Hero of the Great Patriotic War, Kyrgyzstani Samat Sadykov

Hero of the Soviet Union Sadikov Samat

Samat Sadikov was born in 1920 in the village of Kara-Sai, Laylak district, Osh region of the Kyrgyz SSR, into a peasant family. He was Kyrgyz. A member of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. After finishing seven years of school, he worked in a collective farm. In October 1940, he was drafted into the ranks of the Soviet Army. Guards junior sergeant. Commander of a machine gun crew.

From March 1943, he participated in the battles of the Great Patriotic War as part of the Central and 1st Belarusian fronts. He fought on the territory of Belarus, Poland, and Germany. For his combat feats, he was awarded the Order of the Red Banner and two medals for bravery. He distinguished himself with courage, resourcefulness, perseverance, and bravery.

On May 1, 1945, the glorious son of the Kyrgyz people died a heroic death in the battle for Berlin. He was posthumously awarded the Order of the Patriotic War I class.

On May 31, 1945, Samat Sadikov was posthumously awarded the title of Hero of the Soviet Union for exceptional courage and bravery.

The people honor the memory of the Hero. In the Laylak district, a state farm, a village, a street, a school where S. Sadikov studied, and a pioneer detachment are named after him.

COURAGE KNOWS NO BOUNDS

The troops of the 1st Belarusian front, having crossed the Oder, were preparing for the final decisive battle — for Berlin.

The second half of March 1945 was rainy. The roads became impassable for vehicles, and it was also difficult to walk across the fields — soldiers sank knee-deep in the sticky muck...

The cavalrymen, who had set out at dusk for deep reconnaissance, were now returning at dawn, exhausted and angry. They were fearless guardsmen, long famous for their ingenuity and daring. Neither bullets nor raging rivers nor even swamps could stop them. On their mission, to the envy of the infantry, they sped away like the wind, crashing into the enemy in attacks with a sudden avalanche of gleaming sabers.

That day, the scouts of the squadron led by Tarasov were unlucky; in the area of the towns of Pretzel and Zeelov, they encountered retreating enemy units, which were especially cautious on their own land...

As soon as the cavalrymen crossed the railway tracks, machine guns and automatic weapons suddenly opened fire from the right almost at point-blank range. Immediately, a hail of fire rained down on them from the left. One fighter fell from his horse, followed by two more...

Just yesterday, the squadron had calmly passed through this grove across a wide clearing. But today... It was clear that some straggling group of surviving enemies had taken over the road and was now showering the railway crossing with lead, sparing no ammunition.

Desperate, cheerful guys were dying before their eyes when only two steps remained until Victory.

Disperse! Gallop forward! — commanded the commander.

The cavalrymen, mercilessly spurring their horses, rushed forward.

— They spotted us, bastards, just yesterday,— one of the cavalrymen, riding alongside Samat Sadikov, gritted his teeth. A machine gun was strapped to his chestnut horse. — Oh, we’re all done for, brother.

He struck the tired horse with the whip in anger, and Samat saw the horse and rider collapse to the ground. Before he could veer right, a long burst of machine-gun fire cut down his horse.

But a dzhigit is a dzhigit. As the horse slowly fell to its side, Samat quickly, with artistic agility, leaped over its head and surged forward. He felt something sharp and burning brush against his left ear. His head buzzed, and red-orange circles swam before his eyes. It seemed as if the ground had turned upside down and was spinning at a terrifying speed beneath his weary legs. "No, this can't be happening..." — he thought, losing consciousness.

Strangely, he regained consciousness quickly. He propped himself up and looked around. Ahead, his comrades were breaking through the ambush. The gunfire did not cease.

He glanced to the right. German soldiers in steel helmets and gray-green overcoats were running out of the grove. "This is it..." — thought Samat, feeling his mouth go dry and a small, unpleasant tremor run through his body.

But he immediately pulled himself together. He looked around. Not far away lay the chestnut horse with the machine gun strapped to it. Samat almost cried out with joy. No, his hour of death had not yet come; he would still fight the enemies. He quickly crawled to the dead horse, cut the straps with his blade, and detached the machine gun. "Oh, 'Goryunov', 'Goryunov', what a wonderful machine you are," — he whispered affectionately. — "We will still show the fascists..."

With inexplicable calmness, Samat set up the machine gun behind the dead horse, pushed the box with the belt closer, in which yellow cartridges gleamed dully. He loaded the machine gun. His soul became even calmer.

The fascists were noticeably approaching. They were already about forty to fifty meters away. Samat, stretching out on the soft, damp, green-covered ground, slightly moved the barrel of the machine gun and pulled the trigger.

