Hero of the Soviet Union Gadelshin Khamit Gabdullovich
Senior radio telegraph operator of the 1449th separate communications company of the 31st rifle division of the 46th army of the Steppe Front, sergeant. Born on July 10, 1923, in the village of Aitovo, Bichbulyak district of Bashkiria, in a peasant family. Tatar. Member of the VKP(b)/CPSU since 1942. Completed 7 grades. Drafted into the Red Army in August 1941 by the Frunze city military commissariat of the Kyrgyz SSR. Completed radio telegraph courses. On the front lines of the Great Patriotic War since October 10, 1941.
Senior radio telegraph operator of the 1449th separate communications company (31st rifle division, 46th army, Steppe Front), sergeant Gadelshin K.H. on September 26, 1943, together with the advanced units of the 75th rifle regiment, crossed the Dnieper River near the Ukrainian village of Soshinovka in the Verkhnedneprovsky district of Dnipropetrovsk region with the task of establishing and maintaining radio communication with the observation post of the division commander. The boat on which K.H. Gadelshin was crossing sank after being hit by a shell fragment. Sergeant Gadelshin saved the radio station and established radio communication with the division commander from the observation post of the regiment commander. Under enemy fire, he worked continuously on the radio for 13 hours, allowing the division commander to manage the battle without interruption.
By decree of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR dated February 22, 1944, for exemplary performance of combat missions from the command and for displayed courage and heroism in battles against the German-fascist invaders, sergeant Gadelshin Khamit Gabdullovich was awarded the title of Hero of the Soviet Union, with the Order of Lenin and the medal "Gold Star" (No. 3552).
After the war, the courageous signalman continued to serve in the Armed Forces of the USSR. He graduated from the Leningrad Military Communications School and the Military Academy of Communications.
Since 1969, Colonel Gadelshin K.H. was in reserve and later retired. He worked as a military instructor at a vocational technical school and then as a lecturer at a communications technical school in the capital of Kyrgyzstan, Frunze.
He lived in the city of Frunze (now Bishkek).
He died on January 10, 2000.
Awarded the Orders of Lenin, the Patriotic War 1st class, and medals.
And the "Eastern Wall" trembled...
In August 1943, Khamit Gadelshin was twenty years old. He had been fighting since October 1941, but fate spared the young man — bullets and shrapnel flew past. For some unknown reason, only Khamit was firmly convinced that nothing would happen to him.
However, there was one fear that relentlessly trailed behind him... But, to be honest, Khamit had already become accustomed to it, and probably if it were to disappear, he would be even more frightened. He guarded the radio more than his own life, and the threat of missing another signal was worse than death for him. And it was easy to miss, as he had to sleep in snatches, and the months of fatigue could twist his young strong body into heavy oblivion at any moment of calm.
They took turns on duty by the radio, and while the second radio operator slept, Khamit wrote letters. To his parents — simpler, calmer. To his beloved girl — with masculine strictness, with a hint of bravado. Khamit thoughtfully chewed on his pencil: he would not write about how they could almost feel the breath of the mighty Dnieper; he would tell about the Dnieper from there, from across the river...
In August 1943, the Germans decided to prepare a defensive line along the Desna, Sozh, Dnieper, and Molochna rivers, which they called the "Eastern Wall"...
On September 15, 1943, Hitler ordered the withdrawal of troops to the "Eastern Wall," shouting to the world, stirring his people and army: "The Dnieper will flow back sooner than the Russians will overcome it — this powerful barrier 700-900 meters wide, the right bank of which is a chain of continuous pillboxes, a natural impregnable fortress."
Exactly ten days later, a sabotage and reconnaissance unit, twenty-two brave young men led by Lieutenant Lukin, was ordered to report to the commander of the 31st rifle division, General Bogdanovich. After giving the task — to cross the Dnieper and establish themselves there at all costs, the general firmly shook their hands, looked into their eyes: "You know where you are going... I know where I am sending you..." None of them averted their gaze, and not a single hand trembled in the handshake.
All over the front, groups of Soviet soldiers were filtering across to the right bank of the river, tasked with holding the captured patch of land to the last. They, brave and strong, were entrusted with a difficult task, but if it was accomplished — and it must be accomplished — it would be possible to avoid the enormous, terrible losses that the crossing of the river by large groups threatened. Khamit carefully checked the radio: the lives of many people, the outcome of the operation depended on it, and therefore it had to work flawlessly.
