Whether he could become a hero of the Soviet Union, Zhukov is not very clear. It's like the Soviet soldiers defending in Smolensk, not knowing if they will be able to see the sun tomorrow.

The newly drafted teacher was now holding his rifle and leaning against a broken and collapsed low wall. Beside him, there was a puddle of vomit that had frozen into a paste, and it looked very disgusting. The teacher had the same dirt on his placket and sleeves, and he must have spit it out.

Just now, he saw with his own eyes that a Soviet soldier was hit in the head by a stray bullet, and the entire steel helmet was cut by shrapnel, and the head was a mess, and the internal structure was basically unclear. The Soviet soldier who died in battle had just been talking to him non-stop, but it took less than a second for a living person to become a broken corpse at his feet.

Before even a shout could be uttered, or even a goodbye, a living life came to such a humble end, and the corpse was not even asked, but the corpse was piled up in the corner, and turned into a piece of frozen meat hardened by the cold wind.

But as a teacher who was still teaching children more than ten days ago, he saw a person with his head shattered by shrapnel in front of him, and splatters of blood and brains sprayed on his face, with a hint of warmth. This feeling recurred in his heart, making him feel like his stomach was turning upside down.

Ten days ago, he was a teacher of literature, and ten days later he became a soldier who fought bravely for the motherland. Looking at the Mosin Nagant rifle in his hand, and seeing the mottled blood stains on it, he felt that what he had just eaten began to toss again. He swallowed a mouthful of saliva, then forced his eyes off his vomit and blood.

Why is it that a soldier is only a recruit when he goes from enlisting in the army at the sign of signs, to being trained strictly, and finally going to the battlefield? Because he must go through the test of life and death, and must get used to killing and cruelty, can he truly transform into a veteran who dares to kill people and is no longer afraid. This process must not be shortcut, or at least not too cunning.

For example, in order to adapt its soldiers to killing, Japan used Chinese soldiers and civilians as targets to practice the assassination techniques of the troops. It can be said that this method can replace part of the effect of actual combat, but it cannot completely replace the effect of actual combat.

Because on a real battlefield, the constant firing of artillery and machine guns creates a more chaotic environment, and the enemy killed by soldiers is morally more reasonable, so it is not easy to produce a serious psychological burden. Therefore, although the Japanese method can make up for the shortcomings of actual combat, it will make people become monsters who have lost their moral reason, and it is an inhumane method that is spurned by all human beings.

Let's not mention the shameless behavior of the Japanese side, after all, there is a smell of exhaustion of bamboo and hard to write about too much. The Smolensk People's Teacher had been squatting in the trenches for two days, but he still hadn't seen a single SS soldier who had heard of eating Russian civilians alive.

Not to mention the formidable presence of the SS, he had never even seen a serious Wehrmacht, and on a few occasions he could see the domes of several steel helmets in the trenches far, far away on the opposite side, and he found that the Soviet soldiers could not hit such a small target at such a distance.

And every time a shot is fired, they attract a wide range of shelling, as well as enemy machine-gun bullets. A German weapon called the MG42 machine gun is simply a perverted existence, which can be used with an optical sight to fire at a very long distance, and the rate of fire is very terrifying.

This weapon could easily hit the Soviet soldiers, forcing the hordes of Soviet soldiers back to where they had set out. He had seen several of his comrades knocked down by the Germans' machine guns, but because they were too far away, they didn't have the feeling of enjoying blood spraying their faces at close range today.

He wiped his mouth and cautiously poked his head out of the low wall to look at the less realistic German positions on the other side. Because he had been teaching in the city, he didn't even know why the originally friendly German army was fighting, and he didn't know why the Germans, who had lost the last war, had become so powerful. He could only cautiously observe the situation on the other side with his eyes, observing the enemy he had not even really seen.

He was a teacher at school, he was the boss in the class, the students feared and respected him, and what he said was like a holy decree throughout the classroom. But now the situation has changed, and in this battlefield, the bullet is the real boss, and all those who try to stop the bullet from continuing to fly have become cold corpses.

