Victor—Grandpa's diary again.
My childhood friend and partner in a riotous youth, Viktor, brought another notebook this Saturday, found in the attic of his grandfather's dacha. It turned out that his grandfather had poured onto paper one of the episodes from his wartime youth, and he had plenty of adventures.
So, upon returning home, his grandfather would write down his memories in a notebook so they wouldn't haunt his memory in nightly dreams. He had graduated from the Literary Institute, and then the war broke out! So the newly commissioned junior lieutenant Voltzeev, who received his officer's rank after graduating from the institute, had to get a real "whiff of gunpowder." Considering that Viktor's grandfather was quite handsome in his photos and a great
specialist with pretty female students, as his grandmother repeatedly said, I opened the first page of this notebook with great interest. And my expectations were not disappointed...— ...In the summer of 1942, our division was sent to the rear for replenishment and reorganization. So, it was in the rear that I earned my first awards and my next rank, although it all happened almost by accident. And it was even a bit funny in places! One fine summer day, the sergeant major and I were sorting through captured weapons and cleaning them for delivery to the warehouses. There were many stupid and even idiotic orders back then, but this one... According to this order, all captured weapons had to be cleaned, preserved, and handed over to warehouses under the control of special departments or sent to the rear. Even in the novel "The Living and the Dead" it's mentioned—they loaded the captured weapons onto trucks and sent them to the rear, and they themselves went off unarmed.
And then the Germans broke through and were very "pleased"—our soldiers were simply helpless: you can't fight much with tobacco pouches and lighters! And considering the loss of many weapons depots due to the rapid retreat of our glorious Red Army in the first days of the war and the wild shortage of weapons and ammunition—the order was doubly idiotic. What difference does it make what weapon you use to smash the enemy—an unreliable English Bren or a shot from a German Karabiner 98k? But arguing in those times, especially with political officers and their zombified slogans... Not the best option!
So, after a very modest breakfast, which made you want to eat even more, the sergeant major Ivanchenko and I are standing by an improvised weapons table cleaning German rifles and a machine gun. The guys in my platoon were already pretty good at handling German carbines and quietly wondered why they couldn't be used to inflict damage on the fascists. I didn't really know the very successful German MG-34 machine gun, but the sergeant major had fought in the Finnish war and helped me disassemble, reassemble it, and insert a loaded belt—I was so eager to try out the machine gun. A nice piece of machinery—you could fire it from the hip or from a mount.
As Varvara later told me and others with bated breath, what really struck her was how I calmly, but very, very loudly, barked: "Weapons ready! Fire on the German invaders! Fire to kill! Anyone who misses goes before a tribunal!" And to Varvara, quietly but clearly—"Behind me! Quick!" Actually, I meant for her to cover my back, just in case, but female logic... Varya jumped behind me, wrapped her arms around me, and pressed herself against my back.
So here's the situation—in a second, a battle is about to start, and I'm getting very aroused from the touch of her firm breasts, which are so provocatively pressing against me. Right from the table, I aimed the machine gun at the first glider, which had landed right opposite us. It really helped us that I opened fire quickly, and the German paratroopers didn't have time to jump out of the glider. Time seemed to stop, and I, surprising even myself with my calmness, took aim and prepared the MG for battle. And the burst from the MG...
Nearby, the carbines of my platoon were roaring, the sergeant major quickly shoved a new belt into the machine gun's receiver, and the iron broom of hot bullets literally swept away that scum. The sudden silence just hit my ears. It became quiet, but then two figures with raised hands slowly appeared in the machine gun's sight. "Prisoners," I thought, ordering the sergeant major to arrest and deliver the two surviving paratroopers to the special department officers. So, the ammunition and the paratroopers ran out simultaneously. And then Varvara, snapping out of her stupor, hugged me tightly and whispered hotly in my ear: "You saved me! Shielded me with your body! Saved me! I'll kiss you all over!" I stood proud and unyielding, like Ilya Muromets after a battle, but then the experienced sergeant major cooled me down a bit by suggesting I order the collection of trophies.
The most important thing for us and the most valuable at that time turned out to be that in the containers dropped by parachute, there were not only ammunition but also food. Canned goods, lard in 100-gram packages in cellophane, little packets that looked like hard candies, and these turned out to be a real miracle! You drop such a candy into a glass of water, it hisses and fizzes, and you get a glass of lemonade. That's great! And very tasty! The cunning and experienced sergeant major suggested—send everything to the division headquarters. The higher-ups love that! And keep all the lard and half the canned goods for ourselves—the rear-area rations were very, very modest, you could say half-starving. Decided—and so we did. We even managed to eat better for a whole month!
Well, I'll be damned! And suddenly, the regular member of our "cabbage parties" (informal soldier shows) awoke in me, and I, standing at attention, loudly blurted out, devotedly bugging my eyes out at the commanders: "And we all, Comrade Senior Political Officer, decided this—we'll give the fascist bullet a taste of the fascist mug! Here they all lie, having eaten their fill of German lead. And no one digested it!" The political officer fell silent for a moment, digesting my aphorism, and it seemed he really liked my improvisation. Laughing loudly, he started repeating: "Good! Simply excellent: 'A fascist bullet for a fascist mug! We'll make it a slogan!'" And telling the regimental commander to put me in for an award, he headed to the division headquarters—to deliver the trophies and report to his superiors, like "We were working hard too!" And of course, to tell how he inspired us to heroic deeds!
So that's how—the regimental commander put me in for a medal and gave me a week's leave with the unit, the division commander put me in for an order and the next rank, I don't know if for the feat or for the tasty canned sausages. And on top of that, I got a bonus for the gliders, by order of the High Command—18 thousand! But they put me in for it and issued it! But it seems the main reward I received at night! Varvara, firmly convinced that I had saved her from the vile fascists, rewarded me with her caresses. So, my night was rather sleepless! But how sweet it was! Both of our nurses had a separate, fairly well-appointed for wartime dugout, so that night stayed with me for a long time!
In the morning, Varvara, stretching and yawning, scolded me a little for the "betrayal," but both girls had very satisfied faces. As they later told me, both had been going "for appointments" with the regimental commander, hoping to get pregnant. But they got neither pregnancy nor satisfaction. And here—complete pleasure from the freshly minted lieutenant! And I even went into Varvara's ass! As they say—"pleasure up to the brim!" And the solution was simple—according to Comrade Stalin's decree of May 1942, girls who got pregnant in an active combat unit were sent to the rear, receiving good benefits in the form of housing warrants and food ration cards. Both girls turned out to be very practical—we spent the whole week wildly!
One nurse would go to the regimental commander at night, and the second would spend the same night with me. And then they would switch! And when the commission from the division arrived, their rounded bellies were attributed to the regimental commander's zest for life and lustfulness. And he, scared out of his wits, made an effort—the girls were quickly processed, received monetary and food certificates, and departed for the rear.
And they spent the last night before departure with me, though not as wildly as the first, but still quite "productively." The funniest thing is that when handing over duties to the newly arrived nurses of the regiment, it seems the girls told them something or other. Because those new ones looked at me so carnivorously! By the way, I never did learn the name of the second nurse. Well, it turned out just like the newfangled saying or joke: "We spent the night together, darling? And not just one! Well, that's still no reason to get acquainted!"