Magazine "OGONEK", 1984 issues № 38 (page 12-14), 39 (page 14-15), 40 (page 8-9). http://nozdr.ru/data/media/biblio/j/ogonjok/1984/Огонек%201984-38.pdf http://nozdr.ru/data/media/biblio/j/ogonjok/1984/Огонек%201984-39.pdf http://nozdr.ru/data/media/biblio/j/ogonjok/1984/Огонек%201984-40.pdf Author: HSU DUBINDA "ALMOST A LIFETIME AGO..." -------------------------- Issue № 38, pages 12-14 : -------------------------- I was born on a "dubok", i.e. a coastal craft. This coastal ship bore an unusual double name "Friend-Brother". This happened on the eve of the imperialist war in July of the Summer 1914. "Dubok" belonged to my father, Khristofor Gavrilov DUBINDA, and was an ordinary sailing ship that could take on board two thousand puds (old Russian weight measure) of cargo - more than thirty tons. I remember it well in later years, when as a boy, I sailed under it's sails to Evpatoria, Kherson, Odessa, carrying salt, watermelons, gravel ... the poet Eduard BAGRITSKY wrote elegantly about such voyages : The desert sun sets in the brine, The moon is pushed up by the waves... Fresh blows! Right in the face! Let's go! Dubok, move your sails! The sea is full of thick white sea foam lambs. And watermelons squeak, and it's dark under the deck... Only we didn’t see any special romance in such life - we just earned our bread. The father Khristofor Gavrilovich was a shipowner, to put it formally. He was the skipper, the captain of the team, and my older brothers, mother, and sometimes sisters, went with him as sailors and loaders. There were ten children in the family. I was born last, the tenth. It happened at sea, somewhere not far from town Ochakov. So my mother, a sailor on duty, gave way on deck to one of her eldest sons, and the skipper, father, took on the role of a midwife ... So, I was brought up to the dry land already done, so to speak. When I hear the famous song "Where does Motherland begin?” - I remember the yellow, salty sands surrounded by water, islands of high reeds, heavy flapping of sails, fishing nets hung out to dry ... I don’t remember my elder brother. He fought in the Tsarist army, came back home in 1917. My mother said that he held me in his arms ... Then he went to the Red Army and died somewhere near Kakhovka. From the age of ten I already helped my father, went with different loads on the same coastal craft on which I was born, and at fourteen I began an independent life - I was hired as a sailor on the sailing ship "The Favourite of the Sea". She was steered by captain Pavel Sofronovich GORBACHENKO, a man well-known along the entire coast. He was a really great teacher. He stormed the Winter Palace in 1917, listened to Lenin’s speeches in Petrograd more than once, and in January 1918, he became the first chairman of the revolutionary committee in our village ... Then Pavel Sofronovich fought on the fronts of the civil war and returned again back to the village Prognoy. I don’t know how it is with other people who remember their life, but my biography will be incomprehensible, even incorrect, if you don’t tell at least a little about our village. Where the Dnieper approaches the Black Sea, forming a wide estuary with countless channels, spits, islets, where reed thickets with countless flocks of wild ducks, geese, cranes and other living creatures stretch for tens of kilometres, there is a large area of sandy desert covered with mirrors of lakes. They are called rotten (Prognoy) because they are lifeless, they are salty. Three hundred years ago, the Cossacks mined here salt, then a camp of the Cossacks Sech arose, and only at the beginning of the last century, the village Prognoy was formed. It never expanded and grew, because the conditions for life were unusual, or rather, there were no such suitable conditions. Nothing grew on the sands, in Summer - heat, in Winter - piercing moist winds. Desert. When the first collective farm was organized in the Soviet years, the fields were allocated to it ... as far away as 30 kilometres from the village! People who settled and remained living here were daring and tenacious, like a desert thorn. Huts were built from reeds and clay, they worked in salt mines. What an inhuman ordeal this salt mining work was well described by the writer Maxim GORKY in the story "On the Salt". He himself worked these places. Some people earned living by fishing, but there was little benefit from fishing - where to sell the catch, if the nearest bazaar on the Golaya harbour is more than 40 kilometres away? To bring the catch there, constantly shifting the sails in narrow channels, is not worth it for the profit you get. They sold it to traders for next to nothing. Most of the boys in our village, from the age of fifteen, or even younger, went as sailors to large cities like Kherson, Odessa, Nikolaev. These boys dispersed along the entire coast, became excellent boatsmen and skippers. Out village is known for many family dynasties of famous captains, mechanics, polar and Antarctic sailors. My home village Prognoy was home to several Heroes of Soviet Union. My fellow villager K.G.VISOVIN, as part of the assault sailors squad, was the first to break into Sevastopol occupied by the Nazis. He died on 09 May 1944 - exactly 1 year before Victory Day - and was posthumously awarded the title Hero of the Soviet Union. One of the legendary defenders of the Hanko island was also my countryman G.Y. YAVODOVSKY. He became famous as the commander of a minesweeper squadron, broke through the blockade of Leningrad, and was awarded the title of Hero of the Soviet Union for the brilliant mine sweeping of the Danzig Bay. My third fellow villager, N.G.TANSKY, commanded a unit of torpedo boats in the Northern Fleet, legends circulated about his courage and military audacity - his thirteenth combat award in the Great Patriotic War was the Gold Star of a Hero. Many years after the war, the Kherson regional newspaper devoted several pages to the heroes of our village, to many maritime family dynasties. Marshal ZAKHAROV, who was then Chief of the General Staff of our Armed Forces, responded to these publications. He wrote: “Thank you for the fact that on your land there is such a village of Heroes, there are people whose life is a feat, an example for all us to follow.” Much can be said about the peaceful heroism of my fellow villagers too. The harpooner of a whaling flotilla N.N.GNILYAK and the captain-director of the fishing trawler V.V.MIKHASKO, who inherited his profession from his father and grandfather, became Heroes of Socialist Labour. I cannot name here many dozens of well-known people in the country from our village who distinguished themselves during the years of the revolution, the civil war, the difficult time of peaceful reconstruction. And there were just 640 souls living in the village ... This small village was renamed in 1963, it was Prognoy (Rotten), and became Heroiskoe (Village of the Heroes). ... There was nothing special about the fact that at the age of fourteen I became a sailor, and at sixteen I felt as confident on the water as on the dry land. And when I was called up for military service in 1936, I was assigned to serve on the famous cruiser "Chervona Ukraina" - immediately to the boatswain's team. The cruiser stood in Sevastopol, at the factory wall, like a multi-storey steel building. But we lived on the shore, in the land barracks, and every day from morning to evening we hung along the sides of the ship, upholstering the rust centimetre by centimetre. The cruiser was under repair for about a year. My military service did not leave any special impressions: much was familiar, even habitual, except for the rigid, minute-by-minute daily routine. But for a person accustomed to work, this is not a burden. Most of all, I remember my sport adventures... After lunch, a boat approaches, a command is heard: “Athletes, for training!” I see, that one sailor has laid down his tools, another one... And the rest are cleaning the rust, rattling against the steel sides - a boring occupation. My friend Yura DAVYDOV says: “Come on, let's sign up as athletes.” In the evening, the approached our sports organiser and signed up as runners. The first lesson coincided with the general 10 kilometres race. We took the start ... At first everything went like normal, and then we realised: it’s not easier here than upholstering a rusty boat hull. Then Yura says: “Let's hold back a little, catch our breath, then we will run faster and catch up with the others.” It's easy to fall behind than to catch up, I tell you. In general, we ran the last kilometres barely on pride, completely dizzy. The next day, we felt like we were beaten all over the body, all the muscles hurt. We barely crawl along the ladders, along the deck, grabbing onto the handrails. So, we decided that running was not for us. But my friend was still anxious. After two weeks, he says: “Let's sign up for boxing.” So we did. We worked until lunch on the ship, then we were brought to the gym and given gloves. The coach showed us different types of punches, placed us near beating bags stuffed with something heavy, and ordered us to practice. We punch and punch. A week passes, another one ... The coach is busy, he has his own business - he works with experienced ones who are expected to go for a competition. A