Gadelshin had not been in a single easy battle, but here, near the village of Auly in the Krynichansky district of Dnipropetrovsk region, Khamit was about to endure an especially tough fight.
...They crossed the Dnieper relatively easily. And immediately occupied a small height where some ruins remained, driving out the sleepy, lulled by the night and the Führer's words about the impregnable right bank of the Dnieper, Germans. And from such ease, the scouts were somewhat confused: they smoked silently, each thinking about his own. Not all of them would survive the battle, and here, look! — everyone was alive.
The night ended. A cool breeze blew, the scent of wormwood filled the air. The lieutenant, raising his binoculars to his eyes, was peering into the enemy positions. What awaited them? The unit, formed back in the North Caucasus, had repeatedly gone behind enemy lines; these guys had spent not one battle together, each of them knew everything about the others, each trusted the others as himself. And today, now, they were to complete the task, relying on one another. Did Lukin know that he was trusted more than they trusted themselves?
The attack, though they were expecting it, began unexpectedly.
— Machine gunners!
Towards the height, thick, jagged lines of fascists were coming, as if they had grown from the ground: shirt sleeves rolled up, machine guns on their chests.
Khamit felt his heart stir heavily in his chest.
They repelled one attack after another, and it seemed that there was no end to this day, no end to the Germans, and no other life but life in battle, when it was impossible, unthinkable to retreat, because they could not lose the occupied bridgehead.
Clenching their teeth, they would fight as long as their strength allowed... Khamit, like all the fighters in the unit, had a machine gun, and he fired it until the magazines ran out. He also had hand grenades.
Just like everyone else. The only thing missing was anti-tank grenades. Because they were heavy, and with the radio, he already had enough weight to carry. Before noon, the attacks ceased. All the fighters in the unit were alive — the stone ruins had saved them — but many were wounded. The second radio operator, Alyosha Ivanov, was also wounded. After establishing communication, Khamit reported the situation.
Silence hung over the Dnieper. They drank Dnieper water from flasks, smoked. And the lieutenant rose above the parapet: "What’s the situation?" They did not immediately understand what had happened: the lieutenant, without even screaming, fell heavily into Gadelshin's arms. He, their commander, mortally wounded in the head, had been granted a few more minutes of life, just a few moments... He managed to say: "Communication..." — and fell silent. Gadelshin re-established communication. The response came immediately: "Take command!"
Barely had he removed the headphones when he heard a shout:
— Tanks!
— One... five... nine...,— counted sergeant Gadelshin the tanks. Under their cover, machine gunners were running towards the height.
— They are serious about this, bastards...
Gadelshin asked his bank to cover them with fire. A powerful artillery strike forced the unit to huddle into the ground, to bury themselves in the ruins; it was impossible to tell whose shell fragments were whistling overhead — ours or the enemy's. Seven knocked-out tanks were smoking in front of the height. The unit re-engaged in battle, firing automatic bursts at the fleeing Germans. Gradually, the cries subsided. Only rare explosions were heard. "Radio, wonderful box, what would we do without you!"— thought the radio operator. He would have been better off not saying this phrase, even to himself; he would have been better off remembering the radio; perhaps then a stray fragment would not have hit it, and the radio transmitter would not have gone out of order... Khamit clutched his head: what to do?
The fascist attack faltered. Khamit raised his binoculars. Slowly, meter by meter, he scanned the flat bank of the Dnieper, lingering a little longer on the smoking tanks. What if?.. What if he could find the enemy's radio?
At first, this thought seemed wild. But nothing else came to mind. There would be no other solution. It could not be now! Weighing all the "pros" and "cons," Khamit ordered himself: "Act, sergeant Gadelshin."
Now he retraced the path he had just surveyed with his binoculars, crawling meter by meter across the battlefield.
Where did the confidence that he would find the radio come from? From nowhere, it was just there, that’s all. Of course, the Germans would not leave a radio on the battlefield, even if the radio operator was killed. Well, what if there was a radio somewhere here after all? What if they had a lucky chance, and Sergeant Gadelshin could not take advantage of it? And Khamit, crawling from one shell hole to another, began to search. And when he finally saw the radio, he could not believe his eyes: "No, this can't be." But what can't be, here is the radio, intact, not a single scratch. He wanted to run back, but he calmed his heart, forced himself to look around: who knows, he could not afford to risk himself now.
