Military Review

Duel of Russian dog and German dog

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Duel of Russian dog and German dog



The widespread use of dogs in all armies of the world began during the First World War and became so widespread by the Second World War that it only remains to be given. For example, German trainers, having received an order from Hitler, tried to teach dogs to speak German. You can still remember how the Germans used dogs to carry the pigeons.

The union of man and dog is often manifested for strength in the most unexpected situations, and especially in wartime. Dogs were used as guide dogs, medical trainers, fighter bombers tanks, liaisonmen and signalmen, security guards, dog handlers, sentinels, sledges, scouts, cartridges. Dogs were used to detect masked snipers. And the dogs gave a powerful moral foundation. Residents of one of the don farms, seeing a defeated German shepherd, said: "That will be with Hitler," finding in this case drops of hope for a speedy release.



During the solemn 1945 parade, the dogs walked alongside their guides in the columns, and one of them, Dzhulbars, was carried in his arms, because he had not yet recovered from his injury from demining. This dog received a military merit award for detecting 468 mines and 150 shells. During the war years, mine detection dogs, according to various sources, discovered more than 4 million mines.

In the personal file of the Dick Collie, it is written: “He is called up for service from Leningrad and is trained in a mine investigation file. During the war years, he discovered more than 12 thousands of mines and took part in the demining of Stalingrad, Lysychansk, Prague and other cities. ”

The dogs were used to transport the wounded: thanks to the invaluable assistance of their four-legged soldiers, Private Dmitry Trokhov was able to take the wounded soldiers from the front line 1580.



German snipers hunted dogs: there is a known case when Alma’s dog, when performing a combat mission — delivering a packet with a report — was twice wounded by a sniper in his ear and jaw. But with the third shot, the sniper who wanted to finish off the dog did not work: she dodged it and, badly wounded, crawled to the Soviet trenches anyway. The number of delivered military reports was estimated in the thousands: in one year, the Mink was able to deliver 2398 reports, the dog Rex - 1649 reports. He crossed the Dnieper River several times, was wounded, but always carried out his combat mission.



And the dogs gave people a rare joy in between fights. So, in one of the photos you can see the legendary pilot, three times Hero of the Soviet Union Ivan Kozhedub with his beloved dog of the entire squadron.

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About an unknown duel between a Russian dog and a German shepherd

This история occurred during the war years. Alexander Isakov told me about it, who can never forget his military childhood.

From the steep slope it was clearly visible how the airplanes turned over the Don and the formation went over its surface upstream. Motors roared sharper, and behind them fell some sort of chocks. Then - explosions, explosions and explosions again. Pillars raised the Don water, coastal silt and sand, car fragments. Bombs exploded closer and closer to the farm. We ran downhill with Dzhulbars. There, where the howling and explosions, fire and black smoke.

Right at home, our soldiers picked me up in my arms.

- In the shelter! They shouted, and I showed them the way to the basement.

There suddenly shouted: “Where is my Dzhulbars?” And the soldiers did not have time to come to their senses, ran into the courtyard. “Dzhulbars, Dzhulbars!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. But who could hear me in this pitch howl and roar?

The bomb exploded somewhere near our house. Someone or something invisible hurled me into a far corner of the yard, in a pile of raw manure. From there I saw my friend. He sat on his hind legs on the flat roof of the veranda, watched every diving plane. And howled.

I could not hear, but I saw that he was howling. Nearby another bomb exploded.
Dzhulbars as the wind blown from the roof. I ran to him. But he was already standing and licking the blood from the wound. A splinter snatched a piece of skin with meat on its paw. It held on to something, hanging down to the ground. A soldier ran up to us. Together with him, we dragged Dzhulbars into the basement.



- Zakir! Help the dog, he turned to one of his comrades.

A young, young soldier rose. Black, black his eyes. Narrow. Sad Silently approached us and examined the wound, ordered to hold the dog. He took out a crispy bag from the bag. Treated the wound with iodine. Julbars shuddered with his whole body, looked at the "doctor" attentively, studying. And - no sound. And the soldier thought and got into the bag again. He took out a small, shiny scissors. Cut off their thick, long hair around the wound. Again I looked at the simple medical instrument folded on the bag:

- Need to sew. And there is no sewing, - he spread his hands.

Then he firmly pushed his fingers into the rings of scissors and cut off a piece of my Djulbars. Not him, but I groaned in pain.

