Those who are fond of military memoirs often face the question of which literature to give preference to. I myself have made the wrong choice more than once, buying into high-profile book titles and beautiful descriptions. And so that others do not repeat my mistakes, I wrote reviews of a dozen and a half memoirs on the Eastern Front, which I happened to read. The main evaluation criteria for me are the objectivity of memoirs, and, of course, they must be interestingly written. And I especially appreciate it when the author, in addition to describing the course of hostilities and general position affairs at the front, also analyzes these events, indulges in reflection, shares his observations, feelings and experiences with the reader. In general, it is revealed as a writer. If you have the same requirements for memoirs, then my feedback may be useful to you.

1. Hendrik Ferten - On fire Eastern Front. Memories of an SS Volunteer.

It is generally accepted that military memoirs cannot be regarded as a reliable historical source. Of course, the vision of the author can be extremely subjective. And the facts stated by him may have inaccuracies, and sometimes gross errors. But for a reader who is interested specifically in memoirs, it is not so much the numbers and the exact geography of the battles that are important, but also the story of the participant in those events in the first person, the war through the eyes of a soldier in all its manifestations. And whether to believe what is stated in the memoirs, the reader must decide, guided by his knowledge and critical thinking.

And now we will talk about memoirs, which, in my opinion, are of great historical value. And literary, by the way, too, because I enjoyed the very process of reading. They do not begin with hostilities, but with what moods prevailed in Europe, what events preceded the start of World War II. The author, who is Dutch by nationality, shows, using the example of his family and country, what was the attitude towards Germany among ordinary citizens and politicians. Then he tells how the German army conquered one European country for another. After that, he himself volunteers for the SS troops, undergoes training at an army school and goes to the Eastern Front as an infantryman in the ranks of the 5th SS Panzer Division "Viking". Further, Hendrik Ferten describes four long years of a bitter war against the USSR, a significant part of the book is devoted to the heroic defense of Breslau, in which he took part as part of the Dutch SS Regiment "Besslein". The defenders of Breslau lay down their arms only in May 1945. Having surrendered to the will of the victors, the former front-line soldiers and the civilian population were terrorized by the Bolsheviks. The author of these memoirs miraculously escaped being sent to Soviet camps, and later he managed to escape to the Western Zone of Occupation. And for the long post-war years, Ferten had to wander around Germany, hiding his real name. He could not return to the Netherlands, because all over Europe, former volunteers who fought in the national legions of the SS were waiting for prison or death in their homeland.

2. Biderman Gottlob - In mortal combat. Memoirs of an anti-tank crew commander. 1941-1945.

Memoirs of a German soldier, for whom the war with the USSR began in the southern direction as part of the artillery crew of the 132nd Infantry Division of the Wehrmacht. In the very first battles in Ukraine, Biederman Gottlob learned how easily the Soviet command disposes of the lives of its soldiers, sending thousands of them to certain death. He talks about the friendly relations established with the local population. Describes in detail the capture of Sevastopol. In the autumn of 1942, his division was transferred to the Northern Front near Leningrad, where the Soviets constantly made attempts to break through the blockade of the city. And Gottlob himself goes on vacation to his homeland, where he is sent to a military school to receive an officer's rank. Upon returning to the front, he becomes a platoon commander. Ahead of him are fierce battles on the Volkhov front. Then the Courland Cauldron, where the German soldiers showed extreme stamina, for 7 months repelling the advances of the Red Army, which outnumbered them and in equipment. As a result, the Soviets failed to liquidate the Courland grouping, which laid down its arms only after the surrender of Germany. And now, after four years of war, Gottlob is sent to the East already as a prisoner of war. Three painful years in the camps and the long-awaited return to their homeland.
These are memoirs that you start to like from the very first pages. The author writes interestingly, lively and objectively. He criticizes not only the cannibalistic communist system, but also subjected to reasonable criticism both individual decisions of Hitler and his ambitions, and the entire political elite of the Third Reich.

