12th of July 1942, Vologda, 7,6 °C, 8pm,
I was still working when there was a knock on the door to my office. It was one of the clerks, he held a letter in his hand, and had a rather apologetic look on his face:
"This letter arrived three days ago, but somehow, it wasn't filed correctly, and only just now did I find it in a pile of newspapers. A short investigation has revealed that I am the one who filed it incorrectly. I failed to uphold the high standards that are required to keep the Committee informed, and running smoothly. I must apologise profusely for this grave error that's unbecoming of a Secret Committee employee, I would understand if you terminated my employment or relegated me to a less senior role..."
I interrupted him:
"I'm sure having to stand here in front of me and apologise for your mistakes is punishment enough. I also think we need to recruit more clerks. You're all overworked because of the massive amount of correspondence coming in from the front. Mistakes are bound to happen in these circumstances. Will you please hand me the letter now?"
He handed me the letter, and with a final "I'm sorry", he ran off before I changed my mind and had him fired... The letter had the marking XI, indicating it came from our woman at the front. I opened it with anticipation, what had she been up to?
The 8th of July 1942, Lwow, 5,7°C, 8pm Moscow Time
Dear 'Odin',
Since this morning a lot has happened, so I thought it worthwhile to write to you again. I'll simply pick up where I left off:
After leaving the breakfast meeting with Lt. General Popov, the Lt. General's driver offered to find me a staff car. A note from the Lt. General in hand, I followed Starshina Vorobyev to the motor pool for Popov's Headquarters Division, located in the central courtyard of the city hall. As we entered the courtyard, I was starting to doubt I would find any suitable personal transportation here at all. It's not that the courtyard was empty, there was a pair of ZiS-101 staff cars, one of them the Lt. General's, and three GAZ-M1s. All of those had Red Army plates and specific markings indicating they were the dedicated personal transport for some superior officer, Lt. Colonel and up. They were definitely off limits for me. More at the back was a single GAZ-AA lorry, but that wasn't an option as mechanics were hard at work on the engine. If I helped them out I could maybe get my hands on it, but it wasn't really what I was looking for. As we got past the partly disassembled lorry, we could finally see the man in charge. A junior lieutenant, sitting behind a foldable field table, set up under a canvas roof (the top part of a standard military tent), in the corner of the courtyard. As he heard us coming, the young man briefly glanced up from the logbook in front of him, then, simply continued writing. We walked right up to the front of the table and stopped.
The Junior Lieutenant finished scribbling whatever he was scribbling, and then looked up from his book. He looked at Vorobyev, then turned to me. His face went white, and he jumped up to salute me. He was stumbling over his words:
“My apologies... Captain... I didn't mean to be rude. I thought...”
Clearly he had not noticed, nor taken mental note of my rank when he had glanced up previously, and now he found himself in the awkward situation of having not only not saluted a superior officer when she had appeared in front of him, but also having made said officer wait for him to finish whatever he was doing before tending to her needs, even if it was only for four seconds.
I shortly responded to his salute:
“At ease Lieutenant. Don't let it happen again.”
“It won't Sir... eh Mam.”
“I have an order here from Lt. General Popov himself for me to be allocated a personal vehicle.”
He had another apologetic look on his face, but this one was different, more of a 'I can't do anything about this' rather than a 'This is definitely my fault'
“Mam, I'm sorry to put it so bluntly, but as far as I know orders from the Lt. General don't conjure up staff cars. We're all out of vehicles here. Only last week, most of our spare cars were transferred to other units that needed them closer to the front. As for lorries, they're all needed to move equipment and people around. This morning's orders from Lt. General Popov: 'Essential equipment and staff must relocate every week, and after every attack in their sector, to keep the enemy guessing for their location'.” - pointing at the GAZ-AA the mechanics were frantically working on - “I'm already in trouble because this lorry is out of action due of a mistake during maintenance. Someone didn't check the cooling liquid level, and there was a leak. They had to disassemble the entire cooling system to find it. Luckily someone spotted the leaked fluid underneath the lorry before the engine overheated.”
I decided to put him under pressure. I felt a bit sorry for the man, but this was the best chance I had of getting some form of transportation.
“Are you absolutely sure lieutenant... You have nothing I could use to get around the city? If you can't find anything I would be very disappointed, and so would Lt. General Popov.”
He was visibly shaking now.
