Book: "Sign of Honour" Skobov M.Y.

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## Technical information

### ID

Book\_1

 — In-game description

**Book: "Sign of Honour" Skobov M.Y.** (Russian: *Книга: «Боевые заслуги» Скобов М.Я.*) is a text document in *ATOM RPG*.

## Transcript

"Sign of Honour"

From the analects "Comrade Labor" by Skobov M.Y.

Publishing house "KrasKor" 1968

The golden disk of the generous August Sun, slowly descended into the golden field of rye. Sveklov, a college student by trade, who traded this summer's rest for labor, stood near the freshly gathered crop, and looked at the sunset with a twinkle in his eye; and a light smile on his dry lips. Oh, how he loved these rural sunsets. Not because they were the time to rest. Not even because of the cooling breeze, which came after the burning hotness of the day, to play in his sun burnt, straw-colored hair. Sveklov was never afraid of labor. And he enjoyed any type of weather. He loved the time of sunset, because of the feeling of fulfillment after a hard day's work. This sense filled him whole, became the only thing he really felt, apart from the slight aching of his tired muscles, and the happiness of labor that brightened, and transformed his surroundings into something beautiful.

In reality, nothing that Sveklov had here on the farm, was too luxurious. The barn in which he spent his nights with other seasonal laborers, had rough hay beds, thin walls, and a rusty sink. But this feeling Sveklov got after working in the fields, made even those simple things shine. Happiness and fulfillment from work changed the simple commodities like a pinch of salt changes the taste of a dish. With it, the hay beds became soft mattresses, and water from the rusty tap became an invigorating balm. Even the simple rustic food, brought by old lady Galina, became highly appetizing. Even the tuneless songs the workers sang, became heartwarming. Even the old jokes they shared, became hilarious. Even the casual talks they had each starry night near the fire became touching discussions, when spiced up with a day of hard work in the fields.

Tonight, like Sveklov just heard, one of such talks already has been started by a few of his working comrades, that were sitting on the porch of the barn.

- Cut yourself with a hand sickle, huh? That's not too bad! - Loudly spoke the fifty seven year old Nikitin, strong as an ox despite his age. - Anyone can cut himself with a sickle! Well, anyone inexperienced enough... Like a child. Now a scythe! Now a scythe is a different beastie, boys. It cuts much deeper. And it can even sometimes get the most hardened folks. Anyone who works it without concentrating on the labor, will lose a foot! If not the first time, then the second. That's just what happens!

- Yeah... I've always been very cautious around scythes. Ever since I was a lad. - Said the black haired Habibulin knowingly. After speaking his peace, he dipped his boiled egg into a salt pile, and ate it whole. Thin and willowy, Sveklov sat near the men. Taking a brightly emerald cucumber and some salt, he also started to eat, while listening in on the chat.

- You fear a scythe, guys. But what will you do after I tell you about my old diesel mower?! - Brigade leader Ivanov inserted himself into the conversation. In his deep blue stare, shone the specks of good humor. After clearing his throat, and stretching his legs, the brigade leader rolled one of his pant legs. All three men at once saw a thin white scar crossing his sun tanned shin.

- The mower's blade broke on a stone, ya know! And all the little pieces of it shot around like shrapnel. - Ivanov laughed. - And one of the shards went right into my leg! Happened a long time ago, too. Before the war, that's right. And see how white the scar still is! Looks just like new!

- Some bad luck to be sure. - Nodded Habibulin. - I have a similar scar myself. Although, mine is from real shrapnel. - That said, Habibulin rolled up a shirt sleeve, and displayed a group of pinkish white streaks on his tan skin. - Got it in the summer of 42.

- Where did it happen, Ildar? - Asked Nikitin, while watching Habibulin's scars.

- The defense of Lenino. - Answered Habibulin, not noticing how mournful Sveklov started to look, when the topic of the discussion changed to scars of war.

