A tank brigade is not a large unit. There are only four battalions and three special companies in it. All tank battalions are identical in organization, number of machines and men, but each varies in battle quality, condition of matériel and arms, and orderliness. Our 1st Tank Battalion was notable due to its commander, Serezha Otroshenkov, who was 22 back then.
I remember a drill inspection of the brigade conducted in the summer. The combrig himself – Colonel Chunikhin – was looking over our battalion. He was impressive: he ran the brigade with confidence and enjoyed huge respect from his men. Everyone in the brigade called him ‘Batya’.33 He related to his men professionally and wouldn’t rush the brigade into action headlong, but operated calculatingly and carefully – but at the same time resolutely. This allowed the brigade to carry out their allotted tasks with little bloodshed.
We had been preparing for the inspection meticulously – everyone wanted to impress Batya. We lined up in a small cleared glade. A vehicle arrived and Colonel Chunikhin stepped out, leisurely. Captain Otroshenkov ordered: ‘Attention! Eyes front!’ and abruptly turned about face and, measuring out his pace, headed to the oncoming combrig. Just in front of the latter he stopped and reported, loudly and distinctly: ‘Comrade colonel! The 1st Tank Battalion is lined up and ready for inspection!’
The tall, smart, young combat looked very imposing. The combrig greeted the battalion, ordered ‘At ease’, shook hands with the combat and proceeded to hug him. Inspecting the formation and getting acquainted in person with the newly-arrived men, the combrig looked closely into each officer’s face. Familiarizing himself with the 2nd Tank Company, he stopped in front of Platoon Commander Gulyayev and began to scrutinize his face. The pause dragged on, and everyone was perplexed. Then the combrig’s face broke into a smile: ‘Ivan Gulyayev! Is it you, buddy?!’
The platoon commander, obviously embarrassed by such attention, muttered indistinctly: ‘Yes, comrade colonel, it’s me.’
Chunikhin heartily hugged Gulyayev and kissed him three times. The lieutenant stood there and blushed. It turned out later that, back in 1930, Ivan Gulyayev was a deputy platoon commander, and a Private Chunikhin learned the soldier’s craft under his command for two years. Then Gulyayev quit and left for his Kuibyshev Oblast, where he served as a poultry-farm manager, and Chunikhin joined a military school. And now, fourteen years later, they suddenly bumped into each other. Soon Gulyayev was appointed as a company commander.
The inspection ended with a ceremonial march. The combrig remained satisfied with the level of readiness and condition of the battalion. Having addressed us, he briefly told us about the situation at the fronts – and in particular the detail for the sector of the 2nd Ukrainian Front – and in conclusion urged us to prepare ourselves thoroughly for a new advance operation.
The summer of 1944 was hot. The sun shone down relentlessly and there was no green vegetation to be seen. Dense grey dust would swirl up even from the movement of a single soldier; it would penetrate all cracks and crevices, filling lungs and settling on faces, before being washed out by drops of sweat and drying on our neck as dirty stains. The civilian population was evacuated from the region near the front up to the Prut. Huge areas of abandoned fields, gardens and ruined villages expanded. This allowed us to drill the troops, without restrictions, however. Combat Otroshenkov paid special attention to tactical and shooting skills. He loved this subject and knew all the intricacies of combat very well. The combat would frequently put commanders of tanks, platoons and companies into complicated situations, ensuring that each man acted creatively and with initiative. He was very canny at this.
To test shooting skills using standard ammunition, an isolated location was selected. It was cordoned off, targets were set up and ammo was loaded into tanks. Gulyayev, Maximov and I were scheduled to shoot in the first session. We took up our positions, and the ‘charge’ order came. The tanks rushed forward and crossed the starting line. Kolya and I hit our targets with the first shot – the wooden targets flew in all directions. While Gulyayev was still searching for his target and targeting the gun, Kolya smashed it with his second shot and then hit a tree that stood on the range with the targets with his third.
