoned deserted crossing.

Raising the collars of their frayed, clay-stained greatcoats from the wind, six of them stood in a group at the broken barrier. Listening to the battalion commander, who explained to them a new combat mission, they huddled together and looked sadly into the autumn distance.

“The road needs to be closed for a day,” said the captain, a tall, bony man with an overgrown, tired face, in a hoarse, cold voice. The wind angrily whipped the hollow raincoat over his dirty boots and tore the long strings of ties on his chest. - Tomorrow, when it gets dark, you will go beyond the forest. And the day is to hold on...

There, in the field where they were looking, there was a hillside with a road onto which two large, stocky birch trees were dropping the remains of yellowed foliage, and behind them, somewhere on the horizon, an invisible sun was setting. A narrow strip of light, breaking through the clouds, like the blade of a huge razor, glittered dimly in the sky.

The gray autumn evening, permeated with a cold, annoying darkness, seemed to be filled with a premonition of inevitable disaster.

– What about the entrenching tool? – Sergeant Major Karpenko, the commander of this small group, asked in a rough bass voice. - We need shovels.

- Shovels? – the battalion commander asked thoughtfully, peering into the brilliant strip of sunset. - Look for it yourself. No shovels. And there are no people, don’t ask, Karpenko, you know it yourself...

“Well, yes, it wouldn’t hurt to have people,” the foreman picked up. - What about five? And even that one new guy and this “scientist” are also warriors for me! – he grumbled angrily, standing half-turned to the commander.

“They gave you anti-tank grenades and ammunition for the PTE, as much as possible, but there were no people,” the battalion commander said wearily. He was still peering into the distance, not taking his eyes off the sunset, and then, suddenly perking up, he turned to Karpenko - stocky, broad-faced, with a determined look and a heavy jaw. - Well, I wish you good luck.

The captain offered his hand, and the foreman, already completely overwhelmed by new worries, indifferently said goodbye to him. The “scientist,” the tall, stooped fighter Fischer, shook the battalion commander’s cold hand in the same restrained manner; without offense, the newcomer, about whom the foreman was complaining, openly looked at the commander - young, sad-eyed Private Glechik. "Nothing. “God won’t give it away, the pig won’t eat it,” joked the Petersburger Svist, a blond guy in an unbuttoned overcoat, a roguish-looking guy, blithely. With a sense of dignity, the clumsy, big-faced Pshenichny offered his plump palm. The dark-haired handsome man Ovseev respectfully said goodbye, tapping his dirty heels. He shouldered his machine gun, the battalion commander sighed heavily and, sliding through the mud, set out to catch up with the column.

Upset by the farewell, all six of them remained and for some time silently looked after the captain, the battalion, whose short, not at all battalion column, swaying rhythmically in the evening darkness, was quickly moving away towards the forest.

The foreman stood dissatisfied and angry. The still not entirely conscious anxiety for their fates and for the difficult task for which they had remained here was taking possession of him more and more persistently. By an effort of will, Karpenko, however, suppressed this unpleasant feeling in himself and habitually shouted at people:

- Well, what are you worth? Get to work! Glechik, look for some scrap! Whoever has shovels, let's dig.

With a deft jerk, he threw a heavy machine gun onto his shoulder and, breaking dry weeds with a crunch, walked along the ditch. The soldiers reluctantly followed their commander in single file.

“Well, let’s start from here,” said Karpenko, kneeling down by the ditch and peering at the slope over the railway. - Come on, Pshenichny, you’ll be the flanker. You have a spatula, start.

The stocky, well-built Pshenychny came forward with a lounging pace, took the rifle from behind his back, put it in the weeds and began to pull out the sapper's shovel tucked into his belt. Having measured ten steps from the fighter along the ditch, Karpenko sat down again, looked around, searching with his eyes for someone to appoint to the new place. Concern and angry dissatisfaction with those random people who were allocated to his subordination did not leave his rude face.

- Well, who's here? To you, Fischer? Although you don’t even have a shoulder blade. I'm also a warrior! – the foreman got angry, rising from his knee. “There’s so much at the front, but you still don’t have a blade.” Maybe you're waiting for the foreman to give it? Or will the German send you a gift?

Fischer, feeling awkward, did not make excuses or object, only hunched awkwardly and unnecessarily adjusted his black metal-framed glasses.

“In the end, dig whatever you want,” Karpenko said angrily, looking somewhere down and to the side. - My business is small. But to equip the position.

He moved on - strong, economical and confident in his movements, as if he were not a platoon commander, but at least a regiment commander. Svist and Ovseev followed him obediently and indifferently. Looking back at the preoccupied Fischer, Whistle pulled his cap onto his right eyebrow and, showing his white teeth in a smile, quipped:

- Here’s a problem for the professor, green Yarina! Help me not to get tired, but I need to know the matter!..

- Do not chat! “Go over there to the white post on the line, and dig there,” the foreman ordered.

Whistle turned into a potato patch and once again looked back with a smile at Fischer, who stood motionless at his position and worriedly fingered his unshaven chin.

Karpenko and Ovseev approached the guardhouse. The foreman, stepping on the threshold, touched the warped, creaky door and looked around like a proprietor. There was a piercing draft coming out of two broken windows, and on the wall hung a tattered reddish poster calling for bees to be raised. Pieces of plaster, lumps of dirt, and straw dust lay on the trampled floor. It stank of soot, dust and something else uninhabited and disgusting. The foreman silently examined the meager traces of human habitation. Ovseev stood at the threshold.

“If only the walls were thicker, there would be shelter,” Karpenko said judiciously in a kinder tone.

Ovseev extended his hand and felt the broken side of the stove.

- What do you think, is it warm? – Karpenko grinned sternly.

- Let's drown it out. Since we don’t have enough tools, we can take turns digging and warming up,” the fighter perked up. - Eh, sergeant major?

- Did you come to your mother-in-law for pancakes? Bask! Wait, the morning will come - he’ll give you a light. It's going to get hot.

- Well, let it be... In the meantime, what's the point of freezing? Let’s light the stove, cover the windows... It will be like in heaven,” Ovseev insisted, his black gypsy eyes sparkling.

Karpenko left the booth and met Glechik. He was dragging a crooked iron rod from somewhere. Seeing the commander, Glechik stopped and showed the find.

- Instead of scrap, crush it. And you can throw away handfuls.

Glechik smiled guiltily, the foreman looked at him vaguely, wanted to pull him back as usual, but, softened by the naive look of the young soldier, he said simply:

- Come on. Here, on this side of the gatehouse, and I’m already on the other side, in the center. Come on, don't delay. Bye