- Got something like that in 41. Near Moscow. - Coughed Nikitin, and without wasting any time, pulled up his sleeveless shirt, baring a wide chest... And a large, pink scar crossing it from shoulder to stomach. - An artillery shell exploded just a few feet away from me. Yup... They said I was lucky to survive. Didn't get any help with it, too. Washed it, sewed it shut with my own hands, and let it heal on it's own after lying a day in the trenches. That's why it looks so crooked, too. My wife Marusya got so horrified when I showed it to her after the war. She couldn't even look at it, even though she loved me a lot.

- A shame. What happened to the saying "Scars make a man"? - Smiled brigade leader Ivanov.

- Some do make men, I guess... But some... Some are just messy. Ugly. - Mumbled Nikitin. - But you know what, guys? Despite that, I would never trade any of my scratches away. Not even this large, ugly one. You know why? - The man's face suddenly became very serious. - Because I got them for doing the right thing. I may not be as attractive to women, as I could have been... - He laughed. - But what I did to earn that huge scar was more important that any wench. And the same goes for all of your scars too, ain't that right, boys?

- That's right, Grigory Petrovich! - Nodded Habibulin. - What we did for the World back then, back in the War, was... Was... I can't even say it... It was like... - He quieted down, without finding the right words to describe what he was feeling.

- Yup... - Ivanov agreed, somehow understanding what Habibulin meant to say.

- Damn right. - Nikitin said.

- I'm... - Ivanov, who was quiet all this time, suddenly stood up. - I'm gonna go now, men... I think... I think some hay needs loading.

The boy said it without looking at his comrades, and went away, with a speedy gait. A half-eaten cucumber was left in the dust beside him, laying on a large leaf of roadside burdock.

The three remaining men didn't react to his swift departure for a few moments, lost in the weary memories of the war, that sped out of them this evening without any warning. Brigade leader Ivanov was the first to notice the boy was gone somewhere. His haze traveled around the farm landscape a few moments, before noticing the silhouette of Sveklov, almost invisible in the twilight field.

- Where is the kid going? - Nikitin asked his fellows.

- Said something about the hay needing to be loaded... Don't know why he thinks that... - Habibulin shook his shoulders.

- I'm gonna ask him, guys. Wait here. - Ivanov got up and followed Sveklov into the field. Sveklov was just fixing a knot on the pulley hook of the hay loader, when Ivanov caught up to him. The boy looked awkward and out of place, suddenly doing his day's job on the brink of night, all alone in the field.

- What are you doing there, pal? - Asked the brigade leader, with a smile on his face and in his voice. The boy jumped up slightly, not knowing he was followed.

- Um... It can probably rain, you know! And the farmers won't like to work wet hay on the grain elevator, and... It can get mold too, so... So, um...

- It's not gonna rain, buddy. - Ivanov said knowingly. - The village folk say there won't be a day of rain 'till September! And the weather people support these claims...

- But you know... Still... Better safe than sorry... - Mumbled Sveklov, while continuing to pull the compressed hay block into the harvest tent.

- I know nothing of the sorts. - With a powerful, but not at all brutish grasp, Ivanov stopped Sveklov's hand. - Speak your mind, buddy. I know you're not that worked up just because you think it will rain. Maybe some of the guys mistreated you or something? You can tell me anything, you know.

- Nobody did anything to me... It's just that... - Sveklov licked his lips, and suddenly went quiet.

- Just what?

- It's just that I can't be a part of your company, you know... You... You guys...

- One of them done something, you just don't want to say, is that it? - Ivanov asked, barely hiding his sly grin.

- No! - Sveklov yelled out. - I told you it's not that! These men can't do anything bad to anyone! Why would you even think they mistreat me?! It's just that... They all... And you too... You all fought in the war!

- That we did. All of us. - Nodded Ivanov with a smile.