Having completed machine-gun firing, we returned to the starting line and, after the ‘cease fire’ command, went to report to the combat, having picked up all the empty shell cases. Ivan Gulyayev was seriously angry and was grumbling at Maximov en route. But Kolya walked quietly and made jokes in reply: ‘You have to shoot instead of counting crows.’ Having heard our report Otroshenkov reprimanded Maximov, calling him ‘a hooligan at the firing range’. However, he subsequently praised him for excellent shooting, took his own wristwatch off and presented it to Kolya. This was typical Serguey! He knew better than anyone how close a commander and a soldier could be in action, and how much the humane treatment of others and combat camaraderie meant.
When we were near Jassy a large boil swelled on my hand. The growth expanded until it reached my fingers. Unable to put up with the hellish pain, I went to the medical unit, which was run by the battalion’s senior medic, Senior Lieutenant Vasiliy Demyanovich Kolesnichenko. He examined my hand and concluded that I needed to go to the medical platoon of the brigade or the medical battalion of the corps.
‘Doctor, I can’t put up with it any more – do what you can, but help me,’ I begged.
‘All right, I will, but it will be very painful. Hold your hand up,’ the medic said.
Taking a straight razor, he wiped it with spirits, heated it with a spirit lamp and then demanded in an imperious tone, having cleaned my hand, ‘Turn your head away and hold your hand up!’ Gripping my hand tightly, he sliced the carbuncle with the razor, but failed to make an open cut. I felt dizzy and was about to lose consciousness, when blood spurted out and poured all over my hand.
‘Hold your hand up!’ Kolesnichenko roared and slashed my hand again. The boil opened up. Having cleaned the wound and padded it, Kolesnichenko put a dressing on my hand and said gently: ‘Now get back to the company and have a sleep. Rest and it will heal.’ I stumbled back towards my tank as if I was drunk. On my way I noticed a girl lying in the shade of a huge walnut tree. Despite my really bad condition I went up to her and began to talk. She raised herself a little on her elbows and then I saw that she was five or six months’ pregnant. Her name was Maria Maltseva, she was a medic instructor in the anti-aircraft machine-gun company. I didn’t ask her anything about her condition, but felt very sorry for her: some scoundrel had knocked her up and run off!
By morning I felt much better. Kolesnichenko helped people; he did minor operations, fixed dislocations and administered pain relief. He was a natural-born healer: caring, unselfish and cordial. He was also good at training medics, who would go into action on the armour of company commanders’ tanks – he travelled with the combat. It allowed them to provide first aid to wounded and burnt tankmen, saving them from an otherwise inevitable death. Kolesnichenko was wounded many times but he would return to his battalion without fail, and everyone was always happy to see him back. After the war, following another injury, he was returning to the battalion when he died in Austria in a car accident.
The situation in the 2nd Tank Battalion was different. Almost all the commanders in it were replacements. Having not even been a month in his position as combat, Captain Lichman departed back into the corps. Senior Lieutenant Nikolay Ivanovich Matveev – former deputy commander of the 1st Tank Battalion – became the new combat. He was a shortish man, handsome and kind-hearted. He quickly climbed the ranks in the brigade, even though he had no experience or managerial skills. Initially he performed his duties meekly and uncertainly, and hesitated when using his authority. Zampolit Shlykov, who reported to the brigade political department whenever he wanted, did him no favours; it was known that he was preparing ‘dossiers’ on the combat and his deputies. Lieutenant Negrul read his reports, pursing his lips and criticizing the man for ratting on his colleagues, but couldn’t do anything about it. When someone would betray his colleagues in such a way it is said that what is bred in the bone will not come out of the flesh. The atmosphere in the battalion became tense, and this was reflected in the drilling, military discipline and general feeling in the camp. Colonel Chunikhin and Lieutenant-Colonel Negrul quickly recognized it. The combrig spent day after day in the battalion, helping Matveev to understand the situation, and taught the combat how to plan, methods of drilling and how to educate the troops. The brigade HQ and especially the head of the political department did a lot of work too. Gradually the situation in the battalion began to normalize; Zampolit Shlykov grew quieter.
The 3rd Tank Battalion was stationed somewhat further away from the brigade HQ. Operations in the battalion proceeded normally and caused the brigade command no trouble, which was why they rarely visited. The combat, Major I.E. Buzko, used the battalion for his own benefit. Nature had endowed this spoilt child of fortune with excellent fitness but left him short of brains. The 29-year-old, tall, well-built and handsome major was irresistible. Girls stared at him admiringly, and he sensed that and insolently abused their trust. By nature Buzko was rude, arrogant and unrestrained. He liked to brag: ‘I will go into action, decorate everyone with orders and I myself will become a hero.’ He failed to establish good relations with his deputies, but played up to the rank and file, wanting to come across as a decent fellow and was keen to be called ‘Batya’.
