[烛光生存狂]-【卫国战争老兵回忆】列昂尼德·韦格尔

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特别提示：本帖子在 2010-3-8 14:57:22 由用户 412886049 编辑过

http://www.battlefield.ru/en/memoirs/368-leonid-veger.html

Leonid Leonidovich Veger, born in 1924 in a family of convicted anarchists living in Solovki[索洛维基]. Volunteered for the Red Army after finishing middle school in 1942. In 1943 was seriously wounded and received Category 2 Disability status. Was accepted into the Engineering/Economics department of the Moscow Aviation Institute in 1944, and graduated in 1949. Worked in factories and research institutes and obtained Masters and Doctoral degrees. Published 5 monographs and over 100 scientific articles. Most recently employed as a senior researcher at the Economics Institute of the Russian Academy of Sciences.

A PRO FORMA ATTACK

For two weeks now our Guards brigade is fighting alongside a brigade of naval infantry. We each take turns to lead the attack against the German defenses while the other unit replenishes itself. This time, it's the naval infantry's turn, and they mount a particularly inspired attack. They always did it differently from us — we attacked in complete silence, while their loud “Urrra-a-a!” made even our skin crawl, and technically we were behind them. It's almost as if you couldn't stop them, that even their wounded would keep crawling forward until they tore the enemy apart with their teeth (these days, paranormal experts would call it a “massive energy wave” rolling before the attacking infantrymen, suppressing and scattering any opposition - L.V.).

他们的作战方式总是与我们不同。我们在进攻时保持安静，而他们则大吼着乌拉前进，喊声之大甚至连我们都感到战栗。从技术上来说，我们也不如他们。

It was just like that this morning. First the Germans fell back from their trenches, then from some warehouses in front of the township, then from the township itself. They were in such a panic that they left behind a truck loaded with bottles of schnapps. Skeptics later claimed that they have done so on purpose. Regardless, within the hour all the surviving attackers drank themselves to unconsciousness.

When the Germans counterattacked a little while later, there was no-one left to repel them, and they retook the township. Those infantrymen sprawled out in the open were shot where they lay, while the ones sleeping it off in backyards and other hidden places remained undiscovered for the time being.

While this was taking place, our brigade had started to occupy the abandoned German trenches and the scout platoon deployed forward to one of the warehouses. One of the naval infantrymen ran back from the township and told us what happened. The platoon commander took him down to HQ, then came back an hour later and told me:

- Leonid, take the platoon and lead an attack.

He chose me quite deliberately. I was a conscientious, na?ve 18-year old kid, a member of the Komsomol who, if that wasn't enough, wanted to prove his bravery to his comrades. There wasn't a doubt in my mind that we had to attack the township and rescue the naval infantry. I started getting ready, when suddenly I noticed that my platoon has disappeared — the guys camouflaged themselves as soon as the commander came back from HQ.

- Vanja, where's the platoon? Who do I attack with?

He looked around and took note that the platoon has, indeed, disappeared.

- Take the partisans — he said.

A small band of partisans was attached to our platoon a few days ago after we liberated Mineralnye Vody.[米涅拉利内耶沃德城]

- Vanja, how am I supposed to attack with just seven guys?

- What can you do — you'll have to manage somehow. It's an order straight from the HQ. And the battalion is just getting up to the frontline. Go on, don't worry, they'll support you.

- Follow me! — I ordered the partisans and dashed out of the warehouse. The partisans followed. We ran for about a hundred meters before the Germans started shooting, then went to ground. The second dash was made under fire, and so we had to go down after thirty meters. I took time to plan my next run — mentally marked out a spot about twenty meters ahead where I'd drop, and a small depression nearby into which I could crawl to get some cover. Everything happened exactly as I planned it — and now I'm hugging the ground in the little depression, apparently a former puddle, and suddenly I feel that something just isn't quite right. I look back without lifting my head from the ground and see that I'm alone. The partisans, unused to open combat, lost their nerve and disappeared.