3. Hans Killian - In the shadow of victories. German surgeon on the eastern front 1941-1943.

Memoirs of Professor and Doctor of Medicine Hans Killian, who participated in World War II on the Eastern Front as a consulting surgeon. If you think that he has nothing to say about the war because he was not on the front line, then you are wrong. He has seen more deaths than any infantryman. In the hospitals that he oversaw, soldiers were lying with torn off, crushed or frostbite limbs, mutilated faces, and intestines falling out of their stomachs. Seriously wounded died on his operating table more than once. He, like other surgeons, often had to operate on one patient after another, without breaks for food and sleep, literally falling down from fatigue. Military and field hospitals had to pass through a huge flow of victims of the severe frosts of the winter of 1941/1942. And I must say that medicine at that time had little idea of ​​how to treat frostbite, so many soldiers lost limbs due to medical errors. The author of the book himself had to find effective and safe methods of treating frostbite, based on the experience and observations of Napoleon's personal surgeon, whose writings he read.

The author of these memoirs also shares his other memories that do not concern medical practice. He witnessed bloody battles, came under fire, and his car, along with parts of the German army, got stuck in the mud of Russian roads. Killian also describes the state of affairs on the fronts, and this is by no means an unfamiliar topic for him, because he himself was a soldier in the First World War.

4. Leon Degrel - Russian campaign 1941-1945.

Memoirs of the commander of the 28th SS Volunteer Division "Wallonia" Leon Degrel. A Belgian collaborator who firmly believed in the need for a crusade to the East. He showed himself not only as a brave soldier who took part in hand-to-hand combat more than once, but also as a talented commander. The Walloons under his command made daring victorious attacks, held the defense of the most difficult sectors of the front, covered the retreat of the main parts of the Wehrmacht when leaving the encirclement. With his character, courage, stubbornness, disdain for the enemy and devotion to his work, Degrel resembles another hero of that war - Hans-Ulrich Rudel. Both of them remained true to their convictions until the end of their lives and did not repent of anything, they were personally acquainted with the Fuhrer and received high awards from his hands. Hitler said to Degrel: "If I had a son, I would like him to be like you ...". Now, about the book itself. It is quite voluminous, and it describes in detail the preparation, course and consequences of the battles, which for an unprepared reader may seem boring. And for those who are fond of military memoirs, reading should be of interest. In addition, the author is endowed with an outstanding writing talent.

5. Hans-Ulrich Rudel - Pilot of the Stukka.

Memoirs of the famous bomber pilot Hans-Ulrich Rudel, the only holder of the full bow of the Knight's Cross: with Golden Oak Leaves, Swords and Diamonds. The only foreigner awarded Hungary's highest honor, the Gold Medal for Valor. A man who is devoted to his work and fatherland to fanaticism. A fearless warrior, whom even the surrender of Germany did not make him bow his head to the victors and give up his beliefs. No remorse, no regret, only contempt for the enemy and bitterness from defeat. A defeat in which, according to Rudel, "the German soldier was not defeated in battle on an equal footing, but simply crushed by the overwhelming masses of military equipment." I think that to finally encourage you to read this book, it will be enough just to give a brief summary of the military exploits of the German ace.

Rudel is famous for having made 2530 sorties. He piloted the Junkers-87 dive bomber, at the end of the war he moved to the helm of the Focke-Wulf 190. During his combat career, he destroyed 519 tanks, 150 self-propelled guns, 4 armored trains, 800 trucks and cars, two cruisers, a destroyer and heavily damaged the battleship Marat. In the air he shot down two Il-2 attack aircraft and seven fighters. He landed six times on enemy territory to save the crews of wrecked Junkers. The Soviet Union placed a reward of 100,000 rubles on the head of Hans-Ulrich Rudel. He was shot down 32 times by return fire from the ground. Toward the end of the war, Rudel's leg was torn off, but he resumed flying as soon as possible.

6. Otto Carius - Tigers in the mud. Memoirs of a German tanker.

To be honest, at first these memoirs did not impress me much, but the further I read, the more interesting it became. All in all, I didn't have to be disappointed. Otto Carius began his combat career on a light tank Pz.Kpfw. 38(t) of Czech production, and in 1943 moved to the "Tiger". Much attention in the book is paid to the course of battles, from which the tank company of Carius often came out victorious, fighting against superior enemy forces. The interaction of infantry with armored vehicles, tactical actions, mistakes that Soviet tankers made are described. And interestingly, there is no bravado and boasting on the pages of memoirs, although Otto Carius is one of the best tank aces of the Third Reich, the owner of the Knight's Cross with oak leaves. A noteworthy episode is when he is seriously wounded, after which he miraculously survives, with this wound his war on the Eastern Front ended. But she continued for him on Western front, already as the commander of the Jagdtiger company. And what is especially valuable about these memoirs, the author compares both fronts, compares a Soviet soldier with an American one, and the comparison of the "Tiger" with the "Jagdtiger" was also not enough. The book ends technical specifications"Tigers" and detailed battle reports.