However, it didn’t work because a soldier can always sense a fraud. The further he went, the more he became inflated with his own importance. Most of all he liked boozing and womanizing. If a girl was passing through the battalion, he would put on a pilot’s leather jacket and order: ‘Petro, tell her that the colonel wants to see her.’ The girl would quickly tidy herself up and readily head into his dugout. Lounging in his quarters, he would invite her: ‘Sit down, sweetheart when a colonel invites you. Petro! Set the table!’ Petro would do so immediately, while Buzko entertained the girl and spouted compliments. The girl would become embarrassed, unable to reject him, and I don’t think there was a single case where a girl managed to resist him. After a drinking session, Buzko often asked for ‘spirits’. His deputies hid the spirits from him and did their best not to give him any. One night he summoned his quartermaster and ordered ‘spirits’. The latter replied: ‘There’s none available.’
‘None?’
‘Indeed, comrade major.’
‘I want Grishenko down here.’
His deputy Grishenko came in and said straight away: ‘Stop fooling around, combat.’
‘What, there are no spirits?’
‘No more,’ his deputy replied.
‘In that case, sound the alarm for the battalion.’
‘What kind of alarm?’ Grishenko was perplexed.
‘Battle one.’
‘Don’t be stupid, major!’
Buzko flew into a rage: ‘It’s my order – sound the alarm!’
The deputy could do nothing but obey the order, no matter how stupid it was . . . ‘What’s the level again?’
‘Level one!’
A level-one alarm meant an immediate threat of the enemy’s advance: the crews had to man their tanks. Grishenko raised the alarm and everyone in the battalion went into action. All the men took their places in their tanks, ready to repulse an enemy attack. To cover the combat’s stupidity, Chief-of-Staff Captain Syakin produced a drilling plan and, together with Grishenko, began to advise ‘introductory provisions on the enemy’s advance’, then it was followed by ‘an attack on our advanced lines and combat deep inside the defence lines’. Then he woke the combat: ‘Comrade major, permission to call the alarm off?’
‘Why the hell call it off? Let them keep drilling.’
‘It’s too much. I’m calling it off!’
‘Well, go on then, if you don’t want to get them drilled. Call it off . . .’
Before long it was time for reveille! Grishenko entered Buzko’s dugout. The man was lounging on his bunk.
‘Comrade major, is a review needed?’
‘What kind of review?’
‘The kind which is needed now. We compiled a list for you of shortcomings and things which require your attention.’
‘Line the battalion up, I know what to say without your scribbles.’
So the battalion was lined up, and Buzko duly arrived.
‘Hi, eagles! Listen to what I’m going to say. You know f—k all about how to get to alarm status. What kind of alarm was that? As soon as Grishenko barked “Alarm!” Klava jumped up as if she was crazy and instead of her panties she put my breeches on and then wondered how the combat can react to the alarm without pants.’
This was just a bawdy joke. The combat lived in one half of a dugout, and the other half was occupied by the Medic Kolesnichenko and Klava, the battalion medical instructor. The battalion was roaring with laughter, and Klava, crimson with shame, didn’t know where to look.
‘So, chaps, training is needed. Fall out!’
Men scattered, making jokes and at Klava’s expense. Klava rushed headlong to her dugout and burst into tears. Buzko, as if nothing had happened, headed to the HQ and began to brag: ‘Learn from me, you generals. I know how to deal with people. They love me.’
Our zampolit stepped in: ‘Listen, combat! Whether they love you or not, I demand that you apologize to Klava. You can’t offend or defame a girl for no reason.’
‘Big deal, what was it that I said?’
‘You have to apologize, I insist,’ Goncharov finished.
Buzko’s ridiculous actions became well known in the brigade, and he was summoned to the brigade HQ by phone. It was conveyed to him that the combrig wanted to see him.
‘Grishenko, you go.’