month later, he remembered about us, the newcomers, and there were about three dozen of us. On one of the trainings, he came in and ordered extending his hand: “In two lines - stand!” I was nearby, and so I stood next to the coach. “First line, two steps forward! Turn around!" I turn around and see that a guy was standing behind me, and now he is in front of me. He was about two meters tall, hands are like shafts, the sport blouse could barely covers his elbows. I am thinking: "How am I going to fight him?" And the coach commands: "Go!" Before I had time to gather courage, my partner gave me a good one in the cheekbone. I almost fell. But he gave me another one from the other side. Straightened me out, so to speak. I myself was not particularly physically strong, average, one might say... He gave me another one straight in the forehead. I fell back and sat on the floor. I got so angry, that I forgot all my boxing lessons. I jumped up and went all in. The village style - in the stomach - and got him. He bent over, so I could already reach his head. We were beating each other full heartedly. Until we were exhausted. I pressed my nose against his chest, and he held my hands. The coach came and looked ... “Well done! Great workout!" After this class, I looked at my sidekick Yura DAVYDOV - a black eye, a cracked lip and the mouth skewed in the wrong place. And it turns out he was laughing at my looks. DAVYDOV still has that scar on his lip. We see each other sometimes. He lives in Kherson ... Then, in 1936, we decided that boxing was not for us either. However, the coach persuaded me. I returned to the boxing classes. I never become a great athlete, but the boxing skills I received were very useful during the war years. In the reconnaissance missions, this was, perhaps, my main weapon. When the cruiser "Chervona Ukraina" came out of repairs, they appointed me the foreman of the boat, and the rank had a senior sailor. I would be on duty for a day shift with my team. Tasks: sail people ashore, sail them back to the ship. The next day, we worked the shift on the ship, reporting to the chief boatswain. We never got time to get bored. We worked out all sorts of combat scenarios in case of a battle, fire, possible damage to the ship, we went to the "BOU" - "combat team exercises", conducted targeting practice. At that time we were mastering a new weapon system - torpedoes. They were obviously very expensive, and after each shot I had to catch it with my team and return it to the ship. Of course, there was no explosive charge in them. Once the torpedoists did not calculate properly, and a torpedo jumped out onto the Evpatoria beach, putting on a lot of noise among the tourists. The years of hard service forged hardened sailors, iron discipline was instilled, which was maintained not at all by fear of punishment, but by the fear of letting down a comrade, of causing displeasure of a beloved commander. I am not exaggerating at all. The main educational tool was your mates "sharp words". God forbid, if your comrades see fear, greed, a hidden desire to gain something for ourself in your behaviour... Such sharp word killed you, so that you could resurrect as new improved being. I remember well the first day of the war in Sevastopol, or rather the first night. On the evening of 21 June 1941, Saturday, I took over the watch duty. There was a lot of work: half of the cruiser's personnel received shore leave. The ship was in the roadstead, and my boat had to shuttle from the ship to the pier more than once, ferrying sailors and officers. By 23:00, when the sailors' free time ended, I had already transferred everyone back to the ship. Officers were allowed to stay in the city until morning. The officer on duty told me that by 01:00, I had to sail to the "III International" pier and pick up the patrol team. That night the sailors of our cruiser were on the patrol duty in the city. I ordered my crew to depart, set sail from the high side of the "Chervona Ukraina" and went to the city. We crossed the bay and went to the embankment a little earlier than expected. Understood, everyone wanted to end the day on duty as soon as possible... We are standing at the pier, waiting for our patrol team. And suddenly a man runs towards us, in the silence of the night city the clatter of boots resounds. And to us: “Who is in command?” I report:“The foreman of the boat DUBINDA”. Ha says: “Steam up your vessel. Take me across the North Bay. Urgently!" I explain that I am waiting for my people from the patrol team. He said: "What!? Don't you know the regulations? Execute the order of a superior officer!" And shoves an officer's ID into my face. A pilot from the headquarters. I do not remember his rank. He said: “An aircraft was just shutdown over Kacha few minutes ago. It is still unknown whose aircraft it was. I need to be there immediately." Kacha was a place with several airfields and a famous pilot school. Well, I had to obey and went across the bay. He jumped out as soon as we approached the pier. And I didn't even have to moor at the pier. We are returning - our patrol team is already standing on the embankment. We took them and left. Suddenly, above our heads, searchlights painted the entire sky with stripes. One of the beams illuminated the plane - not that high, over the bay, and the speed was not very high. Here other searchlights crossed their beams on him, leading him across the sky straight to Sevastopol. Quiet around, only the plane roars. Suddenly, something separates from the aircraft. A parachute opened, the breeze carries it towards the city, and searchlights accompany it almost to the very ground. A parachute descends on one of the streets. A crimson flash covered half the sky, and then a terrible explosion was heard. A magnetic mine was dropped on a parachute. When we approached the ship, the messengers lined up along the side. They were ready to run to the city, looking for the officers who were released until morning. The patrol left, the messengers came into my boat... By 03:00 in the morning, the whole cruiser team was on board. And in the morning, from the speech of V.M.MOLOTOV, we learned that the war had begun. In the first months of the war, Sevastopol was relatively calm. The enemy did not dare to attack it from the sea; air raids were repulsed by ship and coastal anti-aircraft guns. We patrolled the streets. During the air raid, work began for us: enemy scouts turned up in the city, who gave light signals to fascist aircraft. There was an order to shoot at the lights after the announcement of the air alarm. In late August - early September, everyone followed the battles near Odessa with tension. Some ships went to help Odessa. A particularly difficult situation arose when the enemy broke through to the isthmus between the Kuyalnik estuary and the coast and installed heavy artillery there. The enemy battery terrorised the city and fired on the ships that were approaching the port of Odessa. By that time, our boat, together with the crew, was transferred to the cruiser "Krasny Krym". A big operation was being prepared. On the night of 22 September 1941, a detachment of ships (two cruisers and two destroyers) left Sevastopol. The commander of the detachment, Rear Admiral S. G. GORSHKOV, suddenly summoned all the foremen of the boats, including me. We lined up - there were up to twenty people. He walked in front of the formation - a young, strong, thirty-year-old Rear Admiral! Considering that we had a puffy saying “A sea cook is more important than a land colonel”, one can understand with what "admiration" we looked at the commander. Later, I had the opportunity to experience in my own skin the unthinkable hardships that fell on the shoulders of the land infantry. But, I guess, the high naval ambitions of my comrades were only to the benefit of the common cause. The rear admiral told us about the situation developed near Odessa, that we were to land troops in the Grigoryevka area, the purpose of which was to capture the enemy’s artillery positions near Dofinovka. He said a few words about our special responsibility and asked: "Any questions?" - "Allow me!" — I suddenly rushed to say. - "I'm listening." - "I want to go first." - I said. He looked at me with interest and asked, why do I pursue such an honour. Trying to be brief, I explained: - "I used to go here on sailboats before my service ... Eight years. I know every stone on the shore." - He answered: “Very well, you will lead the first assault detachment. At your signal, if the landing is successful, the entire landing force will depart." At about 01:00, we went to the traverse of Grigoryevka opposite the Adzhalyk estuary. 