At twilight, before the nightly exchange of fire, we emerged from our bunkers and took a seat in the grass behind the trench line. We wanted a breath of fresh air, have a chat with our comrades, and dream a bit about those we’d left at home.
Romanov was sprawled out on the grass beside me. He was dozing. Sergeant Akimov picked up the handle of a mess pot with a bayonet, brought over some porridge, set the pot on the ground, and said, ‘Eat; today I’ve prepared some grub better than our own wives could do it, you’ll lick all five fingers and the palm of your hand separately!’ We ate with gusto, burning our lips with the metal spoons.
To the left of us, shells began to explode, forcing us to crawl back into the trench. Artillery fire added to the mortar shelling, and we heard planes overhead. We waited for a night attack by the enemy, but no attack came.
Enemy activities on our sector of the front became spasmodic and feverish. Sensing the growing strength of our resistance, the commander of the German Army Group North, von Leeb, despite enormous losses, hurled more and more fresh units into the attack in the effort to take Leningrad. Despite the constant firing and shelling, in the intervals between attacks, many of us managed to sleep soundly while crouched and leaning against the walls of the trench. We normally woke to the shouts of ‘Germans!’ We would become instantly awake and our eyes would start searching for the enemy.
One day Romanov and I were standing next to a turn in the trench. For the first time, I saw sorrow on my friend’s face. Romanov spoke up: ‘Buddy, if something happens to me, promise that you won’t say anything to my mother; her health is so poor.’ I replied, ‘And what do you think, my heart is armoured?’
Just then, enemy tanks appeared. Romanov shouted, ‘Tanks!’ Everyone in the trenches woke up instantly.
The tanks were attacking in formation, advancing at high speed and firing from their cannons and machine guns. The infantry followed in
their wake, running and firing on the move, disappearing into the tall rye, falling, rising, and shouting their ‘Lia-lia-lia!’
Shells flew overhead with their piercing shriek. We didn’t know whose they were. But when the turrets of the enemy’s three leading tanks flew into the air, everything became clear. Our heavy artillery had come to our aid, and was firing at the enemy vehicles over open sights. This was the first use of large-calibre artillery in a direct-fire role against tanks on our sector of the front and yielded splendid results.
Now all our attention was concentrated on the enemy infantry. We opened a storm of fire on them and became so focused in the task that we didn’t notice the growing rumble of engines behind our trenches. Even now, I remember how one iron behemoth clattered just past my head. Coming to my senses and shaking off the dirt, I took a look: they were our T-34 tanks! They bounded over our trenches and attacked the enemy vehicles head-on. For the first time, I watched a tank battle flare up. It lasted for only ten or fifteen minutes, but left terrible traces behind: the rye, the grass, bushes, even the earth itself was burning, coated with benzene and motor oil.
The highway between Kingisepp and Krikkovo changed hands twelve times during the day. It seemed as if the day would never end. Then once again we hurled ourselves into a counter-attack. The Germans flinched and began a disorderly retreat.
Only a soldier can fully appreciate this turning point in battle. With the sight of the backs of his enemy, his strength multiplies tenfold, his courage knows no limits, and he no longer hears the shell explosions and the whistle of bullets. He sees only the enemy, and fires at him until his target falls to the ground.
Kruglov was running in front of the company with a pistol in his hand. To the left and right, a loud ‘Ura!’ rang out.
At this climax of the fighting, I suddenly felt as if I’d been scalded with boiling water and I tumbled to the ground. In my battle frenzy I imme- diately jumped back up and ran another 100 metres or so, and then felt a burning pain in my left leg. I suddenly felt nauseous and became weak. I swore loudly, sat down, and automatically began running my hand over my left leg. I felt a sharp shell splinter, still hot to the touch, sticking out of my shin. I tried to pull it out, but the fragment was firmly embedded in the bone. Not far away, I saw a deep shell hole, still smoking from the shell explosion that had created it. I slithered over to it on my belly and slid to the bottom of it. My vision began to grow dark. I took a few gulps of water from my canteen.
‘Why have you taken shelter here?’
I looked up; an unfamiliar soldier was standing on the edge of the crater.
‘They’ve hit me in the leg, the vermin.’
The soldier shouted for a medic, and then ran on. Soon an older medic leaped into the crater. Glancing at my wound, he quickly cut the leg of my boot with a knife and vigorously plucked the fragment from my shin. I saw stars from the pain. With skilled hands, the medic bandaged my wound and told me, ‘Rest a bit, buddy, and then make your way back to a medical tent.’
When I reached the medical station, they applied some sort of ointment to my wound, gave me some hot tea to drink, and I fell asleep. How much time passed while I slept, I don’t know, but when I woke up, it was dark. Someone nearby was moaning loudly.
Suddenly I felt the touch of someone’s hands. Thinking that a wounded man wanted a drink, I detached my canteen from my belt and offered it to him, but he didn’t take it. Instead, he silently continued to move his hands over my head, face and chest. I found some matches in my pocket and struck one. A fellow with a bandaged face was lying next to me on a stretcher. From his dress, it was difficult to determine who he was. I saw several other wounded with me in the tent.
A nurse entered. In a motherly voice, she said tenderly, ‘Just a bit longer, dears. An ambulance will come soon.’
I asked her who this man with the wounded head was, who was persis- tently resting his hand on my chest. The nurse didn’t know. In order to ease the suffering of this fellow, I lightly gripped his hand. He settled down a bit and seemed to fall asleep. However, as soon as I removed his hand from my chest, he began to search for me again. It was clear that my neighbour was afraid to remain alone with his bandaged eyes.
A vehicle roared up, and a doctor and two stretcher-bearers entered the tent. The doctor pulled out a list and began to call out the last names of the wounded. I could feel my neighbour’s hand begin to tremble on my chest.
‘Pilyushin!’ the doctor called out my last name. The wounded man lying next to me crawled off his stretcher, hastily grabbed me with both hands, and said something that I couldn’t make out. I carefully placed the wounded man back on the stretcher. He wouldn’t let go of me.
Just then I heard, ‘Romanov, Petr.’ I shuddered, as if from a strong blow, dropped to my knees next to the stretcher, and firmly embraced my combat-friend. The nurse, standing over us, began to cry, and the doctor
turned away. The stretcher-bearers silently looked at Romanov’s bandaged head and scowled.
I tried to soothe Romanov: ‘Petya, friend, get better . . . we’ll meet again, and together we will fight again.’ The doctor silently shook his head. I thought to myself, ‘Has Petr Vladimirovich Romanov really fought his last battle?’ Through tears, I watched as Romanov was carried away to the ambulance.
The sun began to set. A light rain was falling. The sounds of combat began to fade into silence, but medics were continuing to bring in the wounded. Several groups of German prisoners were escorted past the medical tent. Sergeant majors and cooks were bustling in the woods, in the clearing, and around the field kitchens – they were rushing to send a hot meal up to the front lines. Artillerymen were changing the position of their guns.
I limped over to the dirt road and took a seat on a stump. There I began to wait for a medical cart. I don’t recall whether I fell asleep or just became lost in thought, but I didn’t hear it when a two-wheeled medical cart pulled up.
‘Hey, brother, are you wounded?’ Shaking me gently, an elderly medical attendant was addressing me. I replied that my leg was wounded. The attendant helped me over to the cart. ‘It’s nothing, friend,’ he encouraged me. ‘Your wound will heal, but we slaughtered a lot of Germans today.’
‘And our brother spilled a lot of blood,’ said a Red Army soldier with a weathered face, who’d been wounded in the arm.
The thought of Petr wouldn’t leave me: ‘Would I really never see him again?’