On account of my production experience I was chosen as head of my group. Although I was already attending lectures, taking notes, reading the required literature, compiling reports for seminars, writing assignments and preparing for tests and exams, these duties did not strike me as difficult. It soon became clear which were my favourite subjects: basic archaeology and ethnography, history of the USSR, ancient history, Latin, and – given a choice of two foreign languages – English. I recalled Mother’s lessons and things went very well. After the standards for the ‘Voroshilov Marksman’ badge and the GTO (Gotov k Trudu i Oboronye, Prepared for Work and Defence) programme, which I had undertaken at the factory, university physical education classes presented no difficulty either. My student days were a life of fun and freedom, leaving a lot of time for such diversions as visits to the cinema and theatre, variety concerts, art exhibitions and relaxing evenings, complete with dancing.
Apart from that, we were all quite interested in politics and were, for instance, very sympathetic towards the Republicans in Spain, who from 1936 were engaged in armed conflict with local Fascists and monarchists. The Fascists were aided by Italy and Germany and the Republicans by the Soviet Union. The newspapers reported frequently and in detail on events in this far-off southern country. Excellent articles were published in the newspaper Pravda by the journalist Mikhail Koltsov. He wrote about the feats of the International Brigades and the aerial skirmishes between the pilots of the German ‘Condor’ legion and our own volunteer pilots flying Soviet aircraft. There were even tank battles on the flat plains of the Iberian Peninsula, demonstrating the technology of the same three states: Italy, Germany and the USSR.
A wave of indignation was aroused by the barbarous bombing of the small town of Guernica in the Basque Country. There was no military necessity to strike at it. Nevertheless, in April 1937, more than fifty German aeroplanes launched an attack on the settlement, which was in the hands of the Republicans. The raid almost completely obliterated it. Many civilians perished. Later, the outstanding Spanish artist Pablo Picasso, who was shaken by this crime, created a painting under the title Guernica; the work is now renowned worldwide. The story of the tragedy of Guernica troubled Russian hearts for a long time. Along with these emotions we had to think about what a new war would be like and when it would arrive on our doorstep.1
I was in my second year in the history faculty when I felt an impulse to refresh my skills in marksmanship, since now they might come in handy. Fyodor Kushchenko advised me to attend the two-year course at the Osoaviakhim sniper school which had recently opened in Kiev. Only those who had a ‘Voroshilov Marksman’ stage two certificate could apply there. Applicants also had to supply a reference from their workplace or educational institute and a short curriculum vitae, both signed off by the personnel department, and a note from a medical commission on their readiness for military service. I presented the required documents and was accepted. It soon became apparent that in this establishment I had every chance of ascending to new levels of manual firearms handling.
Sessions were held twice a week: on Wednesdays from six to eight in the evening and on Saturdays from three in the afternoon till six in the evening. We were issued with authorizations which served as passes to the school’s grounds and we were issued with the dark blue tunics we were required to wear. All this was reminiscent of army rules, but we did not complain; on the contrary, we were infused with a serious attitude and an awareness of our responsibility, given the prospect of the lessons ahead.
I will say just a few words about the sniper school programme. It really did train ‘super-sharpshooters’ for service in the Red Army. Twenty hours were devoted to politics classes, fourteen hours to parade ground drill, 220 hours to firearms training, sixty hours to tactics, thirty hours to military engineering, and twenty hours to hand-to-hand fighting. Tests on the course content took up sixteen hours. Cadets who had passed the final exams with the grade ‘excellent’ were included in special lists in city and district enlistment offices and periodically called up for refresher courses and shooting competitions at various levels. In general, snipers were not overlooked and they were given consideration, but even so, up until the Great War for the Fatherland, we had few real aces in the country, experts who could hit the target with their first and only shot. Perhaps there were 1,500 or so.