7. Josef Ollerberg - German sniper on the eastern front. 1942-1945.

These memories contain many bloody, horrifying scenes, all of which are very colorfully described. Serious wounds, terrible mutilations, piles of bodies, cruel tortures, deadly frosts - all this is available in large volume on the pages of this book. But here there is one unpleasant moment. The memoirs tell about the combat path of a sniper from the 2nd battalion of the 144th mountain rifle regiment of the 3rd mountain rifle division, whose real name is Josef Allerberger, and not what is indicated in the title. This was the second most successful Wehrmacht sniper, after Matthias Hetzenaur, who served in the same division and in the same regiment with Josef. But this book was written by small arms specialist Albrecht Wacker based on an interview with Allerberger. This is what confuses that the story is not obtained from the first mouth, and it is quite possible that the author could add something from himself or simply embellish the events. And I must say, sometimes there really are reasons to doubt the reliability of the narrative. Some episodes of the brutal cruelty of the Red Army soldiers may cause doubts in the reader, and it cannot be said that the author describes some unrealistic situations, similar facts are stated by other participants in those events. The very manner of presentation, the way the author presents it, looks implausible. Well, some details, for example, in two cases, Allerberger accidentally ended up not far from the place where the “bloodthirsty Russians” tortured their victims, watched this, and then left unnoticed. The episode told by the surviving orderlies, who miraculously managed to escape when Soviet soldiers captured the divisional first aid station and began to kill the medical staff and the wounded, is very indicative. Here it is alarming how the author describes in great detail events that he did not witness. And despite the fact that the text says that only one of the orderlies understood Russian, the remarks released by the Red Army are quite eloquent and sound feigned. In general, this whole situation seems more comical than terrifying. Fortunately, such episodes, which you treat with distrust, can be counted on the fingers of one hand. In all other respects the book is good and full of revelations. Much attention is paid to sniper business, tactics and professional qualities. The attitude towards snipers, both enemies and colleagues, is well shown.

8. Erich Kern - Dance of death. Memoirs of an SS Untersturmführer. 1941 - 1945.

Erich Kern begins his war on the Eastern Front as part of the SS division "Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler". He describes in detail the first battles in which he took part, after which the author completely goes into reflections on the eastern occupation policy of the Reich and the crimes of the Soviet regime. He sympathizes both with the German soldier who had to sacrifice himself because of the shortsightedness of the high command of his country, and with the civilian population of the USSR, which was caught between two political regimes as between an anvil and a hammer. Kern saw how at first the peoples of the occupied territories were friendly towards the Germans, and he saw how this trust turned into enmity due to unjustifiably harsh management by the occupying authorities. And during his first vacation, he drew up a memorandum about the mistakes committed by Germany in the East, which he sent to the highest state echelons of power, and even talked with Goebbels on this subject, but was never heard. These memoirs are full of regrets and disappointments. And in his reasoning, the author often delves into history in order to explain certain phenomena. And what should be noted, the editorial comments spoil the impression of the book, this is something incredible, I have not seen anything like it anywhere else. Moreover, half of the comments are not intended to supplement or correct the author, but simply the editor expresses some of his dissatisfaction in the spirit, he would have looked at himself, the damned fascist. All this is so stupid and ridiculous that it only causes irritation. In order not to be verbose, I will even give a few examples.

"The city police, formed from local anti-communists (a more precise definition - collaborators, more precisely - traitors. - Ed.)".

"Russian people have long been distrustful and suspicious of their neighbors (there was a reason. - Ed.)."

“Local residents took the last thing from the prisoners, and those who resisted were beaten with sticks with the full connivance of the escorts (a Russian proverb says: “As it comes around, it will respond!” - Ed.)”.

But in general, I won’t say that these are bad memoirs, but I don’t see any particular reason to admire them either. In some places, even quite interesting, at least I did not regret that I read them.

