We still kept pursuing the retreating enemy, but it was becoming clear that it would be difficult to achieve many more gains. The brigade had been fighting with no breaks for more than six days, having advanced about 200 kilometres. The troops were tired and needed a rest, and most of the tanks had either been destroyed, damaged or lagged behind because of technical problems. The rear units stayed in Husi, and supplies of fuel, ammo and food had been seriously depleted. Also, the deeper we travelled inside Romanian territory, the more difficult the terrain was becoming – it was barely passable for the tanks in places. Numerous steep hillsides, deep valleys and water obstacles slowed the pace of our movement and paralyzed our manoeuvrability. On top of that we were intensely aggravated by the scorching heat and unbearable dust.
In the evening of 26 August we were ordered to advance towards Kulalbi–Tudor–Vladimirescu, cross the Siret River within the sector of Fundeny–Tudor–Vladimirescu and reach the area of Surdila–Grec by the end of the 27th. The commander of the 2nd Tank Company, Gulyayev, joined the battalion after his tank had been repaired. Colonel Chunikhin approved my position as a company commander, and he was appointed as the deputy battalion commander. We were called up to the combat’s tank, and the combrig announced his decision and wished us success.
Having seen the combrig off, Otroshenkov was in a good mood, joking: ‘Well, Ivan, you grow like a mushroom after a warm rain. Over a single month you’ve risen from a platoon commander to the combat’s deputy. Well done!’ Indeed, Ivan was only a platoon commander back in the beginning of August, had became a company commander a week before the advance, and a week after the commencement of fighting he was now the combat’s deputy. Anything can happen in war, and this was a forced but sensible decision.
At dawn we resumed pursuit of the retreating enemy. Our battalion was in the vanguard. Within the first hour we had captured Croesti, smashing an insignificant defensive screen. By noon, having picked up an Opel ‘Kapitan’ car as a trophy, Captains Kalugin, Lebedev and Kulakov invited Emilia Ceamusescu to join them in the car for lunch. Emboldened by wine, they decided to catch up with the vanguard and accompany them to the Siret River, about which Emilia had been telling them with great delight. Ceamusescu got into the driving seat; they were travelling carelessly – warmed up by the booze and the girl’s presence, the officers were joking around, trying hard to show off and impress the girl. Probably for this very reason they weren’t paying attention and turned off the main road at a junction, where they then ran into an ambush.
Initially the Germans didn’t pay any attention to the car, presumably thinking that other vehicles would be catching up. For several moments the officers were petrified and confused; the intoxication disappeared as if by magic. The female scout was the first to come to her senses. She slowed down and ordered imperiously: ‘Captain! Chuck a hand grenade at them!’ Kalugin quickly took a grenade off his belt, thrust open the car door and threw the grenade at full stretch. The astounded Germans dropped to the ground. This gave the girl enough time: stepping on the accelerator, she swiftly turned around and the car dashed away, gaining speed. The Germans opened heavy submachine-gun fire and rushed in pursuit. Realizing that there was no chance of breaking away from them, Ceamusescu drove the car into dense corn. Breaking the thick stalks, the car was bobbing up and down, and thrown from side to side – finally the engine stalled. The officers and the scout took to their heels. The Germans continued shooting, but didn’t have the guts to pursue them into the dense corn.
When the officers reached our lines, Emilia was not with them. Kalugin and Lebedev took a tank from the brigade command and headed back to look for her. There was no enemy around, and they found Emilia not far from the car. She was unconscious in a pool of blood, with both legs broken. A medic bandaged the wounds, and the officers carefully placed her onto the tank transmission. She received aid in the medical platoon and was subsequently sent to a hospital. I remember that the girl was deadly pale, and there were the Orders of Patriotic War and Red Star on her blouse. I don’t know what happened to her after that.
Meanwhile, our battalion reached a junction between a high road and a railway line 4 kilometres south-east of Serbenesti, where we caught up with a column of enemy infantry with tanks and artillery. The enemy stopped and hastily took up a defensive position. Otroshenkov immediately deployed the battalion and launched an attack. The main forces of the brigade also arrived, and the combrig set up the 315th Anti-Tank Regiment for close-range combat. Supported by the artillery, the brigade burst into the enemy positions. After losing seven tanks, nine anti-tank guns and dozens of troops, along with plenty of abandoned vehicles and carts, the enemy began to withdraw to a river crossing.