‘But it’s you they want! Why should I go?! I ain’t going, as it’s not me who’s summoned.’
‘You always jeer at me, always set me up, you even don’t wanna go to the HQ!’
‘Comrade major, once you’ve been summoned, you have to go.’
‘Okay, forget it. Give me a flask of spirits and some snacks – we have to entertain the commanders.’
He never went to the HQ without gifts. So, everything was assembled for him, and off he went. He returned about two hours later.
‘Grishenko, the combrig says you have to come . . . Off you go.’
Grishenko went over and reported to the combrig: ‘Comrade colonel, reporting by your order.’
The man stared at him. ‘Are you joking?! I did call up the combat, but not you!’
‘The battalion commander’s already been to the HQ and he said that you were calling for me.’
‘When? I haven’t seen him! Get him up here now, dead or alive!’
Grishenko returned to the battalion: ‘Comrade major, what kind of position did you just put me in? You haven’t been at all to the combrig.’
‘Well, I was riding around a bit, then had a bit of a rest . . .’
After that episode, Buzko was removed from his position and sent to the HR department of the corps. When the order was announced, he said to his men: ‘My eagles! I’ve had no chance to fight alongside you. You won’t get your decorations, but I would have rewarded you all! Grishenko stays instead of me. Keep everything in order, as it was under my charge. I’m off now to take over a regiment.’
Buzko departed, and the officers sighed with relief.
A battalion of tommy-gunners was stationed in the village of Movileni, which was now just a name on the map: all the buildings had been destroyed or burnt out. The adjacent fields and fruit and vegetable gardens were overgrown with weeds, and only the occasional trees and vineyards were reminders that people used to live and work here. Remarkably, the surviving huge walnut trees protected the tommy-gunners from the heat and the midges.
The battalion commander was Vasiliy Ivanovich Gorb34 – a sensible, brave and resolute officer. He used to joke with his friends: ‘We’ll secure victory riding on my hump.’ Life in the battalion continued in its routine way until one day Senior Lieutenant Dotsenko was talking with company commander Captain Yakovlev. Yakovlev told Dotsenko that there was a girl, a native of Romania, who was currently in one of the Moscow hospitals after being wounded at the front. He explained that she was fluent in Romanian, German and Russian and therefore could be useful to the brigade during the upcoming operation in Romanian territory. Dotsenko pricked up his ears and Yakovlev told him the complicated and intriguing story of the girl’s life.
Emilia Ceamusescu had undergone training in a German school of espionage and was sent deep into Russian territory. She didn’t want to work for the Fascists, however, and immediately gave herself up to the Russian Army, announcing that she was ready to assist in the destruction of the German occupiers. This naturally aroused the interest of our command, and Ceamusescu became a Russian agent. During one particular operation, however, while crossing the front line with other scouts, she came under enemy fire and was badly wounded in the face: her lower jaw was smashed. The scouts brought her back from the battlefield with a great deal of effort. After surgery and prolonged medical treatment she recovered and now wanted to operate with our unit.
Dotsenko was nervous: it could turn out to be extremely dangerous if she was a double agent. He discussed it with the brigade Chief-of-Staff, and after all the necessary endorsements Major Levin summoned Emilia from hospital. On one of the first days of August a tall, plain-looking girl of medium build in military uniform entered the HQ of the motorized battalion of tommy-gunners and clearly announced herself: ‘Emilia Ceamusescu. I would like to see Captain Yakovlev.’
Dotsenko immediately realized who was in front of him and quickly called the company commander. The meeting was pleasant and touching, and to a certain extent it cast some light on the reasons why Yakovlev may have taken a demotion to be transferred to our brigade. Emilia was assigned to the reconnaissance platoon, to carry out the most dangerous tasks as required. She worked courageously in her native country and many a time she returned with important information for the brigade and the corps commanders.
The brigade was experiencing problems with food supplies. Although it was summer there were no vegetables, and there were shortages of cereals. We were getting pretty much only kidney beans from the corps’ storehouse. So we had kidney beans for breakfast, lunch and dinner – day after day – for quite some time. People were fed up with it and, half-starved, blamed the quartermasters. On one of the supply vehicles someone had written: ‘Daddy, kill a German.’ One night some joker wrote next to it in paint: ‘and the quartermaster’. Next morning, men from the special department were already sniffing around trying to figure out who this joker was, and the driver was scraping the fresh paint off the vehicle.