9. Wigant Wüster - "Damn Stalingrad!" Wehrmacht in hell.

These memoirs can be divided into three parts. The first part for those who love picture books, the narrative is abundantly supplied with photographs taken by the author and his colleagues, all this is accompanied by detailed comments. Much attention is paid to the author's enmity with his commander Balthazar, whose surname appears in the text as many as 65 times. Sometimes there is a feeling that Wigand Wüster wrote this book to take revenge on his offender. As you already understood, it is easy to get bored at this stage of reading. The second part is much more interestingly written, starting with the chapter on vacation, it becomes exciting to read. It is here that the main events unfold - the winter stage of the battle for Stalingrad. Hunger, cold, fierce battles at the limit of strength - all that we associate with the largest battle of the Second World War. The third part has nothing to do with the previous ones. These are small diaries-memoirs of four more artillerymen who fought on the same sector of the front as Wigand Wüster. In my opinion, this final part is also of little interest. To summarize the above - not the worst memoirs, but, in my opinion, one should write about Stalingrad more selectively, without being distracted by some insignificant things.

10. Edelbert Hall - The Agony of Stalingrad. The Volga is bleeding.

From such an epic title you expect something grandiose, but the reader will be completely disappointed. The author devoted most of the book to the autumn period Battle of Stalingrad, or more precisely, he describes in great detail how the preparations for the battle went on, who took what positions. He describes how he several times agreed with his superiors that he would be given assault guns in support. Then again some meaningless dialogues. And then a fleeting battle, a couple of courtyards were recaptured, then there were reports of losses, two people were killed, three were wounded ... Is this the scale of the Battle of Stalingrad? Is this how a memoir about the biggest battle of World War II should look like? And after these long preludes, we move on to the second half of the book, here the events unfold more interestingly, especially towards the end. Edelbert Holl talks about how exhausted, hungry German infantrymen fought against well-fed and well-armed Red Army soldiers, what they had to eat and how they shared food. Talks about the unenviable fate of wounded soldiers. But even here you can get bored, because the author's writing talent is clearly not enough, and the point is not at all in translation. Sometimes daily data is given from the diary of military operations of the army corps, and right there Holl writes the same thing, only in his own words. In general, to write memoirs worse - you have to try hard.

11. Horst Grossman - Rzhev nightmare through the eyes of the Germans.

These memoirs can only be of interest to historians, because in addition to the chronology of events, data on losses and the geography of battles, there is nothing in them. No dialogues, no soldier stories, just a dry report on the state of affairs at the front. The only downside to this book is that it is very short. There is nothing more to say about her.

12. Nikolai Nikulin - Memories of the war.

I think these are the most sincere and valuable memoirs about World War II written by a Soviet author. Harsh front-line truth, seasoned with interesting philosophical reflections. Nikolai Nikulin managed to be at the forefront as a radio operator, infantryman, artilleryman, and, as they say, reached Berlin. He had to experience all the horrors of that war and see all its unsightly sides ... Winter landscapes littered with the corpses of Soviet soldiers are the victims of a mediocre cruel, and often drunk, command. Bloody battles on the front line were fought by soldiers exhausted by hunger, cold and sleepless nights, and at this time the rear / staff officers stuffed their bellies in heated huts. The unenviable fate of girls who served in the Red Army. The occupation of Germany - murders, violence against women and children, robberies, looting and vandalism committed by the "liberators". The post-war years are the oblivion of front-line soldiers, the lies and bravado of former clerks at headquarters. The author told about all this on the pages of his manuscripts, which were not originally intended for publication.

13. Leonid Rabichev - War will write everything off. Memoirs of a communications officer of the 31st army. 1941-1945.

Memoirs of a Soviet communications officer, in which he, without unnecessary sentimentality, patriotic sentiments and a touch of romance, spoke about what he saw and experienced in that war. For which he fell out of favor with the admirers of the feat of grandfathers, who accuse the author of betrayal, venality and other mortal sins. What's with the disrespect for veterans? In general, the author did not show the “army of liberators” in the most favorable light, starting from the rank and file, many of whom had no idea about soldier’s honor, nobility and camaraderie, and ending with their commanders, from junior officers to generals, who can also be judged for crimes against humanity. Rabichev tells about the brutal mass rape of German women and girls in East Prussia, about the robberies and murders of civilians. He also talks about the fate of Soviet front-line girls who, against their will, became the mistresses of staff officers. The author also interestingly describes what kind of culture shock he himself and his colleagues experienced from how rich ordinary citizens and peasants live in Europe, which was very different from living conditions in the "socialist paradise".

