Retired Colonel S. Scriabin remembers the war...

While sorting out my front-line suitcase the other day, I discovered white, hand-knitted mittens. I looked at them for a long time, and pictures of everyday life at the front appeared before my eyes...

On the eve of Red Army Day in 1942, the chief of logistics of the 14th Army of the Karelian Front, Major General Maltsev, told me by phone that a car with gifts for the soldiers arrived at our 72nd Naval Rifle Brigade, but apparently got lost somewhere on forty kilometers in a raging snowstorm. The general asked to find her and give gifts to the soldiers on February 23rd.

I knew that the blizzard would not subside in three or four days, and it was necessary to take emergency measures. Having equipped the sleigh train, I sent it along the indicated route, and I myself, on a light sled drawn by three reindeer, rushed there.

The path turned out to be difficult, the ice crumbs blinded our eyes, but the musher, a local reindeer herder, was an experienced man, and an hour later we arrived safely at the place.

The covered wagon was almost completely covered with snow, and inside it, among many boxes and bags, sat a driver from an army battalion and two shrouded, huddled figures. The driver reported that the gifts came from Georgia and that they were accompanied by an old man and an old woman. I put the guests on the sledge and ordered the reindeer herder to quickly take them to my dugout, while I remained near the car. Soon the sleigh transport arrived. We unloaded the car and I returned to my place.

...In a warm dugout, brightly lit by a kerosene lamp, two visitors and a reindeer herder sat at a small table. My orderly Nikolam Sofronov treated them to a soldier's lunch. In the front corner sat an elderly, beautiful woman: black hair slightly touched with silver, dark blue eyes, light gray jacket. Her name was Nina Diomidovna. She was telling something, the orderly and the reindeer herder were laughing.

- Take off your clothes and sit with us. “We are waiting for you,” she said, turning to me. “Kolya treated us to a delicious lunch, and I’m telling you how we came here by train, how we “got” coal for the car, how a security guard caught us and wanted to take us to the police, but we ran away. “After being silent for a while, as if gathering her thoughts, she continued: “It’s laughable, but it’s sixteen days on the road.” Anything happened. Military echelons were allowed to enter the front first, so naturally we were detained. But in the Arctic, the weather didn’t like it and covered it with snow. We spent five hours in the snow. And if it weren't for you...

I asked why it was impossible to send a younger man on such a difficult journey instead of a woman.

- Who will you send when the old and young are left at home? It was decided to go as volunteers. My companion Vano was the first to volunteer, but he is old and speaks Russian poorly. It would be very difficult for him alone. So I went.

Then Nina Diomidovna explained that the collective farm had sent the gifts and ordered them to be given to the soldiers in the front line. We also learned about how collective farmers live and work, how they listen to reports from the front, how they wait for our letters, how they believe in victory...

“That’s also why I decided to take this long journey, because I have two sons fighting: one on the Leningrad front, and about the other there has been no news for six months now.” Maybe I’ll meet you... Tell me, where are we and how far is it from the front line?

I replied that they were in the rear of the 72nd Marine Rifle Brigade, twelve kilometers from the front line. And since it is dangerous for guests to travel to the front line of defense, I suggested that the presentation of gifts be entrusted to the unit commanders.

Nina Diomidovna nodded in agreement, but noted that in one of the departments she would like to distribute gifts herself.

“Please, don’t offend us, let us see the soldiers on the very front line.” This is the request of our entire collective farm,” she said.

On the morning of February twenty-third we left for the first battalion. The blizzard suddenly subsided, and a strip of the long-awaited dawn began to appear in the east. Somewhere far away, beyond the Devil's Pass, dull explosions of shells were heard. The echo picked them up and carried them along the chain of mountain peaks.

At the battalion headquarters, the guests were greeted cordially and led through narrow icy communication passages to their units. What was heard here was no longer the dull roar of war, but powerful, deafening explosions that shook the earth and sent up huge clouds of smoke. The shells landed close: to the left, to the right, behind. This was not artillery preparation before the offensive, but a methodical daily shelling of our positions, during which the Nazis fired up to four hundred shells and then suddenly stopped firing. The fighters already knew this “method” and joked: “That’s it! The Germans went to drink coffee, it’s time for us to have a snack.”

-...Damn them, Herods! - Nina Diomidovna whispered, turning her head towards the sound of explosions.

- My dear sons! — the woman turned to the fighters. “I came from Georgia to see how you fight and how you live. The collective farmers sent me and instructed me to congratulate you on the twenty-fourth anniversary of the Red Army, to wish you good health and success in battle...

