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Semion Aria

WHAT WERE THEY?

Semion Aria

Those who returned from the war either became fatalists or found faith in God. Nowhere could the Fate's hand be found so clearly, so rigidly and unavoidably, like there. I got to experience it myself, and not just once.

In the winter of 1942-43 the tank brigade where I then had the honor to serve suffered heavy losses in the fighting for Mozdok. I did not become one of those casualties in that particular case. Fate, foreseeing, as I understand, the probable course of events, made a firm decision at that time to transfer me from my post as a tank's driver/mechanic to another, less deadly, branch of service. ASAP. At any cost. She didn't succeed in that immediately, but She was firm and persistent in reaching the set goal.

One gloomy winter day a tank column, of which our T-34 was also a part, pulled into Levokumskaya Cossack village after a long march. Retreating Germans blew up the bridge over Kuma behind them, and a temporary log crossing constructed by engineers out of whatever they could find presented itself to us as soon as we reached the river bank. After looking it over mistrustfully, our battalion commander asked the engineers' commander:

"Will a tank be able to cross it? Twenty-five tons?"

"Have no doubt!" the engineer replied. "Made by a Guards unit! But do it one tank at a time."

The first tank crept slowly and carefully over the rolling planking. The second one entered the crossing as carefully, slightly deviating from the central axis, got to the middle, and suddenly, before everyone's eyes, started moving not across the river, but along it, and then crashed into the rushing waters together with the bridge, leaving only the driving wheel on the surface. Its crew was fished out of the ice cold water, but not without some difficulties. We had to dive after the driver. Our tank was to be third.

After an energetic back-and-forth swearing match with the engineers and threats of execution, the battalion commander found some local old man who undertook to point out a ford. After putting the old-timer into his Willys, and having explained to me about my responsibilities as the lead driver, the battalion commander ordered us to follow him.

"Don't drive too fast, but don't lag behind either," he said. "If anything is wrong, I'll signal with my flashlight."

And so we set out through the unpaved roads along the river. Meanwhile, complete darkness settled. We didn't have headlights after the very first battle, and even if we had them, we still couldn't use them due to the threat from enemy aircraft. That's why I simply followed the jumping blue light of the commander's jeep in the darkness slightly diluted by the treacherous moonlight from behind the clouds, without seeing the road. The column followed me.

We drove for about ten kilometers in that way. As we found out later, the battalion commander simply didn't notice an insignificant little bridge over a ravine and drove through it without stopping or signaling. Due to this our tank ran into it at high speed and with all its mighty multi-ton inertia. The bridge collapsed at once and without deliberation. The tank hit the ravine's slope with its front armor, turned over with its tracks up, and slid to the bottom.

Stunned by the collision, I found myself buried under a pile of 76 mm shells that fell out of their cases, mixed with machine gun magazines, tools, preserves, trophy foodstuffs, a saw, an axe, and various other tank belongings. The acid from overturned batteries was pouring down in thin jets. Everything was illuminated by the ominous signal of their discharge. I was OK, but somewhat bruised. My first thought was: I crushed the crew... The thing is that during marches the crew usually sat not inside, but on top of the gearbox -- a warm spot behind the turret -- and covered themselves with tarpaulin. But it turned out that all of them were alive -- they were thrown forward to the ground when the tank turned over, as if shot from a catapult. Now the commander, Lieutenant Kuts, yelled from somewhere outside:

"Aria! Are you alive?"
"Seem to be," I replied. "How are the guys?"

Then I crawled out through the bottom (which now became the top) hatch and looked around. The view was impressive. The tank stood on its turret with its tracks up. The gun barrel was sticking from below, from the ground. Not once during the entire war have I seen a tank in a more unnatural position. We were looking at our fallen battle Friend in silence.

The battalion commander appeared immediately, like the devil out of a box. He explained to me in the Russian manner everything he thought about me, and ordered:

"I'm leaving one vehicle to pull you out. You are to haul your tank up, put everything in order, and follow us by morning. If you don't manage -- I'll have you shot!"

We didn't bother to explain what we thought of him, and got to business. We dug a way out of the ravine overnight, used the tow tank to first turn our tank to its side, then to its tracks -- with horrible, soul tearing rumbling of all its innards during every time it turned over. Then we unloaded all metal rubble from the inside and attempted to start it with an emergency starter, with compressed air. And this tank, the best tank of the Second World War, started even after such misadventures!

We had one hour left for sleep and food. We moved on when dawn came. Fate's first attempt at removing me from the tank service failed...

We pushed hard and successfully forded the river in the marked spot, caught up with our column by midday, reported to the battalion commander, and joined the ranks. All four of us were exhausted to the limit, but I was worst of all. I kept falling asleep irrepressibly in my driver's seat and dreamed of the tank in front. That was dangerous. The lieutenant, seeing my condition, remained inside, cheered me, and kicked me in the back from his seat in the turret from time to time. There was no one to replace me. The commander used his minimal driving practice during wartime training as an excuse, the gunner Kolia Rylin and the radio operator/machine gunner Vereschagin had not been taught this at all. The mandatory mutual replaceability of the crew was lacking completely -- so they just went on lying on the diesel's warm case. And I was suffering alone at the control levers, on top of that getting a stream of ice cold air, pulled in by a ventilator turbine roaring behind my back, in the chest.