He fired in short bursts, almost at point-blank range. The front ranks of the enemies seemed to falter. Samat noticed out of the corner of his eye that the Germans had appeared on the left as well. And suddenly, in that tense moment, he remembered the words of his favorite poet, Joomart Bokonbaev: "A hero speaks little, but his deeds burn in his hands." He quickly, without losing his composure, turned the machine gun to the left and saw how the surviving group of Germans scattered...

The barrel of the machine gun overheated to a bright red. What to do? Samat sat up to see if there was a spare barrel in the pack, and at that moment something heavy and hot struck him in the shoulder. He staggered and fell...

The commander of the squadron, Tarasov, rushed out of the thicket and saw the cavalrymen huddled together. The familiar staccato of the 'Goryunov' machine gun reached his ears.

"So someone stayed behind, covering the retreating squadron with fire, helping them break away... Oh, you wonderful man!" — Tarasov thought with pride.

— Squadron! Follow me! — he turned his horse. — Charge!

Cheers of "Hooray!" rang out. The cavalrymen spurred their tired horses. Heavy clods of earth flew high from under their hooves.

Here it was, the site of the deadly ambush. Tarasov, slightly holding back his horse, saw the machine gunner firing back. He rose up and immediately fell to the ground, as if cut down.

— To the second and third platoons! Fire at the retreating enemy! First platoon! Carry the hero off the battlefield! — commanded the commander.

He was the first to gallop to the machine gunner, jumped to the ground, and lifted the cavalryman's head:

— Alive? Speak, dear...

The machine gunner was silent. His face was covered in blood, splattered with mud, and his eyes were closed.

The commander quickly examined the soldier: two narrow stripes crossed his shoulder boards. On his tunic were the Order of the Red Banner and two medals for bravery.

But this was our Sadikov! From the first platoon! — he barely recognized his fighter.

— Samat, — quietly said one of the approaching cavalrymen. — He really did a great job!

Tarasov looked around the open field between the railway tracks and the forest: it was littered with corpses in gray-green overcoats. Occasionally, there were long moans or indistinct German words coming from there.

— Well done! Thank you, Sadikov! Thank you to the mother who bore such a son. Thank you to your people, — the commander whispered. He wiped away a tear and sat heavily in the saddle. — Be careful with him!

Under the cover of the first platoon's cavalrymen, junior lieutenant Tarasov took Samat from the field of the recent battle.

— Water... — whispered Sadikov, not opening his eyes.

— Samat, dear! — Tarasov shouted joyfully. He quickly unscrewed the cap of the flask and brought it to the parched lips of the fighter. The wounded man greedily gulped it down almost empty. His pale face immediately came to life.

— You will recover, dzhigit! Such heroes do not die; you have defeated death itself, which means you are stronger than it, — Tarasov did not hide his joy from the fighters. After all, Samat was not only a fighter of his squadron but also his pupil, his younger brother, his closest person.

Tarasov and Sadikov shared their most intimate thoughts, especially lately, when Victory over the enemy was so close and desired. Junior lieutenant Tarasov liked Samat from the first day he came to the first platoon: he spoke Russian well and quickly grasped military matters. He was a cheerful and lively guy. A kind, friendly smile never left his wide-cheeked face. He could joke with the guys without ever offending them with his humor. Noticing Sadikov's intelligence and resourcefulness right away, Tarasov assigned him to the machine gunner section. And he was not mistaken in him.

— My father is a miner, working in Sulukt, a small town in the south of our Kyrgyzstan, — he told his commander with a happily dreamy smile. — My mother took care of the house and the children. Besides me, there are two girls and a boy in the family. Little ones. I am the oldest. When I return, I will go to the mine with my father. It’s hard for him alone!

And my fiancée is waiting for me, a good girl...

To the rhythmic steps of the horse, Tarasov recalled these candid stories of Samat, the years of his friend's military life. This was also Tarasov's life — after all, they had come to the regiment together in 1943, sharing both joys and hardships.

But from the very first days, Samat was distinguished by a special, calm kind of courage. He showed it in the very first battles.

They had ended up in Bryansk. The area was very beautiful. Samat often said:

— I can't stand looking at these bastards when they trample such beautiful land with their stinking boots.

They destroy peaceful residents, children, the elderly. No, they must answer for everything!

In the summer near the city of Karachev, the squadron had to dismount and lie in the trenches, in the combat formations of the infantry, on the edge of the forest. The enemy appeared unexpectedly, right from the nearest forest. They struck at him with all available firepower.