Sitting on the enemy’s tail, the brigade reached the river near Nynesti, but we failed to capture the crossing: the German sappers had blown up two of the bridge spans. Some operable enemy tanks, guns and vehicles remained on the eastern bank of the river. Our battalions quickly made short work of the remnants of the enemy troops and moved towards the town of Tecuci, having come up against the river. We crossed the Siret River by the remaining undamaged bridge and headed towards Bucharest along a good bitumen road. The unbearable heat was taking its toll, though – the engines overheated, water in the cooling systems was boiling and the rubber bindings on the rollers began to catch fire. They were peeling off in pieces, littering the road, and the tanks became lop-sided with bare rollers: they moved clumsily, looking like limping men. Forced stopovers became more and more frequent and the pace slowed. In spite of that, the brigade successfully advanced 120 kilometres and by the end of the day massed at the northern outskirts of Orzonyaska. Here we received sad news – the comcor’s machine had hit a land mine; MajorGeneral Polozkov had been badly wounded and sent off to hospital in a critical condition. His deputy colonel temporarily took over the corps.
At night the scouts from our brigade entered Bucharest in two armoured vehicles. It was quiet. In the middle of the city they found a high, large building, lit by spotlight, which showed the sign – ‘The State Bank of Romania’. In the morning the scouts returned and reported that the road to Bucharest was open and there was no enemy on the way. The bridge over the river in Urziceni was impassable, but nearby there was a ford. According to the corps reconnaissance data, the enemy was retreating along field tracks in the south-westerly direction.
By dawn fuel was brought up; we topped up our diesel stocks, replaced the faulty rollers, and the troops were fed and given some rest. In the morning the 170th and 110th tank brigades began their march along the Orzonaska–Buzau–Urziceni route. Colonel Kolesnikov with the corps’ operational group headed the column. Again the rubber bindings disintegrated at high speed: the road was peppered with pieces of rubber, which clearly showed the direction the brigade was taking. However, the battalions successfully carried out the 200-kilometre march and massed in a forest on the northern outskirts of Afumati. Bucharest was nearby, which filled us with the ardent desire to move faster. On 29 August Antonescu’s government43 requested the Soviet Command to suspend the Red Army advance on the capital and give them an opportunity to sort things out and introduce proper order in the city. The Russians slowed down their advance and sent the 1st Romanian Volunteer Division, formed from former POWs in 1943, to be the first troops to enter the capital. On the 31st the Red Army, led by the Romanians, marched into the city.
The brigade was stationed in a vineyard. We stood in columns, company by company, ready to get under way at any time. The machines had been refuelled, ammo stocks replenished. For the first time in ten days of intense fighting there was a small pause, and we used it to inspect our machines and take some well-earned rest. Sitting on the tanks and lounging around, some swam in the nearby river; we enjoyed the local peasants’ wine, chatting and joking over a glass of booze. By the evening the rear-line units of the brigade and several tanks back from maintenance arrived. The brigade received an order to enter Kryngu by 3.00 a.m. on 31 August, and then to advance towards Kozeni and Bucharest. By the midnight of the same day we were to reach the south-western outskirts of Bucharest and concentrate in the area of Beleu.
Battalion and special company commanders were urgently summoned to the HQ. The combrig briefly described the situation, assigned tasks and gave the order to advance. The combats left without delay. The ‘reveille’ signal sounded; the command ‘Man your machines!’ could be heard everywhere. The men rushing about between the tanks looked like ghosts in the moonlight. The combats were allocating tasks for the company commanders on the run, with the latter giving much shorter orders: ‘Everyone follow me! To Bucharest!’ The engines began to roar; the sidelights came on. The tanks were driving off, lit up by fender-lights; the columns were moving quickly. Everyone was nervous: we were on our way to liberate the first European capital. Later there would be Budapest, Vienna, but Bucharest would occupy a special place in our memory – it was the first.
