‘As soon as the attack begins they will set off across the Oder. We have to support them with our fire.’
It was already dark when I entered the Party Secretary’s dugout. Captain Postnikov was sitting at a table on which newspapers were heaped. He was preparing for a discussion with the troops, in which he would talk about the specialities of the enemy defences on the Oder. The fortifications extended for a considerable depth and were apparently thicker than those on the Vistula. Yet the Oder was the last of the Vistula–Oder defensive systems. When we broke though them our attack on Berlin would be speeded up considerably. Postnikov wanted to talk to the soldiers about this.
Anatoli Postnikov was clever and cold-blooded. These qualities were needed by a political officer as much as by a troop commander. The appeals to the combatants to accomplish heroic deeds and not to spare their lives only fell on fruitful ground if the political officer presented a good example. For Postnikov such behaviour was a matter of honour.
I said good-bye to Postnikov and went to the command post. A cold wind was coming over the Oder and whirling snowflakes in the air. The moon shone as a narrow sickle simmering through the snow-flakes. On my left the outline of an SPG rose indistinctly. Someone was playing a harmonica in the vehicle. Another softly sang a melancholy song. I listened for a while and hoped that this would not be the last night for them both.
The first morning on the Oder. All around us everything was quiet. There was still fog over the river and the low-lying terrain but one could already make out the bridge across the Oder. Gradually the haze lightened over the town and the morning sun shone through.
The last preparations for battle were being made at the observation post. The adjutant made contact over the radio with the companies, while I used the telephone. Suddenly I heard General Krivoshein’s voice: ‘Start your work!’
A red Verey light went up from the corps command post and shone over Alt Drewitz. ‘On the troop assembly before the bridges – Sector 101 – concentrated fire!’ I ordered the companies.
Captain Sacharkin repeated the order with a series of red Verey lights. The first shots thundered, soon amalgamating into a thunderous din. The shells hissed towards their goals. Dark fountains rose in front of the bridges on which were enemy vehicles and infantry.
German soldiers hurried about confusedly here and there on the river bank, sinking in the snow. The tanks and vehicles added to the confusion as they drove for cover behind the buildings. Some were already on fire, as was Küstrin railway station, where trains were burning. Our SPGs switched their fire to the brickworks on the forward edge of the enemy defences.
I left Sacharkin in charge of the command post and drove with Yudin to the 4th Company to control its direction. As we arrived, the fighting reached its climax. The SPGs were firing uninterruptedly. Their hatches were wide open as the submachine-gunners passed shells to the crews.
Lieutenant Chorushenko was standing in an open hatch. In his right hand he held a telephone, in his left the radio microphone, immediately relaying Lieutenant Beltshikov’s fire orders to the crews by radio. Now and then he set down the telephone to write down the details of the next firing task. ‘The Ukrainian knows his job,’ remarked Yudin.
I glanced inside Lieutenant Kiritshenko’s SPG. The hot air engendered by the firing hit me in the face, and my ears thundered. The crew were functioning superbly. Kiritshenko put the earpiece of his helmet against his ear and repeated the orders he was getting from Chorushenko to the crew. Pavlov reeled from his handling of the shells. ‘Dear shells, open the gates of Berlin for us,’ he said laughing and wiped the sweat from his face.
Cholopov operated the gun’s height and traversing machinery and aimed the gun at the town centre. The snow had thawed near the SPG and the frozen earth had turned into a swamp. The gun barrel was so hot that one could burn oneself on it. The submachine-gunners squelched through the mud, passing along the shells.
‘This is just like the SPG artillery. Even in winter it can change to spring,’ said Guardsman Yuri Golovatshiov laughing, and threw another shell out of the hatch. ‘A hot day for us, but purgatory for the Fascists.’ He had removed his fur jacket and cap and rolled up the sleeves of his tunic. His dark blond hair was shining with sweat, his eyes flashing.
The barrage came to an end. Tank engines howled into life in the woods behind our positions. A new stage of the battle was about to begin. The SPGs rolled forward. I quickly went to my vehicle. Sacharkin and Pashitnov sitting near me in the SPG looked at smoke-covered Küstrin. ‘Hopefully we will not get involved in street-fighting,’ groaned Sacharkin.
His fears were realised sooner than we would have wished. Enemy anti-tanks guns opened fire on our SPG. I ordered the company commanders to engage the enemy guns immediately, the crews firing at a distance of 700 metres. At this point the tanks approached from Alt Drewitz. Without encountering earnest resistance, they went on into Küstrin at high speed and overtook us. Colonel Vainrub signalled us to follow him.
Several flashes came from the buildings next to the factory. As the first shells exploded near the tanks, Vainrub became mad with anger.
‘What’s holding you back? Fire whatever you have. They are knocking against my boxes,’ he shouted. We covered the enemy with our heavy shells, and the German anti-tank guns fell silent. Vainrub’s and Major Bortovski’s tanks forced their way into Küstrin. Right in front was the tank of my countryman, Staff-Sergeant Ossipov.
General Krivoshein ordered me over the radio to provide two SPGs as an assault team for Bortovski.
A hurricane of fire fell in Küstrin. Gukov’s vehicle left the mass of tanks and SPGs, and rolled forward. I worried about him like a favourite son and was delighted with his success. Here was a man who in front of everyone’s eyes became born again, overcoming his fear and straining his willpower and nerves to overcome the densest turmoil of war.
It was not easy to control a storm troop; it demanded nerve and circumspection. Thus all the best commanders were entrusted with this task. Lieutenant Porfiri Beltshikov’s company was to occupy the high street close to where Colonel Vainrub was located. We wanted to follow Beltshikov, but just then spotted a Tiger in a factory gateway. Its gun rocked and it seemed it was about to fire.
‘Fire, Anatoli!’ I ordered.
Lieutenant-Colonel Pashitnov pressed the electrical trigger. The 122mm shell hit the turret of the Tiger and bounced off. The tank turned and rushed off at top speed, but could not escape our second shell.
The enemy put up a bitter resistance. In a radio message to Army Group Vistula Hitler had ordered the Oder defences to be defended to the last man. We knew about this speech and had not reckoned on being able to thrust through to the west bank off the march, but already the first attempt was being made.
Chotimski’s infantry were already across the ice, although coming up against heavy machine-gun fire from Oder Island, which, with its thick pasture, lay right in the middle of the river. Gradually the speed of the men slowed down, their bounds becoming shorter. Fighting on the ice resulted in even heavier casualties, as no one could dig in.
Lieutenant Muraviov’s machine-pistol infantry joined the attack. They slid over the ice and fired with their weapons. When the enemy noticed them, he switched his fire in their direction. The machine-pistol infantry got no further.
Muraviov wanted to make direct contact with the SPGs and ask for fire support, as right nearby a burst of machine-gun fire ripped the ice and blew splinters of ice into his eyes. The radioman fell, the radio set was damaged. Muraviov put a hand over his face. He was bleeding, the ice splinters having wounded him. As he looked around, he noticed Guardsman Anikushkin lying motionless next to him and covering his head with his hands. ‘Anikushkin, what is wrong? Are you wounded?’