“Mam, I'm really quite sure... ehm... Let me check.”
"You do that."
He turned a few pages in his ledger, desperate to find anything to make up for his gaffes, and make me a somewhat satisfied customer at least. After a full 5 minutes of this, he looked up at me and said:
“Follow me.”
We followed him around the GAZ-AA, and there it was,... something under a large tarpaulin... it definitely wasn't a car. He lifted the tarpaulin dramatically to reveal a rather dirty motorcycle.
“Captain, may I present to you, the PMZ-A-750, produced between 1934 and 1939, in Podolsk. It's been phased out in the Red Army, and any other official capacity since 1939. This one is a 1938 model. I didn't even remember we had this thing. I must warn you, the ignition has a mind of it's own, the gearbox is sluggish, and I would strongly advise you don't go over 50 km/h, especially on rough ground. At those speeds, the front wheel is prone to start vibrating uncontrollably, along with the engine. There's a reason we don't use these things anymore, I'm sorry I can't offer you anything better right now, mam.”
“I'll take it.”
“As you wish mam. That thing has been sitting here for almost three years. I don't think anyone even looked at it in that time, it needs a service. You'll have to wait until my guys are done with the GAZ-AA though, that's top priority. ”
The Podolsk PMZ-A-750. The chassis was 'inspired' by BMWs of the time, the engine was a 750cc V-shaped unit, inspired by a Harley Davidson engine. Despite the liberal use of these sources of 'inspiration', or maybe because of it, this motorcycle was an unmitigated disaster. Over 4.600 were produced before the scale of the reliability, and stability issues was realised. All those in service were pulled out of service immediately, and replaced, as quickly as possible, by the M-72, which was a straight-forward copy of the BMW R71, and very reliable. To the point where no PMZ-A-750s were in active service by ww2. A PMZ-A-750 can be seen, ridden by the female protagonist in 'Tractors' a Soviet romantic Comedy about a love triangle set in a Utopian collective farm in which tractor drivers are the heroes, released in 1938. The movie was released in a period of increased border tensions with Japan, and a destabilising Europe. According to Russian Wikipedia, and google translate, the movie has significant undertones of impending war; With the tractors functioning as 'peacetime tanks', and the hero tractor drivers personifying the hero tank drivers of the wars ahead. Also the main male protagonist returns from a stint in the Army in the Far East, so there's that. (I start out by researching motorcycles, and I end up learning about the strange and wonderful world of Soviet state-sanctioned romantic comedies of the late 1930s. Now I actually want to look for this movie, and watch it, if I find a version with subtitles... The picture is from the movie.)
Thankful to have something to do while I waited for Sergei to fly over from Kyiv, I asked the Junior Lieutenant for a spare set of tools and some space to work. You had to see the look on his face. A captain doing mechanical work was rather uncommon, and I guess that he least expected it from a female captain.
I spent two hours going over the motorcycle, cleaning it, oiling the chain, checking for wear and tear, and finally, filling the tank with fuel. It must have gotten a service shortly before it was taken out of circulation as it was in remarkably good shape, and by that I mean that it didn't take much for it to work as badly as it did when it came out of the factory. After jumping up and down on the crank for a good ten minutes, the ignition decided to spark, and the thing started. It was everything the Lieutenant had promised, it was shaking along with the engine, even at low speeds, and it pulled to the right, something I suspect would get worse at higher speeds.
By the time I got to Lwow Air Base, the ANT-9 was already on the ground, taxiing to the shed they called a terminal building, a staff car was waiting to take a particularly important passenger to his destination. As the aeroplane came to a halt, the door was opened, and an Artillery Colonel stepped out first, straight into the waiting GAZ-M1. Only once the car had driven off, could the other passengers get out. Almost unconsciously, I straightened my hair and cap before Sergei got off the Antonov. He looked around, saw me, gave me a warm smile and started walking briskly towards me. A VVS Yefreytor, who I had thought to be part of the ground crew for the Antonov, intercepted him a few metres from the plane. I couldn't exactly hear what they were saying, Sergei suddenly had a rather worried look on his face. He then ran to me, stopped, and saluted, I saluted back. His smile had come back, but not entirely.
“Captain Goleniewsky, – emphasis on 'Captain' - it's great to see you again.”
“Great to see you too, Starshina.”
