‘A Mistake’
The trench warfare had become even more difficult. We had no auxiliary communication trenches connecting the front lines with the rear areas: we crossed the open ground at a run at night, under enemy machine-gun fire. Life had become difficult to the extreme. We didn’t have enough firewood and water, and there were no kettles. We ate dried foods. People became weakened. We stood at our posts for an hour – it was very hard to stand any longer in the subzero temperatures in only a greatcoat. The Germans kept shelling us.
The soldiers and officers courageously suffered all these hardships. The Germans liked to stick entire loaves of bread onto bayonets, hoist them above the breastwork of their trenches, and loudly shout: ‘Rus! Have some bread!’ Then they would fling the loaves into no-man’s-land.
Once, the following scenario unfolded after another such demonstra- tion by the Germans: ‘They’re mocking us, the swine . . .’ Anatoliy Grigor’ev or someone else picked up a torn cotton jacket on the point of a bayonet, and waving it above the trench, shouted: ‘Hey, Hanses and Fritzes, take it, it’s suitable for a parade!’ Then he hurled it into no-man’s- land. A voice rose from the German trenches: ‘Listen up, Ivan! We don’t need gear; give up; you’re dying anyway, while it’s time for me to go home. The wife is writing that she’s become bored!’ Grigor’ev replied, ‘Take a run through the nippy air, share your lice with it, I’ll let you.’ The verbal exchange continued for quite some time.
On one of these frigid days, Zina and I were scanning the enemy’s positions, but without any luck. The Germans were being very cautious, and refused to stick their heads above the trenches. That evening, when I returned to my bunker, a real joy was waiting for me: Petr Romanov, my old front-line friend, was standing there in front of me.
‘What, Yosif, you don’t recognize me?’ he jokingly asked. We tightly embraced each other. Petya had become noticeably thinner. A deep scar marred his left cheek. ‘I have a lot I need to talk about with you,’ Romanov quietly said.
hastily reported to the company commander, who was squatting beside the stove, warming his frozen hands: ‘Comrade Senior Lieutenant, fresh forces have moved up into the German trenches: they’re preparing some- thing. They’re bawling enthusiastically. It doesn’t even sound like German.’
Kruglov glanced at his watch. Then he said: ‘The fascists are still trying repeatedly to break into Leningrad. They see how hard things are for us, so they’re intensifying their barrages and not sparing any of the residential quarters of the city, thinking that we might lay down our weapons and raise our hands.’
Kruglov looked around at the subdued soldiers and officers before continuing: ‘You, friends, see how the Germans mock us with bread? In war, however, the strong doesn’t mock the weak; he beats him. The strong man is the one who goes into battle and knows what he is fighting for. Soon help will arrive from the rest of the country. That’s when we’ll settle accounts with our foes.’
I recall everything that I experienced with this man on our front-line journey. What a commander! He became a genuine friend to us, though he was a demanding, strict officer.
Kruglov walked over to Andreyev and gave him a friendly embrace: ‘There you are, dear Sergeant. We need to grab a prisoner. That’s what we need!’ Andreyev answered simply, ‘That can be done, Comrade Senior Lieutenant, just give us the order.’
‘There’s no particular need for hurry. Wait a bit, fellows, we’ll take a look on another day and see what they’re intending to do. Then we’ll see where it might be best to slip through their lines and pay them a visit!’
‘Oh! If the night was just a little darker, we’d pass the Nazis a little gift from the Leningraders!’ Andreyev said, turning an anti-tank grenade in his hands.
For the next several days we prepared for the operation. Only Leonid Sobinov was silently glum and tried to keep to himself. Our comrade’s reticence worried us. Leonid didn’t respond to our questions.
‘Speak up, what are you thinking about?’ Andreyev asked him. ‘I just feel a bit poorly. It’s nothing; it will pass.’ With that, Sobinov headed out into the trench.
We knew that such a melancholy mood settles upon even the most hard-bitten soldiers before a serious operation. Having troubled the soldier a bit, though, the mood would usually pass when the moment for action arrived. That is what happened on this occasion as well.
positions under constant observation, but not to shoot. This is real torture for the sniper: to see a target and not be able to shoot at it. Just as if to mock us, two Nazi officers stepped out of one bunker and into the trench while we watched. They were conversing, and shooting occasional glances in our direction.
‘No, I can’t sit and watch them,’ Stroyeva said, ‘I’m going to shoot.’ I restrained her.
‘In that case, admire them all you want; I’m leaving.’
At the end of the day, Romanov crawled up to our observation post. He looked very worried. ‘Guys,’ Petr said, ‘I’ve spent all day listening to their voices. There are not just Germans there, you know. There are some French men and Magyars among them. I’ve reported about this to the company commander; he’s promised to come take a look tonight.’
During dinner, Romanov asked Andreyev, ‘Have the passages to the enemy’s trench been checked?’
‘Everything’s in order, Comrade Junior Lieutenant.’