“He'll be overwhelmed like a dog,” the doctor replied to my heavy sigh and began to bandage the wound.



After a slight lull, there was again an increasing hum. The doors of the basement were closed, we heard how the planes turned over the Don. Bombs howled again. Dzhulbars wary and suddenly jumped on me with his powerful body. He lay until all the explosions died down. And when the howl of the bombs was repeated, he again protected me from the fragments, the very red-hot pieces of iron, which during the explosion tear the living body so painfully.

“You have a clever dog,” said one soldier, and at the same time he stroked both me and Dzhulbars in the head.

And they say that animals have no thinking. How, then, to explain their surprisingly clever actions? Over the bombing. Soldiers gardens went to the Don.

And in the evening, finally, our whole family gathered at home. Each in its own way and in different places met the first day of the war in the Upper Don. But it was not up to the stories. Everyone was left alone with the same alarm: "What will happen tomorrow?"



The Nazis came - "green spiders"

The next day, the green spiders came to the farm. Some of the boys, my friends, stuck such a nickname to the Nazis with machine guns. Spiders drove us out of their homes. We stopped at a distance of fifteen kilometers from the Don. In a small farmhouse, sheltered from the winds in one of the picturesque beams of the Don steppe. There, on a dairy farm, in empty barns and calf cages, we found our new place of residence.

We got the farthest from the door, the largest cell. For a long time we lived in this corner of the calf.

Dzhulbars behind the cell chose a place for himself. He lay there for days without disturbing anyone, disturbing nobody. In this barn, a few more families passed the days. And no one noticed when he went out. Late in the evening it will leave and a little light will return to the place.

“Why doesn't he go out during the day?” - I once asked my older brother. He shrugged and suggested:

“Let us get him out into the yard.”

“And don't try,” Grandma intervened in the conversation.

- Почему?

- Do not go!

- But why? - I sought an answer.

“The Germans are there,” said the grandmother.

- So what?

- And the fact that they were shooting at him with a rifle. He barked at them as at the most sworn enemies. Shot but did not hit. Opposite the goat for the stake was tied, so the bullet hit her ... The Germans ate a goat, and she was milked. Than now Anna will feed her twins, I'll never know. Her milk is dry with grief.

Grandma wanted to say something else, but behind the cage, for no reason at all, Giulbars roared. We all, as if on cue, turned our heads. Our favorite was behind the cell grid, with his legs spread wide and his ears pointed toward the doors of the shed.

- Shut up! Lag! - I ordered Dzhulbars, leaning my whole body to the door.

“Go see who's there,” Grandma said to me.

I ran down the aisle between the cells. There was no one in the vestibule. And I did not open the second door. He came back and, looking at Dzhulbars, said:

“He himself does not know who he is roaring at.”

Dzhulbars glanced at me and (still something was missing!) Barked. The doors opened, and two fascists and a policeman entered the barn.

"To know, they were on the street," flashed through my mind. “To know, they were felt by my Dzhulbars too.”



The next second, I rolled over the grill and squeezed both jaws of the angry dog ​​with my hands.

- Stand up! - shouted the policeman, somewhere in the middle of the barn.

All the farmers stood in their cages.

The policeman pointed and repeated the same thing: "You, you, you ...". He selected ten women, and the Germans drove them to work - to clean the potatoes in the kitchen, to smear and whitewash the building of the commandant's office.

I let go of Dzhulbars. He barked again at the barn door that had just closed. He barked and fell silent. The people in the cells were silent too. Some special silence reigned in them. Anxious, ominous. Our neighbor broke it:

- For this stalk we pootryvayut head.

“They can do it,” our grandmother unexpectedly supported her neighbor and added: “We are Soviet people.”

“There were Soviet ones,” a neighbor’s gendosil, and a sour, nasty smile spread over his wide face like an oil on paper.

- Well, if so, - grandmother narrowed her eyes, - you have nothing to fear. The head will remain untouched. And we will attach a dog in other place.

Grandma leaned toward me and began to reassure:

- I know a good place on the farm. Behind a manger in a dilapidated stable he will live. There are lulls and a roof overhead.

Dzhulbars again growled and rushed to the door.

- Shut up, do not! - I asked him.

The doors opened and the Germans entered the barn again.