Unfortunately, these memoirs have their shortcomings. The author absolutely does not comply with the time frame, writes about the war and immediately begins a story about his student years, then abruptly switches back to the war and so constantly. Everywhere he inserts his primitive poems and excerpts from front-line letters home. All this greatly spoils the impression of the book, there is no sense of the integrity of the narrative. In addition, Leonid Rabichev does not hesitate to once again tell the reader about his talents, merits and good deeds, which is sometimes annoying.

14. Mikhail Suknev - Notes of the commander of the penal battalion. 1941-1945.

In his memoirs, former Red Army officer Mikhail Suknev speaks of monstrous and unjustified losses on the Volkhov front, he explains this by the fact that most of the sensible officers and generals were destroyed by Stalin before the war, and those that remained were, for the most part, mediocre and merciless. But the author writes about this, although with regret, but almost without condemnation, emphasizing that the main enemy is the German. So you should not expect any revelations in the spirit of the same Shumilin, Nikulin or Rabichev from him. He even talks about the repressions of 1937 in a detached way. In general, I would say that these are the memoirs of a Soviet patriot. He does not speak badly about soldiers, he only spoke about the Basmachi and women as useless warriors. It was interesting to read about the regimental school, how commanders were trained from cadets, and about the fate of front-line soldiers after the war. A significant part of the book is devoted to pre-war life, or rather, the author's childhood and youth. He constantly and without hesitation praises himself, a typical example: “I am young. Grounded in military affairs, literature. Humanist. The artist is not without talent. Yes, and in his twenty-three years, the battalion major. In my opinion, these memoirs were published with a specific purpose - to tell about the personal merits of the author. But we must pay tribute, they are read easily and with interest, full of vivid soldier stories, in places it even seems that Suknev is lying, at least he is exaggerating for sure.

15. Alexander Shumilin - Vanka-company.

I must admit right away that I have read only a third of this book, but this is quite enough to form an idea about it. It has a large volume - 820 sheets of A4, and despite the fact that the author did not have time to finish it, it ends in April 1944. Excessive detail of the narrative is sometimes annoying, the work is really extremely long, the author can tell on several pages how to properly aim a rifle, or some other minor points. But in general, the memoirs are read at ease, written with talent and in good literary language. But the main value lies in the fact that Alexander Shumilin described the harsh trench truth. The war, shown through the eyes of "Vanka-Company", who had to raise soldiers into battle by his own example. The author tells about the mess and slovenliness in the Red Army of the 1941 model. He draws a line between the front-line soldiers who shed their blood or remained in the ground, and the rear of all stripes from commanders to staff barbers, who after the war put on orders and medals. Shumilin draws up a psychological portrait of a Russian soldier, talks about his way of thinking and needs. Well, in all colors he describes the death, injuries, pain and suffering that fell to the soldier's lot. In general, the memoirs are worthwhile, if you are not afraid of their volume, which is approximately equal to 6-8 average books.

In war and in captivity. Memoirs of a German soldier. 1937-1950 Becker Hans

Chapter 3 EASTERN FRONT

EASTERN FRONT

Like any uninvited guest on Russian soil, it took me some time to understand that, like representatives of other nations, Russians could not be treated with the same brush. My first impression was that they were all vicious beggars and looked more like animals than people. In battle, they did not know pity, like a herd of hungry wolves.

However, somehow an incident occurred that I will not be able to forget for the rest of my life. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before or since. And I still remember him like a nightmare. There may be skeptics who will not believe me, but as a witness, I am ready to swear on anything that this really happened. If it is true that those who have been on the verge of death are not capable of lying, then this fully applies to me: after all, I have experienced this feeling several times, therefore, I have long lost all taste for embellishing what happened with me actually.