The first session on firearms training showed that the exercises we had practised in our factory circle were only a prelude to marksmanship – very useful but insufficient on their own. I recalled my old friend the ‘Melkashka’ with gratitude as I took up the Mosin army magazine rifle, model 1891/1930, often referred to as the ‘Three Line’. Of course, it was heavier (4kg without the bayonet) and longer (1,232mm) and calibrated for a 7.62 × 54mm R cartridge with an initial bullet velocity of 865 metres per second and a range of 2,000 metres. The grip of the Three Line butt was less comfortable than that of the TOZ-8, the recoil on one’s shoulder was stronger, and, on account of greater weight and length, for me, for instance, firing from a standing position was difficult. But that meant absolutely nothing.
We had to know the ordinary Mosin rifle, with which the Red Army rank and file were equipped, like the back of our hand, and therefore a certain amount of time (ten hours) was devoted to studying its mechanism. I gradually got used to the Three Line; in the end, I could strip and assemble it with my eyes closed, even though the bolt alone contained seven separate parts. The rifle’s open back sight and a front sight protected by a ring-like hood made it possible to achieve pretty good results when firing.
The sniper’s rifle differed from the standard one in only a few details. Firstly, it had an Emelyanov (PE) telescope sight mounted over the barrel – a fairly long metal tube (274mm with a weight of 598g) with two regulating drums. In the second place, this modification meant that the scope prevented the magazine from being charger loaded; the cartridges had to be put there one at a time. Thirdly, the handle of the bolt stem was bent sharply downwards. There were also differences not visible to the eye: the barrels for the sniper rifles were manufactured from the best steel, processed on precision lathes for greater accuracy, while the components were assembled by hand and adjusted in a special way.
At the end of my studies at the sniper school, that is, in 1939, we were introduced to the new models of weapons that were being delivered to the Red Army. They were the Simonov (AVS-36) and Tokarev (SVT-38) self-loading (automatic) rifles. The principle behind their automatic functioning was based on the use of powder gases, which always accompany the bullet as it speeds along the barrel. The rifles had detachable box-type magazines containing ten to fifteen cartridges. The only thing that gave rise to doubt among us and our instructors was the number of components in the AVS and the SVT and also the construction of its mechanism, which was very complex compared to Captain Mosin’s model.
I remember the first lecture on the subject known as ‘The Essentials of Shooting’, to which twenty-five hours were devoted in the programme. We were sitting in class one day when in walked a lean man of average height, aged about forty, with a prominent scar over his left brow. The monitor shouted: ‘Stand up! Attention!’ The teacher introduced himself: ‘Potapov, Alexander Vladimirovich,’ and briefly explained what he intended to teach us. Then, falling silent, he surveyed the auditorium with a stern glance and said, ‘I have heard that you shoot quite well. But remember: a good marksman is still not a sniper.’
Thus began our association with Potapov, the school’s senior instructor. We found out that he had begun his military career in the Imperial Life Guard Chasseur Regiment in St Petersburg, where marksmanship training for the lower ranks was exemplary. For his feats on the German front in 1915 and 1916 he earned two St George Crosses, third and fourth class, and also the rank of non-commissioned officer. In the Civil War Potapov commanded a company in a Red Army infantry regiment and was seriously wounded during the forced crossing of the Sivash. In 1929 he was seconded from the regiment to teach the Comintern ‘Vystrel’ tactical rifleman courses directed at improving the Red Army command structure. It was there that the first group in the country to study the sniper’s art began to operate. But he did not get to serve in the army as a sniping instructor; an old wound played up and Battalion Commander Potapov was demobilized. In this way, Osoaviakhim acquired a much-needed specialist.
Incidentally, the Kiev sniper school within this large-scale, voluntary, public, patriotic military organization was renowned, like those in Moscow and Leningrad, not only for the quality of its equipment and technical facilities, but also for its superbly trained teaching staff. Alexander Potapov was a big shooting enthusiast and a connoisseur and passionate devotee of weaponry – especially the Mosin Three Line, model 1891/1930. He set out his experience, observations and reflections on the philosophy of sniping in a small pamphlet, Instructions for Sharpshooters, which was published in Kiev.