Four. Two with great movie cameras, and the rear - with a huge shepherd dog on a leash. Entered with lively conversation, laughter, expressive gestures. Stopped at one of the cells. Began to shoot its inhabitants. Now I know why they did it. In their fascist cinemas showed documentaries. Here, they say, where we drove the Soviet people!

The Germans were getting closer to our cage - the most populous. In addition to mother, aunt and grandmother - eight children in it. Sit. Crouched by the beasts. Come closer.
Rising from a place, the smallest of us shouts, interfering with shrill crying words:

- Here comes the folder, bring me a gun.

Mother extended her arms to him, and so froze in this position. Because our baby took a step forward, towards the German who approached the cage. He pulled a candy out of his pocket, made a sign to the Germans with movie cameras, and stretched out his hand over the side of the grating.

- On! Kushayt! - he said to the baby.

And he stood and looked frowningly at the dark glasses of lenses that took him to the sight.

- On! Kushayt! - repeated the fascist. But now a smile has disappeared on his face. For the third time he did not ask, but roared:

- Nna! - and something evil, barking added in his own language.

Grandmother rushed from her seat. Kneeling close to the grandson. He pushed him forward, saying:

- Yes, you take this candy, let them take off. Are amused.

She wanted to defuse the situation, but did worse. The grandson burst into tears, and snarled behind the cage, barked Dzhulbars. Snaked and German shepherd.

Russian dog bit his throat Jean

The fascist put the candy in his pocket, a pistol appeared in his hand. The German went between the cages to where the dog lay. I also passed through the lattice cells. He embraced him, pressed his shaking body. I am waiting. Here he is - a fascist! He stared at us with no blinking eyes. Something tells me, but I do not understand.

Then he called someone from his gang. Another German approached. They briefly consulted, and the one who came up in the purest Russian said:

- Lead the dog into the yard!

I - not a place. The German brought the muzzle of the pistol at us and laughed, while the mother leaned toward us and, through tears, asked:

- Lead, son. It is necessary. Lead the way.

Mother threw me an old torn female stocking. He had previously served as a leash for Dzhulbars when I walked with him to a small river that flowed along the reeds under a slope near the farm.

I led Dzhulbars to the yard. Behind me the Germans with a shepherd dog, and behind them all the people out of the cages come out.

On the fenced cow base, I was indicated a place where I should stand with Djulbars. People, too, the Germans placed a semicircle behind us. Two fascists with movie cameras climbed on the goats. These stood under the walkway at the unbroken wall of the barn. No sooner had the milkmaids and calf houses put their farm in order. Next to the goats, a large batch of white clay with straw dried. Even in one of the buckets, clay reminder of unfinished peaceful work froze like a mountain. Sticks of shingles and pieces of semi-destroyed old plaster were sticking up on the walls.

A German with a shepherd dog stood against me and Dzhulbars. She strained the leash with all her might. The owner barely kept her, reassured, repeating: "Jean, Jean!"

Handsome was that jean. Slender, taut, ears stick out, and such lively, expressive eyes.

That German went to me, who could speak Russian. Five meters stopped and said:

- Untie the dog and get away.

And then I guessed what would happen next. The Germans will poison the dogs and take the victory with their black sheep Shepherd.

I untied the stocking on the thick neck of Dzhulbars. Thick, long wool on it. Do not get a sheepdog to the throat. I stroked a friend, asked to sit, and he ran to a close semicircle of his countrymen. He clung to his mother, took her hand.

Dzhulbars sat on his hind legs, spreading the front and somehow unnaturally sticking out a powerful chest, decorated with a triangle of white wool. Almost the same as the Himalayan bear. He did not growl, did not bark. But, having looked narrowly, I noticed how a narrow strip of wool on the nape lifted and fell and trembled the tail, which lay on the ground in a half ring.

Dzhulbars glanced now at me, now at the German shepherd tearing on a leash. It seemed to me that he was thinking about something, that he understood everything, knew what kind of fight he was to endure.

Let go of the German Shepherd. Stretching to the string, she rushed to Dzhulbars, and he just raised himself up, tensed with his whole body. I was ready for a quick jump. And he jumped. Only not on a shepherd dog, but a little to the side, right in front of her mouth. At the same instant he turned and jumped, now on the back of the enemy who was running past. But not accurate was the blow of his fangs. Sharp teeth slid across the smooth forehead of the shepherd, came together, already klatsnul. It was impossible to understand anything further.