He had never killed anyone, and he didn't even dare to look at his comrades who died beside him. In his life, he had no illusions that he would one day go to the front, he had only learned how to use his rifle yesterday.

Retracting his head, moving his body away a little from the already cold corpse, he leaned against the low wall once more, letting the cold wind blow across his cheeks. Wrapped tightly around his military coat, this was the only clothing he could keep out the cold, although there were still vomit residues on it, but it was better than being frozen to death.

Suddenly, he remembered his hobby at school, so he leaned against the wall and began to sing a rhyming poem in a soft rhyming voice. This is the way he uses to relieve the emotions in his heart, and it is also a pastime that he likes very much:

"The trenches in the snow,

It is the dependence of life;

Wide and beautiful avenues,

Set up cold artillery.

Crying without children,

There is no prayer of angels;

Some are just corpses,

and the whistling of bombs. ”

Just as he was singing to his heart's content, another round of German shelling began, this time not just a heart-rending shelling, but also a dense burst of gunfire. Several Soviet soldiers ran over the low wall with their weapons in their hands, holding on to their steel helmets, and with their sporadic steps they avoided the rubble scattered on the ground.

"The Germans are attacking! the Germans are attacking!" a Soviet soldier shouted as he ran. This sentence made everyone hesitate for a moment, they could not believe that after a long preparation, the German offensive had begun without warning.

Leaning against the corner, the seemingly forgotten Soviet teacher raised his head to look at the German soldiers, who had been described as vicious. But before he could raise his head to satisfy his curiosity, a bullet struck the soldier standing beside him.

The inertia caused the soldier to fall directly to the ground on his back, blood oozing from his chest and staining the ground nearby. He wailed, screamed, and struggled on the ground, trying to move his already heavy body.

The Soviet teacher wanted to reach out and drag the wounded man back behind the low wall where he was hiding, but he hesitated and struggled, and finally did not have the courage to risk being hit and drag his comrades back to safety. After all, even stretching out a hand in the rain of bullets requires great courage.

Soon, he no longer had to struggle, for the wounded man, who was so close to him, stopped moving, closed his mouth from excessive bleeding, and stopped screaming hysterically. This made the tormented teacher a lot more comfortable, and he began to study his rifle.

He had just learned to shoot and had not yet fired a single bullet, and he heard the screams of the Soviets in front of him, as well as the saw-like sound of enemy machine guns. Unknown if it was due to the excessive production of adrenaline or something else, he picked up his rifle, pulled the bolt, and slowly pushed a bullet into the chamber.

He reloaded his rifle and muttered a poem he had written himself, and little by little he poked his head out of the corner to observe the bloody scenes of the battlefield:

"Curled up in your own body,

Escape from the scorching heat;

Hold the barrel of the gun in your hand,

The pride of honor. ”

He saw several Soviet soldiers being driven out of the trenches by a German tank, and they ran backwards frantically, only to be swept to the ground by the machine guns spraying flames from the tank hull. He saw some German soldiers in white smocks jumping into the Soviets' trenches and capturing one Soviet position after another.

"Damn bastards, get out of our city! Get out of our territory! Didn't your teacher educate you? the invaders don't end well!" the teacher muttered, aiming his rifle at a soldier he had never seen before.

His fingers pulled the trigger, and a massive impact sent his rifle high in the air, as he had never used the weapon in his hand, and it was the first time he had really felt what it was like to hit his shoulders with that massive recoil.

The pain in his shoulder reminded him of his environment, and the feeling of fear finally returned to his body. He felt his legs tremble, and the bullet from the rifle hadn't hit any target because it hadn't been held on.

He had no choice but to pick up his Mosin Nagant rifle, pull his bolt again, and reload the bullet again. A Soviet soldier ran past the low wall beside him, seemingly the only friendly soldier in the position who had managed to escape back here. After escaping the low wall, the Soviet soldier jumped into a nearby crater with a sliding shovel, then climbed to the edge with a steel helmet and fled towards another street.