Kruglov arrived at 3.00 am. Romanov and Andreyev reported that we were ready for the forthcoming mission.
I picked up a submachine-gun and some grenades. Zina firmly shook my hand, and then walked up to Kruglov: ‘Comrade Commander, allow me to go along with the guys on the scouting mission. I’m afraid of nothing.’
‘I know, Zinochka, but it’s not allowed. A scout must be more than brave; he must also be physically strong and agile. Grab a light machine gun and cover your comrades with your fire.’
At night the fire-fight intensified. Illumination flares soared into the sky. The whine of bullets passed over our heads. The company commander personally checked our weapons and before sending us out, told us: ‘It’s time, comrades; I wish you success; be careful, and don’t take any risks.’ It wasn’t easy to say goodbye to friends, when you didn’t know if you would return.
Orlov, Sobinov and I started crawling along the railroad embankment. Romanov, Grigor’ev and two sappers were a little behind us. Sharp bits of ice tore our greatcoats and scraped our hands to the point of bleeding. Each rustle of sound made us cock up our ears. The passage through the barbed wire turned out to be clogged with snow. We had to dig more deeply into it in order to crawl through the breach that Orlov had made the night before. Bullets were striking the wire. The prickly iron barrier rang and sprinkled us with icy dust each time it was hit.
directly to the enemy trench embankment. The wide mouth of an embrasure was looking down on us. It was an enormous pillbox with three embrasures. There was no sound coming from it.
‘It’s secured,’ Romanov whispered to me. Stealthily he clambered up to the German trench, rose up on his hands to peer over the edge, and immediately dropped back into the snow.
‘We have to wait, guys; three are standing at the turn,’ Romanov whispered down to us. A minute later, the commander again rose to look into the trench and again flattened himself on the ground.
‘They’re still standing there.’ The commander glanced at the illumi- nated face of his watch. ‘It’s risky to make a rush at them; we’ll wait a bit more.’
Our sappers placed a demolition charge next to one of the pillbox’s gun slits. They tossed the ends of the fuse to the side. ‘Everything’s ready, Comrade Commander,’ one of them said in a barely audible voice, ‘we only need to touch a light to the fuse, and there will be nothing left of the pillbox.’ While they were placing the demolition charges, the rest of us crept to the top of the breastwork.
To the right of us somewhere quite nearby, there was the sound of the Germans’ conversation and laughter. In the enemy rear, from behind a shattered brick building of the Ligovo Station, different coloured flares were soaring into the sky one after the other.
‘They’re having some fun, the vermin,’ Sobinov whispered through his clenched teeth. ‘Oh, if only we could reach them! No doubt there are only officers there.’
‘Hey, Lenya, just climb into the trench and take a look at what the ones at hand are doing. You’re not at home here, brother – you’re a visitor,’ the older sapper joked, covering his mouth with the palm of his hand.
Several more long minutes of waiting passed. The frigid night air bit at our faces and hands. From time to time I glanced at the dark silhou- ettes of the Germans and listened in. One of them, a lanky lad with some sort of white rag wrapped around his head, abruptly turned, tossed his cigarette to one side, and strode over to the pillbox. After sharply kicking the door with his foot, he said something to his colleagues and disappeared inside.
I saw how nervously Sobinov, lying next to me, was chewing his lips. My submachine-gun was aimed at the Germans still standing in the trench. Suddenly an enemy heavy machine gun started up. Romanov took advantage of its loud fire and dropped the Germans with two well-aimed pistol shots. Without losing a second, we rolled over onto our backs and
into the trench. Orlov and Sobinov tossed the dead Germans over the breastwork, while Romanov and the remaining comrades sealed off the pillbox. We waited for the appearance of enemy soldiers.
Romanov whispered to me, ‘We’ll wait for the third one to come back out.’ The machine gun kept firing and firing, emptying one belt of ammu- nition after another.
‘What are we waiting for?’ Orlov hissed. ‘Finish it off and let’s go!’ ‘No, we’ll wait,’ answered Romanov.
Now to the left of us quite nearby, German voices were audible. I looked around. A hundred metres away, I saw smoke rising from a metal pipe that was sticking up out of a mound. Plainly, it was the bunker where they rested and slept.
The door of the pillbox swung open. The blond-haired German appeared at the threshold. He gasped, seeing a pistol barrel pointed at his nose, and raised his hands. Romanov took his machine pistol and pulled the knife from its sheath. Sobinov stuffed a gag into the German’s mouth. The fascist never managed to shout, and only blinked his pale, bulging eyes.
Romanov ordered the two sappers to take the prisoner, crawl off into no-man’s-land with him, and to wait for our return. The sappers carried away the prisoner. We swept away their traces left in the snow on the breastwork, and began to make our way into the German rear.
All was quiet. We were heading for the sleeping quarters along a connecting trench. Suddenly Orlov yanked hard on the sleeve of my jacket. We took cover.
‘Do you see? Over there.’ ‘No.’