Pieces of wool, wriggling legs, heads and tails. For a minute such a mess lasted. And then, as if on cue, Dzhulbars and a sheepdog jumped off in different directions, pressed their bellies to the ground, stared at each other with bloodshot eyes.

Both were breathing heavily. Their sides swelled. On the hanging tongue of a shepherd dog, saliva stained in blood. Djulbars’s right ear dropped and red drops dropped to the ground quickly, quickly one after the other.

The respite did not last long. This time they launched an offensive with a growl. What happened to them there? The Germans froze. The shepherd twisted its head, rested its front legs, and Dzhulbars gave back and dragged her along. Finally, I realized that during the next fight, one of the mutual blows fell into the mouth. Dzhulbarsu or lucky, or the calculation he had this, but both of his jaws squeezed the lower jaw of the shepherd with his tongue. Sheepdog sloped on its side. I tried to pull my head back, but it hurt her, she continued to yield. Dzhulbars dragged her farther and farther to the fence cow base.

The Germans did not like it. The frame for Hitler's newsreels was unsuitable. One of them grabbed a pistol from a holster and walked widely towards the dogs. Following him, the German cameramen shouted something.

I shouted too:

- It's not fair!

Mother covered her mouth with her palm and pressed my head to her.
The German quickened his pace, and then ran off the run, like a footballer on the ball, hit Dzhulbars in the side with his toe. This was enough to put Djulbars out of action for a moment, and let the shepherd free itself from its grip and go on the attack itself.

Now she already ruffled the bearskin of Dzhulbars, firmly clinging to the mane. The German returned to his place, retired from the frame, waved his hand that sat on the box, remove, they say, now our takes.

But it was not there! Dzhulbars, having collected all his anger and strength, escaped from the shepherd's mouth. After we were surprised at his courage when we treated the wound with creolin. This medicine was found somewhere on the farm by our omnipresent grandmother. The shepherd's clenched teeth, like a knife, cut open the neck of Dzhulbars when he made his last decisive jerk. Consider yourself tore the scruff of the neck.

But he had no other way out. He broke loose and fell on his side. For a split second, his head was under the shepherd's throat. Lightning grip with his teeth, and the enemy, with a bitten throat, wheezed at the winner's feet.

But the winner had to escape, and he rushed to the people, and behind them, through a hole in the fence, jumped out onto the pasture and ran down to the little river, into thick reeds. The Germans, who had fled to the pasture to shoot at Dzhulbars, no longer returned.

People did not disperse for a long time, glanced at the shepherd dog stretched out on the ground, talking about something. I remember the distinct phrase of my grandmother: “Hitler will be right then!”

Death Tikhonovna

Two weeks Dzhulbars did not appear on the farm. But we met with him daily. I myself ran to the little river, then went there with my mother. We never called him from the reeds. He saw or heard as we descended the slope from the farm. They did not have time to go to the shore, but he was already rushing to us from the thick undergrowth, barking merrily and licking our hands.

We reshape his wounds with creolin. Searched the words warmly. I wanted to give him a loaf or a bone. But why such happiness ?! I got from the bosom saved cake from rotten millet. Mother, looking at this pitiful gift of mine, covered her face with her hands and cried.

Today I have something to calm her down:

- Do not, ma! Soon we will be back home, and again we will have a suitcase of sweets and some bread.

Mother did not tear off hands from the face. And I braked her and continued:

- You saw last night how the sky was burning there, above the Don, over our farm, you heard what kind of hum came from there. She herself said that it was our "Katyushas" who were beating the Nazis.

Mother showed tears from her palms, and at the same time laughing eyes.

- Yes, not thrashed I said beat.

I wanted to answer: “Well, let them beat. What's the difference?"

But then something alerted Dzhulbars. He raised his head sharply, pricked his ears. We looked around. All around, you can not hear anything. But Dzhulbars tensely listened, bowing his head in one direction or the other.

Finally, we heard the rumble of an airplane. He flew from the Don from the front. Behind him and the second emerged from the horizon. The distance between them decreased with every minute.

“Ma,” I shouted, “this is our fascist plane catching up!”

And I just said, look, the front, German plane nodded above us, with a roar flashed and went to decline. Not far away, beyond the steppe hill, there was an explosion. And we heard the earth tremble under us. Our little nimble plane turned around, rolled over from side to side, waved to us red-winged wings and rushed east, beyond the Don.

