German military historians call the hostilities on the Eastern Front in May 1942 the "Elimination of the Raisin Bulge", and domestic ones - the "Kharkov battle of 1942". But whatever they were called, it was the hardest defeat for Soviet troops in the entire history of the war.
Without naming specific numbers of our losses, Soviet specialists emphasized that about 22 thousand people had left the encirclement. The Germans talked about huge trophies - 2,900 guns and 1,250 tanks and a colossal number of prisoners - 240 thousand soldiers and officers. One of them was Alensander Ivanovich Lobanov, who left unassuming memories of his ordeals in enemy captivity.
The column of prisoners of war was escorted by the Germans to the west. In its tail, short bursts of machine gun fire were also heard: the invaders shot down the wounded, unable to move. I wandered among the remnants of our 6th Army.
I remembered how I went to the breakthrough with a shout of "Hurray!", And shot on the move. Everything went well, but then our tankette caught fire, the machine gun fell silent. The Germans rained down on us a hurricane of fire. Something threw me in the left shoulder, threw me to the ground. In the heat of the moment he jumped up and rushed after the attackers. They ran and fell. Under a hail of bullets lay down, shells exploded around.
Suddenly everything was quiet, the lark began to sing. How could he survive in this hell? But if he survived, he must sing. The thought flashed: "If I am alive, I must fight until my last breath!" The thought was interrupted by the gray hulk of the tank - now it will crush it!.. Eh, a grenade or a bottle-lighter … And I only have a pistol. From the tower I heard: "Rus, surrender!"
My shoulder ached, my hand was numb, my fingers did not move. From behind the tank - three submachine gunners. It was possible to shoot from a pistol, but the hand was like someone else's. On the command "Hyundai Hoh!" could only raise one hand, the Germans stared at her in puzzlement:
- Commissioner?
“Chief lieutenant,” I replied.
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My TT hung on a strap almost at the very ground, with one hand I could not detach it from the carabiner. This was done with caution by the soldier and handed it to the officer. “If you are afraid of a captured Russian, then all is not lost,” I thought.
Apparently, the enemies were embarrassed by my insignia: black tabs with gold edging with red cubes of the senior lieutenant. But with a pistol they also took away a field bag, a watch, and binoculars. It was on May 27, 42nd. I remembered the day because then I saw our BM-13 combat vehicle. She moved west uncovered, 16 rockets gleaming on her guides. A German soldier was sitting at the wheel, the commander of one of our batteries was standing on the bandwagon, whose last name he had forgotten, but it would have been better not to know … A thought flashed through: "Gad, I handed over a whole machine with shells to the Germans to save my skin!" So weak people became traitors.
They tried to give me such an opportunity, too, by offering to work as a translator. Condition: a soldier's uniform without shoulder straps, rations and freedom of movement. I said that I did not know German very well, although I could communicate freely with foreigners.
- We do not need a military translator, but simple communication with the population. We need those who want to work with us.
I didn't want to work with them and told the officer about it. He gave me a malicious look, as if trying to remember.
All day we walked under escort, towards evening we were driven behind barbed wire. The commanders and fighters mingled into a single mass of hungry and extremely emaciated people. I fell to the ground exhausted, saw Kerimov from my battery nearby and asked him to cut the insignia from my gymnast. So he became like the privates, whose security was weaker and the chance of escape increased. Later I learned from the report of the Sovinformburo that near Kharkov our lost about 80 thousand prisoners.
In the morning we were roused by shouts, thoughts of thirst and hunger were drowned in incessant thoughts of escape. Throw yourself into the open steppe? It was stupid: there was not a single forest plantation around, not a bush. It was dangerous to persuade several to run away at once: I had already seen one traitor on the step of our Katyusha.
Ahead was seen as if an extinct village, thirsty. Several soldiers rushed to the huts in search of water, I followed. Immediately hid in the barn, but immediately heard the command "Tsuryuk!" and saw the barrel of a machine gun. For some reason, the German did not shoot; he saw several corpses on the street. Again he walked in a column and was surprised that he was still alive. The road was dusty, my head was buzzing from a shell shock, my shoulder ached, my arm hung like a whip. Scraps of gloomy thoughts swarmed: “Where is Volodya Sheper, our platoon commander, who left our school in April 1942? Where are the rest of the fighters? " I remembered how the battery was left alone. They wanted to catch up with our division, which left positions at night without informing us. I remembered Sasha Kutuzov, whom I wanted to shave.
- In the field?.. No!.. Tomorrow we will take Kharkov, there we will shave! With a cologne!
… How many days, weeks to wait now for such a moment? And is he alive? In the meantime, we wander in the dust again. A village appeared in the distance, but the escorts led us around. I peer into the horizon, looking for a beam from which to escape. And here she is! The head of the column disappeared behind the ridge, and the tail with the convoy is not yet visible. Here it is, the right moment! The three of us rushed into the thicket of weeds. We saw a stream. We got drunk and ate the stems of plants familiar from childhood. Suddenly a man comes up:
- Well, did you run away?
We nodded and asked if there were Germans in the village. He offered to go into it to change clothes, which we did. They argued where to go. Some rushed to the front line to the east. Others doubted: "How will the commissars and special officers look at us?" But they all moved to their own.
Soon a car appeared, "our" man approached it and shouted into the cockpit: "Partisans!" It was a local policeman. We were put to the side of the road, the bolts clicked, four barrels looked into my face. But they did not shoot, they loaded them into the back between the soldiers. They were brought somewhere and again to the column of prisoners. The Italian escort put me in front. Soon from behind came:
- Listen, partisan, help me to contact yours.
