'But what's this about Pecheritsa, Nikita?' Petka asked.
'Pecheritsa? ...' Nikita at once assumed a mysterious air. 'That's rather a long story, old chap. I couldn't tell you all about that if I talked all night.' And changing the subject, he asked: 'But where's Sasha, chaps? Where's our dearly-beloved Comrade Bobir?'
'Sasha's busy. He'll be coming later,' Petka grunted.
At that moment a roaring sound was heard from Kobazovaya Hill. The sound increased until it became a howl. Turning our heads towards the hill, we saw a small aeroplane leave the ground and climb above the town.
The plane banked and headed towards the sea. As it flew low over our heads, we saw the broad-shouldered figure of the pilot in leather helmet and goggles, and also another figure sitting behind him—a thin figure with wildly ruffled hair who looked surprisingly like someone we knew. The passenger waved his hand and suddenly Petka shouted:
'It's Sasha, chaps! I'm sure it is!'
His eyes fixed on the plane, Petka gabbled out the story of how for the past two weeks four Komsomol members from RIP had been helping Commissar Rudenko overhaul the training aircraft that he had brought from his squadron. Sasha's frequent disappearances in the evening and his mysterious refusal to meet Kolomeyets were now explained. Not knowing whether they would succeed in repairing the plane, the conspirators of the flying club had kept their maiden flight secret until the last minute. But how had they managed to move the plane secretly from the club to Kobazovaya Hill?
Meanwhile the aeroplane was heading out to sea. It was already over the breakwater. I watched its flight and— needless to say!—envied Sasha with all my heart. How I should have liked to be up there, in his cockpit looking down on our little town from the sky. In a couple of minutes Sasha had flashed right across the town, and we who were walking had not yet reached the centre. Nikita gave a spur to my envy.
'Surely that isn't Sasha?'
'Of course it is!' Petka cried. 'That's why he was boasting about being a flying mechanic. 'How can you be a flying mechanic, when you've never flown!' I said. 'You'll see,' he says. 'I'll be flying one of these days.' And so he has! Look, look—they're making for the lighthouse! ...'
'Brave lad, our Sasha!' said Nikita. 'So he's not such a funk as we thought he was after that unfortunate turn of sentry-duty at headquarters. To fly a plane you need strong nerves and a clear head. Yes, Sasha's put one across you this time!'
The aeroplane faded into the blue sky until it looked like a big dragon-fly that had been blown out to
sea.
'They'll land on the bar, you see if they don't!' Petka prophesied.
And indeed the plane headed towards the sand bar, but then turned back towards the town, flew over the sanatoriums, and circling above the station, dipped its wings in greeting.
'He's greeting you, Nikita!' I cried. 'He thinks you're still at the station, by the train.'
'Perhaps, perhaps...' Nikita agreed excitedly, watching the plane fly away towards Kobazovaya Hill.
A second later the plane had disappeared over the crest of the hill.
While our guest unhurriedly washed his dust-caked hair in the sea, Petka and I splashed about in the water. I cupped my hands and deluged Petka with clouds of spray. He snorted and choked and splashed me back, but could not beat off my attack. Then we swam out into calm water and started duck-diving. Opening my eyes under water, I saw the sandy folds of the sea bed, a rusty anchor, and clumps of seaweed that looked like wild grasses growing under water.
We enjoyed our bathe all the more because we knew our old friend Nikita was washing himself near
by!
Sasha burst into the room when the three of us, fresh from our bathe, were eating the okroshka that our landlady had made for us out of strong ice-cool kvass. Flushed with excitement, his face and hands begrimed with oil, Sasha greeted Nikita as if he had parted with him only the day before.
'Did you see us flying?' he panted.
'We did, we did, Sasha, old chap! I must admit I didn't think you had it in you,' Nikita replied with a wink at us.
Sasha was up in arms at once.
'Who hadn't! ... When we've tested the engine properly we'll be flying to Nogaisk or Genichesk. We're going to make a propaganda flight. Rudenko said so himself. And I'm going to be flying mechanic. Yes, I am... Rudenko wouldn't let any of the other chaps assemble the engine with him except me...'
'Congratulations, Sasha. And I believe you'll be flying farther than Nogaisk one of these days. Now you've started it, keep on climbing and never stop!' said Nikita.
A WONDERFUL NIGHT
The iron that our friends in Podolia had collected was unloaded.
The sun was still high in the sky when after finishing our dinner and resting a little we gathered round the pile-driver and on the instructions of the pile-driver man started dragging over pieces of old road-building machines, greasy bed-plates from unknown machines of the last century, and even a broken rusty press for making unleavened bread, which Nikita said had been found in the yard of an old synagogue.
The hardest job was to drag the heavy iron bed-plate of the printing-machine under the pile-driver. We sweated and strained and even the old furnace men came out to help us.
At last the operator closed the gates of the enclosure and we ran back out of the way.
Then Tolya set the winch in motion. A creaking steel cable hauled the heavy ram to the top of the winch. It hung poised for a moment clearly outlined against the pink-blue of the evening sky, then Tolya pulled a lever and the ram swept down with a crash. The huge metal pear had to be raised several times to bombard the scrap-metal before the massive bed-plate cracked apart.
'Hurrah!' Tolya shouted, abandoning the lever and rubbing his greasy hands with delight. The worst was over.
When we entered the enclosure, we discovered in place of the old machines a heap of shattered metal. Good, coarse grained iron glittered where it had broken. Tolya picked up a chunk of bed-plate and looked at the break.
'Good iron!' he said to Nikita. 'There's not much graphite in it, but plenty of phosphorus and silicon. This kind of iron melts like butter, and it lasts a long time when it's cast.'
And Tolya lifted the lump of iron on his right hand as if to test his strength. Now he was not a bit like the immaculate secretary whose appearance had given me such a shock at our first meeting.
To prevent the Komsomol iron being mixed up with the general supply, Zakabluk roped off a special enclosure for it. We carried the heavy lumps of metal into the enclosure, and when the contents of all three trucks were piled in a heap, Zakabluk hung up a notice on the rope: 'Iron for Komsomol Reapers.'
Already I could see the yellow fields of wheat waving above the Dniester, and the reapers that we had made with our own hands sailing across them like ships on a golden sea...
Turunda took over the job of the foundry's Party secretary Flegontov, who had been sent to Leningrad by the management on business. Every day I would ask Turunda's advice on how best to get our chaps keen on the job, how to make them reliable helpers of the Party in all things.
With the simple, practical advice of a Bolshevik and experienced production worker Turunda directed our youthful enthusiasm towards concrete achievement. He knew just when and how to give his advice. After a talk with him I could see the weak spots in our work. I learnt to understand Turunda's merest hint and he, in his turn, directed the Komsomol members in such a way as to give full scope to their initiative.
The first is always the worst. A week after my argument with the chief engineer, a second issue of the wall newspaper appeared. Grisha Kanuk was doing famously.
A tall brawny chap in a leather apron and goggles stood at the controls of a crane-operated pouring ladle. A