We shared a short hug, and then Sergei continued:
“It's been a week since we last saw each-other, and already I'm getting posted closer to you. I expected it to take you at least a month for you to get me transferred. I'm certainly not willing to believe this is some happy coincidence. - there was some urgency in his voice - I would love to stay and chat, or take a ride on that piece of junk. - glancing at the motorcycle behind me – Sadly, duty calls. Zhigarev's unit took a lot of Flak over Volove, and they need to get as many aeroplanes back into the air for the next run. Those hungarians may not have the best Anti-Aircraft Artillery, they do have a hell of a lot of it. Our boys... and girls... on the ground need all the support they can get. Junior Sergeant of Aviation Rybakov was informing me of the details.
I was given leave for the entire day, but the Lt. Colonel in charge of the ground crew here heard I was coming and, despite the fact he somehow didn't have the authority to rescind my leave, he decided to have the Junior Sergeat ask me to help out anyway. Whomever pulled strings for me went all the way, but I can't let my new unit down. Right now it's all hands on deck. If you want you can watch us work for a while, and then we can have lunch. So, will you give me a ride to that hangar over there?”
“Sure, if I can get this darn thing to start.”
“Oh yes, it has that terrible ignition timing regulator, if I get some time and the right part, we can fix that. Let's walk instead.”
We walked the ca. 70 meters to the hangar, and then Sergei went to work. The hangar held an Il-10 which had two pierced oil lines. All the oil for the engine had leaked out of the aeroplane, and it was something of a miracle it had made it back at all, gliding several kilometres before executing a perfect landing. The engine couldn't be saved, but the airframe was fine. I looked on, and occasionally helped, as Starshina Kharkov, and a team of three mechanics, swapped the ruined engine for a brand new one and replaced all the affected oil lines in record time.
Body panels were screwed back on, fluids topped off, and the new Klimov engine was fired up just once for testing purposes. Some frantic adjustments were made, and then it was go time. The pilot and the gunner climbed in, and the Il-10 was off to bomb some more Hungarians.
The plane took off and turned slowly towards Hungary. We looked on with some degree of anxiety. Not a word was said as the mechanics listened for any misfire, or other audible issue with the engine they had just put in. Luckily, there seemed to be no audible issues before the Assault Plane disappeared out of sight, and out of hearing range. We walked back to the motorcycle, and after some tinkering with the ignition timing regulator, Sergei got it to start. As I knew where to go, and he didn't, so I drove, he held on with his arms around my waist, and my rifle was slung over his shoulder. After a rough, and rather slow, ride we reached the St. Elizabeth Church at around 1pm. Except for my gear, my rations, and some spare ammunition, everything and everyone belonging to the Red Army had left the building. I took Sergei up to the top of the tower, and we ate lunch as we overlooked the scars of previous battles. Near the end of lunch, I explained the mission I had chosen to take to Sergei, and the mood between us somewhat soured. He didn't ask for a ride back to the Air Base, preferring to walk. I could feel he was hurt and disappointed. Seeing in just how much danger I'm putting myself with his own eyes was a bit much for him, and in hindsight, maybe I shouldn't have brought him up there.
After what seemed like an eternity, but was really about 20 minutes, I heard some commotion downstairs. I checked my watch, and it was 1500 hours. My men had arrived. I took a minute to clean myself up, straightened out the uniform, grabbed my rifle. I was about to head downstairs, when I heard someone coming up the stairs. Suddenly, I started to panic. Were my men really there? Who was marching up those stairs? I couldn't be sure. I pulled out my tokarev, and placed myself against the wall of the staircase, so that anyone entering would have to turn 90°, away from the closest windows, to even see me. As people mostly tend to look towards the light first, I would have the element of surprise over whomever could come bursting through that door. As the steps grew louder, my body was on high alert, I was ready for anything to come through that door, then, just as the steps reached the door, they stopped. There was a light knock on the door, and then a deep male voice, in Russian with a light Ukrainian accent:
“Captain Goleniewsky, Sir, are you in there.”
I was somewhat relieved and responded in my most authoritative voice:
I could hear only the tiniest hint of surprise in his voice as he replied.
“Mam, Senior Sergeant Bondarchuk reporting for duty with a squad of 7 snipers, as per orders, Mam”
Only now it was clear the man wasn't an immediate threat did I let my guard down a bit and slowly holstered my tokarev. My face was covered in cold sweat. I couldn't let my men see me like this:
“I'll be right down Senior Sergeant.”