I hugged my Dzhulbars and scream to him, choking with joy:

“You see how our beatings ... looked at the mother and whispered, they beat the fascists!”

But the day of our release will not come soon. It was necessary to survive the fall and the beginning of winter.

Once on one of the gloomy October days, we returned with my sister to the farm from the farm. We went there in the courtyards with linen bows. The locals did not leave their homes, and therefore they had the opportunity to share some of the products in order to support at least my smaller brothers and sisters.

We brought a huge pumpkin, two table beets and a few flours made from real flour. We went to our cage, were ready to share our joy. And froze in place. In the middle of the cage, stretching full length lay Dzhulbars, and the grandmother drove along his back with a hairy bundle of wire.

We calmed down when we realized that my grandmother had taken down the fluff from Dzhulbars. He just shed, changed his summer coat for winter.

- Well, what mouths opened? - Grandma smiled at us, look, what a long padded down! All of you for the winter socks vvyvyazu. I have already prepared the spindle.

And she showed the very cone wand she had planted with a hole at the end. Our grandmothers! They are no longer among us. There are not many. And no one cast them in bronze, but we should! Their hard work, enviable resilience to any adversity, courage, ingenuity saved thousands, hundreds of thousands of children who fell into military hell.

I remember my grandmother and grandmother of another family conferred in our cage:
“Or maybe we’ll go home after all,” one said.

“The path is not close,” answered the other. And you have to go. There, both grain and potatoes remained, something you need to feed your grandchildren. There are so many of them, junglers. And winter is coming.



The farm has a dugout in the dugout, a gun on the gun, and the Nazis - you can’t turn it off with a stake. Do not let our brother for the front. The women throw grenades under their feet. And they laugh like horses. Tikhonovna, our girlfriend, was killed.

I remember, grandmother told me how it all happened. Women returned to the farm. Behind - an orphaned little farm, in front - advanced parts of the Germans. In the hands and shoulders of women - precious nodules and shit.

- Is it really taken away and nonche? - one Cossack moaned. - They would have been around for at least an hour while we passed. Quite to them okolet, males besdvorny.

Passed by the artillery crew. Each muscle shrank into an elastic lump. And here, again shout, as a shot:

- Halt!

Two approached: one red-faced, wide-haired, the other with a well-groomed face. The women looked at him, and the hope began to glow in their hearts: “So young. Is he a beast?

But young, beautiful, as if with a whip whipped:

- Sprite product!

The women are petrified.

- Pour out! He shouted.

They began to pour into a pile carefully, pitying every crumb of food.

- Not this way! - The officer jumped to one of the women, snatched a bundle from her, widely scattered the contents, frantically began to stamp around the tubers of potatoes, pieces of precious salt, pieces of moldy dried bread.

And then they were ordered to go. And they went, hard, reluctantly, as if they were still hoping for something. The officer snatched a grenade with a long wooden handle from a red belt from his belt. Women retreated farther.

I swung the officer, but thought it over, did not quit. Maybe he was afraid of a crazy shard, he waited some more. And so the log in the air started to fly, hiding death in itself, flew after the people. One of the women (the same Tikhonovna) was walking far behind her fellow travelers, and the grenade exploded under her feet.

Dzhulbars saves grandmothers

After this incident, people stopped visiting their homes. Lurked. On cold and hungry days in the calf cells.

Grandmothers continued the conversation:

- There, at the farm, there is a forest beam. One peak almost abuts the street, and the other goes far into the steppe. Maybe we will go through it at night? Let's go to. Was, was not.

In the evening, the grandmothers left the farm. At first, they walked briskly along the steppe expanse. Where on the road, and where directly, on virgin soil, on the edge of a ravine or on a field that remained unplowed in winter. It got dark. And immediately began to increase and acquire the ugly forms of oncoming bushes, individual trees, heaps of old straw. And all this seemed to be moving, preparing for an attack.

Terribly grandmothers. For a while, they walked in silence, wary. And suddenly one of them screamed:

- Oh! Who is it?

- Avav! - answered them.

“But this is our Dzhulbarsik,” sang happily the other.

She called to her, caressed, asked in surprise:

- But how did you go after us that you could not hear, you did not see?

Dzhulbars knew how to go! While it was visible, he kept from the walkers behind the grubs at an impressive distance. He was afraid that they would drive him back to the farm. And when it gets dark, they probably will not be chased away, they will be accepted into their company, they will be taken as assistants. The calculation was justified. Grandmothers were so happy about his appearance that they even gave a millet cake.