I ended up on the Eastern Front immediately after the war with Russia began. And in my opinion, we were confronted by an enemy who belonged to some other, terrible breed of people. Fierce fighting began literally from the very first days of our offensive. The blood of the invaders and defenders flowed like a river on the blood-hungry land of "Mother Russia": she drank our blood, and we disfigured her face with machine-gun and artillery fire. The wounded screamed a terrible cry, demanding the help of orderlies, the rest continued to move forward. "Further! Even further!" - so we were ordered. And we didn't have time to look back. Our officers drove us eastward like evil demons. Each of them, apparently, decided for himself that it was his company or his platoon that would win all conceivable and unimaginable awards.

A big tank battle near Ternopil, and after it - another, near Dubno, where we did not have to rest for three days and three nights. Replenishment of ammunition and fuel supplies here was carried out not as part of units, as usual. Separate tanks were withdrawn one after another to the nearby rear, which hastily returned back to throw themselves into the heat of battle again. I happened to disable one Russian tank in the battle near Ternopil and four more near Dubno. The terrain in the battle area turned into a disorderly hell. Our infantry soon ceased to understand where the enemy was and where ours were. But the enemy was in an even more difficult position. And when the fighting here ended, many Russians had to either stay dead on the battlefield or continue on their way in endless columns of prisoners of war.

The prisoners had to be content with a watery stew and several tens of grams of bread a day. I personally had to witness this when I was wounded near Zhytomyr and received an assignment for the period of recovery to the warehouse of spare parts for armored vehicles in order to provide me, as it was believed, with a more “sparing regime”. There I once had to visit a prisoner-of-war camp to select twenty prisoners for a work team.

The prisoners were housed in the school building. While the non-commissioned officer - an Austrian - was picking up workers for me, I examined the territory of the camp. What were they doing here, I asked myself, how good or bad were their conditions?

So I thought in those days, unaware that not much time would pass and I myself would have to fight for survival in exactly the same circumstances, ignoring all the obvious signs of human degradation. For several years, all my vitality and aspirations went into such a struggle. I often thought with a grin about how radically my convictions had changed after that day in the camp near Dubno. How easy it is to condemn those around us, how insignificant their misfortunes seem, and how nobly, in our own opinion, we would behave if we were in their desperate situation! Come on, I teased myself afterwards, why don't you die of shame now, when no self-respecting pig will agree to change places with you and settle in the mud in which you live?

And so, when I stood at the threshold of the camp barracks, thinking about what strange creatures these “Mongols” must have been, this happened. A wild cry came from the far corner of the room. A clump of bodies burst through the darkness, snarling, grappling furiously, seemingly ready to tear each other apart. One of the human figures was pressed against the bunks, and I realized that one person had been attacked. Opponents gouged out his eyes, twisted his arms, tried to scratch pieces of flesh out of his body with their nails. The man was unconscious, he was practically torn to pieces.

Dumbfounded by the sight, I called out to them to stop, but to no avail. Not daring to enter the room, I froze in horror at what was happening. The killers were already stuffing chunks of torn flesh down their throats. I was able to make out the bare skull and protruding ribs of a man on the bunk, while in the other corner of the room two people fought for his hand, each with a crunch pulling it towards himself, as if in a tug-of-war competition.

Security! I shouted.

But no one came. I ran to the head of the guard and excitedly told him what had happened. But it made no impression on him.

This is nothing new to me,” he said with a shrug. - This happens every day. We have long ceased to pay attention to this.

I felt completely empty and exhausted, as if after a serious illness. Loading my batch of workers into the back of a truck, I hurried away from this terrible place. After driving about a kilometer, I sharply increased speed, realizing that the heavy feeling gradually began to let go. If only I could eradicate memories as easily!

The selected prisoners were closer to us Europeans. One of them spoke well German and I had the opportunity to chat with him while working. He was a native of Kyiv, and, like many Russians, his name was Ivan. Later I had to meet him again under very different circumstances. And then he satisfied my curiosity about the "Mongols" - Central Asians. It seems that these people used some kind of password word. As soon as it was pronounced, they all rushed together at the one who was destined to replenish their meat diet. The poor man was immediately killed, and the other inhabitants of the barracks saved themselves from hunger, which could not be satisfied with a meager camp ration.

