Soviet Union 1991

The second update is complete

Yanayev’s propaganda strategy is not just in the form of art and culture such as film and literature. Holding a military museum is also one of Yanaev’s goals. Through military exhibitions, the younger generation can understand the strength and greatness of the motherland.

There is a famous Soviet aircraft graveyard in Ulyanovsk, located on the Volga River. Thousands of aircraft are parked here. It belongs to the Ulyanovsk Aviation Museum, which was once the largest aviation museum in Russia. It includes hundreds of original models. In addition to some common fighters such as the MiG series, there are also rare supersonic Tupolev-made Tu-144 transport aircraft. They once represented the greatest achievements of the communist regime, but now they are staying here and slowly rusting.

There are only a few caretakers guarding the entire huge aviation cemetery in the Ulyanovsk Aviation Museum. These gravekeepers are all white-haired old men. They are fighter pilots who risked their youth for the motherland in the Great Patriotic War. They once braved the enemy's artillery fire, but now they are accompanying these fighters to grow old here with the memories of the past war.

Comrade Bunikov sat on an open-air bench in the Aviation Museum, staring at these lost ancient memories in a daze. At this time of year, some of their old comrades would gather here, but unexpectedly in a few years, he was the only one waiting for others here to kill the long and lonely time.

He is the gravekeeper of this aerial cemetery and the last person to experience the Great Patriotic War.

"Can I sit here?" A childish voice sounded from Bunikov's side, waking him up from his sleep. Bunikov turned around and saw a timid little boy standing next to him, holding a toy plane in his hand. He was staring at Bunikov and repeating it in a low voice.

"Can I sit here?"

"Of course, why not." Bunikov moved his body, made room for the little boy, and asked him to sit down. Bunikov took out a few candies from his worn coat pocket and stretched his hand in front of the little boy. He said, "Do you want some candy?"

Looking at the tempting candy, the little boy swallowed his saliva and carefully took the candy from Bunikov's warm palm. He said thank you.

Bunikov just smiled and waved his hand. In the past, when children came to visit the museum, he would bring a few candies with him to give to those children. But now he hasn't seen tourists visiting the Aviation Museum in Ulyanovsk for a long time. I don't know when this museum, which symbolizes the glory of the history of Soviet aviation development, has become deserted and cold.

I heard that young people outside are fighting for democracy and freedom. Bunikov doesn't understand these things. He just can't understand what kind of education and qualifications those young people who destroyed Lenin's bronze statue and humiliated World War II veterans have to say that they are just and great?

Is he really old, or has the world become unfamiliar?

"Grandpa, are you just sitting here watching these planes?" The little boy asked while chewing candy, "This is my first time to see planes here. I hope I can become a hero like my ancestors one day."

"You will. Child. One day you can become an excellent pilot." Bunikov said with a smile, "I am just waiting for my comrades here. We agreed to get together here on this day every year to see the fighters we have flown together."

"But they are all rusty now and can no longer fly, right? These planes are almost becoming scrap metal." The little boy looked at the MiG-19 fighter not far away. The snow was about to bury its takeoff rack in a pale white, and the rusty skin was also announcing the end of the fighter's fate.

The little boy's innocent answer touched Bunikov's most tender place in his heart. He thought of his comrades who died in the war before, and said to the little boy, "No. They are not scrap metal, at least in my eyes, they are not."

"If not, what is it?" With the little boy's current cognition. It was hard to understand Bunikov's words.

"They are heroes." Bunikov repeated in a low voice, "These fighters are heroes of the Republic."

"Little guy, it's still early, let me tell you a story." In order to kill the long and boring time. Bunikov simply told the child about his own experience, "Did you see that fighter? Yes, it's the MiG fighter with a hole in the wing. It was once driven by one of my comrades. When he was in North Korea, he was entangled by three American fighters and finally escaped successfully. But in the end, the fighter was concentrated on the wing, and he had to retire early."

"Later, he would brag about his experience to us every time we got together. Whenever we heard him talk about these old things, we wanted to beat him..." At this point, Bunikov suddenly paused. He seemed to remember something, and smiled bitterly and said to himself, "It's a pity that he died of a cerebral hemorrhage five years ago, and we never had the chance to laugh at him again."

"And that fighter plane, its owner received the most medals among us, but unfortunately he died in a car accident later. His last ideal was to fly again, even if it was just to see the motherland he once defended from the sky." At this point, two turbid tears fell from Bunikov's eyes. The owners of these fighter planes have turned into a handful of yellow soil, but Bunikov has always believed that his comrades have never left, and their souls have always been there, accompanying the fighter planes that once fought together.

Perhaps when Bunikov gets old, he will think of many comrades who will always stay in the war years, such as the comrade who drove the La-7 fighter plane with no ammunition and food to cover their fleet and rushed to the enemy to die together. The last sentence he said to Bunikov and his team, "I can't return home anymore, you keep going, repeat, you keep going."

Bunikov can't even remember his name now, but he will never forget that young and tender face and the last resolute look.

The snowstorm gradually became fiercer, and the Aviation Museum was already covered in white. Bunikov could not stay here any longer. He pulled the little boy up and left this silent and solemn aviation cemetery with him.

"Many of the fighter planes here will be transported away next week. They will be transported to museums in other places for exhibition. I think I will never see them again. But it's better this way. Instead of rusting and decaying in this place, it's better to let others know that the great Republic once had such a group of unknown heroes."

The little boy felt Bunikov's palm suddenly clenched his palm, and he asked in confusion, "What about your comrades? Grandpa, aren't you waiting for them?"

"I don't think they will come." Bunikov closed his eyes silently, "They will never come." (To be continued.)