“Understood, Mam.”
He grumbled something under his breath I couldn't quite make out and walked down the stairs.
After cleaning myself up a second time, I made my way downstairs. First impressions are important when you're a commander. Even more so when you are a female commanding men. I walked in regular, purposeful paces. The men all stood at attention. They had gathered near the western entrance, meaning that I had to cover over 40 m to get to them. My steps echoed through the high nave of the church. With the sunlight in my face, I could barely see more than silhouettes as I got out from under the main tower.
After this awkwardly long walk, in total silence, I finally reached the neatly lined-up men, who saluted me as I reached them. I acknowledged their salute, looking them over, adding another 10-second pause to illustrate I was calling the shots, before saying the magic words:
“At ease gentlemen”
The sighs of relief echoed through the church.
“Senior Sergeant Bondarchuk, step forward please.”
The man stepped forwards, his appearance was somewhat unexpected. The uniform was somewhat mismatched, with a brand new standard issue shirt, late 1930s trousers and a cap that had definitely seen better days. His age was difficult to pin down in a first look, he's slightly shorter than me, losing hair off the top, has a wild beard, and a nasty scar was visible on his upper neck and jaw.
“Sergeant, am I correct in assuming that, with the exception of myself, you are the most senior officer here?”
“Yes mam.”
“Do you have a list of the snipers under my command?”
“Yes mam. It's not an official list, but I took some notes on the way over here.”
He handed me a dirty piece of paper with his notes, in the worst handwriting I've ever seen produced by an adult.
“Sergeant Major, do you know how to type?”
“No mam. With all due respect, I was trained to operate a Mosin-Nagant, not a typewriter.”
That last response was a bit cheeky to my taste, so I tried to beat him at his own game.
“May I see your Mosin-Nagant, Senior Sergeant”
He presented his weapon to me. I took a minute to inspect it, while they all held their breath. The darn thing was spotless, and in perfect working order.
“Very well Bondarchuk, I guess you'll have to tell me about them as your skills with the pen are vastly inferior to your skills with a gun. I've worked in intelligence, and I can't read this.”
I handed back his hieroglyphics, and he didn't look the least bit affected by my criticism of his handwriting.
“Let's start with you Sergeant. Tell me when you joined the Red Army, how you became a sniper, and where you have seen combat. Try to be brief.”
“Mam. I joined the Red Army as a volunteer in 1929, I had a bit of a slow start, but eventually, I was noticed to be a natural with a gun, and in 1933, I was hand-picked for sniper training near Moscow. From 1934, I was stationed in the Far East, shot some Japanese and Manchukuo forces that crossed the border, mostly around lake Khasan. In early 1939, I was transferred to a sniper squad that operated within 255 Motorised Rifle Regiment, part of then Maj. General Popov's 57 Motor Rifle Division. I was second in command of the squad. The Division saw a lot of fighting in the war with Finland. When my Sergeant was killed in combat in the second battle of Vokthozero, I was promoted to take his place. After the war, I was decorated and given the option to go into the reserves. I refused and was transferred to the Guards Riflemen, where I received some additional training, before being promoted to Senior Sergeant and second in command of a Guards Rifle Platoon, part of 354th Guards Rifle Regiment. I filled that role until this morning.”
“Not the briefest of curriculum vitae Sergeant, but quite informative and mostly relevant to the mission. Thank you for serving the people of the Soviet Union. Tell me about the others?”
“Well, there are two winter war veterans. Yefreytor Gribkov, who fought in the Viipuri area, and Private Kopeykin, who fought in the short battle of Lammi. The remaining five are recent graduates from sniper training. Privates Yevtushenko, Kovalchuk, Davitashvilli, Shcherban from the Kyiv Military Academy, and Private Lobkovskaya from the Central Women's Sniper Training School.”
“Yefreytor Gribkov, step forward and present your rifle.”
“Mam, yes mam.”
It was a Finnish-built Mosin-Nagant with a 1939-model Soviet scope, a rather interesting and somewhat unusual weapon. It wasn't spotless, but it was in decent working order. The man was somewhat taller than me, and of quite a thin build. As I handed back his weapon I said:
“Thank you for your service in Viipuri, Yefreytor.”
“Mam.”
“Private Kopeykin, step forward.”