The clothing of the locals was made of plain, undyed fabric, mostly homespun linen. In the village, their shoes were something like slippers made of straw or wood shavings. Such shoes were suitable only for dry weather, but not everyone could afford to buy rough leather boots that were worn in bad weather. Homespun socks were also worn on the legs, or they were simply wrapped from the feet to the knees with pieces of coarse fabric, which were fixed with thick twine.

In such shoes, local residents, men and women, walked many kilometers through the fields to the market with a bag over their shoulders and a thick stick on their shoulders, on which they hung two containers of milk. It was a heavy burden even for the peasants, despite the fact that for them it was an integral part of their harsh life. However, men were in a more privileged position: if they had wives, then they did not have to endure hardships so often. In most cases, Russian men preferred vodka to work, and going to the market turned into a purely feminine duty. They went there under the weight of their simple goods intended for sale. The first duty of a woman was to sell the products of rural labor, and the second was to buy alcohol for the male part of the population. And woe was to that woman who dares to return home from the market without the coveted vodka! I heard that under the Soviet system, the procedure for marriage and divorce was greatly simplified and, probably, this was often used.

Most people worked on collective farms and state farms. The first were collective farms that united one or more villages. The second were state-owned enterprises. But in both cases, earnings were barely enough to make ends meet. The concept of "middle class" was absent, only poor workers and their wealthy leaders lived here. I got the impression that the entire local population did not live, but was hopelessly floundering in the eternal swamp of the most miserable poverty. The definition of "slave" was most suitable for them. I never understood what they were fighting for.

Several of the major roads were well maintained, but the rest were just awful. On the rutted uneven surface lay up to half a meter of dust in dry weather and, accordingly, the same amount of viscous mud during the rainy season. The most common mode of transport on such roads was undersized Russian horses. Like their owners, they showed miracles of unpretentiousness and endurance. Without a murmur, these horses covered distances of twenty to thirty kilometers in any weather, and at the end of the journey they were left under the open sky, without any hint of a roof over their heads, despite the wind, rain or snow. That's who you could take survival lessons from!

The hard life was brightened up by music. The national instrument, the famous three-stringed balalaika, was probably in every home. Some, as an exception, preferred the accordion. Compared to our harmonicas, Russians have a lower tone. Probably, this is the reason for the effect of sadness, which is invariably heard in their sound. In general, every single Russian song that I heard was extremely sad, which, in my opinion, is not at all surprising. But the audience, as it turned out, liked to sit still, surrendering to the aura of sounds that personally caused unbearable sadness in me. At the same time, national dances required from each dancer the ability to move quickly and make complex jumps. So only a person with innate grace and plasticity could reproduce them.

Unexpectedly, I had to interrupt these private studies of my life in a foreign country: I was ordered to return to the front. I left the warehouse of tank spare parts and turned out to be one of those who advanced through Zhitomir to Kyiv. By the evening of the third day of the journey, I rejoined my comrades. Among them I saw many new faces. Gradually, the pace of our offensive became lower and lower, and the losses higher and higher. During my absence, it seemed that half of the personnel of the unit managed to go to the hospital or to the grave.

Soon I myself had to witness the heat of the fighting. We were sent into battle the same evening as I returned to my unit. In close combat in the forest, the crew of my tank acted with such skill that we managed to knock out six Russian T-34s. Hell raged among the pines, but we didn't get a scratch. I was already silently thanking God for this miracle, when suddenly the right skating rink of our Pzkpfw IV was smashed by a direct hit from an enemy shell, and we stopped.

We did not have time to think long about this misfortune: under the fire of enemy infantry, only lightning swiftness could save us. I gave the order to evacuate, and myself, as the captain of the ship, was the last to leave my tank. Saying goodbye to an old tank comrade, I disabled the cannon by firing a double charge, as well as the tracks, which I blew up with Teller's mines. It was all I could do to damage the car as much as possible.

By that time my crew was already safe and I had more than enough time to join my comrades. They were waiting for me in a relatively safe shelter, hiding in a ditch. I quickly crawled towards them, and everyone greeted me with joyful exclamations. We were all pleased with the result. The score was six - one in our favor; while not a single member of the crew received a scratch.

My next duty was to write a report to the platoon leader. We have not forgotten the deep-rooted sense of discipline in each of us, although those fierce battles turned even platoon leaders into our best comrades. This is how it should be at the front, where the general threat of death hovering over everyone eliminates ranks and positions. Therefore, I could write a report in a simple form, without much formality:

“Six enemy tanks destroyed, my commander. Our tank lost speed and was blown up by us. The crew returned safely to their positions.

