Finally, he found his comrade-in-arms,
The friend who had pulled him out of his combat position under a hail of bullets,
The friend who had given him blood,
The friend who had saved his life.
And then the “heroism” of his friend’s bulletproof vest became clear.
The vest had stopped the bullets—otherwise, both of them would have become martyrs.
Machine guns cackled like partridges.
“It’s a free concert, listen to it, my friend,” he had said jokingly.
Now his friend was lying drunk in the park.
His head was bleeding.
He lifted him onto his shoulder and carried him away, as if pulling him out of his combat position.
The stares of those watching from the side were like bullets.
He took him home.
His friend said:
“You saved my life.
Otherwise, I would have died from the cold tonight.
But we should have died there.
The enemy’s bullet would have been our savior.
This is not a world worth living in.
Look at the achievement of the enemy’s bullet—it raises a person to the highest rank, to the summit of martyrdom.”
… Then came some incoherent ramblings.
During the war, he used to intercept the enemy’s radio transmissions
And obtain important information.
And he asked for vodka.
This was the repayment for the blood he had given him long ago.
Outside, the rain was falling as if bullets were raining down.
Water was dripping into the house.
The drops were like bullets piercing the bulletproof vest.
And fate had added a pleasant harmony
To this tragic scene, too.
An empty pot had been placed under the dripping water.
Coming to his senses, his friend said:
“An excellent melody—and a free concert, too.
All my life, I have only been to concerts in the frontline area.
Do you remember? Machine guns cackled like partridges.
I wish I had not worn that bulletproof vest that day.”
… Meanwhile, outside, the partridges were cackling.