“I think we're all familiar with the large-scale battles that took place in and around Viipuri. Briefly describe the battle of Lammi to me, from your point of view.”
“Well, it wasn't much compared to Viipuri, we outnumbered the enemy almost 4-1. Mostly the regular Riflemen advanced too quickly for us snipers to get into position to help out. They were taking very few losses. Many Finnish soldiers were exhausted, and just ran at the sight of fresh riflemen. Starting after lunch, it took barely half a day, with some stragglers trying to ambush riflemen into the night. That's how I got my first kill, really, I was put on night patrol, and I saw something a short flicker of light coming from out in some shrubs, a reflection from one of the searchlights on something, metal, or glass. Well, I didn't exactly get the kill, I told my commander, and he radioed in for an artillery strike on that particular bit of shrubbery, just to be sure. In the morning we picked up the pieces of what used to be a Finnish infantryman. He must have been scouting or preparing a trap, or maybe he was hoping to be able to take out an officer or two. I will never know. For the rest that war was pretty boring, and cold. I already saw more action in this war than in the whole of the winter war, mam.”
“Very well. Thank-you for your honesty private.”
So, to summarize, I got a Senior Sergeant who has been in the Red Army for so long he should have been a Major by now, at least. Well, he does have a lot of combat experience, and he can maintain his rifle. He also has a big mouth, and illegible handwriting, these could be the reasons why he kept getting passed over for promotions. Then there are the two winter war veterans, but only one of them saw significant combat there. And to top it all off, there are my five newly trained recruits who definitely hadn't seen any combat yet. Lt. General Popov never said he would send me his best and brightest. I don't know what I expected. In retrospect, it makes sense not to send your best and brightest on a mission that is meant to attract enemy fire. I decided to ask one last question:
“Who here has shot and killed an enemy soldier?”
All but two hands went up.
“At a range of over 200 meters?”
Only private Kovalchuk and the three veterans still had their hand up.
“At a range of over 500m?”
Now only Sr. Sergeant Bondarchuk and Yefreytor Gribkov had their hands up. At this point, and before I could bring another word in, Bondarchuk interrupted me.
“Captain. Permission to ask you a question, mam.”
“I don't appreciate you interrupting me Sr. Sergeant. I don't know how this worked in your previous unit, but as long as I'm your captain, you will wait until spoken to during briefings. You will all get a chance to ask questions later.”
- I was somewhat curious as to what he wanted to ask me, but I had to put him in his place. I paused for effect before launching into the mission details:
“Welcome to St. Elizabeth's Church gentlemen, and lady. Until this morning, this was the centre of operations for this sector of the city. During this latest German attack, between 1 and 2am last night, the enemy attempted, and failed, to destroy the main tower with Heavy Anti-Aircraft Artillery. The question now is whether they will try again, or whether they will assume the centre of operations to have been moved. Our job is to make them try again. The centre of operations, run by Colonel Molchalin, has been moved to another location. Lt. General Popov wants the enemy to focus it's attention on this, mostly empty, building. We will convince them that the amount of snipers in the building has been increased, as snipers are what saved Colonel Molchalin, and his core staff, in extremis, last night.
The enemy is not stupid, they know that pointing an 88mm FlaK gun straight at that tower has revealed their intentions, even if they didn't manage to get a shot off. This means we won't be conserving much ammunition. When, not if, the enemy attacks again, we will shoot at everything we can hit. Of course, self-preservation is our priority, so any threats to this building are our primary targets.
I'm splitting you in three groups to cover all three towers. Sr. Sergeant Bondarchuk, you and Private Davitashvilli will take up firing positions in the North-Western tower."
- Private Davitashvilli, despite his lack of combat experience, is a hulk of a man. He's significantly taller than me, and twice as wide, I'm actually surprised they trained him as a sniper and not as a heavy Machine-gunner or Mortarman.
"Yefreytor Gribkov, you and Private Shcherban will take the South-Western tower.
The rest will be under my direct supervision in the main tower.
If you have a question, now would be the time to step forward.”
View of St. Elizabeth's South - South-West façade, note the main tower just to the north of the main body, and the South-Western tower on the left, hiding it's North-Western twin. Note also, the nice square surrounding the church. I have found no blueprints of the church, so anything about the layout of the church is conjecture from pictures, or pure invention.