Without question Potapov was a born teacher. He kept a constant watch over the cadets, not only in lectures, but also on the firing range. He believed that theoretical knowledge and firing practice were, of course, absolutely essential, but they were not sufficient to rear a true professional. He or she had to have more than just a good eye (which is granted by nature thanks to the individual peculiarities of the eyeball structure). They needed a special character: calm, balanced, even phlegmatic, and not subject to fits of anger, merriment, despair or – even worse! – hysteria. A sniper is a patient hunter. He takes just a single shot; if he misses, he can pay for it with his life.
Potapov warned us that in a month he would discharge those who – in his view – were incapable of acquiring the cunning art of the sniper. This caused us some distress. But his teaching methods won respect, as always. One might even say that we liked him. Therefore, we tried with all our might. At least I tried. Aside from me, our group included two other representatives of the fairer sex. With us he went out of his way to be polite, but, as girls aged nineteen, twenty and twenty-two, we tended to be frightened rather than cheered by this officer’s courtesy. We suspected that we would be the first candidates to be eliminated. Things turned out differently, however.
Those who ended up parting with their dark-blue Osoaviakhim tunics were a number of ill-bred lads, including three who held the certificate for ‘First-Class Red Army Marksman’. Potapov explained that he did not attach much significance to male–female distinctions among his pupils and he was sure that women – not all, of course – were better suited to sniper operations. They were hardy and observant, and they were given an enhanced intuition by nature itself. When undergoing military courses, women fulfilled all instructions precisely and had a considered and careful approach to the process of firing, and when it came to inventive disguises, which were so important for a sniper on the battlefield, they had simply no equals.
The praise from the senior instructor could have turned anyone’s head. But Alexander Vladimirovich gave us no time to enjoy it. He became stricter and more inclined to find fault with the cadets who remained in the group and he gave more attention to each of us. He discussed refinements we had never even thought about. For example, he made us observe a construction site – a three-storey building was being built on Vladimir Street for the No. 25 School – and then tell him what the workers had managed to do over a two-hour period, how the situation on the site had changed, where the new doors, window apertures, staircases and internal walls had appeared and what position would be most convenient for a shot to neutralize, say, the site foreman, who was running up and down the plank footways from floor to floor.
Slowly but relentlessly Potapov taught us to observe the surrounding world closely, to examine keenly the details of life’s rapid pace, as if through telescope sights, to gain a conception of the whole picture from minor details. With this approach, there was always something losing its significance, receding into or merging with the background. Or something would become particularly important. The true essence of every new object was made manifest, as if magnified by a lens.
It sometimes felt as if our ‘dear teacher’ was picking on me. There were times when, tackling a task which did not lend itself to swift resolution, I would begin to get hot under the collar. I became irritated at having to spend more time and energy on something which seemed at first glance to be completely commonplace. Potapov would halt the training session and calmly, insistently and even boringly, start to analyse everything, to explain, to point out the error, and follow the way I corrected it. I was surprised at the extent to which he fussed around with me. The senior instructor replied: ‘From whom much is given, much is demanded.’
As I have no intention of describing here the whole complex of skills and abilities essential for a sniper (for a civilian readership there is absolutely no point), I will just mention that, apart from actual shooting practice, the school put a lot of weight on theory classes. We were introduced to the laws of ballistics: in particular we were given an understanding of the ‘mil’ in distance estimation, were taught how to calculate the range quickly according to angles, using a special formula, and the reticles of PE telescope sights, binoculars and periscopes.2 We were taught how far the rapidly rotating bullet would drift laterally during its travel from the muzzle to the target. We also memorized various tables – for instance, the table of excessive deviations from average trajectories when firing the Mosin rifle with cartridges containing bullets ranging from ‘light’ to ‘heavy’, and so on and so forth.
