Portartur. 1940. Boris Trofimov
Struck by the spectacle, he no longer heard anything, only saw: people in caps with yellow bands, carrying death with them, fell, spreading their arms.
– So another hour and nothing will be left of him, your excellency.
– Absolutely. Run. I, too, will soon come down to the trenches.
The hornmate has disappeared. The colonel glanced at the batteries. Most of them have calmed down. Only on the battery Baranova fiercely fired. Von Schwartz headed there. The yard was littered with corpses, fragments of bombs and earth. All the instruments, except one, were silent. There were no wounded: they were carried to a ravine. Chaos struck von Schwartz. He did not recognize the fortifications, which were built and equipped under his direct supervision.
– How long is being built and how quickly is destroyed!
The Beauties, as von Schwartz called the guns, stood silently and were unrecognizable. Some pulled the muts too high, others fell to the side… Stumbling over the sacks, bypassing the corpses of the gunners, the captain ran into the yard of a single-acting cannon. Gunner Petrachenko used to tinker with the core, trying to raise it with bloody hands.
“Wow, I can’t,” the gunner said to himself and looked back. Eyes von Schwartz and Petrachenko met. – What are you doing here alone?
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