Three soldiers stepped forwards: The Senior Sergeant, who was having a hard time hiding his irritation; Yefreytor Gribkov, who seemed calm and unfazed by the mission ahead, and private Yevtushenko, who seemed to be blushing. I let Yefreytor Gribkov speak first, further infuriating the Senior Sergeant.
“Captain. I assume there will be someone on duty in all three towers at all times. How do you envision the rotation, mam?”
“Thank you Yefreytor, you assume correctly. We will work in two shifts. I want one pair of eyes in both of the western towers at all times, and two pairs in the main tower. For the two western towers, yourself and Sr. Sergeant Bondarchuk will take care of the details. Of course, in case of attack everyone is to be ready for action within minutes. You will stay close to the church, if not in it, even when off duty. We all live here now, you better get used to it.”
“Mam, understood, Mam”
“Senior Sergeant, you had a question.”
“Several actually.”
“Now is the time Bondarchuk, ask away.”
“Captain, with all due respect. You've vetted us all on our qualifications and experience. I'd like to know what your qualifications are, Mam?”
It wasn't just what he said, but also the hint of condescension in his voice that really annoyed me
“I haven't been in the Army as long as you, if that's what you want to know. My history is none of your business, really, but, as I'm sure most of you are wondering the same thing, though the rest of you are too disciplined to ask such an impertinent question, I'll indulge you, and this is all I'm ever going to say on that subject. I transferred in from the 5th Directorate, where anything I did or did not do is way above your pay-grade. As private Lobkovskaya can probably affirm - although she wasn't in my platoon of cadets - I was, until recently, an instructor at the Central Women's Sniper Training School. Finally, I've been up in that tower since the First of July, and I can guarantee you I was there for more than sightseeing alone."
Bondarchuk was, again, unimpressed with my response, and grumbled something under his breath.
“Sr. Sergeant, if you have another question, don't mumble it into your beard, speak up.”
“Mam, does this mean I am your second in command, in charge of the two western towers?”
“It does not, you have authority only over the North-Western tower, Yefreytor Gribkov commands the South-Western tower, you both respond directly to me, and as such you are both second in command. If I were you, Senior Sergeant, I would work on that attitude of yours, it is unbecoming of a man of your rank and experience. I expect your full cooperation in this mission, there will be no second-guessing my orders. I will take suggestions, within reason, but I will not tolerate impertinence and insubordination. I will now take private Yevtushenko's question.”
The Senior Sergeant struggled to hide his dismay at being placed on equal footing with a Yefreytor (Corporal). He was about to say something, but I interrupted him, addressing the hesitating private Yevtushenko directly:
“Private. Your question?”
“Yes mam … uh, Captain, … does this mean men will be sharing accommodations with women? I mean no disrespect, but wouldn't it be preferable to have the women sleep separately from the men. I don't think my wife would approve … “
“Let me cut you off right there private. This isn't high school, it's the Red Army. The only thing that really matters here is the uniform you wear, the stripes on your shoulder, and your performance in battle. I do realise that female sub-units are usually housed separately from male units, but those regulations can be superseded by local requirements and availability of accommodation. Usually, Captains also get their own room. In this case none of that is practical, nor effective. As your commander, I will post you as I see fit, regardless of gender. You will all act like professionals while on duty. When not on duty, you will act like responsible adults and keep it in your trousers, you will not besmirch this unit's reputation or that of the Red Army Guards. If you do not treat your comrades in arms with the respect they deserve, I will find out, and you will be punished. That goes for all of you, regardless of rank and previous experience. And private, I do believe the defence of the Soviet Union supersedes your need for your wife's approval...”
At this point the Northern side-entrance of the Church opened, and a Guards rifle Sergeant armed with a PPSh-41 submachine-gun entered the room, followed by a Junior Sergeant armed with an SVT-40.
Both stood at attention and saluted immediately upon entering.
“Over here gentlemen.”
Both walked over to where I was standing and saluted again. I responded to their salute and they introduced themselves, the tall sergeant with the big moustache spoke first:
“Captain Goleniewsky. Sergeant Bylinkin, 394th Guards Heavy Rifle Squad, reporting for duty Mam.”
Sergeant Bylinkin posing with his PPSh-41. Note the Moustache
The shorter, slightly more rotund, but clean-shaven, Junior Sergeant was next:
“Junior Sergeant Gorbunov, 142nd Guards Machine-Gun Squad, reporting for duty Captain.”