At night we entered Kryngu. The brigade halted and we received the order: ‘Put the brigade in order and enter Bucharest in an organized way in the morning.’ The troops didn’t get a wink of sleep all night long: we were cleaning the tanks, vehicles, meticulously packing and strapping our gear, washing and shaving. In the cool early morning we took off from Kryngu towards Bucharest. Combrig Chunikhin’s ‘Willys’44 led the way with the brigade flag.
At 9.20 a.m. on 31 August the 170th Tank Brigade entered Bucharest. The population met us with flowers. Having passed through the entire city, the brigade massed in the southern suburb of Progressu and was stationed there in gardens and suburban houses. We stayed there for three days: we carried out patrol duties, repaired damaged tanks, restocked with fuel and lubricants, ammo, foodstuffs. Of course, we travelled into the capital as well – although very soon an order was issued banning us from doing this, with good reason! The previous evening Lesha Rybakov and Kolya Maximov had headed into the city – I had allowed them to be absent until 2.00 a.m. Rybakov had been back by that time, but Kolya hadn’t. I was concerned and only fell asleep hours later. There was still half an hour before reveille when I heard the clatter of horses’ hooves, the squeaking of a cart and Maximov’s drunken voice slowly singing ‘Katyusha’ to the accompaniment of a violin. A droshky was rolling into the company’s camp; Maximov was in the coachman’s seat, next to him there was a young gypsy in a bright shirt with a violin, with a mop of black curly hair. Behind them sat the coachman and a beautiful young woman, quite tipsy. Having seen all this, I rushed forward, grabbed the horse by the bridle and began to turn it around. Kolya jumped off the cart: ‘Vasya! I’ve brought you a gift!’
I turned on him, shouting, ‘What are you doing, you son of a bitch?!’
We didn’t notice that the whole company had got to their feet to enjoy the scene. The tankmen were begging: ‘Comrade lieutenant, leave the girl here with the company.’ The coachman was not happy with this outcome and urged the horse away with his whip. The company watched the disappearing cart with the ‘beauty’ still on board with obvious regret. I was still reprimanding Maximov, but he just walked towards his tank, paying no attention to the envious glances of his comrades-in-arms. His crewmen prepared a bed for him, and when he’d recovered a few hours later Kolya told us all about the great time he’d spent in a brothel.
Of course his colourful story aroused a wave of envy, and so the next day, despite the issued order, the deputy Chief-of-Staff Yura Klaustin and I went to look for a little adventure. We cleaned ourselves up and secretly set off in one of the trophy cars (we already had trophy cars ‘in economical quantities’, and I was proficient at driving them), heading to the city. We easily found the house of ill repute – it was one of the best buildings in Bucharest. We entered the main entrance and walked up the posh stairs. The madam met us in a large foyer and walked us over to comfortable chairs. We ordered liqueurs from the bar as we wanted something sweet – we were pretty sick of vodka and spirits. We were given an album with photographs of the girls, with small descriptions written for each. We didn’t understand Romanian, however, and therefore when the girls that we selected arrived, it turned out that the one I had chosen was taller than me by a head, and Klaustin’s was shorter than him by a head – we had to swap them. We paid the madam 500 leu and went to the rooms. Drinks and snacks served to the rooms were paid for separately, and the girl talked me into giving her some money. By dawn we were back with the company.
The Romanians treated us well. They looked at us with some curiosity, and sometimes prodded soldiers and were surprised that we were just normal people and not Siberian bears with long beards, covered in wool. One Romanian woman even surreptitiously approached one of the tanks, produced a knife from her handbag and began to poke at the metal plating, checking to see if it was made of wood, as the German propaganda had told them.
Not far away from the location some cisterns with wine were found. The men began to go there, one after another, with mess tins, flasks and even 90-litre tanks that were meant for fuel. Noisy parties followed. However, our short stay near Bucharest didn’t last long. Early in the morning the battalions stretched out into columns and at 7.00 a.m. the brigade HQ passed the starting line. The September weather was terrific: not a single cloud in the sky, and the intense heat had disappeared. Fruit gardens, vineyards and vast fields of ripened corn stretched as far as the eye could see alongside the road. Once again we began to experience problems with the engines and rubber roller bindings. Despite the delay of some tanks, though, we moved fairly fast and it was quiet on the ground and in the air. Tommy-gunners carelessly sat all over the armour, feasting their eyes upon the wonderful countryside. We travelled 60 kilometres without hindrance and mustered to the south-east of Dragesti. Here we refuelled the machines and gave them a thorough inspection, allowing the tanks which had fallen behind to catch up.