82 people led by a lieutenant commander plunged into my boat and we set sail. Our ships opened heavy fire on enemy positions on the shore. The shells flew above our heads. The manoeuvre itself was not difficult for me, even in complete darkness I would have found where to moor. Here the artillery illuminated everything. We sailed with high speed. Closer to the shore, the Germans began shooting at us. One shell exploded almost under our boat on the coastal shoal, raising and bringing down a wall of mud on us. Still on the move, the troops jumped out on a sloping shore. The naval infantry, biting the ribbons of their sailor caps, fell out from the sides - and into the darkness ... I immediately reversed - but the ship stuck. Too far out on the sand. I shouted to the Lieutenant commander (he jumped out first and watched the landing) to bring back a dozen brothers to help... They returned, pushed the boat into the water, and then I shot a green rocket into the sky. This means that the advance detachment has landed successfully, and the main forces can depart. When I was returning, the boats of the main landing force rushed towards me, carrying about two thousand men. Using their success, troops of the Coastal Army launched an offensive near Odessa. The enemy retreated, having lost many soldiers and about 50 guns and mortars... The Soviet Military Encyclopedia says that "this counterattack was the first example of the successful interaction of ground forces with amphibious assault forces and Naval aviation on the Black Sea during the years of the Great Patriotic War". When we returned to the board of the cruiser "Red Crimea", the officer on duty ordered me: - DUBINDA, you are ordered to return to the shore, pick up the wounded and go to Odessa, to the Fontansky lighthouse. In Odessa, I get a new order: our boat to go to the Kinburn Spit. One of our retreating land units stuck in that hopeless blind end. Soldiers had to be transported by a bot on several flights to the Gendrovskaya Spit, and later, a group of demolition men was removed from the Tendrovskaya Spit... All these campaigns and crossings along the coast occupied by the enemy, all under fire, nerve breaking affairs. We used the dark hours, indulged in all sorts of tricks. And in Sevastopol itself, the sailors had a lot of trouble. Naval artillery fired on the advancing Nazis, repulsed enemy attacks from the air. A 1000kg bomb hit our cruiser "Chervona Ukraine" when it was at the pier, right in the left side engines. As soon as the emergency work began (I was in the emergency team), some rushed to put out the fire, others to evacuate the dead and wounded, when the second bomb (the enemy vulture managed to turn and make a second run) fell into the water next to the side-center of the ship. It was shallow at the pier, and an explosion of enormous force broke the cruiser in two. The aft part of the hull set on the ground ... For several days we removed guns from the sunken cruiser, transported them to the positions in land of the defenders of the city. But one night this part of the ship with the guys from the emergency team who were in the interior capsized. Almost everyone who was there died. I was enrolled into the 8th Marine Brigade, which fought hard battles on the Mekenzievy Mountains. I became an artilleryman. I was not particularly great in this capacity. Of course, I understood some of it and was an artillery crew number: brought shells, loaded gun. Worked like everyone else. People were dying around and I had to replace them on the go. I don’t remember much of these battles, because in the Spring 1942, when I was recalled to the emergency brigade, I was seriously shell-shocked. It happened on the North Side. A heavy-caliber mine blew up and raised a wall of earth and fragments very close to me, and I was “only” hit by the blast wave ... I lost my speech, became deaf, and much was forever erased from my memory. My pals looked after me and did everything that they could in those conditions, but I never got into the transport that evacuated the wounded to the main Soviet territory. When the Nazis broke into the city, my comrades helped me to walk, sometimes just dragging me away, retreating towards the Kamyshovaya Bay. Thousands and thousands of the last defenders of the city, already without heavy weapons, with one bullet for every two, were hopping a transport would come to take them out... There were a lot of wounded. But the ships could not break through to us. The submarines (there were just a few of them anyway) took out only one out of a hundred. We did not run away from the city, but, according to the order, we went to places where we could neither hide nor organise defence... Why am I recalling this? Shortly after the war, I came home with my Star of the Hero and orders of Glory. There was a member of our Golaya Pristan district committee, who once said at a meeting, that I was obliged to shoot myself in those days. And since I did not do this, I was taken prisoner, which means that I have no right to be a Communist party member. I understood the essence of this man. He later proved to be a thief. Another thing is not clear: why then there was no one else at the meeting to object him? We, a helpless crowd, were attacked by German tanks... Someday they will write about that tragedy in Kamyshovaya, Cossack bays, at Cape Chersones. I was saved by the fact that I was in the working uniform of the emergency brigade, and not in my Naval uniform. The Nazis dealt unspeakably brutally with the sailors, especially the ones from Sevastopols. Many sailors, as if anticipating this, went into the sea and shot themself. -------------------------- Issue № 39, pages 14-15 : -------------------------- A column of prisoners of war was walked to Simferopol. My friends literally carried me along. I still spoke badly, but I already could hear. The prisoner-of-war camp was a large territory, which was crossed by a water stream, a fence made of barbed wire. In the corners - towers with machine guns. Inside, two-meter-wide strips painted with chalk and lime, which intersected and divided the site into smaller squares. People stood and sat in squares, as if on a chessboard, not having the right to step beyond the white lines. For our feeding, they brought some kind of rubbish. The water came right from the stream. We mixed that rubbish with water. All raw, of course. People having a tin mess had obvious advantage. Those who did not have it had to just survive. Take your soup in the palms if you want to eat... Fortunately, I found a completely flattened tin can, and after a day of painstaking work, with the help of two pebbles, I made something like a bowl out of it. The crowd was terribly dense. You are under the open sky, but it is impossible to lie down, stretch out, if someone crawls outside the white line, they pay with their lives. The Nazis were masters of such nasty tricks. I remember that one day a German officer came out onto a path marked with white stripes, accompanied by several henchmen - policemen from the guards. A handsome man for sure! Tall, slender, his face is stern, open, and his gaze is such that it pierces through you. He walks between the squares and says: “Whoever of you, who reports a Communist or a Jew will freely leave the camp with the necessary documents and can go home. If your house is still on the territory of the Bolsheviks, it will not be long to wait, our troops have already approached the Volga." He walks between the squares, peers into our faces, repeats his conditions in every way. And suddenly a shout: “I! I will show!" He gets out onto the path ... just an ordinary man, nothing special about him, not remarkable in any way... and says that he saw somewhere in the camp a clerk from his company, who, according to his information, is a Jew. They began to search and after a long search found someone and left. Two hours later they come back. The officer declares to everyone: "Germany needs those who serve her faithfully. The winners can't be fooled! And this man," - he pointed to the traitor - “deceived us." He gives a baton into the hands of the previously accused clerk and says: - "Beat him. He wanted to send you to the gallows and himself to get out of the camp and harm Germany." The formerly accused, who could be already dangling on a rope, stands with the club in his hands and does not dare. - "Hit him," - says that groomed German officer, - "otherwise I will give the club to him. He won't pity you." Well, the accused started beating his traitor until he fell on the ground. No one touched him, neither ours nor the Germans - he died right there two days later. Then the same officer looked for those who knew the approaches to Novorossiysk, who could give detailed explanations to the military maps. Among the thousands of prisoners there were such people who did that. They were taken away, and a few hours later, ruffed up and bitten, they were brought back and thrown back into the squares (where they also got blows from the POWs). It turns out that they did not know what the Nazis needed. ...I would never recall those harsh, humiliating scenes, where, next to true tragedy, a kind of cheap stuff was played out - bitter and dirty. But here everything is connected with a handsome officer. (I don’t know, perhaps, from a woman point of view, he was not an ideal appearance, because he least of all looked like a sleek handsome man, but, from my point of view, he was a rare specimen of an imperial strong man.) Back then, I would rather believed in the near end of the world than in the fact, that 2 years later I meet face to face with the German officer from the Simferopol camp, and not just anywhere, but in Moscow centre. But before a new meeting with him, so many incredible events happened, that they would be enough for more than one life. A large group of prisoners of war was transferred from the Simferopol camp to Nikolaev. The