“You're half an hour late, gentlemen, care to explain?”
The Sergeant, jumped in:
“Captain, mam. Both of our teams were previously located about 5 km to the east of this location. As I understand it, there was some discussion as to which squads would be sent on this particular mission. By the time we were given our orders, there was barely enough time to relocate on foot, let alone to gather our equipment. We were promised a pair of lorries as the relocation was categorised as 'urgent', but no lorries became available. We marched our men up here as quickly as possible. It is unprofessional and unbecoming of Guards riflemen to be late. Our apologies, mam.”
“Understandable captain, apology accepted. So, what do you bring to this mission Sergeant, specifically the number of men, armament, and combat experience?”
“My squad consists of two light Machine-Gunners with DP-27s, their two assistants armed with Mosin-Nagant Carabines, and 4 Riflemen with SVT-40's. The entire squad fought in anti-partisan operations in Finland. A solid unit, if I say so myself Captain.”
Guards riflemen posing with their DP-27 Light Machine Guns. The large round ammunition drums give these weapons their distinctive look. These weapons were cheap to make and remarkably effective, in theory, each rifle squad had one, and some squads had two. It offers a fire rate of 500-600 rpm, combined with an excellent firing range and decent accuracy. The only real downside is the fact that it's not belt-fed, meaning that it's continuous firing rate is significantly lower than that of foreign weapons of similar size and functionality, like the MG-34, for example.
“Excellent, and your unit Junior Sergeant?”
“A Machine-Gunner with a brand new 7.62mm SG-43 machine-gun, three ammunition bearers / assistants armed with Mosin-Nagant Carabines, and myself with my SVT-40. When we switched from the Maxim to the much lighter SG-43, our horse and horse-driver were reassigned. Myself and the Machine-Gunner fought in the War in Finland, in the Viipuri area, two of the ammunition bearers were with us in the later anti-partisan operations, and the third assistant is a rookie who just graduated 3rd of his class in the Military Academy in Kyiv. The men are all waiting outside, Captain.”
I dismissed the snipers, who were still waiting, before turning to the Sergeant and Junior Sergeant:
“Gentlemen, walk with me.”
As we walked to the Northern side-entrance, I explained what I expected from the forces on the ground around the Church. Their job being, mainly, to look more numerous than they are, and to set up the Machine-Guns defensively, using the trenches dug by the Guards Rifle company that protected the base of the Church until this morning. I put Sergeant Bylinkin in overall charge of this part of the operation, making him more of a second in command than Senior Sergeant Bondarchuk. I'm sure the latter was thrilled by that fact. The two squads seem more solid than the odd bunch of Snipers I'd been given. At least I won't have to worry too much about attackers coming from the ground floor. I gave a rousing speech to the men outside, and discussed the positioning of the men on the perimeter in more detail.
I was about to go inside to check on the preparations the snipers were making, when the two radio operators arrived, on foot, merrily chatting away, as they strolled towards the church at a leisurely pace. I let Sergeant Bylikin give them an earful that made them sprint towards me, stand at attention, salute, and look at me with the same look toddlers give their mother when they get caught with their hand in the cookie-jar. They were both armed with a Mosin-Nagant Carabine, and carried a standard issue A-7 portable VHF radio transciever.
The A7-A portable very high frequency radio transceiver, produced in large numbers starting in late 1942, and widely distributed throughout the Red Army from that point on. It was used mainly for communication within Rifle Regiments and Artillery Regiments. It could also be plugged into a telephone line, function as a two-way radio, as a telephone, and convert a telephone signal into a radio signal and vice-versa if needed. Instead of using amplitude modulation, like it's widely used predecessor, the A-4, it uses frequency modulation, which eliminates a lot of noise on the signal.
“Privates, is there any particular reason why you are late.”
“Captain, it's this city, it's just so pretty to walk through. We've never been here before, you know. Look at this church right here, I've never seen anything like that before, mam.”
You could hear the excitement in their voice.
“You're going to see a lot more of it before this is over, you live here now. Your first order of business is to set up communications, When the attack comes, I'm going to be sitting in that big tower right there. I want one of you up there with me, and I want the other one down here, right next to Sergeant Bylikin. You will set up direct communications between the two of you, between my tower and Major Panov's HQ, and between my tower and city hall. After dinner, everyone of the day shift will bring you their boots, and you will polish them. If anyone's boots aren't shiny like a mirror come tomorrow morning, I'm holding you two personally responsible. Maybe that will teach you to walk faster. This is a war, not a package holiday funded by the people of the Soviet Union. Dismissed.”