Next day, having journeyed a further 10 kilometres, we stopped southwest of Karakale. Again the roller bindings kept disintegrating: the demand for replacements was ever growing, and the technicians often replaced the faulty rollers with ones salvaged from damaged and inoperable tanks. It was a hell of a job but there was no other option; the maintenance guys didn’t have a moment to rest and were dead on their feet, falling asleep by the tanks.
At dawn the brigade resumed moving and massed in the picturesque piedmont countryside 2 kilometres east of Krajova. This was an opportune stop before the difficult passage across the Carpathians, permitting us enough time for final repairs. Some minor officer transfers were made, including Kolya Maximov being made a platoon commander.
The stopover near Krajova was overshadowed by tragedy. One of the tank commanders in our battalion was Lieutenant Ivanov from the Belgorod Oblast. He was a mature man, roughly 34 years of age, a Communist with a degree in agronomics who had been a kolkhoz chairman before the war. His village had been occupied by Romanian troops, and when they retreated they had taken all the youths, then locked all the Communists and their families into a shack and burnt them alive. People were shouting and crying when the soldiers poured fuel over the shack; the Romanians then shot the people through the woodwork, finishing them off.
Our brigade was travelling close to his village, and Ivanov got permission to call there on the way. The villagers told him the story and showed him the site of the fire – this was when he learned that his wife and two children had perished. When he returned to the company, he was a different man. He began to seek revenge. He fought really well, though at times it seemed that he was looking for death. He wouldn’t take prisoners: whenever anyone was trying to surrender, he would mow them down without hesitation. Then, one time, he and a mechanic friend had had a drink too many and went out to look for a woman. That evening he entered a house: an old man and a young woman, about 25 years of age, were sitting and drinking tea, the latter with a child about a year and a half old. The lieutenant took the kid from the woman, and handed it over to her parent and told him: ‘Go to the room.’ To the mechanic he said: ‘You go and shag her first, I will do her after you.’ The mechanic went for it, but he was a very young chap, born in 1926 and most likely had never done it before. The girl got away from him and leapt out of the window and started running away. Ivanov heard the thump and rushed out of the house, and saw that she was already on the run. ‘You son of a bitch, you’ve let her slip away!’ he shouted, then fired a burst from his tommy-gun after her. The woman fell – only one bullet out of the burst had hit her but it went straight through her heart.
The guys ran off, but the next day her parents came to the brigade with the local officials. Within a day they had figured out who did it and arrested them – the SMERSH men knew their job well. Ivanov confessed straight away, but said that he hadn’t been aware that he’d killed her. His court martial took place three days later. The whole brigade was lined up in a glade, and the burgermeister arrived with the girl’s parents. The mechanic was sobbing; Ivanov told him: ‘Listen, be a man. You won’t be shot anyway, so no point whimpering. They’ll send you to the shtrafbat45 – you will atone for it with blood.’ When they were allowed to say a final few words, the mechanic asked to be pardoned, and they did: he was given a twenty-five-year sentence, commuted to a transfer to the punishment battalion.
And then the lieutenant stood up and said: ‘Citizens, judiciaries of the military tribunal, I committed a crime and request that you make no allowances for me.’ That was how it was – simple and harsh. He sat down and began to pick his teeth with a piece of straw. The sentence was announced: he was to be shot in front of the brigade, the troops were to be lined up and the sentence was to be carried out immediately. It took us twenty minutes to line up. The sentenced man walked to the grave, which had been dug beforehand. The head of the brigade’s osobyi otdel,46 a lieutenant-colonel, said to our battalion osobist: ‘Comrade Morozov, carry out the judgement.’
The man did not step forward.
‘I order you!’
The guy remained standing on the spot.
The lieutenant-colonel ran up to him, grasped his hand and snatched him out of the line, swearing through clenched teeth: ‘I order you!’ The man finally acted; he went up to the condemned man. Lieutenant Ivanov took off his field cap, bowed at the waist and said: ‘Forgive me, brothers.’
