Page 4 - Excerpts from the diary

persistently, and stubbornly to earn that honorable title.
I showed the leaflets to no one except our platoon commander. I will take them to the political officer. There are many of them scattered
across the field here—both ours and the Germans’.

I have not written to anyone for a long time. At first I had no address, and now I have no free minute. I am writing while my comrade, the
only soldier in my section directly subordinate to me, is working—digging a trench. I have finished digging my part and am resting. The
mosquitoes bite mercilessly. There are so many of them here!

13.06.1942
Dawn. We worked until daylight, digging a trench. Now Khaustov, a soldier in my section, is digging. This man arouses an irritated sort
of pity in me: he is not as old as he looks and not as weak as he makes himself out to be. For example, he digs trenches faster and better
than I do because he has been accustomed to physical labor since early childhood. But I have to carry the mortar, shovel, and other heavy
things myself, because he says he cannot carry weights. He also says he cannot walk far.

At first we served together in an anti-tank-rifle platoon. Then we were transferred to a mortar platoon. I was appointed commander, and
he was assigned to my section. This deeply wounded his pride.

In Novorossiysk he told me that he had a heart condition and no teeth. He complained that he would not withstand firing and would die
of a ruptured heart in the first battle. When we had training fire, however, he suffered no ill effects at all. He was afraid to fire the mortar,
so I had to drop the mines down the tube myself. As I said above, I did not object, but Khaustov has still never fired a mortar. During the
second firing exercise against pillboxes, he stood guard and was not even on the firing line.

When we arrived here, he began singing a completely different tune. He said he would not listen to me or carry out my orders, said that
my orders were wrong, and openly mocked me in front of the other soldiers in the platoon, barking: “Gelfand, come here!” Or he would
send me to tell the platoon commander that he would not work with me and would not obey me.

“Well, did you tell the lieutenant what I told you?” he would ask.

22.06.1942
Today marks one year of war between our country and the fascist scoundrels. This significant date coincided with the first fierce air raid
on this area.

I am writing in a dugout trench. The raids are continuing even now. Khaustov, my soldier, has finally lost his nerve and has even become
physically ill from fear. He has been vomiting. His hands are trembling and his face is distorted. At first he tried to conceal his fear of
enemy bombing, but now he no longer hides it and openly admits that his nerves cannot take it. This is the same hero who last night
cursed me and called me a “pathetic coward,” saying that at the first battle I would soil my trousers and leave him alone to die.

I am utterly at a loss in my attempts and hopes to bring this man to reason. He has no desire whatsoever to submit to me and tells me:
“Even if you shoot me right now, I still won’t listen to you!” Last night we had yet another of our daily quarrels, which affects me more
deeply than the fiercest and most dangerous battle I can imagine. “What kind of commander are you? You’re a fool! Stupider than any
fool...” he told me.

01.07.1942
How shameless Khaustov is! What an unpleasant man. Yesterday he slept the whole day. I did not wake him because, first, I was washing
clothes and writing, and, second, I decided to let him sleep his fill so that he would not disturb me in the evening. But nothing of the sort!
“Get up, Volodya, the mines are exploding close already!” he kept bothering me after every burst of an enemy shell, frightened and
completely lost.

In the evening I went to fetch supper and waited until midnight for it to arrive. Khaustov stayed behind to guard the mortar, the mines,
and our personal belongings. I came back—and he was asleep.

“Get up, Khaustov! Khaustov, wake up!”

He crawled out.

“What are you doing, Comrade Khaustov? Sleeping when military property has been entrusted to you? You are not in the rear!”

“I dozed off,” he replied. “I want to sleep too.”

“And do you remember what you did when, back in the rear, I once suggested going to the nearest hut to spend the night with the mortar
and our belongings? ‘We cannot go. You want to sleep—what kind of commander are you? You can shoot me if you like, but I’m not
going. What if there is a combat alert and we have to get the mortar ready?’ I told you then, Khaustov, that we were in the rear and would
always have time to get everything ready if an alarm was sounded, and the hut was only a few meters away. No—you insisted on doing
things your way, just as you do now. We spent the night in rain and damp while the other sections, and even the battalion section headed
by lieutenants, were quartered indoors. You said, ‘Let’s take turns keeping watch. You stand now, and when I want to sleep I’ll wake
you.’ So I lay down. But I had barely dozed off before you woke me: ‘Get up, Volodya, it’s getting light already.’ And I stood there until
morning, although you had awakened me at the beginning of the night. We had no watches, and you took advantage of that. And now,
when we are on the front line, you dare to sleep—and for that a man really could be shot!”