I handed this to the commander mean description that fight. He stopped me, smiled broadly and, shaking my hand, let me go.

Good job, my young friend, - the commander praised me. “Now you can go and get some sleep. You deserve a rest, and even before the start of tomorrow, it may turn out that it is not in vain.

He was right about the second part of the phrase. It was not yet dawn when the alarm sounded. Everyone ran to their tanks to be ready at any moment to go where ordered. Everyone, but not me and my crew: our tank remained in no man's land. But we could not allow our comrades to go into battle without us, and I persuaded the commander to provide us with one of the reserve vehicles. He gave his consent.

Unfortunately, we did not have time to draw the number of our victories on the barrel of the cannon. This tradition of indicating the number of destroyed enemy vehicles with rings on the cannon meant a lot to the crew. Without this distinction that was rightfully ours, we felt somewhat out of place. In addition, the new tank, even though it was the same model as the previous one, was unfamiliar to us with its small details. And apart from everything else, we are all still experiencing the consequences of last night's battle.

But all these inconveniences, worries and anxieties were instantly forgotten as soon as shots were heard again. Our attack continued without interruption for four and a half hours, and during this time I managed to set fire to two enemy tanks. Later, when we began to turn around to go “home”, there was suddenly a heart-grabbing clap, followed by a blow. So the morning's bad premonitions were justified. This time it was not limited to the loss of the ice rink. Our tank received a direct hit in the stern on the right. The car was engulfed in flames, and I lay inside in a half-conscious state.

I was brought out of this state by the terrible realization that we were on fire. I looked around to try to assess the damage and the chances of rescue, and found that a Russian shell had killed two of my subordinates. Bloodied, they crouched in a corner. And we, the survivors, quickly jumped out, and then dragged the bodies of our comrades through the hatch so that they would not burn.

Ignoring the dense fire of the enemy infantry, we dragged our dead colleagues away from the flaming tank in order to bury them with dignity if the battlefield was left behind us. Ammunition inside the burning tank could explode at any moment. We dived for cover and waited for the earth to shake from a powerful explosion that would raise pieces of hot metal into the air and notify us that our tank was no more.

But there was no explosion, and after waiting a little longer, we took advantage of the temporary lull in enemy fire and hurried back to our own. This time everyone walked with their heads down, the mood was bad. Two of the five crew members were dead, and the tank, for unknown reasons, did not explode. And this meant that the ammunition and, possibly, the gun would fall intact into the hands of the enemy. Lost in gloom, we trudged three or four kilometers back to our location, smoking one cigarette after another to calm our nerves. After the explosion of an enemy shell, we were all spattered with blood. I had shrapnel stuck in my face and arms, and my identification badge miraculously protected me from a deep shrapnel wound to my chest. I still have a small indentation in the place where this token, about the thickness of a large coin, entered my sternum. The fact that this small token helped me save my life, once again strengthened my confidence that I was destined to survive this war.

The platoon had already reported the rest of the casualties. Two tank crews were completely killed, and the platoon commander himself was seriously wounded. But he was still there, and I managed to bitterly report to him about our misadventures on that unfortunate day for us, until an ambulance arrived and he was taken to the hospital.

Later that day, I was called to the divisional headquarters, where I and two surviving comrades from my crew received Iron Crosses 1st Class. And a few days later I was awarded the medal promised for the first successful battle for the destruction of enemy tanks. Three weeks later I received a sign for participation in close combat, which, when I was in the hands of Russian soldiers, caused me to receive new wounds. (Obviously, this was the “General Assault” badge (Allgemeines Sturmabzeichen), established on January 1, 1940, in particular, it was awarded to military personnel who destroyed at least eight units of enemy armored vehicles. - Ed.)

Victory honors after the battle! I was proud, but not particularly cheerful. Glory grows brighter over time, and the biggest battles have long since taken place.

The order to go to the Eastern Front However, a surprise awaited me in Berlin. Instead of the expected transfer to Copenhagen, I received an order to go to the Eastern Front. First, I had to report to the front-line personnel department in Krakow. The departure was so urgent that