Page 14 - Excerpts from the diary

17.10.1943
It seems to be the 17th.

Yesterday something happened that, by some miracle, I survived.

My red ink has run out, and for the time being I have to dissolve a green indelible pencil. I cannot simply write with the pencil because,
despite the heavy rain now falling, there is nowhere to get clean water. I dripped the last of the ink from the little bottle onto my notebook
and soaked it up with the pen.

I am sitting in a trench the soldiers dug for me because I could not dig it myself: my hand hurt terribly after yesterday’s incident, which I
will describe separately. The trench is covered with a groundsheet, but it is full of holes, and earth has been thrown on top of it as well.
Large drops of water keep falling from above. So I threw my greatcoat over my head and, doubled over, took up my pen. The Fritzes,
apparently because of the rain, are not firing their guns now, and somehow my heart feels lighter.

Our artillerymen are still banging away toward the enemy, while the rain keeps falling and falling without end.

20.10.1943
The 20th, I think.

The day passed quietly. Only today the enemy fired at us a little with six-barreled mortars, but that was all.

A new offensive began today, supported by coordinated mortar fire, artillery, tanks, Katyushas, and aircraft. What joy it was for us when
our aircraft swept over our heads like a cloud and bombed the enemy’s lair.

But suddenly several bombs whistled down onto our own positions. Some fool of a pilot—the plane bore red stars and had flown with
our other bombers to attack the enemy—failed to look carefully and dropped several bombs one after another on us. Everything shook. A
column of dust, earth, and smoke rose from the ground. The wall of my dugout trembled and showered soil down on me. One bomb fell
right into the marsh only about fifteen paces from our positions. Fortunately no one here was hurt, but among our neighboring units there
were apparently casualties, because people had been walking about everywhere without hiding from the aircraft, rejoicing at the sight of
the red-starred flock of Soviet falcons.

Company commander Lieutenant Sokolov has just arrived and turned the mortar barrels in a completely different direction. The enemy is
no longer where we had been firing before.
Our tanks have just gone forward. The infantry is advancing. Shells are exploding everywhere. We fired earlier, but for the moment we
are holding our fire so as not to hit our own men. The artillery has fallen silent, and the smoke that had hidden the whole earth from view
is dispersing. The infantry has gone over to the attack. The roar of aircraft never stops. They are working well for us today—apart from
that careless pilot who dropped bombs on us.

Savostin thinks too much of himself and today even dared to say, “I order you to do this and that.” I told him I did not intend to listen to
him. But when we were firing, I yielded to him—let him give the orders. In battle, unity of command is important.

Sokolov and Zapryagaylo are with the second platoon in another place; all the mortars could not be positioned here. The enemy is firing
over the entire area, and on our whole sector it is impossible to find a single patch of ground free of craters. I am even surprised that the
German has not found us here. The village helps shield us: all the mines and shells fly into the village, which lies about a hundred meters
behind us. Only isolated short rounds and stray mines and shells fall close—forty or fifty meters away, and sometimes very close indeed,
five or ten meters from our positions.

Even now the mines from the enemy’s six-barreled mortars howl together and burst with a shriek very nearby. Each time the walls of the
dugout shake and shower us with earth.

I have just written five letters: to Mother, the family in Magnitogorsk, Father, Aunt Anya, and Uncle Lyusya.

I am in a dugout that I dug and equipped myself. For some time now I have been managing to obtain boards and poles for overhead
cover. Although we never stay anywhere more than two or three days, I have begun digging trenches deeper and wider and then covering
them from above. I hardly go outside my dugout at all except when public or military duties require it. Otherwise I sit here, stripped
down, without my greatcoat—it is not cold inside.

Lice have tormented me too. There are such masses of them, and they are so tiny, that although I inspect my underwear every day and
destroy them by the thousand, the next day there are just as many again, gnawing at my body. The worms are tiny too, but because of
them I am forced to eat a great deal and am always hungry: these little white worms devour my food in my stomach. I have treated them
with garlic and onions, but I have not given up sweets and vegetables either, and the worms have not disappeared.

My dugout is soft: I laid plenty of grass inside, made a niche in the wall for candles, and last night burned five little boxes of German
wax candles. One box remains. Now I will not be able to read at night.

At my feet, in one corner, I made something like a latrine—a hollow. So that I do not have to go out under bullets at night—there are not
so many shells—I relieve myself there and also throw rubbish into it.