Nina Diomidovna spoke warmly and motherly, and the soldiers looked at her as if spellbound. More than one, perhaps, while listening, was now remembering his mother. Then she bombarded the company commander with questions: how do the soldiers live, is everyone healthy, how do they eat, do they sleep well, is everyone dressed as warmly as this son standing with a machine gun

“Everyone is dressed warmly,” the company commander hastened to assure the guest and answered all her questions in detail. And Nina Diomidovna began distributing gifts to the fighters, saying:

- Hit the fascist evil spirits harder, son! Drive them, the damned, from our land! And we will help you with our work.

And the trench came to life. The soldiers unwrapped donated tobacco pouches or a pack of Kazbek. There were jokes, laughter, cheerful talk. And the mother, along with the gift, gave each of the soldiers a smile.

Cartridge carriers appeared in the trench. One of them had a backpack thermos with hot borscht over his shoulders. Having filled the pots with delicious-smelling food, the fighters again surrounded Nina Diomidovna:

- Dear mother! Dear mother! Mother! - was heard from all sides. - Have lunch with us, please, try the soldier’s borscht!

- Eat yourself, sons, we’re full...

But the soldiers still persuaded us to try their lunch.

...Twilight fell imperceptibly. Nina Diomidovna also wanted to inspect the brigade first aid station. This first aid station, where all the wounded flocked, was located on the shore of the lake and resembled a village. Large hospital tents, like peasant huts, were covered up to the windows with snow. Around them, along the entire slope of the birch grove, dugouts for personnel scattered. A little lower, almost right next to the water, there were services.

Nina Diomidovna was taken to the hospital department. This department consisted of several warm and cozy rooms. White curtains on the windows, tablecloths on tables and bedside tables emphasized cleanliness and neatness. The wounded lay on trestle beds, covered with clean linen, under good-quality blankets.

Crossing the threshold of the room, Nina Diomidovna accidentally glanced to the right and froze, pressing her hands to her chest. From there, from a trestle bed covered with a fur blanket, two incredibly large eyes, filled with pain and despair, looked at her, tears flowing into them every now and then and rolling down in quiet drops.

The expression of those mournful eyes slashed like a knife through Nina Diomidovna’s heart, pulled her towards her, and forced her to take a few steps towards the wounded man.

“It’s heavy...” the head of the hospital department whispered with a sigh. — Yesterday my leg was amputated. Just a boy, recently at the front...

The wounded man tried to look at the woman who had come in for some time, but suddenly he called out, demandingly and loudly, like a child:

- Mother! Mommy!

Nina Diomidovna rushed to the soldier and tightly hugged his short-cropped head:

- Son, dear... Calm down...

After the tender, purely maternal words, the young man began to cry bitterly, covering his face with his palms. He could not speak, but only sobbed convulsively.

Nina Diomidovna, also holding back tears, calmed the wounded man, stroked his head, and kissed him. So she consoled him until the young man calmed down a little.

At this time, the rest of the wounded, who were watching what was happening, began to stir. Nina Diomidovna walked around them, handed out gifts, and left a sweater by the young man’s bed. Everyone became cheerful and started talking, encouraging the young soldier.

Nina Diomidovna stayed in the ward for a long time and did not leave the wounded man’s bedside. Before parting, the woman convinced the young man that he should not worry and torment himself, but try to get better quickly...

After a friendly dinner in the canteen of the medical company, the guests began to prepare for the return trip. I offered them my sled to quickly get to the place where the car was waiting for them. It was a moonlit night, we drove straight, without a road, the deer rushed like an arrow across the snow crust.

Having breathed in the northern air, Nina Diomidovna became younger. She was pleased that our soldiers were dressed well, fed well, and were properly cared for in their health. When parting, the woman took white mittens out of her purse and, handing them to me, said:

- This is the last gift and it belongs to you. Please take. I knitted them during the long nights on the way to the front. Thank you so much... I saw life at the front with my own eyes. This was very important for me... Now I have something to tell at home.

I thanked her and, taking advantage of her good mood, asked:

- Well, did the soldier really decide that you were his mother?

She looked at me carefully and said:

- I don’t know, maybe I look like his mother... And for a mother’s heart, all warriors are sons...

...Thirty-five years have passed. But the simple gifts received in a snowy trench remained in our memory for the rest of our lives. It is difficult to convey what joy our mother brought us then. Her kind smile, gentle speech, and sincere desire to help the front made a huge impression on the soldiers. Word about her quickly spread throughout the brigade. And everyone who took a pouch or pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket, a gift from his mother, involuntarily remembered her with kind words...

Magazine "Soviet Warrior" No. 6 1977

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