Nazis tried to establish the work of a shipbuilding plant. We pulled apart the rubble that had been damaged by the bombings of the workshop. Neither I nor the guys from my team gave away, that we were sailors well acquainted with the sea. We were captured and remained as emergency ship operations team. That is why we moved garbage and loaded materials. I was assigned to the kitchen: chop wood, fire the stove, clean the boilers. I haven't quite recovered from the shock yet. The main cook was aunt Dusya CHASOVSKAYA - a civilian, not from prisoners. She cooked soup for us, experienced all the hardships with us and tried to help in any way she could. Maria FROLOVA worked next to her. The women decided to help me escape from captivity... To do this, I needed to get a little stronger first. When this happened, they got me documents in the name of Ivan Petrovich SEMENKIN, a native of the city of Nikolaev, who works in one of the organisations authorised by the German command ... The document was reliable, but how to get out of the camp? I stayed in it for more than a year and managed to see a lot, I managed to learn a lot ... The guards here kept a strict watch and immediately shot violators of the regime. At the beginning of 1944, I was introduced to driver Dima KULIKOV, who had the right to enter and leave the camp. He turned out to be an underground resistance activist and took me to the city in his car one day. Aunt Dusya CHASOVSKAYA lived near the elevator, and for the first time after my escape, I hid at her place, kept an eye on what was happening in the port, what kind of ships were sailing, who was sailing them... Once I said to my rescuers: "It's time!" And my destiny carried me away, like in a fairy tale or in an adventure movie. First of all, even on the way to the port, patrols stopped me twice. Documents were checked, but my Ivan Petrovich's certificate worked without a misfire. The plan was this: to get a job on a ship, and when it was at the mouth of the Dnieper river at the exit to the sea (and this was bound to happen sooner or later, ships regularly went to Ochakov, Odessa and the mouth of the Danube), I was to steal a boat and run away utilising my childhood knowledge of the area. I approach the port and see that a barge is standing at the pier. From it, a healthy man jumps straight from the side to the mooring. He carries two suitcases. - “Hey, brother,” - I say to him, - “who is the foreman of this soup ball?" - “I’m a foreman,” - he answers, - “what do you want?" And I see the barge came from down the river, surely it will continue further towards the Balck sea. - "May I get to Ochakov with you?" - "We don't take passengers" - he said. - "I am not a passenger. I can help." — "Can you?" - "Yes, I can..." He then puts the suitcases on the ground and tosses a bunch of keys to me: - "Here are all the keys. This one is from the cockpit, this one is the locker ... You'll figure it out. If you want to eat, you can find it there. Feel free to take cigarettes, beer... I'll be right back." I jumped on board the barge, the first thing I did was to walk it all around to examine the premises with my expert's eye. I looked into the hold - there is a lot of non-ferrous scrap metal. They are being dragged to Romania. But here's the annoyance - no small boat, not even a skiff on board! Crawled out onto the deck - a man approaches the pier. - “Take me to Ochakov" - he asks. - “Get in” - I answer. After all, half an hour ago, I asked for the same thing. But I am not revealing it. The two of us went hard on the food supplies left by the real owner, and then began to wait for him. It was a long wait. I didn’t know that he simply ran away with his suitcases, leaving me like a decoy duck ... A car drove to the barge, German military men get out of it, I counted eighteen people, mostly officers, and four women with them. Everyone is moving to my barge. Well, I think that is it! However, I don’t show it. They look into my cabin. I put on a mask of being busy and strict, and indicated, that everyone should go to the forward cockpit and do not interfere with my work. They obeyed and left. I hid - still waiting for the real owner. I see a tugboat running towards us. He gets right up to the side of us, and some clown from the tugboat asks me: - "Is there a towing cable?" - “No,” - I answer, because I already checked. - He says: “Then, I’ll throw mine over. For fastening. At first you will go on a short tow, and after the Balabanovskaya spit we will etch a longer one". They hook up our barge and - Chu-Chu! - we are on the move. I take my place at the steering wheel, it seems that everything is as it should be. We are going down the Bug Liman, we are going to the sea. The German officers in the cockpit are having fun, they don’t notice us. - "How long have you been on the barge?" - asks my stray passenger. - "A little earlier than you came in." - I answer. - "How much do you get paid?" - he asks. - “When the Germans find out who we are, we will get the same amount." - I said. It’s not so easy to expose me though. I’m on a barge like at home. But it’s clear that the other guy has no clue about sailing. Our tugboat is running, puffing, soon the Bug estuary will end. At that time, in March 1944, our troops in the lower reaches of the Dnieper were already on the left bank, while the right bank (cities of Kherson and Ochakov) was in the hands of the Germans. - “As soon as we reach the Dnieper Estuary,” - I say to my passenger, - “our troops will start shooting at us.” We must take advantage of the confusion and sneak out. It is a pity that there is no boat on the barge. But I have prepared a wooden ladder. Let's push into the water and swim on it ... It got dark. We began approaching the Adzhigoyskaya spit - a searchlight from the left bank flashed over our tugboat. Then two more searchlights hit him, and gunfire began. The towline must have been broken by a shell. The boat - puff-puff! - left us and ran to Ochakov. The tugboat was sank by or troops near Ochakov. But our barge seem to have been forgotten and left alone. The Germans crawled out of the cockpit angry, frightened, peering into the darkness. But there is nothing to see - dark. Around is just the water and no movement. But we can't run either because of the German officer passengers. About three o'clock in the morning another tugboat came from Nikolaev and dragged us to Ochakov, which was full of Romanian and German troops. We moored at the wall. Some official came in the afternoon and said that tomorrow, or even tonight, if there was a tugboat, they would drag us to the mouth of the Danube. Well, that is completely not in my plans! I'm observing. I see a barge nearby and a boat on it. I go there and meet the boatswain. A skinny, shy man. "Sell me a boat!" - I ask. He's afraid: "The Germans will find out, they will drown me right away". Then I suggest: "Let's run together!" He hesitates, says that he just got a newborn child, right there, on a barge, and in general there is nowhere for him to go and he just follows his fate... I got a bit upset. - I said: "Dumb-Dumber! If you are not really needed here, then who wants you there in a foreign land? After all, they are taking you to hell. Well, take me to your wife, I want to talk to her." But the woman is afraid of everything, she has a baby, she even looks past me, like looking at me is already a crime. With great difficulty, I persuaded them. At night, I deceived the Romanian sentinel on the pier, lowered the boat into the water, and rowed myself. The woman lay down on the bottom of the boat and was afraid to raise her head, she kept waiting for someone to start shooting. Her husband is holding the baby, I am rowing, and my passenger only looks down on everyone. Well, rowing in a boat at night is not a problem for me. But it is still quite hard to row. On a good day, there got to be four people rowing such boat, even better six. And I'm alone. I offer my passenger from the barge: "Help me". But he can't. He does not know what to do with the oars. - "Can you row at all?" - I ask. - “I can’t do anything,” - he answers, - “I’m an agronomist. Work with agriculture." I'm already pretty tired, I feel that my energy runs out... And suddenly out of the darkness: - "Stop or else I shoot!" - “Wait a second,” - I shout, - “there will be plenty of time for shooting! We are running away from Ochakov." Right there, on the shore, we were arrested, taken away to the headquarters of the unit, and then taken to SMERSH. My companion and his wife and child were immediately released. He turned out to be a sick man unfit for any military service. I was separated from my passenger and taken to Kherson. The city was liberated from the Nazis only the day before. I came to the military enlistment office accompanied by the SMERSH comrade from counterintelligence service. He still had doubts about me... The military commissar behaved more resolutely. Having learned who I am and what I am, he immediately appointed me as a team leader. Retreating, the Nazis destroyed the railroad tracks. It took three days to get from Kherson to the nearest operating station on foot. The military registration and enlistment office formed teams of recruits in the liberated areas and immediately sent them to replenish the advancing