During the very first break, after eating our kasha with Lend Lease tushonka, we found an oil leak in the engine. The fall into the ravine did not pass without consequences. We decided that the leak was insignificant and moved on after tightly wrapping the crack with several layers of insulating tape and wire on top of that.

Another fifty kilometers later something happened: after a short break the engine wouldn't start. No, it just wouldn't. We called a technician. He crawled inside for a short while trying to turn the turbine with a crowbar and pronounced:

"Only a moron could expect that such a tourniquet would hold the oil inside! It all leaked out. Your engine died, it's stuck..."
"What are we going to do?" the lieutenant asked.
"The brigade commander will decide what you're going to do. But the tank cannot be repaired in the field, the engine needs to be replaced, we need a repair facility for that. Sit here for now, I'll report it, we'll send something to tow you tomorrow."

The column left and we remained alone. Blizzard was whirling in the naked, snow covered steppe. Not a tree, not a bush, only a couple of low sheds could be seen far from the road -- a field camp.

It was impossible to sit inside the ice cold tank. We tried to construct something like a cabin by throwing tarpaulin over the gun. We lit a bucket with diesel fuel inside for the perception of warmth. We ate somehow. In a couple of hours we couldn't be recognized from soot.

"So," the lieutenant summarized, "we can't just die out here... Let's go spend the night there," he waved his hand toward the sheds in the distance. "They have a chimney there, this means there is a stove. There's probably also some straw remaining. We'll leave a guard with the vehicle. You need to catch some sleep (he nodded at me). That's why you'll be first to stay an hour and a half on watch -- then I'll send someone to replace you. But after that you'll be resting through the entire night."

So I remained with the tank with a light machine gun on the shoulder. The time dragged by torturously in the dark. Back and forth. Back and forth. I couldn't lean against the tank -- my eyes would just close. But the replacement didn't arrive after the hour and a half, nor after two hours. Felled by exhaustion, they were apparently dead asleep. I fired a burst from the machine gun -- no effect. I needed to do something, otherwise I would've simply froze to death. And my feet couldn't hold me anymore. I locked the tank and started stumbling through the snow covered steppe toward the sheds. I woke the lieutenant, who was sleeping on the straw, with difficulty and told him about how wrong it was to do things like that... Rylin, barely able to comprehend what happened, was raised from his warm bed and sent outside with the machine gun. I collapsed into his place without undressing and fell asleep immediately.

Rylin stood in the cold wind for a while -- and broke his oath of service...

We came out of the shed at dawn, cursing Vereschagin who had slept through his turn. Looked at the road -- the tank was gone. It wasn't there. Stolen. Rylin couldn't be seen either. We found him in the neighboring shed where he peacefully slept while hugging the machine gun. When we explained the situation to him he ran outside as if bitten to check it out. After seeing it for himself, he informed us that, as it turned out, after he had arrived to the location at night and had found the object he was supposed to guard to be missing, he had returned and gone to sleep. In response to the natural question of why he hadn't woken us and why he had gone to sleep in a different shed, he explained that he hadn't wanted to disturb us...

This version, despite its utter absurdity, completely relieved him of his guilt, which wasn't small either. That's why he stood his ground firmly and lied unabashedly, looking all three of us in the eye. Since we had nothing except logic to refute this nonsense I, who abandoned my post, turned out to be the next scapegoat in line. And also Lieutenant Kuts as the commander, who was responsible for everything.

And so we started ambling on the wide Kuban' road, over the frozen wheel ruts, with a feeling of doom and without our belongings. After walking for about ten kilometers in complete silence, we reached the outskirts of a large Cossack village, where we found the tracks of our ill-fated tank. It turned out that the bright technicians arrived at night and found the tank unguarded. They unlocked it with their own key and then towed it away. Of course, they saw the field camp and realized where the crew was, but decided to have a little joke...

This joke, combined with the stubborn lies of our comrade-in-arms and friend Rylin, cost us dearly. The brigade commander, for all our misdeeds, ordered to have Lieutenant Kuts and me put before a court martial and tried to the fullest extent of the wartime law. This was done after a short investigation.

But that is a completely different and not such a cheerful story, after which I did not return to the tank forces again. Although I resurfaced from this misadventure pretty much alive.

This example shows how much inventiveness Fate can use if She wants to transfer a person watched over by Her to another branch of service. Who except Her could use such an amazing collection of accidents for that purpose?

It remains to be added that many years after the war I tried to find out the further fate of the members of my crew. But the Central Archive of the Ministry of Defense did not have such information in its possession. They dissolved in the past without a trace, and only their shadows wander in the thickets of my memory...

And another thing. Rylin deliberately sacrificed me, he knew that he was destroying me. But didn't he turn out to be a blind instrument of Fate who was protecting me? Everything is relative in this deceptive world.