Now Dzhulbars ran far forward, reconnoitered a way. About the slightest danger he would let know. But the native night steppe has not yet threatened with disaster. Dzhulbars waited for his fellow travelers, called them with his "avav". They got used to the eyes of that note, and the old women went bolder. Now they are well versed in the steppe. Soon a mound was distinguished in the night near a familiar pond. This is the land of the native collective farm. The house is exactly five kilometers away. You can add a step to the joys.

But here they were stopped by Dzhulbars. Running ahead, he did not call them barking, but returned and stuck his muzzle at the feet of his mistress.

- you what? Why don't you let me in? - whispered grandmother, tried to step forward, but Dzhulbars blocked the way.

- Look! There is a light! - My grandmother’s friend held out her hand.

- Why, it's the Germans! And I tell you what. This dugout shines.

They said that here they have a battery on both sides of the pond. Yes, and guns. See?

- I see.

Grandmothers were confused. You will not pass here. Too open place. Cossacks from the village of Demidovsky nicknamed this corner of the Don land as the Orekhovsky hill. Just a kilometer to go through, and there will begin beams, slopes.

Somewhere aside Dzhulbars ran. It was not long to wait. He came back and, whimpering weakly, called for his subdued grandmothers behind him. Got a hundred meters, and were at the sunflower field. Here it began, and ended somewhere below, under the Orekhovsky hill. The grandmothers went around the field and continued their march along the other side of it, under the cover of thick, tall stalks with baskets. On the way, they broke one of these baskets. They walked, husked large, full seeds, praised them and cursed the war. What a crop is missing! Good hands raised him, but evil ones do not give him away.

Dzhulbars teeth holding reptile by withers

Our grandmother returned to the farm before dawn on the second day. Tiredly sat in a corner of the cell and burst into tears. She cried and smiled, wiped her eyes with a black apron. We answered our questions with a mysterious rocking of the hand at the mouth: they say, quietly. It happened that you can not tell loudly. Her whole little figure in the light of a dim smoke made of an anti-tank gun sleeve expressed fear, pain of the experienced, and concealed pride. Finally, she said softly:

- The German killed me. For Lenin killed. She looked into our stopped eyes and continued:

- I lay in the attic, waiting for the night. Under the head bag with millet. Beside other oklunki then with salt, then with flour. Coldly. And you want to sleep, eyes stick together. I hear through the slumber - someone rises to the ceiling. I - shash for honey extractor. Lurked. I am waiting. Trampled down someone next to me, fell silent. Then - broads! Already in the ears stabbed. And shaking again! “But who are you, bandit, shoot?” - I think. Are not our guys on the other side of the Don looking out for and destroying? ” I looked out from behind the honey extractor. I look, lies, Cain, whistles, aims at the hole under the roof. Aim at the bed. "Oh, hit you, leggy wick." I don’t know myself how I got a hatchet in my hands. To them, I salt out of a drawer hidden by hollowing out. And only I decided to get close to him, and at that time he raised himself. I wanted to smoke the Antichrist. And then he saw me. I did not have time to hide the shoulder behind the honey extractor. How he would scream something in his own way, and then in our opinion: “Hands up! Come out! "

I go out and tell him, as if nothing had happened: “Whom are you shooting at?” And he stared wide-eyed: "What are you doing here?" I show the bag with the millet: "Here I have gathered my grandchildren." “Go,” says and directs his gun towards the hole under the roof. I look there, for Don. The whole village from here, clearly visible.

“Look, Park,” the German orders, “Do you see Lenin?” Monument? What is it made of?

- From plaster.

- Why do I shoot, and he stands?

- This is Lenin! Are you thinking, foolishness, your head?

The fascist looked at me with a wipe of fierce, and it seemed to me as if he had snapped his teeth:

- Are you a communist? - He poked me with a finger in the chest and even angrily whispered: - Shvoloch!

“You yourself are the last shit,” I say, and the whole body is scared. Not fear shakes me with anger. I would tell him everything. Did not give.

- Go! - shouts.