units. I was given a list of two hundred recruits. They gave me an assistant, like a commissar, and ordered me to lead the whole team to the station. We moved a little away from the military enlistment office, and I lined up my people ... They are not yet uniformed, they only received dry rations for three days. I made a roll call, and ... I became scared. It is Spring time, mud, roads are terrible. Ruins all around. And of all the means of transportation - only two legs. How to go on a three-day trip with such a crowd? But some good people gave me an advice. - “All right!” - I said - “Brothers! Stomp each on your own. In three days we do a new roll call at the rail station. Whoever is not there is declared a deserter, with all, so to speak, consequences and conclusions. As you were!" My men moved first of all to the nearest villages: some to say goodbye to their mothers, some to their brides. I and the commissar walked to the rail station and spent the night in a village. My men started arriving at noon on the third day. We look - just ten of our people are here in total. I'm worried: I lost the team ... Then, one after an other, they began to arrive. In the evening the team was back. New roll call. That's it! Every one up to the last man came in time! And then the rail wagons were already served, representatives of the units appeared. And they took us to Belarus. We arrived at night. They took us to replenish the advancing division - the 96th Guards Rifle division. The battalion commander lined up everyone, divided into large groups, and commands: “The old-timers with military experience, two steps forward!” There were five such people in our group. I stepped out too, of course. The battalion commander asks about our previous roles. I was immediately appointed a platoon leader. We were uniformed on the move and I got wrong shoulder boards of a private. - “Not to worry!” - the commander says,- “it is not the shoulder boards that win battles. Your squad commanders will make the troops list, while you go for reconnaissance." I went out with the officers to the front line for orientation. Night, dark. A silhouette of a wind mill is seen against the background of the night sky. - The company commander (it was Gena DUBENKOV, we became friends with him later) tells me: "At dawn, your platoon will attack this wind mill. There is a village near it. Raise people immediately after artillery barrage." That is how I was attacking for the first time not even knowing my troops. The artillery attack was short-lived, about twenty minutes, but they hit hard, and in the end even the Katyushas played their final accord. We immediately screamed "Hurrah!" and run across the field. To the right and to the left of us, they attacked too. The wind mill was on fire. We rushed into the enemy trench, and then kicked the Germans out of the village. My commander praised me. I went to meet and get acquainted with my squad... Soon they appointed me a reconnaissance platoon commander of our regiment. I remained in the rank of Private. There were fewer men in the reconnaissance platoon, although, of course, each of them was worth five ordinary soldiers. Our 293 Guards Rifle Regiment was then in the Pinsk swamps. To the right and left, our neighbours were facing the enemy positions, but there is no one in front of us, impassable swamps, and along them a thin line of enemy trenches. The commander of the regiment, Alexander Andreevich SVIRIDOV (now Lt. General and Hero of the Soviet Union) called me. He liked very much to bypassing the chain of command and go personally to the men who were to go on a mission: - "DUBINDA, we need to capture a prisoner informant" - he said. Of course, I understand, that to capture a prisoner is one thing, but how to get over to the other side across the swamp!? I began to crawl with my scouts through the swamp. Wet and muddy like hell we swallowed rusty smelly water and got nowhere. My men have already lost count, how many times they had to drag each other out of the swamp by the hair. Getting nowhere! Looks like some ground and grass, but it is impossible to step on them. I tried to crawl on my hands - the palms fall through, and you poke your nose into the water. Then I lay down and rolled over like a tree log. Water gets everywhere, into the ears and nose, but you don’t fall through! I did that until I rolled to an island overgrown with bushes, sat down, and again rolled to the next one. Guys follow me. And there already the ground gets a bit harder, the islands appear more often ... We managed to move and then waited until dark in the bushes. At night, we went towards the enemy positions. We see, there are four dugouts on a dry patch, not far from one another. The sentry walks between them. In my platoon I had a scout named Shlema, a reckless and mischievous guy. I ordered him: "It's time for changing the guards." He understood the sarcasm and went forward. And the sentry goes back and forth. Then he goes behind the dugout. Then he appears again... but this time looking somewhat more chubby. This is Shlema wearing the German helmet and raincoat, walking around with a rifle on his shoulder, giving us signs. We ran over. I placed the guys near each dugout to make sure no one accidentally comes out. I myself open the door to one of the dugouts: the machine gun ready and a grenade in my left hand. An German officer sat there and drank alone. He tried to grab his pistol, but is was too late. Here the main difficulty for us was to drag him through the swamp. You can’t put a bag over his head, you can’t put a gag in his mouth - it’s dangerous in the swamp, you dip him once in the water and he is a corpse, rather than a valuable prisoner informant. The German understood the danger too and keeps quiet. We found a big tree branch and tied the prisoner to the thinner branches by the arms and legs and dragged the construction forward by a rope... We again had to roll over the swamp, but we had to drag the branch with the German by the rope. We handed over the prisoner and were resting and warming up with tea, drying ourselves, washing off the swamp mud. Wow, the regiment commander calls me in. - "DUBINDA, what's wrong with you? I sent my troops in your footsteps... The battalion is sinking in the swamp! Specify the place of passage immediately!" I come back to the swamp. The soldiers are fumbling around, pulling each other out. I got angry. I said: “Why are you spoiling the road? You stir up everything here ... I did explain: lay down and roll on the side." I stepped aside to an untouched surface and showed them how to roll in the swamp. The soldiers are behind me. And the battalion commander won't let me go: "You lead to the very end." Ok, so let it be. And I led the entire battalion to four dugouts. There were wounded Germans there - this was already known from the prisoner. The enemy did not expect our advance in this place, so the battalion successfully moved forward, making it easier for our neighbours to advance. Strange thing: most often the successful and cunningly carried out operations are remembered and told about. But there were difficult and hard operations too. Though, I was lucky in them too. I remember, in one of the battles, several explosive bullets completely ruined my fur coat. Shreds of wool stuck out on the shoulder, under the arm, the sides was almost torn off, but got not a scratch. The goals of that battle, the circumstances, the results - I don’t remember anything! I was very upset about the damaged fur coat - and that I remember very well. Heavy fighting went on near Warsaw. We stood in front of the Bug. The regiment commander ordered me: “DUBINDA, we must find a ford across the Bug for a possible infantry crossing!” What a soldier says in such case? "Sir, yes, sir!" I took my guys and our bathing adventure began. I myself am a river man, I climb along the bank during the day, determine where it can be passable, and at night we go to those places which we have spotted, and try them: - "PROSOLOV, your turn!" My Sasha PROSOLOV undresses and climbs into the water in the "three degree heat". He goes to the opposite shore and ... bloop-bloop! He swims back. It is too deep. (By the way, A.P.PROSOLOV still lives in Nikolaev, he came to visit me recently.) In the other place: - "YATSKEVICH, your turn!" Kolya YATSKEVICH tries. Then anther guy - SOKOLOV ... And there is no ford. We keep swimming in the night - a pure beach resort experience! The next night - the same pleasures... at dawn we catch a Polish local defector from the other side! He tells us something, choking, about his grief. Sparsely understanding his words, I understand that the Nazis assaulted his daughter, but (and that the cruel truth of the war!) we are interested in something else: where did he cross the river? He, the poor fellow, keeps wondering if the Russian misters will avenge his daughter. And I told him: "That is why we are here. Show us the river ford." He did. I myself went back and forth with the guys several times, water up to my chest, no more. We determined the width of the ford, placed barely noticeable markers on the bank - for signs. But the regiment commander, obviously not wanting to repeat the experience of the Pinsk swamps, tells me: “You yourself will lead the first company into he