我暗自将前方二十米处某点作为目标，打算躲在那里附近的一处低洼处，从而可以获得一定程度的保护。

And so now I'm stuck all alone in the middle of some township square. The Germans are shooting at me from the nearest houses, about two hundred meters away. I shift my spare ammo disc to my side and try to push myself further into the former puddle. The brain is working feverishly:

- What to do? Get up and run all the way back? That won't work, they'll just shoot you down. Open fire on the Germans — they're close enough, and very visible.

The instinct for self-preservation kicks in:

- So you'll kill a few Germans, but then they'll never let up until you're dead.

Finally, I decide to just play dead. After a while, the Germans stop shooting, I quickly glance in their direction and see them concentrating near the houses, getting ready to attack. I figure I need to scram before I become the attack's first casualty — I look around, and see a chicken coop about thirty-forty meters to the left and a bit back. I wait for an opportune moment, then suddenly jump up and leg it for the coop as fast as I can, and finally drop behind one of the walls. The Germans start shooting again, the bullets are punching right through the clay walls but it's not aimed fire this time, not as dangerous. When the shooting finally dies down, I wait for another half hour or so, and start running back to the warehouse, swerving like a rabbit trying to throw the hounds off my trail. The Germans are still too busy getting ready for the counterattack, and almost completely ignore me. Back in the warehouse I find the platoon commander and tell him about the failed attack. I'm shocked as he praises my efforts instead of berating me.

Later on, an acquaintance working comms at the HQ told me the battalion CO sent a report to his superiors that the order to counterattack the township was carried out, but that the battalion was repulsed. After hearing that I understood that at the front, some attacks are made “pro forma”.

ATTACKING FOR SHOW

As darkness fell our unit relieved a worn out, barely existent cavalry regiment. They went to the rear to take replacements while we occupied their trenches. For some reason, the place was strewn with Cossack sabers — apparently, having discovered their uselessness the cavalrymen discarded them just like we had thrown away our bayonets. Our officers, barely older than any of us, immediately put the sabers on and wound up parading around the trenches with them all evening.

Our scout platoon took up several trenches near the bunker with the battalion HQ. We were probably going to attack in the morning, but meanwhile there was nothing to do to pass the time. Several of us from the platoon climbed out from the trenches and went for a stroll through no man's land.

Even after all these years I can't figure out what made us do things like that. No-one gave us any orders, and we weren't old enough or wise enough to understand the importance of scouting out terrain before an attack. Most likely, we were spurred on by curiosity, or by a boyish lust for adventure.

And so, we walked towards the German trenches, carefully peering into the darkness and listening to the distant sounds of the front: the rumble of artillery, the bursting of gun and mortar shells (I remember, I was astonished and even frightened by the silence that greeted me when I first woke up in a rear-area hospital — L. Veger). For some reason though, we

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GOING AFTER A TONGUE

It's been several hours since we went out into the neutral zone on this night in February 1943. Our mission is to bring back a German prisoner, a tongue. The action is very straightforward — we walk towards the German trench line, hoping to break in and capture someone. But twice already on this night we've run into German pickets. They start shooting, the rest of the German line opens fire, and we have to pull back. So far, no-one's been killed or wounded. In the darkness we shift half a kilometer to the left and start towards the German trenches once more. The Germans again discover our presence and open fire, and we have to pull back. Still no casualties.

We're probably not going to get a tongue tonight. Most of the team is made up of rookies, replacements who were sent to our battalion just a few days ago. The team is led by a captain who also hasn't seen combat yet. He's the only captain in our battalion — even the battalion CO is technically just a lieutenant. They probably gave this mission to the captain to rein him in a bit, and so we're not trying especially hard, probably pulling back earlier than we should. The few veteran scouts among us keep quiet and just let things develop.

After a third failed attempt, we move to the left once more. Suddenly a few of us recognized this place — the other night, we chatted up some scouts from a neighboring unit right around here.