“Mam yes mam.”
They gave me a sad, almost melancholic look as they rushed off to position and tune their radio sets. Both of them looked more like boys than men. I have no idea where Lt. General Popov's staff found them, but they are the youngest military radio operators I've ever seen. It's quite likely that they both lied about their age to get into the Red Army. As long as they know what they're doing with those radio sets, I won't make trouble for them. I'm not a big fan of the whole decorum part of the Red Army, sure I like to, occasionally, put some effort into my appearance, but having people constantly shining boots seems like a waste of time when they could be learning skills that are actually useful in combat. But, that said, it's a useful tool to assert one's authority, and to punish those that may be a bit too nonchalant about their job some discipline.
Commanding this varied group of people, well officially it's an independent platoon, is going to be a handful. Let's hope things stay quiet for a few days, so I can run them all through their paces, and get them to bond a little, but not too much either, of course.
As I was pondering all this, I noticed a lone figure walking towards the church along Horodotska street, I couldn't tell who it was immediately, but as he got closer, I noticed it was my best friend, Starshina of Aviation Sergei Kharkov. As soon as he saw me standing there, he started jogging towards me. As he got close, Sergeant Bylikin yelled, mindful of the possibility of enemy spies checking out the church to figure out if there was still something important in there:
“Halt! who goes there!”
“Starshina of Aviation Kharkov, aeroplane engine mechanic with I. ShAK. I'm here for Captain Irina Goleniewsky.”
“You know him” (to me)
“Yes. Stand down sergeant. Let him through.”
He walked up to me, and after the military formalities, I led him to a bench in the square, just to the South of the church, telling the Sergeant.
“I'll be right there if anyone needs me.”
We sat down, and it was a mess. Sergei started to apologise for walking off and getting too angry at my choices, I started to apologise for the pain I was causing him by taking those huge risks. I'm really bad with emotional moments like these, so we just shared a hug. I started crying, he started crying. After a short while, we collected ourselves and talked about our day: I talked about the motley bunch of snipers I was assigned, and the radio operators that were barely out of their diapers. He talked about fixing very broken aeroplanes, and the stories aircrew had told him upon returning from their missions.
While we were on the subject of fixing broken things, he pulled out an ignition timing regulator from his toolbox, which he had brought with him, something I only noticed at that point. My recently allocated motorcycle was standing right up against the wall of the church. Working together, mostly in silence, ignoring the onlooking riflemen, we spent a good twenty minutes taking off bits of the motorcycle to get to the ignition timing regulator, another 15 minutes replacing it and making precise adjustments. After another 20 minutes putting everything back in place and checking all the fluid levels, Sergei started the PMZ-A-750 on the first try. Really an incredible achievement, considering how much of a piece of junk it was. Of course the engine's vibrations were shaking the ground beneath our feet, especially at idle. One problem at a time... We talked a bit more. About our plans for my car, which was safely hidden away in Kyiv, and about the way the Great Patriotic War is progressing as a whole. In the end, he had to get back to the Air Base. Having given explicit orders to all those under my command that no one was to leave the area of the church until further notice, I couldn't very well drive him back. As I wasn't going anywhere anytime soon, I gave Sergei the keys to the PMZ, he laughed suggesting it was a poisoned gift, before riding off at 7:30pm.
I made my rounds, and after giving the rookies in the main tower a few extra pointers, everything seems in order, all the firing positions are properly set-up, everyone knows when they are on duty and when they're not. We'll be having dinner soon, in two shifts of course, and tomorrow I will run drills to test the readiness of my independent (half-)platoon. I'm also going to demand from corps HQ that we get a combat medic. As the unit isn't part of a company, we don't have the standard 5 medics at company level, so any wounded would have to be transported to city hall for medical treatment, or we'd have to count on medics from surrounding units, who are bound to be occupied with their own wounded when it hits the fan. Hardly ideal.
I hope everything is well with you and the other members of the Committee, despite your huge workload. I hope you do get some rest once in a while.
Wish me luck, because I'm going to need it,
Capt. Irina Alexandrovich Goleniewsky (aka. 11)