The sergeant immediately established communication with the mainland; he needed to report valuable reconnaissance data, possibly receive additional orders. In short, he needed to continue the work he had started and continue it with maximum efficiency. Khamit smiled, imagining how surprised the base would be that his radio "spoke" in a different voice. But then there was no time for smiles. They requested the password — he answered. And they told him — wait.
In two or three minutes, they requested the next password — and he answered again, realizing that they were checking him with full rigor.
And they were right to do so; who knows... Finally, the check was over, and they asked him to report the situation immediately; the division headquarters urgently needed this information, as a large crossing over the Dnieper was being prepared for September 28, that is, the next day.
And again, rows of fascists were heading towards the height.
Well, look at them, they can’t get enough, — one of the guys couldn’t hold back. — They probably decided to check if we are alive here or not...
And again the battle, which lasted until nightfall. A heavy, exhausting battle. The guys from the sabotage and reconnaissance unit were dying silently, not daring to tear their friends away from the sights of their machine guns. Of the twenty-two, only seven survived that day when the German attack faltered. And this time, sergeant Khamit Gadelshin was lucky — he was not even wounded. Khamit did not know that in a few hours he would be concussed and would suffer from a headache for a long time, that his hearing would worsen; he did not know that something had happened in his heart that day, that it had shifted and that now it was sick. (This would be revealed after the war when Gadelshin submitted documents to the military Red Banner Academy of Communications — but still, the front-line soldier would achieve his goal and begin to study; after all, if he survived the war, he could do anything.)
Neither a bullet nor a fragment touched Khamit Gadelshin, but he remembers the war with his whole body and soul down to the smallest details; he will never be able to forget it. When I asked him to tell about his feat, Khamit Gabdullovich recounted that day as if it had just happened recently. He spoke in an everyday, calm voice, and then stepped aside and covered his face for a moment.
In those very days and hours, when the fighters stood to the death, groups of Soviet soldiers were filtering across to the right bank of the Dnieper along the entire front line. From a thousand feats, self-sacrifices, and tactics, a common strength, the main battle strategy was formed, forcing the seemingly invincible fascist "Eastern Wall" to tremble first and then break.
A month and a half later, Sergeant Gadelshin was called to the senior sergeant of the signalers. It was night outside, raining, and it was also time for him to rest. But an order is an order. Khamit wanted to be clever, not go to the unit, claiming he did not know its location, but he was advised to follow the telephone wire. He walked, stumbled, fell into water-filled potholes...
One can imagine what words (mentally, of course) the senior sergeant deserved. Finally, he arrived. Wet, angry. They said: "Wait for communication."
— I waited. I had dozed off. And then they called: "Quickly, on the line is the chief of the political department of the division..." I picked up the receiver and heard: "Congratulations, comrade Gadelshin, on the high government award — the title of Hero of the Soviet Union." And I was silent, silent, even though the senior sergeant was making various encouraging gestures to me, and then I said: "Alright." And I hung up. I was very excited. The senior sergeant just grunted in annoyance, and I went back along the wire to my unit.
— In May 1944, I was called to Moscow. I arrived there in quilted trousers and a sheepskin coat: we had not yet been transferred to summer uniforms. On the train — I still remember the cleanliness and coziness of the soft carriage — I met other front-line soldiers who, like me, were going to Moscow for awards; they were dressed in various ways.
— I remember very little of what happened in the Kremlin: the lamps burned brightly because film cameras were set up in the hall, and from this brightness, everything swam before my eyes. When my name was called and I had to go on stage to Mikhail Ivanovich Kalinin, I thought only about not squeezing his hand too tightly — this is what we, front-line soldiers, were asked to do in advance. I came to my senses already on Red Square.
Hero of the Soviet Union Colonel Khamit Gabdullovich Gadelshin taught military affairs at vocational school No. 27 in Frunze. Once, before the war, after finishing school, he could not choose a profession he liked. What to be? Both jobs seemed interesting. Finally, at a family council, it was decided that he would go to study at a financial and economic technical school. But before Khamit could get used to the adding machine, the war began. He went to the front as a volunteer, and from that day on, he became a soldier forever. Even his free time from work was devoted to his work — he gave lectures on the topic "Mass Heroism — Immortal Feat." And one must see with what attention any audience listened to him: after all, Gadelshin knew about the war what could only be learned at its forefront.
L. ZHOLMUHAMEDOVA