Page 23 - Excerpts from the diary

24.05.1944
Yesterday, while I was on duty, one of our machine-gunners seriously wounded a first lieutenant from the 88th unit, which had recently
arrived and had brazenly taken up positions without the command’s consent. The wounded officer died. Apparently he had threatened our
machine-gunner that he would shoot him and shouted, “Get down into the trench! You’re in for it now!” But it was he who ended up “in
for it.” The soldier defended the wood that the scoundrel wanted to take away from him, even at the cost of the first lieutenant’s life. All
the soldiers and commanders, including two company commanders, remarked with satisfaction that the soldier had done the right thing:
everyone hated this deputy battalion commander. He beat soldiers with the butt of his revolver and threatened many soldiers and
commanders with execution for no reason.

It was a pitch-black, silent night. I was walking through the company positions, checking the sentries’ vigilance and the progress of the
defensive works. Suddenly I heard a commotion and hurried toward it.
I was also checking the progress of the defensive works. Suddenly I heard a commotion and hurried toward the place it came from. When
I was already nearby, I heard voices:

“Comrade First Lieutenant, why are you hitting me?”

And another voice: “Do you know I’m the deputy battalion commander? I’m the deputy battalion commander! Get down into the trench!
You’re finished! I’ll shoot you! You’re going to take me to the platoon commander, are you?! Into the trench!”

A struggle began. The soldiers who witnessed it later told me that the first lieutenant seized the soldier’s rifle and started pulling him
toward the trench. The rifle was cocked. I had just run up and shouted, “What are you doing? Stop!” when a shot rang out and I heard a
loud “Oh!” People around us became agitated and began running about. The soldier came up to me with tears in his eyes and pleaded,
“Comrade Lieutenant, bandage the man!” Then he said, “The rifle was loaded... how did this happen? He pulled it... They’ll take me
away, but I’m not guilty...”

A medic came and dressed the wounded man. And to be present [...] [the sheet is torn].

Meanwhile the men told me everything that had happened before I arrived. Toloknov’s machine-gunners had been moving back to their
old position the material that had been taken from them by soldiers of the newly arrived 88th Guards Rifle Division. Meanwhile [...] [the
continuation is missing].

04.06.1944
Dear Pasha Ivanovna,

It is with deep sorrow that I inform you of the death in battle of your brother, Grigory Ivanovich Marchenko. He died last night while at
his combat post with a light machine gun. A stray bullet entered his left temple and exited through the right.

I share the grief that has fallen upon you so suddenly. Your brother Grigory was one of our best soldiers and an active avenger against the
German monsters. Everyone loved him, from the soldiers to the commanders. As his platoon commander, I am deeply grieved by the
death of my comrade-in-arms and friend [...]

[...] Dear sister of our fellow soldier, the memory of Marchenko will never die in our hearts. We will take revenge on the Hitlerites for his
death!

I shake your hand firmly.

Guards Lieutenant
V. Gelfand

29.07.1944
Observation post. Boredom. Unbearable heat. Ahead is a magnificent view of the Dniester landscape: the smooth surface of the river, the
green banks, and the open sweep of the land. Grigoriopol lies behind us, while here at the observation post there are flies, flies,
flies—pestering us like tiny jackals. They have become so brazen that they are not afraid when you brush them away. They crawl straight
onto your hands, into your mouth, into your boots, anywhere their tiny bodies can squeeze. You catch them by the legs or wings and they
struggle in your fingers. Let them go and they do not even fly away until you drive them off by force. Whole swarms flicker before my
eyes, buzzing and tormenting me to distraction.

My finger irritates me too. Its red tip, without a nail, is unpleasant to look at, and although I feel no pain at all, the sight of the mutilated
finger brings a kind of melancholy into my soul.

The enemy is methodically shelling Grigoriopol. He has already fired about twenty shells and continues with animal dullness. Nothing
moves ahead. Even through the field glasses I cannot see any Germans. The observation point itself is very inconvenient: earth crumbles
from the walls of the dugout, and the field of view is narrow.

Yesterday an enemy aircraft flew over the town and dropped small bombs. A medical orderly was wounded. He was a good fellow, a
joker, and he had an interesting book, Notes of a Prostitute.
I receive no letters, but I write a great many.