attack." I came to the rifle company. We took our starting positions not far from the ford. Our bank is low and flat, the opposite bank is a bit steep. Enemy trenches along the bank, after that a field and in the distance the village is visible. Between the village and the steep bank, everything is as smooth as on a table ... We were not told the time of the start of the offensive. All night we sat in our starting positions without sleep and kept eyes open. Only in the morning, when it was already light, did the artillery open fire. It chopped well the opponents. You won’t envy those who were on the other side ... As soon as our people moved the artillery barrage a little further, I jumped up: “For the Motherland! For Stalin!" and jumped into the water. I ran to the middle of the river and looked back. Behind me, there were only a few men following me. I counted - seven people ran after me, I was the eighth. The rest were in doubt and did not immediately follow me. The guys were afraid, as they felt that this fight was their last one. And it might not have been the last if they didn't hesitate. I know such situations: hit or miss. I pressed forward. On our shore, the Komsomol organizer finally managed to raise people. But there they were lacking behind. An enemy machine gun fires from the shore above our heads. And our canon fires back at the enemy machine-gun. I thought to my self, what a pity small canon, maybe 45mm one... the enemy crew was scattered, but the machine-gun was intact. We broke into the German trench, half-filled with rubble, clearing it with grenades and automatic fire. The Nazis faltered. But the Komsomol organiser with the rest of the troops was only in the middle of the river. And then German shells flew in. All right into the river. The water starts to boil and turns pink. Not a single men reached our bank and came to us. The Germans had this place marked and zeroed in they artillery in advance, they knew that that was the only ford on a long stretch. They hit the spot right in the middle... -------------------------- Issue № 40, pages 8-9 : -------------------------- We are sitting in a trench on a high bank, we have captured an enemy machine gun, a lot of ammunition for it, and we ourselves still have unused ammunition. When the Nazis came to their senses, they went on the offensive against us from the side of the village. They probably didn't think there were only eight people here. We repulsed the first attack, the mortars from our shore helped - they had a good view of the entire field between the village and us. After that, on our controlled bank, a new group prepared to cross the river. The soldiers rushed to the ford. They all rushed together, a large force. And immediately the enemy shells flew in. As if a net covered the whole river. The water frothed. Before there were soldiers - and then there were none. Those who entered the river, all remained there. The Nazis moved six tanks against us. They left the village at full speed and moved to the shore. At this point our gunners evidently got very angry - they opened such fire that in a few minutes they set all these enemy panzers on fire, before they reached the trench we had captured. It's hard to talk about it. For three days no one could break through the ford to us. How many guys died there - and everything happened in front of our eyes. The Nazis must have realised that there were not many of us in the trenches. They launched two tanks - one along the creek, the other along the coast. One of them was again hit and burned by our artillery. The other one broke through. We didn't even have any anti-tank grenades. This monster is rushing towards the trench, now it will pass by one caterpillar and there will be no one left, like the guys in the river. One of the guys had a single bottle of combustible mixture. I grabbed it, jumped out of the trench and rolled into such a shallow hole on the coastal slope - a hole overgrown with grass. And the tank is already nearby, it poured its exhaust over me and rolled further towards my guys... Then I picked up a bottle and threw it on the engine area. Glass shattered, black smoke ... And with such a heavy fury breath, it puffs! Tankers began jumping out, running past me. I didn’t even have a pistol. I left the firearms in the trench. For three days we held out like this. On the fourth day, twenty people led by a Lieutenant broke through to us in the night. A girl-telephonist is with them. All from a different regiment, because our regiment, it turns out, was withdrawn yesterday and transferred to another sector. So a different regiment came as reinforcement. The lieutenant immediately says: “We will attack the village. You've been sitting here for a long time, tell my people what is going on" ... I went along the trench to report. Suddenly the girl-telephonist runs after me: “Comrade senior! (I’m wearing soldier’s shoulder boards, she doesn’t know how to address me.) Comrade senior, the lieutenant has been killed!" Here you go! I've been here for three days, and he hasn't spent even five minutes. I goto see - the Lieutenant is already dead. The phone crackles, the girl hands me the phone. Some colonel from the other bank commands: "Take those who came and your own men. I give you one hour to capture the village." I got very pissed. I am thinking to myself: “Look what a cat dragged in!”. I answer that there is just a couple dozen men and the attack will fail. "I'll shoot you!" - he shouts into the phone. I tell him in the same manner: “First you come over here, then you shoot me!” He is roaring on the other side of the phone: “I will do my best to get to you... but let's try something first. Answer me, can you see the village from your trench?” Although it is night, silhouettes are visible in the distance. “Look,” - he shouts into the phone, - “where the shell will fall!” I see, that a shell flew over us and plopped down far beyond the village. "Over" - I say. The second shell flies and falls. “Now, we must take to the left.” - I say into the phone. Finally, they placed one shell exactly on the village. "Stop!" - I shout - “We hit the mark.” Then they opened such a fire that they chopped the village and everything that was there, like pins in bowling. This grumpy colonel must have realised that the fire was came at the ford from there, and that an enemy spotter or observer was sitting there somewhere. After such an artillery strike, we, of course, shouted “Hurrah!”, went forward and took the village. We spent a day in it, and at night the Germans forced us out again... Only at the end of the fourth day did the offensive begin and the village was firmly occupied, our units broke through to this side. And I never met that colonel. A guy was sent from the headquarters of our regiment, and he took me and those guys who were the first to cross the ford. Shortly after this fight, I was handed orders of Glory. Two of them at once, the 3rd and the 2nd class. I was presented for awards a long time ago. Third class first, then the second. Somewhere along the way from the front to Moscow, the paper work crossed and the both boxes came together. I put them on. It was nice, of course. I wore them for a week and got used for them. But in the very first battle, I lost them. The clasps were flimsy. And, to be honest, I did not really regret the loss, as there were other more important things to worry about. To tell the truth, already back then, I didn’t know or remember what specific fight I was awarded for by which award. There were so many engagements after all! Each new battle, each campaign behind the front line obscured the older events. Regimental intelligence troops were never sitting idle. On some occasions, you capture a prisoner informant with great troubles, then take him back, but he turns out to be just a stupid horse carriage driver. Another time, without much trouble, you drag in the staff officer. After all, you never know what kind of fruit you take back! Once we went for such a capture mission and brought from the other side ... thirty Germans soldiers and officers. Our commanders regarded this as a great feat, but we were just lucky: the Germans themselves were thinking about laying down their arms, but did not know how to do it. The appearance of a dozen scouts only helped them carry out their plan. I also served as an officer. But, really, not for long. In the Spring of 1945, in East Prussia, my reconnaissance platoon was on a rarely occurring leave and refitting. It was beginning of March and the first sun warmth was pouring down... We settled down next to a forest and were chilling. Blissful experience. Some men chat about something silly, others doze off. Nothing to do. Paradise. Then I look and can’t believe my eyes: a Colonel General and his entourage is passing by! They were not on the way to our camp, though. Our regiment commander is among them and probably the youngest in this entourage. I know we will be seen. What to do? I command: "Stand up! Attention!" I run up and report: “Comrade Colonel General! The reconnaissance platoon of the 293 Guards Rifle Regiment is busy studying a captured machine gun. Guards platoon commander Private DUBINDA." The Colonel General looked at me and at my "eagles". Then he silently turned around to our division commander