Chapter 833 Heroes Under the Moonlight

On the little head was a big military cap. The tank lieutenant colonel's uniform cap with the warmth of Malashenko's forehead was indeed a little out of size when it was put on the head of a ten-year-old boy.

A pair of small hands raised over the cheeks and timidly touched the big gift on his head. A surprise smile soon appeared on the pale and thin face.

"Is this really my gift? Captain Malashenko."

"Of course, you are very brave for your mother. I approve you to become a reserve soldier of the First Guards Heavy Tank Breakthrough Regiment. Remember to report when you grow up. I will wait for you next to the tank in person! This is a promise between men!"

Malashenko, who had swept away the haze, made a promise to little Yegor without any false words. Every word he said was true.

The rough big hand full of calluses stretched out in front of the young child. The small hand, which was less than a quarter of the surface area of ​​the big hand, waved hard and clapped his hands to make a promise.

After finishing all the things he should do, Malashenko quietly left at the last minute, leaving behind only the resolute back of his unusually tall figure with long hair. His true face after taking off his military cap has been engraved in the young heart forever.

"Damn, how long has it been since I cut my hair? It's almost as long as Natalia's, damn!"

Malashenko returned to the dock without his cap, looking a little strange. Lavrinenko, who was carrying a PPSh submachine gun on his back and holding Malashenko's Suomi submachine gun in his hand, raised his hand and waved.

"Where's your cap? Why is your cap gone?"

Raising his hand to take the weapon thrown by Lavrinenko, Malashenko smiled faintly and was still immersed in the memories just now.

"I gave it away. Do you have anything else to ask?"

""

"You actually gave it away. That's your military cap. What's the point of giving away such an important thing?"

Malachenko did not explain the situation to the completely confused Lavrinenko, but just went on deck with a smile on his face.

"Anyway, new uniforms will be issued soon, and you will get one too. Instead of leaving it in a box, it's better to send it out and use it. Why are you still standing there? Get on board!"

All kinds of weird situations that he couldn't understand had made Lavrinenko seem to have given up thinking. He simply shook his head and followed Malachenko's steps to go on deck last.

The small cargo ship that came to pick up Malachenko's group of more than a hundred people was a small cargo ship. According to Malachenko's estimation, it was only a little bigger than a fishing boat.

When it came, the small cargo ship was fully loaded with weapons and ammunition to keep the battle going, as well as the minimum food that could keep the soldiers strong and prevent the refugees from starving to death.

By the time they left, the ship was loaded with a heroic army with battle scars, a group of the bravest soldiers who had lost countless comrades and defended their oaths under the red flag with their blood and lives.

The bright moonlight that emerged from the clouds sprinkled the river surface, reflecting the silvery white rippling light.

Malashenko, holding something in his hand, sat alone on the deck at the stern, facing the ruined city that was gradually moving away, as if he was lost in thought. Soon after his lonely and desolate back, the footsteps of the second person were heard.

"What are you looking at?"

Commissar Petrov, who sat on the stern deck with him, came to Malashenko, as well as the cigarette that was handed to Malashenko by the one-armed man.

"Nothing, just looking at the city that my comrades whose names I didn't even have time to remember defended with their lives."

Commissar Petrov, who had lit the cigarette for himself, moved the lighter that had not been extinguished to Malashenko's mouth and lit the cigarette in his mouth. The sound of the waves was only faintly heard in the silent moonlight and the river.

"I heard about you sending the food out. You did a good job. If I were there, I would support you in doing so. There are always some things that are worth protecting with our lives. You made the right choice, Malashenko."

Malashenko's right hand was shaking constantly, as if the cigarette in his mouth was so light that it seemed to have no taste, as if the thing in his hand was as heavy as a thousand pounds and he couldn't control it.

With the moonlight shining on the deck that was almost as bright as daylight, Political Commissar Petrov saw what Malashenko was holding with the corner of his eye.

It was a photo, a photo of Nikolai, the former mechanic of the No. 177 crew, who forever froze his young life on the battlefield of Stalingrad. It was the only photo of his military uniform ID card stored in the archives of the regiment.

"I couldn't keep anything, I didn't defend anything! When Maxim and Yakov died, I swore again and again that I would not let the same tragedy happen again. I would fulfill my duties as a car commander and regiment commander and live up to their trust in me. But in the end, it was still like this. Nothing changed and it was still exactly the same! Exactly the same!!!"

In total, in the memory of Political Commissar Petrov, the scene of Malashenko's two lines of tears flowing down his chin uncontrollably was the first time he had seen it before he was old enough to lose his memory.

"No one said you didn't defend anything. You defended the position, the victory, and the tasks assigned to our regiment by the superiors. You fulfilled the greatest responsibility within your ability, and no one could do better than you."

As they talked, the small freighter had already sailed to the center of the river. Some bodies of the Red Army soldiers who were knocked off the ship and killed on the river during the day by the German air raid were still floating on the water.

It was hard to tell whether the smell floating in the wind was the fishy smell of the river itself or the blood of the bodies. Malashenko, with his eyes closed and his tears wiped away, stood up from the deck again.

"I will make those Germans who took away important things from me pay the price, Uncle Peter. They can't escape the sanctions of steel tracks and the roar of main guns. I swear with everything I have that Stalingrad is their grave."

With his hands in his pockets, Malashenko turned around and walked into the lower cabin with his hair disheveled against the evening breeze blowing in his face, leaving Political Commissar Petrov still sitting on the stern deck, feeling the long-lost quiet night breeze.

Sometimes, even the strongest warriors need a little time to release the memories and self in their hearts.

Commissar Petrov, who was not used to showing his hidden side in front of others, reached into the lining of his coat and took out the wrinkled black-and-white photo that only he had seen and that even Malashenko had never known.

In the photo, two young men who looked almost exactly the same were hugging each other's shoulders and smiling brightly. The red stars on the two big fur hats were still within reach even in the black-and-white photo. Commissar Petrov, who had not smiled for too long, finally raised his mouth slightly.

"He is exactly the same as when we were young, right? My brother."