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That night our regiment fell back to the Luga River with a forced march, and by dawn we were crossing to the eastern bank of the river in the area of Aleksandrovskaya Gorka, covering the Kingisepp-Krikkovo road. After the eight days of fighting and the exhausting night march, many of the soldiers dropped to the still dew-covered ground and immediately fell asleep, as soon as they had reached the trenches.

Sidorov and I were sitting on the edge of a ditch, not far from the highway. Romanov stood next to us, leaning against the trunk of an old birch tree. Petr’s unshaven face, thickly covered with stubble, was sullen. That night, together with some radio operators who were tuning their sets, he had heard some German radio transmissions. The German radio was announcing: ‘A three-day march remains to Moscow, and to Leningrad less than that. Today our forces took the city of Kingisepp and entered the outskirts of Leningrad.’ Romanov, squinting, was looking in the direction of the city of Narva, where fighting had continued all night long.

Yershov and Grisha Strel’tsov were setting up their heavy machine gun in an open position near the road. From time to time, they also intently gazed at the opposite bank of the Luga River, where we were expecting the enemy’s appearance.

‘You, Grisha, say that old friends are forgotten,’ Yershov spoke up. ‘What, isn’t that so?’ Strel’tsov replied, sticking alder branches into the ground in order to conceal the machine gun.

‘No, and again no, Grisha!’ Yershov stated emphatically, while checking the full ammunition belts in the cases. ‘Old friendships don’t die.’

Vasiliy Dmitriyevich [Yershov] was speaking about friendship enthusiastically and fervently, as if it was the loftiest human feeling. At that moment his eyes were shining brightly, and his face was literally transformed as he spoke. Akimov spoke up: ‘Uncle Vasya, have you ever cried?’

‘I’ve cried, Senia; oh, how I’ve cried. It happened back in 1920, when the Whites killed my front-line friend.’

Yershov fell silent. The other soldiers began to busy themselves with their tobacco pouches.

Prime movers clattered past us on the road, towing long-barrelled guns. One truck after another, loaded with cases and barrels, rolled down the road, emitting clouds of blue exhaust. Cars slipped past us almost silently. Artillerymen were sitting in the trucks, on the gun carriages, even on the gun barrels. Their faces were gloomy, their uniforms smudged with grease and covered in road dust. They were our artillerymen, falling back from Kingisepp to new positions. They were looking with concern back in the direction of the city, where large balls of fire were soaring into the sky and muffled explosions could be heard.

‘They’re burning the city, the vermin,’ Sidorov angrily whispered through his clenched teeth.

Romanov glanced at the growing conflagration in Kingisepp. ‘My native town,’ he said grimly.

The sun began to set. A chilly breeze was blowing in from the Narva harbour. No matter where you looked around you, there was not a single standing building: everything had been burned or had collapsed, as if a hurricane had blown through here.

But how dear was this scorched native land to me and my comrades! Our hearts were touched by each small, withered shrub, each blackened stone, and every scorched chimney. And I thought about the great courage with which these exhausted men, who fell fast asleep at any hour or perhaps in the limited minutes just before a battle, were defending their land.

The soft, rosy glow of the sun fell upon the cobblestone road, which stretched across the gently rolling terrain like a grey ribbon. Here and there it disappeared into small thickets, only to re-emerge on gentle slopes. Now the road was orphaned and empty of people.

Major Chistyakov with the regiment chief of staff was checking our lines. Carefully stepping around the slumbering men, the officers attentively examined each bunker and firing position.

The next morning, soldiers who had been defending Kingisepp began to approach our lines. A large group of Red Army men suddenly emerged from some woods and entered our lines. An officer was among them; two red pips were visible on his dusty shoulder tabs. With a precise step, the Lieutenant marched up to battalion commander Major Chistyakov and reported in a clear voice: ‘Company commander Khmelev. We defended Kingisepp to the last possibility . . .’

standing at attention next to the Lieutenant. The stern faces of the privates and junior officers were begrimed with smoke and their eyes were reddened.

Khmelev was around 30 years of age and well-built. There was not a trace of timidity on his manly face. His grey eyes were open, penetrating and resolute. The Order of the Red Banner was decorating the Lieutenant’s chest. He was holding a German machine pistol and had one of our Mosin 1891/30 rifles slung over his shoulder.

‘I request permission, Comrade Major, to fight the Germans here together with you. . . . I don’t know where our headquarters is.’

‘I’ll get in touch with the regiment commander, to see if he’ll authorize it – please.’

The battalion commander and chief of staff disappeared around a turn in the trench. We surrounded Khmelev and his men. Someone passed around a tobacco pouch.

Rolling a cigarette, one short soldier exclaimed: ‘Now this is a defen- sive line!’ as he surveyed his new surroundings with interest.

‘Leningrad gals built these lines for us,’ Romanov said.

‘Leningrad gals!’ the short soldier repeated, his eyes twinkling. ‘What sort of little gift should we send them in return?’ he asked thoughtfully, puffing on his hand-rolled shag.

‘What sort of gift for them? Let’s toss the enemy from our land, then we’ll bow low before them and tell them, “Thank you, dears, time will remember your work!” That’s our best gift,’ Romanov replied.

We all fell silent for a spell. One of Khmelev’s soldiers broke the silence: ‘Hey! It’d be a fine thing now to get acquainted with your cook. To tell you the truth, we haven’t had a bite to eat since yesterday.’

Sidorov shook his fist at him: ‘No, brother, first you’ll tell us why you abandoned Kingisepp to the Germans!’