- Yes... You all did... But I didn't. I was too young to fight in the war. Four years younger than the minimum age to join the effort. - The boy sobbed, making his strong but somehow delicate hands into fists. - But that's not even a good excuse! Others, even younger than me, found ways to join the Red Army! And I... I stayed with my mother at home. While you guys fought. While you all got your scars. I won't ever have your scars. And I will never get to do the great and brave things you did to earn them, while protecting our future... I am ashamed to even be near you men... You're decorated heroes. And I'm... I'm just a nobody. A weak kid, who isn't fit to be part of your company. - Sveklov exhaled loudly, and lowered his gaze to the ground.

- So... - Ivanov asked delicately after the boy spilled his heart to him. - Where were you during the war?

- As I said, I stayed with my mother and little sister. I was 11. We worked on the Chelyabinsk Defense Factory together, while others fought and died for us...

- Yeah. Factory work sure can't be compared to shooting Nazis! - Smiled the brigade leader with relief.

- I know that... - Bitterly sobbed Sveklov.

- You know why? Because factory work is more important than shooting Nazis. - Ivanov finished his thought, and without waiting for a reaction, grabbed Sveklov's hand into his. - Quite the strong arm you got here. - He said with a whistle, while shocked Sveklov simply looked at him. - Quite a lot of calluses. Where did you get them?

- Some levers I worked at the factory ammo press, were made of sharp pieces of metal... No handles, as well. - Answered Sveklov, not understanding why Ivanov decided to speak about his calluses.

- And why did you work the press? - Asked Ivanov.

- To make new ammo for the Mosin rifle, of course! - Answered Sveklov.

- And here we have your first battle... - Ivanov smiled into the youth's face. His deep blue eyes shone with kindness and love. - Don't know where you fought it, but you really did. I just can't point out the location. Because the ammo you made, went to all sorts of places, just like the good old Mosin rifle. Oh, that rifle! Where hasn't the old girl been? She preserved Leningrad during the blockade. She fought the enemy on all fronts – the Baltic, the Belorussian, and even the far-eastern! And even after the war, there was no rest for the good old Mosin rifle. Still many enemies of Motherland lurk the lands, still the ammo you made deals them just punishment. The only flaw with the Mosin rifle is that she can't speak. But if she could, she'd tell us where the battles you've won happened. And I feel, there'd be a lot of those.

- B-but... - Mumbled Sveklov, surprised and bewildered by Ivanov's speech.

- Hush. - Ivanov stopped Sveklov with a gesture. - Better yet, tell me where did you suffer this here burn. - He pointed out a red patch of skin on the youth's wrist.

- It's a powder burn... - Answered Ivanov. - I got it when trying to light a fire back home, after a shift at the factory. I was making shells at the time, so my clothes were drenched in powder... And when I lighted the hearth, the flames jumped on me!

- So, you also made artillery shells? - Asked Ivanov with a smile. - That's your second battle, my friend. Can't say where exactly, but there are many places, the shells you made brought victory to our forces. Who knows? Maybe the shells your tired, burnt, wounded hands made, fought the enemy under Kirov City, fired from a Katyusha. Maybe they raged under the enemy's head in Stalingrad. Or maybe they even punished Berlin in the days the accursed Reichstag fell! Oh yes! It is very possible, that in the days the Nazi Fuhrer breathed his last breath in May of '45, those shells, made by a small Russian boy somewhere in Chelyabinsk, wrecked the remainder of his dark Empire! These were your battles, my friend. They were even more glorious than any of us have thought. And these are your scars of war... Those burns and calluses. Your battle scars. Your signs of honour. And I thank you for them.

Without saying another word, the brigade leader grabbed young Sveklov's scarred hand with his two mighty palms, brought it to his face, and kissed it...

The golden disk of the Sun was long since hidden.The darkly golden field of rye now stood under twinkling stars. And at the campfire near the barn, all four comrades, Sveklov included, sat together, sharing stories, laughing, and eating their simple suppers.