Over four months of training our group came together. Spring arrived and we began to travel, not just to the firing range, but also into the countryside, where the indefatigable Potapov arranged additional exercises on methods of camouflage. In some distant clearing the cadets would unfold a tablecloth, placing on it bottles of lemon-flavoured mineral water and lemonade, and setting out all sorts of foodstuffs brought from home. The senior instructor would give a lecture and demonstrate how to camouflage oneself in a natural setting. Sometimes we were actually unable to find him for half an hour or more. In those cases, we would shout, ‘We give in,’ and our teacher would emerge before us in some unimaginable yellow-green hooded overalls adorned with tatters of cloth, dry twigs and clumps of grass.
Other times, we would generally take a sniper’s rifle into the forest and play a game we called ‘bottle base’. After the drink bottles were empty from lunch, we would set up one of them on its side in a cleft stick with the bottle’s neck towards us at a distance of about 20 or 30 metres from the firing line. With a single shot we had to knock out the bottom of the bottle – that is, the bullet was supposed to enter the bottleneck and, without damaging the sides of the glass vessel, emerge through the bottom of the bottle, which would be smashed in the process.
Potapov would usually knock out the first bottle himself. Then he would hand the rifle to one of his pupils, and the contest for accuracy and skill began. We had some very ambitious kids, generally very young, who would give anything to lead the field and win Potapov’s praises. First, we were required to shoot from a kneeling position, that is, planting your right knee on the ground and resting on your heel. Second, we had to support the rifle with a strap which went under the bent elbow of the left arm. In this way the marksman could rest on the left knee and hold the handguard of the gun, having moved his or her hand closer to the muzzle end. All this demanded strength, stability and good balance.
Anyone who missed exited the game, to the jests and laughter of those present. The victorious were rewarded by Potapov; they received a small chocolate bar and a witty comment. For a while I did not have full confidence in my capabilities. Moreover, I do not like showing off or being the centre of attention, for one of the postulates instilled in us by the ‘dear teacher’ proclaimed: ‘Showing yourself is dangerous. The sniper is invulnerable so long as he is unseen.’
The day came when I was the one to whom Potapov handed the rifle. Suppressing my nerves, I took the weapon, forced the butt into the hollow of my shoulder as usual, placed my index finger on the trigger and, pressing my cheek to the comb of the butt, I stared into the eyepiece of the telescope sight with my right eye. The PE sight provided four-fold magnification. But even so, the neck of the bottle faded between the three black lines and looked just like a full-stop in bold type. All that was left was to rely on intuition, on that ‘feeling for the target’ which a sniper develops during the training process.
Spending too long taking aim is a common beginner’s error and I had long rid myself of it. So, everything went off exactly according to instructions, that is, within a time of eight seconds. Hold your breath, take aim and breathe out as you exert smooth pressure on the trigger. The rifle responded with the crack of a shot and kick in the shoulder. The white sides of the bottle were still gleaming in the sun as before, but the base of the bottle was . . . no longer there!
‘Well done, Lyudmila,’ said the senior instructor. ‘Can you repeat it?’
‘All right, let’s have a go,’ I agreed, for I was overcome by the excitement.
Potapov realized this and smiled. ‘Keep calm, my long-braided beauty –’ that was how the senior instructor sometimes jokingly referred to us girls in his group. ‘You have every chance of victory.’
The others quickly set up a new bottle in the fork. Potapov gave me a cartridge with a ‘heavy’ bullet and, opening the breech, I placed it in the chamber. Of course the mechanism would work without fail. I would press the trigger and, under the pressure of the action spring, the striker would move forwards sharply. Its end point, like the sting of a snake, would penetrate the ignition capsule at the base of the bullet. The powder charge in it would explode and the bullet, fastened in a brass casing by a ring, would finally win its freedom.
The day had turned out fine and sunny and, yielding to my will, the bullets fired superbly. Three ‘bottle bases’ – that was my final score from the competition in the forest. To the envy of the other cadets, the senior instructor presented me not just with the chocolate bar, but also with a copy of his booklet Instructions for Sharpshooters, autographed: ‘To Lyudmila Pavlichenko, my able pupil, in fond memory. A. Potapov’. I do not necessarily agree with this phrasing. After all, abilities are from nature, inborn, but when it comes to super-sharpshooting, one should also add firmness of character, industry, diligence, restraint and the persistent desire to learn.
