Yes, Russian men are not simple, no matter how unprepossessing they may seem.
At the beginning of the Great Patriotic War, a Siberian collective farmer of not quite draft age got to the front, about sixty years old. Then replenishment was sent to a military meat grinder from all sides. If only to hold out. His documents stated that he had never served anywhere, had no military specialization.
Since he was rustic, he was identified as a driver in the field kitchen. Being a peasant means handling the horses for sure. They gave out an old three-ruler from the civil war and a cartridge case with cartridges. Our pensioner began to deliver food to the front line. The work is simple, but very responsible, because a hungry soldier is not a soldier. War is war, and lunch should arrive on schedule.
Of course, there were delays. Try not to be late under the bombardment! It's better to deliver porridge, albeit cold, but safe and sound than to pick up hot slurry from the bombed field kitchen from the ground. So he traveled for about a month. Once, as usual, the driver went on a regular voyage. First, he brought lunch to the headquarters, and then they jogged to the front line with their navy cloak. It took about thirty minutes to drive from the headquarters to the trenches. On the radio, the front line reported:
- Order, the kitchen has left. Wait! Cook the spoons.
The soldiers wait an hour, two, three. Worried! It's quiet on the road. There is no bombing nearby, but there is no kitchen! Call to headquarters. The signalman answers:
- Didn't come back!
Three fighters were sent along the route of the kitchen. Check what happened. After some time, the soldiers observe the following landscape. A dead horse is lying on the road; nearby is a kitchen shot through in several places. An elderly man sat down on the wheel of the kitchen and smokes.
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And at his feet are seven German corpses in protective camouflage coats. All the killed are big men, well equipped. Looks like saboteurs. They were getting close to the headquarters, not otherwise. The soldiers goggle their eyes:
- Who did this?
-I, - the elderly non-combatant calmly answers.
- How did you manage? - the senior of the group does not believe.
- However, I shot everyone from this berdan, - the driver presents his antique gun.
They sent a messenger to the headquarters, began to understand. He turned out to be a non-combatant pensioner hereditary Siberian hunter. Of those who really get into the eye squirrel. While I was driving to the frontline for a month, I shot my rifle well from doing it. When they attacked, he took cover behind the cart and put the entire sabotage group from his berdan.
And the Germans didn’t really hide, they were fooling right into the kitchen. Hungry? Or maybe they wanted to clarify the way to the headquarters with the driver? They did not expect at all that the frail Russian grandpa would poke them one by one into the dust. The Fritzes did not know the Russian proverb "Fight not by number, but by skill!"
Then the pensioner was awarded a medal and transferred to snipers. I reached Prague, where, after being wounded, I was discharged. After the war, then he told this story to his grandchildren, explained why he was awarded the first time. And we told you this story, as we were able to tell.
© Irina