How people become optimists
December 1942, the Sal' steps. Another forced march. We've been pounding the ground for over 10 hours. Fatigue takes over the whole body. Every now and then someone falls down, we step over him and move on. The more courteous ones manage to take two steps towards the curb before going down. They say there is a truck following us that's picking up the stragglers. It's very tempting to just give in to fatigue and fall down on the curb, but our pride won't let us.
We've thrown out our gas masks and bayonets a long time ago, and now we're discarding helmets, bullets, grenades, everything that has even a little weight.
I parted with my bayonet a month ago, just after I arrived at the front. The parting was quite dramatic…back in training, I was pretty good with the bayonet due to my quick reflexes. The platoon commander always called on me for demonstrations during bayonet drills. And so, in my dreams I imagined distinguishing myself in bayonet combat at the front. When I actually got to the front, I treated my 3-sided friend very gingerly, even though everyone else threw theirs away after the first forced march. My bayonet proved pretty uncomfortable for them, especially at night, when we often slept on some floor practically on top of each other. Still, I ignored their "requests" that I get rid of my bayonet and awaited the chance to show off my hand-to-hand combat skills. One morning, after waking up a bit later than the others, I discovered that my bayonet was gone. The guys just sat there grinning. If you ever see any hand-to-hand fighting in a movie about the Great Patriotic War, don't believe it, it's a lie!
In the morning our chief of staff joked: "The war is won with soldiers' legs," and we all laughed. It didn't seem quite as funny now. It's always raining or snowing out in the steppe, the cold wind blows incessantly, the legs keep churning in the sandy mud. There is almost no vegetation, just some dry brush. There aren't any places of habitation, either.
They give us our dry rations: a bit of fish and a piece of corn bread. It's almost impossible to stand back up after a rest stop. It's getting dark, and we're still marching and marching.
Finally a few voices: "We're here." We fall to the ground. After a while, the wind and wet snow force us back up. We look around - no buildings, just naked steppe. The soldiers are lying on the ground. It's impossibly cold. The rain, snow and wind don't stop. I notice some remnants of an old defense line, and decide to look around out of habit. My search for a hiding spot takes me further and further away from the bivouac. Hooray! I find a small slit trench about a meter deep. With my last bit of strength, I break off some brush and spread it around the trench floor. I manage to find some leaves and make an improvised roof, then pile some dirt on it. The palace is ready. I climb in, the snow isn't getting through, it's quite cozy actually. I take off my greatcoat and use it as a blanket, and gradually warm up. The fatigue starts to melt away.
As I'm starting to drift off, I recall my frustration with pre-war life. But almost instantly it's gone, replaced with a feeling of warmth. Just before I fall asleep, I make my Second Great Oath: if even under the most difficult conditions I can still dig out a little slit trench to live in, I will count my lucky stars and never think of complaining about my lot in life.
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