Unknown Friends (Vadim Sobko)

Since I had way too much material for my forthcoming book, Stalingrad Lives, I thought I’d publish some of the off-cuts here. If you want more - but even better! - stories, wait for the book to come out. In the meantime, you’re stuck with this…

Vadim Sobko’s Unknown Friends is a typical piece of micro-fiction (that’s right, Soviet writers were the original hipsters) written at the Stalingrad Front. Published in late September 1942 in the national newspaper Izvestiya, the story’s focus on individuals’ guile and cunning in a bleak period when Stalingrad seemed certain to be lost was typical.

Sobko, who had barely left the front for over a year as his unit retreated from Odessa back towards and past Rostov, would be awarded the Order of the Red Star and other medals for his work and bravery at Stalingrad (and would later barely escape death in the Battle for Berlin). In Unknown Friends, Sobko prompts the reader to imagine that any passerby or stranger might be the one to save them or their loved ones: this, Sobko opined, was not a battle for Stalin or between great powers, but a daily conflict to save kith and kin. The romanticism of the tale—the charming idea of hidden and surprising encounters colouring the terror of the front—hints at the reasons for Sobko’s “immense popularity” amongst frontline soldiers.

Unknown Friends - 25 September 1942

Our armoured cars tore into the village. The gunners got out and quickly took up positions in huts and attics, but the tanks went on ahead. The German defence was broken quickly.

The tank at the head, commanded by Lieutenant Sokolov, made it through the whole village without stopping, blasted a hut hiding a camouflaged anti-tank gun. For a second, the debris covered the tank, but on it went in pursuit of the German cars escaping up the road away from the village, kicking up yellow dust in their wake. Inside the tank it was stuffy and hot and smelled of oil. Sokolov opened the hatch a little. The wind seemed cool; the freshness helped Sokolov’s sore head.

The Germans were escaping but they weren’t in disarray; they would soon be ready to take to the defence once more. They’d been repelled from the village, but they weren’t yet beaten. The lieutenant was certain that the battle would start up again immediately. But at that very moment, a shadow descended on his tank and a sound rang out in the air. A plane adorned with a red star was falling from the shining expanse of the sky toward the field’s scorched autumn grass. The wind whistled through its wings.

Sokolov could do nothing to help the pilot. He froze in anticipation. He watched as the plane descended, nearing the earth, and thought that before his very eyes it would crash and the pilot would perish.

But the plane didn’t crash. Its wheels touched down on the dusty grass—this was piloting of the very best school. Out of the cockpit and onto the wing leapt the pilot. He made for the engine. The tank was at a fair distance from the plane, so that Sokolov couldn’t see the pilot’s face. He wanted to drive his tank closer and congratulate the pilot on his skilful achievement.

The tank began to move forward, but at that exact moment, some Germans came out of a hollow between Sokolov and the plane. Nobody could stop them. Nobody could defend the pilot, who was occupied fixing his engine.

Sokolov’s tank advanced at full speed, making a circle as its machine guns fired away. The Germans went to ground. They were still far from the pilot, so they couldn’t hinder him any longer. They were forced to lie where they’d fallen, not a single step closer. The tank drove around in a circle. The plane with the red star stood at its centre; the field immense and still as a frozen sea.

As he fired from the turret gun, Sokolov occasionally glanced at the pilot. He was still busy with the engine. The Germans began to outskirt the tank along a more distant hollow. Now no one tank could hold back their advance. Sokolov, though, took another look at the wide, flat field. He could no longer see the plane, only clouds of dust kicked up by the propeller and a light shadow hanging over the steppe.

Sokolov smiled with satisfaction. It was a great feeling to know that he’d managed to save a comrade’s life and a plane. The tank turned around and set off for the village, where the battle continued.

Shells were falling around the tank, exploding over the village, and striking and igniting the huts. The Germans were firing from a great distance. This was the prelude to a counterattack. Sokolov drove behind a hillock and stopped the tank to wait for the approaching Germans. He assumed they’d throw their own tanks into the counterattack—his tank, hard to see, would wait in ambush and do all sorts of damage to them.

More than an hour went by. The German tanks didn’t appear: the infantry went on the attack. They would have to traverse several kilometres to reach the village. The tank commander decided to emerge from his cover and rejoin his own forces.

Suddenly, a shell exploded right by the tank. The shrapnel could not penetrate its armour, but struck the tracks. A shard wedged itself between the links. The tank could no longer move.

At first, Sokolov couldn’t comprehend what had happened. He quickly opened the hatch, hopped out of the tank and fell to the ground. Bullets whizzed and clattered over his head, hitting the tank’s armour. The Germans may have been far from the village, but there was just a few hundred metres between them and the tank. Like serpents they crawled along the ground. They’d seen what had become of the tank, so slowly, surely, they advanced. The tank was now their prey.

Sokolov lay on the dry, dusty ground. The enemy fire kept him down; he could not reach the damaged track. Then, from high in the blue sky, out rang the mighty, assured roar of an engine, and the shadow of spread wings again was cast over the tank. An angry, ferocious fighter plane was tearing across the field. Firing its machine guns, the plane flew in a great circle with the tank at its centre.

The red stars on the plane’s wings were crystal clear to Sokolov. He desperately wanted this plane to be the same one he’d defended just a quarter of an hour previously on this very field. The plane flew over the field. Little puffs of dust flew up wherever the pilot fired. The Germans tried to hide, using every last little bump in the ground--but it’s hard to hide from a plane on the steppe.

Sokolov seized this moment, when the plane was distracting the Germans, to make it to the damaged track. It took several minutes to hammer the shrapnel out of the track, but now the tank was ready to move and make war again.

Sokolov leaped onto the vehicle, waved with his black tank regiment helmet and called out some joyful words of greeting to the pilot. The pilot saw everything, understood everything. Delighted with his success, he turned a dizzying figure over the tank. He span his plane around several times, then whizzed sharply upwards, disappearing into the blue sky.

The Germans went back on the attack. The battle wasn’t over yet.

***

Several days later, Tank Commander Sokolov, Flying Officer Kabanov, and several of their comrades, arrived at a hut in a derelict hamlet on the steppe. They were silent, but in a celebratory mood. They had no desire to boast of their feats. They were businesslike men who well knew the old saying: “Act first, talk later.” They barely knew each other, and did not intend to speak of the struggle for the autumn steppe. For them, it had been just another day’s battle--one which had albeit ended fortunately, since they had managed to save a comrade’s life. There was nothing to talk about; it was all too trivial, too ordinary.

A tall, greying man arrived. He was carrying a large suitcase filled with boxes of medals. Tank Commander Sokolov and Flying Officer Kabanov were awarded the Red Star. They pinned their medals to their lapels, firmly shook the hand of the tall, grey-haired man and silently—triumphantly—went out into the darkness of the Volga-side autumn steppe.

They entered the mess and accepted their comrades’ congratulations. Neither of them spoke of that day’s heated fighting; neither of them knew that the man who had saved their life stood alongside. They each drank a glass of wine, smiled at each other in parting, and went their separate ways.