I graduated from the sniper school with respectable results. The certificate of completion, printed on coated paper and adorned with the round seal of a crest, included the names of the subjects and the grades. The black letters formed words that I was very pleased with: Practical shooting – Excellent; Firearms mechanics – Excellent; Tactical training – Excellent; Military engineering training – Good. Our graduation evening was relaxed, noisy and merry. We talked about the future. Many of the lads intended to apply for military colleges. The girls planned to pursue shooting within the Osoaviakhim system, to take part in competitions and compete for the title ‘USSR Master of Sport’. However, it was already 1939.
On 1 September Nazi Germany attacked Poland and the Second World War began. The Poles resisted the invaders, but by 8 September the Germans had nearly reached Warsaw. The siege continued for twenty days. Then the government fled to Romania and Poland was completely occupied by the Germans. In April 1940 the Nazis marched into Denmark and Norway. With British and French help, the Norwegians held out for two months, but capitulated in June. Then came the turn of Belgium and France. The German advance began on 20 May and, by the 28th, the greater part of the Belgian army had already laid down their arms. After the encirclement of the Allied British, French and Belgian troops at Dunkirk on 4 June 1940 the British retreated from the European continent to their own island, leaving to the victors all their artillery and tanks, over 60,000 vehicles, and up to half a million tons of military equipment and ammunition, as well as around 40,000 captured soldiers and officers. On 22 July of the same year the heirs of the valiant warriors of Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte surrendered Paris to the Fritzes without a battle! A Blitzkrieg indeed – that is, a ‘swift war’.
Observing the rapid downturn in European events, we could not avoid thinking that sooner or later the aggressor would descend on our own, and the world’s first, worker and peasant state. Over our traditional evening cup of tea, my father, who had confidential information by virtue of his occupation, talked more and more often about the difficult times ahead. I argued with him, insisting that, in the words of the Civil War song, ‘from our native forest to the British sea, our own Red Army is the best there can be’, and that it would be a case of us fighting on foreign territory.
As events demonstrated, Father was right and I (along with millions of other Soviet people) was drastically wrong. I can only explain my misplaced confidence as a reflection the state of my own affairs, which were going magnificently. Because I was passing all my university subjects with excellent grades, I was permitted to combine study with work allied to my specialist subject. At the end of 1939 I was appointed to the position of head of the acquisitions section at the state history library. Just as I had before, at the Arsenal factory, I began once again to contribute towards the general family budget and to spend more money on my son, who had turned seven.
I passed my fourth-year exams in the history faculty along with my fellow students in January 1941, with grades ranging from excellent to good. The management of the state history library in Kiev offered me the opportunity of a lengthy – four-month – secondment to the Odessa public library as a senior research assistant to support local research staff. I was familiar with the rich resources of this library, which was one of the oldest in the Ukraine. I imagined that I would easily be able to write my diploma dissertation there on Bogdan Khmelnitsky, the Ukraine’s accession to Russia in 1654 and the activities of the Pereyaslav Council. The following year I was due to defend this dissertation at Kiev State University and receive a diploma of higher education.
I prepared for my departure in the most joyful mood. Nevertheless, the conversations with my father had fortunately had an impact on me. Therefore, I put in my suitcase not only my passport, student card and academic record booklet, but also my certificate of graduation from the sniper school, our teacher’s pamphlet and a collection of memoirs entitled Combat in Finland, which had been published in Moscow at the beginning of 1941.
The train from Kiev to Odessa left in the evening. My whole family came to the station. Father was earnest and taciturn as always. Mother gave me some last words of advice on healthy eating. My sister Valentina and her young man Boris were whispering about something. My son Rostislav did not want to let go of my hand at all and asked me to take him with me, promising to help me in my work. Tears were welling up in his eyes and I tried to comfort him a little and cheer him up. I could not have imagined that I would be separated from him for almost three years!