- Good place for an attack,— I said, looking at the shallow slope running from our trenches all the way to the German lines.

- Sure thing,— replied the neighboring unit's scout,— but rumor has it it's mined.

Now the team has reached this exact spot. The night is almost up, and we only have time for one more attempt. We take a smoking break at the bottom of a gulley, then start towards the Germans.

- I think there's a minefield around here someplace,— I venture hesitantly.

I feel someone's fist punch me in the side.

- Who's asking you? — hisses the platoon second Klochkov. I look at him in surprise and hurriedly consider the situation. It was, as they say, a difficult one. We've been trying to capture a tongue all night long and have nothing to show for it — and no casualties. Someone might think we just spent the night hiding out somewhere. We need for someone to at least get himself wounded.

The team moves out. I shift towards the middle of the group, behind one of the other soldiers, and start walking in his footprints. A night walk over a minefield is no easy feat. Every step leaves you practically paralyzed with fear. Every time I lift my foot to step forward, I think that this time there'll be an explosion and I'd lose my…well, what does an eighteen year old boy fear to lose the most? And I could almost physically feel it happening.

I try to change my walk, moving forward with my knees held together. Better my legs ripped off than my…but walking like that, I can't quite reach the footprints made by the soldier in front of me.

We walk forward for another five minutes. Then suddenly, black-red flame bursts out of the ground. An explosion sounds. For a moment, I instinctively shut my eyes, and when I open them, the soldier walking in front of me has disappeared. It was like a miracle — he was just there, and now he's completely gone. Everything falls completely silent — no moans, no sound at all, the team just freezes. Then everyone slowly turns 180 degrees on one foot and starts walking back. Soon, we make it back to the gulley and start the ascent towards our own trenches. Somewhere in the back of each of our minds is the thought that we did all we could, and that we could now get some sleep.

NEW YEAR'S EVE

December 31, 1942, our 7th Guards brigade was walking along the empty Sal' steppe. Again with the endless walking, and everyone was hungrier than usual to boot. Our rations have been cut. The trucks with our food and our New Year's presents were captured a couple of days ago when the drivers got lost in the steppe and ended up driving straight into a German position. And we wanted those presents so much! Of course, one can understand the truck drivers. In the Sal' steppe there aren't any recognizable features, and almost anyone can get lost without any effort.

The endless road twisted between sandy hills. The terrain was very monotonous. Suddenly, up in the sky, we spotted two big chicken-like birds flying across our front. You almost knew they were well-fed. Someone let off a shot, then another, and another. The birds kept flying, unperturbed. A few soldiers started sending up bursts from their SMGs. One by one, the soldiers raised up their rifles, SMGs, carbines, pistols, anything that could shoot down the birds. Soon, almost two thousand weapons were firing up at the sky, while the birds flew on oblivious to danger. The din was incredible, like there was a great battle taking place. Several commanders were running among the men, shouting something, but you couldn't hear them over the gunfire. It almost seemed a miracle that the birds were still flying on — but then one hit an invisible wall, and one of its wings stopped flapping. The bird didn't seem to understand what has happened and tried to right itself with the other wing, but then another bullet reached it and the bird started to drop towards the ground. Almost simultaneously the second bird froze in mid-air and began falling as well.

Several dozen soldiers took off towards the falling birds around a nearby hill. I didn't see what quite happened when they got there, but at least there weren't any casualties.

We moved on, discussing the incident. Darkness started to fall. We completed one more stage and bivouacked for the night. All around us was the same steppe with the same sandy hills that we saw all day long. About ten of us from the scout platoon found cover in a depression, and were sitting on the ground silently, resting. We tried to start a fire with some wet brush, but it just wasn't working. And then, to top things off, they told us that there'd be no supper. The blistering wind isn't making things any better — sitting around in the cold night, and with wet clothes on, is anything but comfortable. I suddenly remembered that it's New Year's Eve, our gloomy New Year's Eve. No-one was sleepy yet. We scouts have gotten used to soldiering mostly at night: throwing out pickets, trying to capture a tongue , carrying ammo up to the combat companies, escorting someone up to the front, helping the cook and his kitchen around from place to place, etc.