From time to time Starshina Selifanov managed somehow to procure other cereals and vary the food. He was a crafty, capable and knowledgeable quartermaster, which was why he remained an officer until the very end of the war. After the war he worked in Moscow as the head of the gastronomic section of a major food store. I will explain later how we came across each other again.
In the evenings the platoon, and often the company, gathered by my tank, and I would tell stories from books I had read in the past. A storytelling session might drag on for too long, and I would stop it at the most interesting moment – which was why the crews would wait impatiently for the next storytelling evening. While I was the platoon commander I would also frequently help my crewmen and guys from other tank platoons to write letters. Back then girls sent triangular letters35 to the front (sometimes with photos enclosed), in which they wrote: ‘For a Red Army Fighter’. Soldiers would reply to a girl they liked, regular correspondence would commence and sometimes it would grow into something more serious. The guys were mostly not very literate, though, and sometimes the tankers asked me to write a letter for them. I never refused and often depicted real or imaginary feats of the hero: ‘I am sitting here and writing to you, trying to imagine how beautiful you are: very much like the goggles of my gas mask lit up by a flare.’ Of course, their correspondence would stop after I transferred to a different platoon or company. I myself maintained correspondence with Faina Levinskaya. She was quite a tall, cute, brunette Jewish girl from Odessa. We had spent a week or ten days together just before my draft to the army, but stayed in contact throughout the war, and after it ended I went to Odessa to visit her.
Battalion orderly officers often reported to the combat about disciplinary infringements within the company. Captain Otroshenkov decided to investigate the validity of those reports. One evening, after lights out, I was telling a story about the unfortunate fate of Poruchik36 Romashov from Kuprin’s novel The Duel.37 The guys were carried away by the narrative and didn’t notice the arrival of the commanding officers. I spotted the combat together with the zampolit only towards the end of the session – I stopped in the middle of a sentence and ordered: ‘Stand up, attention!’ But the combat replied: ‘Stay seated, carry on.’ Of course, I was embarrassed and continued telling the story, though not as freely and articulately as before, but nevertheless at the end I earned the praise of the combat. Having wished the tankmen goodnight, he and the zampolit left. After that, I felt that the combat and the zampolit began to watch me more closely.
Having a year of experience behind me, I was already a seasoned platoon commander and knew how to make my unit combat-ready. The learning process is quite complicated but at the same time surprisingly simple. Before you give an order to your subordinate you try to put yourself in his shoes and imagine how you would carry out the order. Secondly, it is crucial that your subordinate understands what you want from him – and wants to carry it out to his best ability. Only then can you be confident that your order will be carried out accurately and in time.
I am pleased to say that I enjoyed the respect of my tank crew. After reveille, on their own initiative, the guys warmed up water, brought soap, a clean towel and poured the water for me. Other commanders envied me. I remember another tank commander, Junior Lieutenant Zorya, a touchy and vain bloke, was reprimanding his subordinates: ‘Look, you blockheads, the guys from Bryukhov’s platoon look after their commanders, but you vagabonds can’t even heat up water for shaving.’ His relations with his crewmen weren’t too good: he yelled at his men time and again, offended them and would even hit them, though he wouldn’t touch his driver – Sergeant Simonov, who was a hard character and had big fists. The crew hated their commander but the platoon commander and the 1st Company ‘Demagogue’ (as he was nicknamed) Alexeenko wouldn’t interfere.
One night in early August, a platoon led by Lieutenant Chebashvili waited in ambush on hill 195.0. Zorya was nervous – he chided people, shouting and swearing at them when giving orders, making people stand to attention while they gave their reports. The embittered crewmen put up with this, but their camouflage was neglected during all this and when morning broke the Germans spotted the tank, and opened fire at the revealed target. Up to 100 artillery and mortar shells were fired at it. Everything around the tank was devastated, the external equipment was smashed and the gun was damaged. Zorya lost his nerve and fled from the position, abandoning his men. Coming to his senses later, he secretly returned and talked his men into not reporting it to the platoon commander.