‘Look this way.’ Kolya pointed towards a living scarecrow, wrapped in rags, over which hung a machine pistol. It was a sentry. We counted the German’s paces: he made exactly twenty steps in our direction, turned, and made twenty in the reverse direction. ‘Where is he hiding his hands?’ Orlov whispered to me. ‘He’s all in rags. I don’t know how to take him.’ The Nazi stopped at the door of the bunker, took a listen to something, and then started walking towards us again. As soon as he turned his back to us, we were on him in several bounds. Orlov struck the sentry’s head with force with the butt of his gun. The German collapsed at our feet. We picked him up and tossed him out of the trench, before moving on to the bunker’s half-opened door. A bright rectangle of light fell on the rear wall of the trench. We gave a sign to our comrades.
flew into the opened door of the enemy bunker with a hissing sound. Romanov, Sidorov, Grigor’ev and I scattered before the explosion, but Orlov didn’t manage to get away. The enemy’s bunker collapsed. Nikolay, clinging to the side of the trench with one hand and clutching his chest with the other, made several steps towards us and reeled. Sobinov managed to catch him. Orlov was gasping, and blood was pouring from his mouth.
‘Something struck me in the chest,’ he managed to mumble before losing consciousness.
After the explosions ended, we stood in place for several moments, anticipating the appearance of Germans, but none came. Then we set out back to our trenches. Romanov and Grigor’ev led our small column, while Sobinov carried Orlov in his arms and I brought up the rear, watching so that the Germans didn’t surprise us from behind.
Not far from the place where we had entered the German trench, a sapper met us. In an agitated whisper, he reported:‘Five Germans came to the pillbox; they made quite a racket for a long time. They have a tele- phone in the pillbox. I heard them as they wound the handset. After the explosion, two left the bunker and headed towards the railroad embank- ment; the other three stayed in the pillbox, making no noise. They’re just sitting there, waiting for something.’
‘How did you wind up here?’ Romanov asked.
‘After you left, I moved down the breastwork a bit and waited there until I heard you coming back. Then I came here to intercept you and warn you.’
‘Where’s the prisoner?’
‘We’ve taken care of him, Comrade Commander. Alekseyev carried him back to our trenches.’
‘Fine. The guys are carrying a wounded comrade. You wait for us by the pillbox, where you placed the demolition charge.’
‘How are they going to get past the pillbox?’ the sapper answered back. ‘There are Germans in there, you know. We must wait, Comrade Commander.’
‘Do what I’ve ordered.’
In one motion the sapper leaped onto the breastwork. Sobinov and Grigor’ev hoisted Orlov, who was still unconscious, over it, and they soon disappeared as well. Petr and I remained alone in the enemy trench.
‘We have one way out,’ Romanov said. ‘Go to the pillbox. I’ll try to summon the Germans out into the trench; otherwise they’ll notice our guys and mow them down with machine-gun fire.’
2. There are several possibilities to explain the presence of this Frenchman. Given the time (November-December 1941) and location (the Leningrad front), it is possible that this French-speaking prisoner may have been a member of the Freiwilligen Legion
Flandern, which in November 1941 was sent to the Leningrad front to become part of the
2nd SS Motorized Infantry Brigade. Though this unit was recruited from the Flemish region of Belgium, it is likely that at least some of the officers and soldiers spoke French. However, it is also possible that this prisoner was a French-speaking Alsatian recruited into the German Army. Finally, he may have just been a French volunteer.
We cautiously crept up to the enemy pillbox. Petr cracked open the door and shouted in German: ‘Guys, come quickly, there are Russians in the trench!’
I could hear hasty footsteps. Soon three Germans spilled out into the trench one after the other. Romanov cut them down with a burst from his submachine-gun, and we made our way out of the enemy trench. Beyond the breastwork, the sapper was holding the end of the fuse at the ready, waiting for us.
Romanov ordered, ‘Light it!’ The sapper replied, ‘It’s burning.’ The little flame flickered and sparked. We crawled to the barbed wire. A geyser of earth and smoke shot high into the air behind us. We felt the blast wave. … In our bunker, the prisoner was warming himself beside the stove. He was repeating over and over again, tapping his chest with a finger: ‘I am a Frenchman, I am a Frenchman.’
‘Brothers!’ Grigor’ev shouted. ‘A mistake! You went after a German, but you pinched a Frenchman.’2
‘I said after all,’ the older sapper grumbled, ‘you’re a guest here, and whatever you’re given, be satisfied. The commander shot a fascist, and hurled him over the breastwork. The dead fascist had such a load on him as you’ve never seen.’ The sapper pulled a whole loaf of bread out of a bag. ‘You see, he, the son of a bitch, had prepared this in order to mock us again.’
We didn’t want to believe that we had Frenchmen in front of us, but a fact is a stubborn thing. This one was one of those who had donned the uniform of a Nazi soldier in return for money, and betrayed his own country and honour.
124