We descended from the attic. He led me into the yard, set behind the house under a pear, walked about ten meters and aimed straight at the face. Shot once, another. And I'm standing, I ask him: “Do not kill. I'm not afraid to die. It is necessary to carry the grain kids. Do not kill, do you hear? ”. And he smiles and everything shoots by. The creature is being bullied. Once again managed to shoot. The bullet whistled somewhere at the neck, and I heard how the end of my shawl moved. At the same moment the German spread his arms awkwardly, pulled them up. Blurted out to the ground weapon.

The fascist, with a cry, swallowed the air and with his eyes widened, began to quietly descend, and on his back, Dzhulbars. Teeth holding reptile for withers. A German fell, lying flat, and foam at the mouth.

Dzhulbars ran up to me, rubs on the legs. I go closer to this dead German (or maybe he fainted from his feet) and I told him, who told him: “But you’re thin for pay, you bastard. Monument ... Lenin ... he wanted to shoot. Will not work. It is you and all your offspring in the Russian land that will rot, and we will live forever! ”

Grandma safely reached our farm and brought groceries.
For a week, our family feasted. Cooked porridge from wheat grains, ate puffs from crushed millet, indulged in potatoes. And the milk was. We took the cow with us to the evacuation. She then rescued us when there was absolutely nothing to eat.

How was Dzhulbars died

It was a long time ago, but I will never forget such a picture. Grandmother with a bucket goes behind the barn. We, the eight "Gavrik", followed. Grandma sits down to milk the cow, and we wait. Sopin cold nose, but still catch the delicious smell of fresh milk. Each of us in the hands of a bank of Italian canned food. We hold the cans by the covers bent up, and in order to drown out their hungry impatience, we look at these covers with fancy inscriptions and surprisingly beautiful drawing. From each bank looked at us like a living, green-eyed frog.

Grandmother tiredly rises from the squat box that served her instead of the high chair, and pours the unwashed warm milk from our buckets into our cups. Drink, eyes pozhamurili. We will drink and the grandmother pours it again and in the meantime gives us the “dress”:

- There, in a gully, I mowed the grass. It is necessary to transfer and put the cow overnight. And start to lament:

- Winter is coming soon. There is no sen. Loss of thinness.

And slaughtering such a nurse is like losing your life. We devastated the banks and for some reason only then noticed Dzhulbars. We look at him guiltily, and he turns away, takes his intelligent eyes to the side. It was as if not us, but he was ashamed that we “so blew out” two cans of milk with such greed and forgot to leave him. We hurry to atone for the blame, in a few voices we ask the grandmother:

- Though a little. Give me a little milk julbarsika though.

Grandma stops. Looks sad eyes in a bucket and probably thinks: "Before the war, I would not give him a drop, but would give a whole jug."

And yet she turns to us. We run to her with our banks, she decisively pours milk into one of ours almost over the edge. In the bucket remains no more than half a liter. This is the eldest for breakfast.

This picture was repeated every day, because the cow was milked in the morning and evening. But the day came when it all ended. Grandma went to milk the cow, we and Dzhulbars ran after her. As soon as she sat down on her little box, a long, long German with a pot came out from around the corner of the barn, approached us and also waited for the milk. Grandma suddenly gets up and says:

- The cow ran out of milk. - And shows the German an empty bucket.

And he took his lap's grandmother by the shoulder and pushed him aside. He sat on the chair and let's milk. Milk elastic streams loudly hammered on the bottom of the pot. We stand with open mouths and can not do anything. The grandmother glanced at us with tear-flooded eyes, impulsively rushed from her place to the German:

- Come on, Herod! See how much mouths are worth!

A German milks himself and does not listen.

- Enough! - the grandmother shouts and at the same instant swings a bucket and beats the Fritz over the head with it.

He jumped like a scalded. We saw that Dzhulbars raised up, tensed, snarled subduedly. But the German did not pay attention to him, grabbed Grandma's hand above her wrist and squeezed so hard that she screamed. He wrapped her hand behind her back and pushed forward. I wanted to lead somewhere.

Dzhulbars rushed to the rescue. We did not even have time to blink an eye, as he grabbed a German below the belt with his bear-jaws.

At first, under the torn pants, something white seemed, and then it turned red. The fascist yelled not in his own voice, but Dzhulbars once more tapped him by the leg.