and asked: "If you were yourself a private, you think anyone in the division would listen to your orders?" The division commander remained silent and didn't answer this sarcastic question... The next day I was called to the headquarters and issued the shoulder boards of a Junior Lieutenant, and my mother got a certificate for 800 rubles. So, on my last combat mission, I was already an officer. The story of my last mission goes as follows. The front stabilised for a while. But when our significant troops approached the front line on our side (tanks, artillery, or infantry formations), then enemy's heavy mortars would open fire at them from the other side. Our artillery men and spotters tried to determine where these German heavy mortars were deployed. But in vain, nothing worked. Sometimes, they thought: "That is it! Got them! We see where the mines fly from." So they would pound the sector with heavy barrages. Everything and everyone, according to calculations, would be hacked into small pieces on the German side. But the enemy heavy mortars still kept firing at the targets on our side, And they were very precise and hit us very accurately. They terrorised our whole front line. Even reconnaissance planes could not locate them. Everyone was looking out for these mortar positions, which were firing as if they were under ground. So, I and my lads were sent to look for these ghosts. And even if they were under ground, we were to find them and report the coordinates. We roughly knew, that they were somewhere near a lake, which was located not far behind the enemy line. We crossed the front line in the upper reaches of this lake, through swamps. The weather was bad, with rain and wind. Then we continued through the enemy territory with great caution. If they are so good at camouflaging, then who will be spotted first, us or them? We already had a plan: if we don't find them during the night, then we stay during the day on the enemy territory, hide by the lake and try to spot them when they start shooting. But it turned out, there was no need for such plan. They started shooting and we spotted the flashes on the lake itself. Mines flew out and went to our side right from the water surface! The Germans came up with the following trick: they placed rafts on the lake and sank them so that the water completely covered the logs, made pathways from the shore to them also a few centimetres below the water level. Walking through them in high boots is easy, and from above, even from an airplane, nothing is visible. The mortars were placed on the rafts close to bushed or trees. The base plates were hidden by water, and the mortar were looking like tree stumps on the shallows, near the shore, overgrown with tall grass. Ingenious solution. Our artillery ploughed every inch around the lake itself, but it never occurred to anyone to shoot into the water! We solved this riddle and spotted a trench that led from the very shore under the trees, and to an entrance to a dugout ... Delighted, we went back. On the way back, we met a two-horse cart with forager and a sergeant major - food was being brought to the unit. We, of course, eliminated the escort and had a good supper. We relaxed a bit too much celebrating the find of the enemy mortar battery. We were quite proud of it: we knew such a secret! Not paying much attention, we went astray and lost our way home. To our excuse, it all was happening at night and on unfamiliar enemy controlled terrain. Suddenly, we stumbled upon trenches, which seemed to have not been there the night before. Our group consisted of 9 men. One of my scouts is stomping along the trench with a machine gun ready: what if there is a dugout or a hiding place. We should not miss those. I hear he whistles quietly. I answer him. He shows me, that the trench ends with a small door - entrance to a dugout. I jump down, crouch to the door and listen. It is quiet. No light inside either. I opened the door. I have a machine gun in one hand, and a grenade in the other - ready for action. “There is no one here.” - I tell the guys. I turn around, and suddenly feel that someone knocks me down. I didn't feel any pain, just a powerful blow. Already falling, I threw the grenade into the dugout. Explosion! The guys fell into the trench, burst into the dugout finding two Germans, who were already gutted by the grenade explosion... It turns out they hid, and when I turned to leave, one could not resist and fired at me. The bullet entered from behind just above the knee and obliquely made a hole through the entire hip. My scouts picked me up and carried on a raincoat and we ran away, quickly broke through the front line, to our camp. The guys worked hard to bring me back, but they did it. Having received information from us, the artillerymen minced everything on the lake, cooking the lake into a soup filled with the enemy troops and mortars. My injury was serious. I spent several months in hospitals, there was a period when I didn’t know: will walk out on two legs, on one, or whether I’ll walk out at all? Perhaps, my main health crisis was when everyone was celebrating the Victory day. This joy bypassed me, but reached me retroactively. Along with the joy of Victory I received the bitter news: I learned that my two brothers died at the front. Whoever had an older brother will understand such a loss... At the end of June 1945, I was lying in a hospital in Moscow, not far from Arbatskaya Square. My health was definitely going for the better and I could limp (but on both of my own legs!) around the ward. One day, the nurses, the doctor, even the medical department head came to me with flowers and congratulations. It turns out that a decree has been issued to award me the title of Hero of the Soviet Union. I didn't have any awards on me in the hospital. I lost two orders of Glory in the first battle. The other numbered awards were still looking for me. No awards, and suddenly the Star of the Hero! They respected me. I even was moved from a common room into a double room. But since the second bed was empty, I got a little bored, thinking to ask to be moved back to common room, where I already got to know the guys. I was about to ask about it, when they brought me a neighbour - in a wheelchair, accompanied by a whole team of medics. The new patient was swearing saying that any fool can cripple a person, but doctors must heal and save lives, and that he still definitely needs his legs... He was reassured and very politely so. They promised to invite a professor, the best one in the hospital to see him. True, soon, either the same evening or the next day, an old man appears in our ward. Ordinary looking old man in appearance. But as medical specialist, he was probably a good one. He began to persuade my neighbour, asked him to calm down and promised to save his legs ... Indeed, after the operation, the neighbour felt better, and his legs were not amputated. Then we got acquainted. But I had in the back of my mind, that I had seen this person somewhere before. He must have felt such a question in my eyes ... chatting day after day lying in the same room. Peculiarly, soon the neighbour knew almost everything about me, and I didn’t know anything about him. When I recalled how I was sitting in the Simferopol POW camp, where the site was marked into squares, he laughed. He said: “Do you remember the German officer who was looking for experts on the area near Novorossiysk?” Then I realised that it was him! How many years have passed since then, almost a whole life, and our meeting in the hospital still seems incredible to me. My neighbour in the ward turned out to be a Soviet intelligence agent, and he ended up in the hospital because he landed badly when he jumped with a parachute, broke both legs and remained without medical help for a long time ... He later explained a lot to me, told me a lot. In general, I am not very timid person, but I don't think I could had walked in his shoes... In the Autumn 1945, I was demobilised from the army and went home. I got a job as a captain assistant on a small boat... My leg still could not bend. And the time was ... To say hard is to say nothing. Sometimes there was not a single piece of bread to eat. Many people were famished, not having clothes, ruined... Not every day I had something to eat, to be honest, back then in 1946. Later in 1946, I was summoned to the military commissariat office and was awarded the Order of Bogdan Khmelnitsky III class and the Order of Glory I class. The commissar noticed: - "The order "Glory I class" is not issued without the 3rd and the 2nd classes. Where are they?" - “Lost” - I replied. The military commissar wrote to the archive. A piece of paper arrived confirming when and why I was awarded the Orders of Glory. But that's not all. I also had to write to the commander of my regiment so that he would give his confirmation. In the end, they sent me the same orders lost in East Prussia and imagine, with the same serial numbers. The military commissar also dealt with my military rank. After all, I wore Junior Lieutenant shoulder boards for some time. He asked me, what kind of military education I have to be an officer. Or at least, maybe, I finished a frontline training? Nope. He considered it for a while and said: "You were a foreman of the