Morozov said: ‘Down on your knees. Bow your head.’ He said it very quietly but everyone heard that – the silence was overpowering. The lieutenant kneeled and stuffed his field cap under his belt. When he bowed his head the osobist shot him in the back of the head. The lieutenant’s body fell over and began to thrash in convulsions. It was terrible to see.
The osobist turned and walked away, his pistol still smoking; he was staggering as though drunk. The lieutenant-colonel yelled: ‘Shoot again! Finish it!’ but the osobist was walking away, not hearing anything, so he rushed to the spot himself and fired, then again, and again. I remember the body was shuddering after each shot even though he was already dead. The lieutenant-colonel shoved the corpse with his foot, and it rolled down into the grave: ‘Bury it.’
And so it was finished – someone yelled, ‘Fall out!’ but nobody moved for fifteen minutes. There was dead silence. Ivanov had been an excellent fighter, we respected him and knew that the Romanians had burnt his family to death – he might have appealed for mercy and said that it had been an accident, but he hadn’t. We remained depressed for the rest of the day. No one wanted to talk, and everyone felt sorry for Ivanov, but after this incident there were no more outrages with the local population in our brigade.
On 9 September we left Krajova. Being in the corps reserve, the brigade followed the corps HQ along the route from Atzusnatsi to Deva; there was the strong possibility of enemy engagement. Our 1st Tank Battalion was in the vanguard of the brigade. Having covered 50 kilometres along the picturesque foothill road, the brigade mustered in Brenesti, from where it then climbed the Transylvanian Alps and massed in Livozeni, 5 kilometres south of Petrosani. Much of this journey was done in extremely harsh conditions, in heavy-going terrain along a narrow mountain road with steep rises above and slopes below, sharp bends, and several lethal locations with vertical cliffs and bottomless chasms. We were constantly coming across barricades and artificial obstacles – only leaving a narrow passage – left by the enemy moving ahead of us. The higher we climbed up into the mountains the more the tanks and vehicles struggled. The drivers had to use all their skills and experience not to roll back or fall down the side of the hill. The machines moved slowly, carefully watching the gaps and taking all the safety precautions they could. The beauty of the Transylvanian Alps was scary rather than fascinating.
By 11 September we were stationed in Kisteni, and soon after the brigade relocated to Deva, where it remained in the corps reserve. Here I received a cheering message: I had been awarded the Order of the Red Banner; Otroshenkov and Matveev were also decorated. To celebrate, the combats went into the town of Deva, but on the way back they came upon an overturned vehicle with several seriously injured soldiers. The tipsy zampotech of the tommy-gunners battalion, Captain Kalabukhov, stood helplessly by, not knowing what to do. They stopped, and Otroshenkov, outraged by the idleness of Kalabukhov, challenged him: ‘You bastard! Who let you cripple the men?!’ Without hesitation, Kalabukhov punched Otroshenkov, but was then immediately taken aback by his own actions and rushed off into the surrounding bushes. Otroshenkov was speechless as he had not expected such a reaction from the zampotech. Flying into a rage, the combat pulled out his pistol and fired three shots at the fleeing officer. Otroshenkov was normally a crack shot, but this time he missed. Troubled, the combats returned to the brigade and reported the road accident. Captain Gorb sent the battalion medic Kurilov with a medical instructor Matryona Lyashenko to the spot. The incident came to the attention of the head of the special department of the brigade, as well as the combrig. Chunikhin and Negrul summoned Otroshenkov and Kalabukhov.
‘Eh, Serezha,’ the downcast combrig started, ‘I used to think that you had become a mature man and a serious commander. But you still want to be a child and play dangerously. I ought to court-martial you, but I feel sorry for you instead, you lousy bastards! Well, I am removing you from your positions. You, Captain Otroshenkov, are assigned to be deputy commander of the 3rd Tank Battalion – you will learn some sense over there. And you, Captain Kalabukhov, are commandeered to the reserve until further notice.’
Otroshenkov was so ashamed that he wished that the ground would swallow him up. He humbly accepted the punishment, and immediately left for Major Grishenko’s unit. Captain S.P. Zadorozhnyi took charge of the battalion. Zadorozhnyi was a cheerful, companionable and good man, but that was all – he was a very weak organizer and lacked the necessary characteristics of a good commander: strong will, initiative and resourcefulness.