I looked around, asked the captain. I explained to him that I was also a prisoner of war, I fled, but the policeman passed off as a partisan, who were shot in the first place. But apparently they didn’t believe me. I thought: "We need to find an overcoat …" I went up to the soldier:
- Brother, borrow the roll.
- What for?
I explained the situation to him and heard: "Take it, if it is so." Surprised and delighted with the chance to survive, he buttoned his overcoat tightly in order to at least slightly cover the "citizen". The search for the partisan yielded nothing.
At the bus stop, I walked around the camp, hoping to see my acquaintances. And suddenly - Lieutenant Colonel Peshkov! I went up to the wire behind which he stood in our uniform, in chrome boots, like in October 1941 at the artillery range in Alabin near Moscow, when he demonstrated the shooting from the Katyusha to us, graduates of the Moscow Art School.
My vision did not deceive me, I saw the commander of the 5th Guards Mortar Regiment, who supported our 6th Army with his fire.
- Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, why aren't you with us?
- What does it mean? - he pointed to my overcoat without insignia.
I told him my story.
- And I came to the conclusion: the war is lost, resistance is useless.
I was depressed: the guys and I fired all the shells at the enemy, blew up combat vehicles, tried to break out of the encirclement, and our commanders say: "The war is lost …"
… There was a rumor in the column: we were going to Lozovaya, from there by train to Germany.
“This one won't make it,” I heard. He treated me because he felt bad and grabbed the cart so as not to fall. But the light was on, the breeze blew, I added a step with the last of my strength. From conversations I learned that Ukrainians are being let go home; as if someone saw how they changed their clothes and left with random "wives". I have civilian clothes, but where can I get a wife? I begged all the saints to send me an old woman who would recognize me as a son. And - lo and behold! - she appeared with a basket in her hands. The escort put his hands in there and stuffed the contents into his pockets. I threw off my overcoat from my shoulders, threw it away and walked away from the column, like a stranger. To the last escort he said indifferently: "Auf Wider Zane." The latter said goodbye casually.
… I figured it was about a hundred kilometers from Lozovaya to Izium, I needed to eat. I went into the hut, where they fed me for a fee - I filled a barrel with water. The mistress's daughter agreed to be taken out of the city, posing as my bride. She gave me the address of her sister in a neighboring village. So he went from one village to another, from hut to hut. Somewhere greeted, but more often - from the gate turn … Troubled nights dreamed of a pot with pea soup - the pinnacle of bliss!
Behind the ravine I saw a village, the forest was dark on the left: only there!.. But it was not safe to walk through the meadow, I had to remember how I crawled on my bellies. How long I crawled, I don't remember, but I'm tired to hell, I was hungry, but the fatigue is stronger. He covered himself with a reed and fell asleep with the thought: if there is a reed, there should be a river nearby. Later I learned that I had spent the night on the banks of the Seversky Donets. Before going to sleep, I remembered the glow. Where does it come from in clear weather? Could it be flares? Is this the front line?
I remember that I plunged into the water, I rarely surfaced to breathe. On the other side a shout stopped:
- Hands up, drop your weapon!
I thought with joy: thank God that "hands up" and not "Hyundai hoh". From fatigue and joy fell to the ground.
At the headquarters of the division they interrogated, sent further down the line. It was embarrassing that the Red Army soldier was leading me: either he was guarding the package, or he had erased me. In Izum, after interrogation, they put me in a barn. In the morning, without feeding, they sent on. Having walked a dozen miles, they asked for a ride. So I ended up in a new camp, but in Russian, consider my own.
They fed me once a day, slept in the barracks, the sentries - there are no more ferocious people (maybe this is what the escorts need?). They figured out a shape for me along a thread, made three "cubes" of starley out of matter. An elderly major said: under the tsar, an officer who escaped from captivity was awarded an order. I thought: “I’m not up to fat, I would live”.
The train with prisoners was bombed by the Germans. With difficulty I got out of the burning car; there were also losses among the escorts. We were given a meager dry ration - sugar and canned food. We crossed the Don, in front of Stalingrad. There again, behind the barbed wire - we were confused with deserters. Then came the ominous order No. 227: every tenth our apostate without an order from above - execution. And "from above" - silence, no orders, except "stand to death!" or "not one step back!" Although the big-headed commanders gave orders more reasonably: "Don't give up a single step without a fight!"
In such a situation, I had to flee from the "domestic" camp to my military investigator, on the second floor of the barrack. On the way, they almost shot us, but still listened, realized that we were not deserters, and sent us to the front headquarters. From there - to the operational group of guards mortars of the Southwestern Front.
- The commander of the fourth battery of the fifty-fifth guards regiment of the guard, senior lieutenant Lobanov, has arrived for service! - I reported to the chief of staff.
There was no limit to the Colonel's surprise, and questions began to pour in: where is the regiment's banner? commander? commissioner?
- The commander and commissar shot themselves. I fired all the shells at the enemy, the combat installations were blown up, the vehicles were burned. The battery personnel died in battles and when leaving the encirclement.
On the third day, the colonel called again:
- According to the charter, the unit that has lost the banner is disbanded, and the commanders are sent to a penal battalion. But there is no part, you are not responsible for the banner. You really blew up the battery - we checked. We decided to send you a battery commander to the 58th Guards Regiment. The Colonel watched a happy smile on my face for a minute:
- Just don't tell anyone that you were in captivity …