After a little rest, I took my SMG and went for a stroll around the bivouac. After a bit I noticed some horses tied to a beam in the nearby valley and headed towards them. The horses were alone, each with a bag of some oats or something hanging from its neck. I felt up one of the bags and determined that it was filled with corn cobs. I took one out, first giving the horse a light slap in case it decided to bite me. The corn was half-eaten and covered in green horse spit. I wiped it off on the side of my greatcoat and popped it in my mouth. The corn was dry, hard like rocks. I retrieved some more corn in the same fashion, put it in my pocket and continued on, chewing vigorously.

It was now almost completely dark. I noticed some light not too far ahead. It turned out to be a fire, with several people from the battalion staff sitting around. There was a wooden railroad tie next to the fire — the staff hauls around a supply of them to start campfires in the steppe. I stood still in the darkness for a while, then began to slowly drag the tie away from the fire. Pull — pause, pull — pause, and soon I was far enough away to start dragging the tie at normal speed towards our bivouac.

The guys were still resting on the cold ground, shivering. I took out a bayonet, broke off a few small pieces of wood. When there were enough to start a fire, I woke up the platoon second K

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THE FIRST ATTACK AND THE FIRST OATH

Finally, a real combat. I'm lying in a small ditch, there's no-one anywhere near me, bullets are whistling over my head. Yeah, this is a real combat. It wasn't like that before. When I joined up, I was first sent to an artillery battery, we just kept sending shells out into the blue without ever seeing what we were shooting at. Later on, in a mortar unit, I dropped mines into a mortar barrel, they flew off to explode somewhere, but I still didn't have that feeling of actually being in battle. A week ago, during another unit reconstitution, I concealed my artillery and mortar experience from everyone and got assigned to an ordinary infantry company. And now — my first attack. The German trenches are about five hundred meters in front of me. For now, we've only made the first run at them, and the enemy fire is not yet very thick. I ran forward a bit quicker than most and wound up out in front all alone. I'm feeling quite proud of myself, mind you, my nearest comrades — Fedor on the left and Petr on the right — are still somewhere behind me.

Now Fedor crawls up almost past me. I have to get ready for another run towards the enemy. The bullets are flying much thicker now, the body isn't quite as willing to get up off the ground, but I have to make it get up. I note a little hillock towards which I'm going to run, and the spot of cover I'm going to crawl into once I get there. I focus, tense up and uncoil like a spring. Bent over like a cripple I run forward, get to the hillock, drop to the ground. The fire gets even more intense. There's a strange feeling that the bullets are nipping at the greatcoat on my back (this feeling was very accurately captured by the singer B. Okudzhava — …The bullets kept hitting our backs so hard… — L. Veger).

Fedor and Petr somehow keep up with me. I'm going to have to get up and face the bullets again. How can I do this? But now, I don't have a choice — Fedor is already ahead of me. I crawl a few meters to the right on my side, like a giant crab, get up, run forward. On the fly I spot a small patch of cover ahead, behind which I can drop down again. It's someone's corps. I run to it, drop down — made it, somehow. I'm still alive, and still ahead of everyone. Time to relax for a bit.

Suddenly, my brain is filled with existentialist thoughts and memories from my schoolboy days. At 17 or 18, many young men succumb to thoughts espoused by Byron and Lermontov's Pechorin that all life is useless, ordinary, that you're just treading down the same road as millions of others before you, that there will never be anything truly new in your life. And now, these dark thoughts are dancing around in my head as I huddle behind a corpse as bullets whistle over my head. For some reason, I broke out into a fit of nervous laughter — I think that if anyone had seen me just then, they would have thought I'd completely lost it.

