What an interesting personality! These are the kind of soldiers who forged victory in that terrible war. Glory to the Victorious Hero! Glory to the Russian soldier! Glory to the victorious people!!! Wonderful photo and excellent work, Alexey!
Alex M., Thank you, I'm glad you liked the shot. Thanks to THEM! Regardless of the photo... Favorite war poem:
MY GENERATION There's no need to pity us, because we wouldn't pity anyone. We are pure before our battalion commander, as before the Lord God. The greatcoats of the living are rusty with blood and clay, Blue flowers bloom on the graves of the dead.
They bloomed and fell... The fourth autumn passes. Our mothers weep, and our peers mourn silently. We knew no love, we didn't experience the joy of crafts, we were given the difficult lot of soldiers.
Those born alike have no poetry, no love, no peace - only strength and envy. And when we return from the war, we will love everything to the fullest and write, my peer, such things that our sons will be proud of their soldier fathers.
Well, who won't return? Who won't have to love? Well, who was struck down by the first bullet in '41? My peer will burst into tears, my mother will thrash on the doorstep—those of my generation have no poetry, no peace, no wives.
Who will return and love? No! Our hearts aren't strong enough for that, and the dead don't need the living to love them for them. No man in the family—no children, no master in the house. Will the sobs of the living help such grief?
We shouldn't be pitied, for we wouldn't pity anyone. Those who went on the attack, those who shared their last morsel, will understand this truth—it came to us in the trenches and crevices to argue in a grumbling, hoarse bass voice.
Let the living remember, and let generations know this harsh soldier's truth, won in battle. And your crutches, and your mortal wound, and the graves over the Volga, where thousands of young men lie— this is our destiny, it is with this that we cursed and sang, rose to the attack and tore down bridges over the Bug.
...There is no need to pity us, for we would pity no one, We stand before our Russia, even in difficult times, pure.
And when we return—and we will return victorious, everyone as stubborn as devils, as tenacious and vicious as humans—let them brew beer for us and fry meat for dinner, so that oak-legged tables will groan everywhere.
We will bow at the feet of our long-suffering loved ones, we will kiss our mothers and girlfriends who waited with love. When we return and win victory with bayonets, we will love everyone to the end, my friend, and find work for ourselves.
Glory to the victorious people!!! Wonderful photo and excellent work, Alexey!
Regardless of the photo...
Favorite war poem:
MY GENERATION
There's no need to pity us, because we wouldn't pity anyone.
We are pure before our battalion commander, as before the Lord God.
The greatcoats of the living are rusty with blood and clay,
Blue flowers bloom on the graves of the dead.
They bloomed and fell... The fourth autumn passes.
Our mothers weep, and our peers mourn silently.
We knew no love, we didn't experience the joy of crafts,
we were given the difficult lot of soldiers.
Those born alike have no poetry, no love, no peace -
only strength and envy. And when we return from the war,
we will love everything to the fullest and write, my peer, such things
that our sons will be proud of their soldier fathers.
Well, who won't return? Who won't have to love?
Well, who was struck down by the first bullet in '41?
My peer will burst into tears, my mother will thrash on the doorstep—those of my generation have no poetry, no peace, no wives.
Who will return and love? No! Our hearts aren't strong enough for that,
and the dead don't need the living to love them for them.
No man in the family—no children, no master in the house.
Will the sobs of the living help such grief?
We shouldn't be pitied, for we wouldn't pity anyone. Those who went on the attack, those who shared their last morsel,
will understand this truth—it came to us in the trenches and crevices
to argue in a grumbling, hoarse bass voice.
Let the living remember, and let generations know
this harsh soldier's truth, won in battle.
And your crutches, and your mortal wound,
and the graves over the Volga, where thousands of young men lie—
this is our destiny, it is with this that we cursed and sang,
rose to the attack and tore down bridges over the Bug.
...There is no need to pity us, for we would pity no one,
We stand before our Russia, even in difficult times, pure.
And when we return—and we will return victorious,
everyone as stubborn as devils, as tenacious and vicious as humans—let them brew beer for us and fry meat for dinner,
so that oak-legged tables will groan everywhere.
We will bow at the feet of our long-suffering loved ones,
we will kiss our mothers and girlfriends who waited with love.
When we return and win victory with bayonets,
we will love everyone to the end, my friend, and find work for ourselves.
© Semyon Gudzenko