boat in the Navy. So, we'll write it down on your military ID - foreman." So routinely, I was demoted back out of the officers corps. I gathered all my awards and put them in a box. I went to apply for a new job. There was a state farm here in the area from the "Karakul export" organization. The organization had its own sailing and motor vessel - a little larger than my father's “Friend-Brother” dubok. I became the skipper on this vessel. I won’t say that I was particularly fascinated by such work, but the state farm gave extra possibilities to buy bread and sometimes some grains and lard. That meant a lot back then, more than the salary. I recalled this state farm because another reunion meeting took place there... though, not as fantastic as in the hospital, and, of course, less pleasant. One day, I'm sitting in the director's office where I am for a business meeting. A dandy barges - leather coat, silk scarf, fur hat, smells sweet like flowers. He gives his instructions and orders to the director of the state farm and suddenly turns around towards me: — "You are SEMENKIN-DUBINDA?" - “Yes, himself” - I answered in surprise. - “That is me! Remember, we ran together from the Germans from town Ochakov? In the night sea on a boat?" Now I recognized him, the agronomist, who could not row and hold an oar. He said something to the director and left. Didn't even look back. - "How do you know him?" - the director asked. I explained. The director shook his head: "He is now a big boss. You, one might say, carried him on your back out of the troubles. He could have asked if you needed any help ... Well, at least, he could ask how you are doing, no?". The director was upset. "Any one can see, that you are not prospering" - said the director. Of course, I didn’t need any help, except maybe to sit and talk a little... after all, we made such a risky path together! I met him, this agronomist, again a few years later. He burned out and failed on that high position, became so unhappy again, and even asked me for some assistance. But this time, I did not take him on board with me, figuratively speaking. In 1955, I began working as a boatswain on a whaler boat from the "Slava" flotilla. This position was troublesome, the entire order and organisation of the boat is your responsiility. And each sea tour lasted about eight months. We would go around the world, visit Australia, South America, taste cold water in the Antarctic, until the long-awaited moment comes: the task is completed, the season is over, the course is back to our native shores. During the whaling, among other duties, the boatswain whaler had one more: to sit in a barrel on the mast and look out for whales. You are on duty for two hours and you do other work for four hours. And in the barrel, on the mast, when the ship chatters so that it almost lies on its side, it is uncomfortable to sit. And the wind is minus temperature and wet. You feel like a pea in a whistle that is about to be blown out. On the first voyage, we used eiderdown overalls. They wore out very quickly. Then there were electrically heated overalls... The ship swayed to the right - there is a contact - the heater is on, the barrel swings to the left water is pouring all over - no contact. And when you climb into the barrel several times, the overalls get torn in many places. You don’t understand whether the electrical overall warms you or pinches you with electrical shock. We refused to use them. You see: there is nothing more convenient than sitting in a barrel in an ordinary quilted cotton sweatshirt like telogreyka. True, it is cold, but it is a matter of a habit. Storms were of level seven or eight. The Norwegians, the Japanese didn't whale in this weather. But we did. The most difficult thing in such weather is to get the whale on deck. The animal is already moored to the side of the ship, the winches are set, we are catching the moment when the ship will list in his direction ... At this moment, everyone is on deck waiting for the right moment. When it happens, everyone neck-deep in icy water. And so happens several times a day. I had a chance to see many cities and countries of the world: Cape Town and Montevideo, Rio de Janeiro, Melbourne... In Wellington, New Zealand, we were the first Soviet sailors to visit this port. In the late 1950s, in many distant countries, people looked at us as aliens from another planet. The Cold War was in full swing, local newspapers wrote about us and about our country in such a way that Baron von Münchhausen himself would not have thought of it. But our presence and appearance destroyed many misconceptions. The mere fact that we, Soviet people, are just humans was amazing. Not naked or barefoot, we know how to smile, we are happy with our lives and with each other... They looked at us as if they had the opportunity to read a terribly secret document with their own eyes. If, moreover, they found out that one of us was a Communist, they almost had to touch him to make sure he was real. Looking back at those years, I can say with confidence that we adequately represented our Soviet Motherland. I have seen the whole world, met all the flags, I have material for comparison... We are kind and tolerant. Sometimes even too tolerant. I remember what a disaster for the boatswain was every passage through the Suez Canal - I'm talking about the 1950s. In addition to the guide and other officials, we were forced to take on board a local emergency team. It seems that if something happens, this team will manually pull the ship aside so as not to interfere with the movement along the canal. Stupidity, in my opinion, is just an extra expense item for good money from a passing ship. A barefoot mob gets on board. This mob is able to plunder whole ship and take all that is not fastened to the deck. We have to keep the crew on the deck watching them. The half-naked “comrade”, who you feel compassion for, looks into your eyes, smiles at you, but at the same time tries to unscrew the copper plug that closes the drain hole on the deck... We are in Beirut. We ordered bread on the shore, replenish the supply of water and food ... A slick middleman drives up on a small motorcycle carriage. A motorcycle, and behind - a box on two wheels. He broad long loafs of bread. I touched one of them, and it was hard like a tree. Baked two weeks ago, I guess. What to do? The money has already been paid. OK, unload the cargo... Nearby stands an English ship, board to board with us. Soon the same guy brings him bread - this same middleman. English cook in a white cap comes out, takes out a loaf of bread from the open door of the van, tries to check it down with his finger. The same hard bread as ours. Then the cook takes the loaf in the right hand like a stick and starts beating middleman in the face with it. The guy stands still. After intensive execution, the cook threw the loaf back into the van and left. The middleman with roughed up face gets back into the saddle and disappears. About 15 minutes later, he returns and runs to the cook. The cook takes a loaf of bread, squeezes it lightly, and the aroma of freshly baked bread reaches all the way to our deck... Many such cases can be remembered. Of course, I'm not in favour of doing so, what the English cook did. Here they have, one might say, a great colonial experience. But even my own actions can hardly be approved. I posed a question to myself: did this middleman equaled me with an Englishman? For ten years I went whale hunting as long as my health permitted. Then I retired. My past keeps me busy: friends write me, sometimes we meet ... They invite me to speak to the youth. Already this Spring, Ivan CHERNOBAY's team from the Kherson harvesting machines plant introduced me to its staff as an honorary metal cutter. The position is honorary, but the salary is up to 300 hundred rubles a month and transferred to the Peace Fund. The social work in my native village do not bypass me either. I live here all the time - in a mud hut, under a straw roof. I think, that such are the best conditions for a sick person. Directly opposite my gate is a pier. I am busy in the garden, several times a day I see who is arriving and who is leaving. I have my own boats, but it's getting harder and harder to fish. More often we get by with the fact that my wife, Valentina Arkadyevna, will go to the pier, stand for an hour with a fishing rod, at least catch a couple of kilograms, which is plenty for us both. We also have an apartment in Kherson. A normal, city apartment, only we are moving there for the winter, to the central steam heating. And in March - back to the village: we need to take care of the garden, the vineyard, and we want to breathe fresh air. Life does keeps me occupied. For many years now, I have started every day by giving myself two injections, and the same before bed. I don't want anyone else to see my weakness... This summer I turned seventy. Looking back, I must say, I cannot complain over my fate: after all, how many guys remained forever in Sevastopol, on the fields of Belarus, Poland, those guys who were walking just next to me. I was not forgotten by the Motherland, and our village of Prognoy rightfully received a new name - Heroic. Now forever, in this new village name, there is one letter because of me! The end.