My father was in the artillery. At the very beginning of the war, almost all the guns were horse-drawn. In a word, my father was a driver and his duties included timely delivery of guns to firing positions, which we tried to change as often as possible, because from morning to evening over the battlefield hung a German reconnaissance plane, which our soldiers colloquially called the frame.
God forbid this frame to detect our battery, as immediately, like a flock of crows, bombers appeared with crosses on their wings, which began to bomb with impunity.
"Once we were surrounded," my father said, " the German tanks broke through from the flanks and started shooting at the guns at point-blank range.
A lot of gunners were killed in that unequal battle, I was badly concussed that I lost consciousness.
"I woke up in the night, in the pitch dark, from a touch on my face, " he continued, " and I reached out and felt the horse's face.
It was my father's favorite riding horse, Bucephalus.
"And I was so glad to see him," he said, remembering that far - off time, " that my first thought was that I would stay alive and get out with Bucephalus to my own people.
Behind our artillery positions was a deep ravine, overgrown with woodland, where we tied our horses.
So Bucephalus chewed the rein and went in search of the owner. How he found me on the battlefield is still a mystery.
My father's colleagues were jealous that he had such a wonderful horse.
"He was like a man," my father said, " and he understood me perfectly. Only he couldn't talk. All & nbsp; commands performed.
I tried to feed Bucephalus as best I could for his loyalty, and cleaned Him every day. My Bucephalus was like a picture.
And so, in the dead of night, the shell-shocked father and his faithful horse began to make their way to their own, going down to the bottom of the ravine, where he had noticed a small path during the day.
– I overcoming weakness and pain in all body, somehow climbed on Bucephalus, - the father continued the narration, - clung to its withers that my silhouette was imperceptible and started on a way.
His father remembered that fateful night for the rest of his life, because despite the late hours of the day, on both sides of the ravine he could hear the rumbling of tank engines, the screeching of car brakes, the guttural cries of sentries.
"I joined the intelligence service a year later," my father said, " and always when I returned from a search to the battalion, I always thought of Bucephalus with gratitude. After all, he took me out of the thick of the enemy's position, without once betraying himself.
Before daybreak I had recovered a little, and was already thinking of how to get out to my own people without being seen, when my horse suddenly fell on its side, almost pinning me down.
It turns out that he smelled the approach of the German patrol and hid in time. The Germans heard a strange noise, talked about something and went on.
At dawn, in a misty haze like a white shawl, my father and his rescuer went out to their own, and the first person he saw was the foreman of the seliverst battery.
"Tyurin," he cried when he saw his father alive, " is he alive?" And I wanted to take you off the food allowance. Let's go brother, to the kitchen, I'll feed you along with your Bucephalus!
The story is written from the words of Volodya Tyurin
In the picture: Tyurin Yakov Pavlovich