On a pub walls, here and there, - paintings are sticked.
They are: "The Tree Bears", "Pierced (by a spear) Knight".
At the table, one alone, - a captain vodka drinks.
"May I?" I asked. - "You may!"
"Have mine!" the captain put forth his. - "No. “Kazbek” I don’t smoke. Thanks." -
"O’key. Let’s, drink! Where is your flask?" -
"Don’t waist your time." - "Drink! I say!
Your health!" - "Thanks. I will!"
"And, so", said the captain in wine.
"Good gulp you have, Boy!
But! Did you touch gun machine or stroke the tank?
Did you go, I’d say, to a battle attack?
In the nineteen forty third in the Battle of Kursk... I was a sergeant.
Behind my back there were a lot of...
I cannot say what It was.
It’s - for your life... for you, to have peace in your life".
He scolded and drunk, about my father he asked.
He cried, dull looking at dish.
"My life. I gave it for yours heck.
And you fire your life, you are Judas.
May be give you a shotgun? And sent to front line?
But, you drink vodka much here, with me".
Sitting before him, I was like in trench, within Battle of Kursk,
where the captain was a sergeant...
He got more and more drunk, I was hard behind him.
Only at the end of the talk
I abused him, I told: "Never
will you be the sergeant, Major!"