And then the shots rang out. One, the other, the third. Dzhulbars, our faithful friend and protector, screamed in a thin voice and, without rising to his feet, turned around and crawled towards us. Another bullet caught him at our feet. Dzhulbars raised his head, looked at us with fading eyes, and his big bearish clever head hit deafly on the frozen ground.
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  1. Moore
    Moore 14 January 2016 06: 18
    35
    What can I say ... Dogs, probably, really are the last angels left with people to teach their fidelity and kindness.
    1. Sweles
      Sweles 14 January 2016 11: 48
      +8

      East European Shepherd Dog -Russian bred by order of Stalin


      German Shepherd

      1. Evrepid
        Evrepid 15 January 2016 13: 25
        +5
        Super dog! She reminded me of my "Alma" ... Not a drop of fear, willingness to die protecting me .. And what is most striking, this is an incredible sense of justice!
        Devotion...
        Love ... (namely love)

        This is one of the rare colors of the eastern woman: black-eyed, like my Alma was. In the sun it shone as it was strewn with silver ...

        How many years are already gone, and everything is as if alive ...
    2. The comment was deleted.
    3. The comment was deleted.
  2. blizart
    blizart 14 January 2016 06: 49
    30
    Such stories should be told to people who dreamed and dreamed of drinking Bavarian beer when the "scoop" they hated would be defeated by civilized peoples. True, now they will laugh in our face and throw it contemptuously - Propaganda. We lost our time, but we grumbled. It was necessary in due time to drive them to a role-playing seminar, put them in the cages of a calf barn, and give them a fill of beer at the muzzles of "schmeisers".
  3. parusnik
    parusnik 14 January 2016 08: 06
    12
    At the dog itself .. Thank you, Polina ...
  4. Kazakh
    Kazakh 14 January 2016 09: 39
    +2
    Dog fighting is not believable so dogs don’t fight (dog handler 30 years of experience). In general, the article is correct and well written.
    1. blind
      blind 12 December 2016 15: 01
      +1
      this child remembered
  5. Egoza
    Egoza 14 January 2016 09: 46
    +7
    Thank you for the article! How little people value real friends! How low morals fall when the number of "doghunters" and those who simply want to poison or burn animals grows! I hope that such ... will be rewarded! What a pity that dogs live so little! What a pain their departure brings! There are only photos for memory, and memories of the most faithful, worthy of sincere love, truly our loved ones.
  6. Sobol
    Sobol 14 January 2016 10: 46
    +3
    Thanks, Polina.
  7. sannik
    sannik 14 January 2016 11: 47
    13
    I read and cried. Very correct article. How low people can go and what lesson animals, especially dogs, and probably horses, can give. Thanks so much for the article. A cynologist with the experience of a large MINUS.
  8. igordok
    igordok 14 January 2016 12: 58
    +4
    Good article, and the photos are amazingly selected.
  9. bear
    bear 14 January 2016 18: 25
    +2
    I'll give my son a read!
  10. Russian jacket
    Russian jacket 14 January 2016 18: 39
    +5
    There is no more devoted creature than a dog .... It sometimes seems that og, a dog, something is burning in its own language and sad that you don’t understand it ... hi
  11. lshka
    lshka 14 January 2016 23: 57
    +3
    An excellent article, there would be more of these and not only on this site
  12. partizan86
    partizan86 15 January 2016 01: 09
    +2
    Quote: Moore
    What can I say ... Dogs, probably, really are the last angels left with people to teach their fidelity and kindness.

    Not the last.
  13. partizan86
    partizan86 15 January 2016 01: 12
    +1
    It’s a pity I don’t know the monuments to the dogs of heroes. If there is, then there are too few of them.
  14. ARS56
    ARS56 15 January 2016 02: 06
    +4
    And Obama will be.
  15. KLV
    KLV 23 October 2016 10: 39
    +2
    As far as I remember, the dog from the Kozhedub part was called Dutik.
  16. free
    free 30 November 2016 15: 22
    0
    wonderful article, just don’t need more photos with the Germans, don’t need this carrion!
  17. EvgNik
    EvgNik 5 December 2016 15: 10
    +2
    I have not seen this article by Polina before, thank you for reminding me of it and many thanks to Polina.
  18. blind
    blind 12 December 2016 15: 00
    +1
    here such stories need to be studied at school in literature lessons and not fucking pokemon sgari loss
  19. medvedron
    medvedron 7 March 2017 12: 32
    0
    A very correct article. And on the site they could give more similar information, I mean animals in the service of the army.
  20. free
    free 17 August 2017 19: 18
    0
    I want to say a lot, but I cannot find suitable words!