The fascists lay down, and then rushed to attack. The fighters were initially confused. But suddenly, from the right flank, a machine gun began firing at the fascists, so much so that the soul rejoiced. The Germans could not withstand it and fled, abandoning their weapons and screaming in a way that was not human at all from fear. It was the first time Samat heard the screams of the arrogant enemies.

This was the first, but not the last feat of Samat Sadikov...

In the steppe near Mozdok, Sadikov was wounded. An urgent operation was required. But Samat remained in the ranks. At that time, his machine gun mowed down almost a company of Germans.

Tarasov also recalled the very recent heroic act of Samat on Polish soil. In a fierce battle for the city of Blomberg, where human blood flowed like a river, he took a small height and began to pour fire from the machine gun on enemy vehicles delivering ammunition. The vehicles caught fire, mines and shells began to explode, mowing down soldiers and officers moving along the highway with shrapnel...

A hot, intermittent whisper interrupted his memories — Samat was delirious:

— Father, why did you come here? Who did you leave the little ones with? I am alone, I am alone...

Tarasov touched his friend's forehead — he was burning with fever. He ordered the orderly to moisten a handkerchief. The wet, cool fabric calmed the wounded man, and he fell silent.

"You are a golden guy," — thought Tarasov. — "If only everyone were as brave, we would have broken the enemy's back long ago.

We would have finished the war and returned home..."

Tarasov carefully removed the handkerchief from Samat's forehead, put it in his pocket, and gave the horse a nudge. A tall, thin sergeant galloped up to him.

"Give him to me, comrade junior lieutenant," — he requested, glancing somewhat apologetically aside. — "After all, he covered us. How many guys would have been taken down by the fascists if it weren't for his machine gun."

— No, brother, I will take him myself. In perfect safety! It is my duty to him and to you!

The squadron destroyed the fiercely resisting enemy at the railway crossing and returned to the division.

The commander headed to the regiment's headquarters to report on the course of the recent battle. He kept thinking about Samat.

— Allow me to report, comrade Guards Colonel! — Tarasov stood tall before the regiment commander.

— Report!

— The first squadron has returned from reconnaissance, having penetrated forty kilometers into the enemy's rear. The terrain and situation have been studied. The enemy is strengthening defensive structures in the area of the towns of Zeelov, Pretzel, and Goltsov. In the forests east of the city of Pretzel, there is a large concentration of enemy tanks. Special trains and columns of vehicles are transporting shells and mines toward the city. Infantry units and artillery are concentrated in our direction...

— So the fascists decided to stop our advance right at Pretzel? — the colonel said thoughtfully.

— But now let them try, if they have the strength. But hardly... Did you return without losses?

— Three soldiers were killed, two were seriously wounded, and four had minor injuries. On the way back, we ran into an ambush, comrade Guards Colonel... In this, junior sergeant Sadikov behaved heroically...

And the squadron commander reported in detail about Samat's feat. Colonel Gorobets listened to him silently and only asked once:

— Was it all like that?

— Yes, comrade Guards Colonel! The whole squadron saw it! He saved dozens of fighters, contributed to the defeat of the enemy.

— Well done! A Komsomol member, isn't he?

— A party member since last year. He was accepted into the squadron.

The colonel picked up the telephone receiver:

— "Big Dipper," "Big Dipper!" I am "Lightning." I am "Lightning." Call the old man to the phone. Is that you, old man? A wounded Samat Sadikov has just arrived. Pyotr Vasilyevich, I ask you to examine him yourself. Spare no effort, but save him! Report on his health. Every two hours. And no hospitals.

You will treat him yourself!

Putting down the receiver, Colonel Gorobets quietly said to Tarasov:

— Let the cavalrymen rest. And you go to the chief of staff now and report everything about Sadikov. Provide the most detailed information! Let him prepare the documents and bring them to me for signature immediately. We will nominate Sadikov for the title of Hero of the Soviet Union!

— Understood, comrade Guards Colonel! — Tarasov felt a lump rise to his throat, and his eyes filled with tears. — May I proceed?

— Proceed! Finish the award sheet — then rest.

The squadron commander raised his hand to the visor of his cap, turned sharply in place, and exited the dugout.

The colonel walked several times around the wide and spacious enemy dugout, then slowly and firmly said:

— Sadikov! Samat Sadikov! You are a real eagle! Alone, you destroyed up to a hundred Fritz, saved your comrades... No, an invincible people has such sons!

T. UMETALIEV
Translation from Kyrgyz by A. SALNIKOV