Page 16 - Excerpts from the diary

At any moment we expect an attack. The enemy is firing at us. Somewhere our aircraft are flying; apparently our neighbors are
advancing.

I now have three field bags and one kit bag, but not all my things fit, so I have to carry some in my pockets. I mainly arm myself with
notebooks, paper, and a few newspapers. I have hardly any possessions as such.

I dream of writing some sentimental poem, but all that is a matter of time.

Our artillery is firing, and a plane has appeared above us. But that is not enough, of course, for an offensive. No, it will not...
...begin now; perhaps later.

A little later. I have just been to battalion headquarters to ask about letters and newspapers and learned some very unpleasant news about
last night’s infantry attack.

The Germans allowed our attacking battalion to approach the first line without firing a single shot, then caught it in crossfire from every
direction. The 1st Battalion fled; the 2nd and 3rd were surrounded. They had to fight their way out. Of sixty men, twenty-seven did not
return from this operation. Thus only thirty men remained in the battalion, four of them wounded.

Our ten men were evidently involved in the fighting too. I am anxious to learn their fate, but for the moment it is not known exactly who
returned. Only the number is known. Battalion clerk Sanko told me all this.

As I was writing, enemy Messerschmitts shot down two of our planes.

The fighting continues, especially on the left flank. There is infernal artillery preparation. Novaya Petrovka must be taken and the brutal
enemy driven from the positions he has chosen so carefully for defense.

I am writing letters. Enemy aircraft are flying overhead—twenty-six of them.

But I will continue writing; for the moment no bombs are exploding here. I must answer Mother with another letter and send the
certificate. I wrote and sent three letters: to Mother, Father, and Olya B. Maillet. One more letter for Mother, with the certificate enclosed,
I have not yet sent.

27.12.1943
Today I talked with Savostin for a long time about ordinary life. He talks endlessly about a village, a garden, a little stream, a quiet life
away from vanity and hardship. A wife who keeps house—even if illiterate and unattractive, so long as she is healthy and hardworking.

I kept talking about literature. He tried to turn me away from my love of writing, to persuade me that I am untalented and have no ability
to become a writer. He even tried to write a poem himself, assuring me that he could write better than I do, but of course nothing came of
it.

He went on for a long time saying that I would become nothing more than an ordinary graphomaniac and would therefore live in poverty
and deprivation. With a pencil behind my ear and a bag in my hand, he said, I would stand in a queue for a piece of goose and, when my
turn came, there would be none left. Meanwhile he would have an unlimited supply of geese, pigs, and everything else and would not
stand pointlessly in queues spending his last pennies.

Later he went to the observation post. I heated the stove and decided, just to spite Savostin, that I would write even more. I sharpened a
pencil and prepared some paper when suddenly someone came running in:

“Comrade Junior Lieutenant, you are wanted on the telephone.”

I went over and asked who was calling.

“Eighty-nine,” came the answer.

“I’m listening.”

“What did you graduate from?” the voice asked.

“So you are a junior lieutenant?”

“Yes.”

“Did you study rifle tactics?”

At once I thought they wanted to send me to the riflemen, and my heart sank a little. Then I decided: I will not escape death anywhere,
and answered, “No, I studied only mortar work.”