‘Abandoned? What, have you gone crazy?’ The soldier turned to the sergeant standing next to him: ‘Comrade Commander, explain to him, please, or else he’ll keep talking rubbish.’

Sergeant Rogov, a husky man of middle age with a broad face and high cheekbones, scowled at Sidorov: ‘You know, in the area of Kingisepp and Sapsok we beat back ten or eleven tank attacks a day, and if it hadn’t been for the enemy air force, we wouldn’t have retreated! The fascist vultures didn’t let us breathe. Now if we’d had better air cover, then things would have turned out differently . . .’

‘According to you, it seems, our pilots aren’t doing anything,’ Sidorov retorted.

‘They’re flying, but we still have few planes. I pity them; they’re dying right in front of your eyes . . .’ Rogov waved his hand in annoyance. ‘Eh, a few more planes and we’d show the Germans a thing or two . . . Neither tanks or assault guns are as frightening as air power. You can stick a grenade bundle under the tracks of a tank or assault gun, but just try to toss a grenade into a plane!’

Rogov was silent for a moment or two, then continued: ‘In the area of Ivanovskii, I encountered the commander of our forces himself, General Dukhanov, and asked him, “Comrade General, where is our air force?”’

‘Well, how did he answer you?’ Ulyanov quickly asked.

‘What could he say? He squinted and looked up into the sky . . .’ The Sergeant inhaled deeply, before continuing: ‘You say we retreated, and abandoned the city to the Germans. As if we just let Hitler have it, our Soviet city, like we don’t need it. Isn’t that your opinion?’

Sidorov amicably laid a hand on the Sergeant’s shoulder: ‘But all the same, brothers, you gave up the city, didn’t you?’

Rogov’s face flushed, and his hazel eyes flashed angrily. He gazed directly into Sidorov’s eyes and in a firm voice retorted: ‘And just how are you fighting? Likely, you were the first to flee from the Narva!’

‘We had orders.’

‘Aha! While we were driven out by force . . . Just stop and think, who’s right and who’s guilty.’

Kruglov quietly listened to the argument. He knew that the troops were anguished over our failures, and didn’t want to intervene.

But Khmelev turned on us, and heatedly said: ‘You think we don’t know how to fight or are afraid to die. This is nonsense! Look, for example, on the left of our regiment, the 2nd People’s Militia Division was fighting. Many of these men were untrained and poorly armed. They only had enough cartridges for two days.’

He stopped as if trying to recall something. Then he continued: ‘A militia member Petrov was lying next to me in a shell crater. Before the war he had worked as an engineer at the ship-building factory in Leningrad. When the German infantry attacked, Petrov met the fascists with grenades. As soon as the attack was beaten back, he quickly crawled out to a dead German and took his submachine-gun and magazines. If only you had seen how his face was shining! “Now this is a different matter,” he said. “Just teach me, Comrade Commander, how to use this thing.” When the Germans started coming at us again, Petrov fired the submachine-gun, emptying one clip after another. Suddenly he stopped firing. I asked, “What’s happened?” He replied, “Just a scratch on my

right hand . . . It’s nothing, I’ll shoot at them with my left hand.” Wounded, he continued to fight . . .’

Lieutenant Khmelev continued in admiration: ‘Leningrad volunteers! What men! Knowing nothing about military tactics, they’re blocking the foe’s path to Lenin’s city with bayonets and grenades.’ Then Khmelev shook his head: ‘They say we’re retreating because of our weakness. What weakness! If only we had more tanks and planes . . .’

Sidorov waved his hand in vexation: ‘All right, guys, that’s enough . . . you’re embittered. Let’s give you something a bit better to eat.’

We ate in the open trench. An enemy Hs-126 reconnaissance plane was circling overhead, trying to spot our positions. Enemy artillery was sporadically shelling the highway.

After the meal, one of Khmelev’s men – Fedia, a stocky fellow about 25 years old – grabbed an accordion and took a seat on the edge of a trench shelter. He glanced around mischievously, and then started running his fingers over the two rows of keys.

A young soldier came running out into the middle of the glade, gave his blond curls a shake, raised a bowed arm above his head, waved it in the air and started to dance.

The soldiers started to cry out: ‘Volodya, let’s have it!’

Fedia started to work the bellows, tapping his feet to the rhythm, and sang: ‘It’s Saturday today; you’re my lady, you’re my ma’am!’ [The first line to an old, popular folk dance song.]

The sounds of the accordion drew an audience. Even our neighbours on the defence, soldiers of a people’s militia battalion, came to listen, and among them were two young women with medical kits. One of them, with dark eyes and a kind, open face, plainly loved to dance, and she was tapping the toe of her unseemly large combat boots to the beat of the music. She was so light and lithesome, that it seemed the slightest nudge would send her flying into the air like a feather.

The militia men began to shout: ‘Get our Shura out here! Shura!’ The dark-eyed nurse Shura with the medical bag over her shoulders stepped forward, put her right hand to her waist, raised her left hand above her head, and waving a kerchief, began to work her shoulders. Stamping out a lively rhythm, she started to sing: ‘And tomorrow’s Sunday; you’re my lady, you’re my ma’am!’

Our hours of merriment were short. Suddenly the fun came to an end as quickly as it had started. Again the sound of engines began to hum in the air, and the order rang out: ‘To your places!’

ordered to head to the rear with your fighters to the reassembly point.’ We warmly said our goodbyes to our comrades. Khmelev said upon parting, ‘Don’t be blue; we’ll meet again.’

Life soon surprisingly confirmed the Lieutenant’s words. We indeed met again, but under very different circumstances.

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