As I regain my composure, I make the first oath I've ever made in my entire life. Lying on the ground, pressing myself into the dirt, my head resting on a corpse that's shuddering from enemy bullets, knowing that I will soon have to get up and risk my life yet again, I told myself: No matter how bad or how difficult life gets, I will never, ever think of ending it voluntarily. I will strive to hold on to it with all my strength. I didn't make it into this world just to leave it so soon.

Petr is still to my right. Fedor has disappeared. I have to get up. How can anyone do this? For the umpteenth time, I regret throwing away my helmet during a forced march a couple of weeks ago — we were throwing away everything we could then, helmets, gas masks, bayonets, grenades, bullets.

Without lifting my head I glance to the left — Fedor is still missing. But others have almost caught up with me on both the right and the left. It's time. I tense up, bring my arms and legs under my body, crawl a bit to the side, wait a few seconds, then jump up and keep running.

DOOMED

The 167th Cadet Brigade was formed in a rather unusual manner — from scrapings off the very bottom of the barrel. After German troops took Rostov and burst out into the wide open spaces of the Kuban' in the summer of 1942, cadets at military academies in the Northern Caucasus and Trans-Caucasus regions were hurriedly formed into several infantry brigades. In the process of doing so, every academy, including mine own, the Ordzhonikidze Military Academy, divided its cadets into the clean and the unclean . I wound up as one of the latter. A majority of the unclean cadets were your classic bad seeds from the Cossack settlements dotting the region, as well as some ex-convicts.

How I, a straight arrow with top marks in both combat and political courses, found myself among the unclean cadets was not entirely clear to me at first. It didn't seem to have anything to do with my being Jewish, at least, since a classmate of mine named Jasha Richter wound up among the clean cadets (by the way, at the end of the 10th grade he was still 17, and so technically he was exempt from conscription — but he went down to the recruiting station and got himself called up regardless — L. Veger). After trying to think of any sins I may have committed recently I recalled that a couple of months ago I had a run in with my section leader. He yelled a racial slur at me, I pushed him, and we had a typical schoolyard fight (he was the same age as I), which wound up being broken up by the battalion commissar passing by. At the evening roll call they doled out our sentences: the section leader was demoted back to a regular infantryman, while I got 10 days in the brig. Of course, I didn't think this one fight was big enough of a sin to be transferred out of my unit along with all the unclean cadets.

Thinking back, I think the real cause of the whole thing was my mother. At nineteen, she left her nice Jewish family behind and went off to fight for freedom and justice along with all the other revolutionaries. She had wound up joining the anarchists, who continued to fight even after the Soviets came to power. After a few arrests, in 1922 she was exiled to Solovki, where I was born. Naturally, when the time came for me to fill out my first ever entrance application, the one to the military academy, an honest and principled member of the Komsomol that I was I dutifully wrote down that my parents were purged.

In all, our academy had about 50 unclean cadets. We were shipped by rail to Baku, where similarly sized unclean groups from the other academies were being gathered to ultimately form the 167th Cadet Brigade.

As I realized later on, I lucked out in being assigned to an artillery battery. Since we didn't actually have any guns, we wound up learning our new trade from a purely theoretical standpoint. I did get to be personally responsible for one of our horses (ours was listed as a horse-drawn battery — L. Veger), a large, bony colt. My relationship with my horse was rather complex — I was a little careless while brushing him, and not at all willing to share my sugar ration. He tried to kick me at every opportunity, and absolutely refused to recognize my authority over him.

Soon after our brigade was formed, the situation at the front grew even worse. The Germans were rapidly advancing towards the oilfields at Grozny in Chechnya. One day, our brigade was gathered up and loaded into railcars, and we moved out by that evening. My battery still didn't have any guns — they had told us that we'd get them when we'd arrive at our destination. They didn't even have enough rifles for everyone in the brigade. Still, the train sped us towards the front. At some point during the night, our guys showed off their uncontrollable nature. A few of them somehow managed to climb on top of the moving train, and — God only knows how — clean out the railcar with our food stores. Soon enough all of us were stuffing our

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