Hero of the Soviet Union Ivan Pavlovich Krasilnikov
Ivan Pavlovich Krasilnikov was born on June 15, 1910, in the village of Baltai (now the Baltai District of the Saratov Region).
He received primary education. From 1931 to 1933, he served in the Workers' and Peasants' Red Army.
After being demobilized, he worked as a master in the bakery workshop of the "Konditer" artel in the city of Frunze (now Bishkek) in the Kyrgyz SSR. In 1941, Krasilnikov was called up to the army again. From August 1942, he was on the front lines of the Great Patriotic War. He participated in battles near Stalingrad and on the Kursk Bulge, the liberation of the Ukrainian and Belarusian SSRs, Poland, and fought in Germany, being wounded three times. By the autumn of 1943, Private Ivan Krasilnikov was a machine gunner in the 685th Rifle Regiment of the 193rd Rifle Division of the Central Front.
He distinguished himself during the battle for the Dnieper.
On October 15, 1943, Krasilnikov, as part of his company, successfully crossed the Dnieper, despite being thrown out of the boat by an explosion along the way. Upon reaching the shore, Krasilnikov set up a machine gun and opened fire on the enemy. In the fierce battle, almost all defenders were killed, except for Krasilnikov and his comrade.
Acting together, they destroyed about 30 enemy soldiers and officers, holding the bridgehead until the main forces arrived.
By the decree of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR dated October 30, 1943, Private Ivan Krasilnikov was awarded the high title of Hero of the Soviet Union, with the Order of Lenin and the medal "Gold Star" numbered 1535.
After the war, Krasilnikov was demobilized. He lived and worked in Frunze. He passed away on January 13, 1968.
He was also awarded the Order of Glory 3rd class (February 24, 1945) and several medals, including the medal "For the Defense of Stalingrad."
TASTE OF VICTORY
My father was from the village. He worked as a blacksmith. He became a communist in thirty-nine. As a party assignment of special importance, he was tasked with escorting conscripts to the military enlistment office. Tomorrow's soldiers replaced each other in our home, asking my father a lot of questions, and I strongly suspect that he could not answer all of them. The guys were anxious, and so was their first guardian on the way to becoming soldiers. One of the boys, Mikhail Pilipenko, particularly stuck in my memory. And rightly so, because he lived nearby, played the helicon in the brass band, and every time brought home a huge helicon. We asked to blow into it, and he—kind, cheerful, sociable—taught us to play and laughed when we flinched at the wild roar of the helicon.
Before his planned departure to the army, he spent three days with us—he could not wait for the departure. And then, when everyone left, and Misha stayed, he cried all night under the windows of our house: they did not take him into the army.
They discovered his strabismus, which we had not noticed in tall, slender, and cheerful Misha. How he asked my father to help him at the military enlistment office! He wanted so much to become a tank driver, even though we had only heard about tanks and had no idea what they were.
Misha approached many people. And he got his way! He was taken and assigned to the music platoon. He agreed: for starters, it would do, and then they would see.
I don’t know if Misha managed to replace the helicon with a tank. Exciting events unfolded: Spain, Khasan, Khalkhin-Gol, Finland... And when the Great Patriotic War broke out, we suddenly became adults. Our Komsomol boys were going to the front. Some were waiting, some were not waiting for a summons from the military enlistment office—they showed up with their belongings.
Conscripts loaded up at the Pishpek station, and when the train of passenger cars started moving, the sounds of "Slavyanka" followed it. Our railway school, at that time, periodically went out in full force to the platform—to see off our high school students to war.
In those years, there were no ninth and tenth grades in many schools, and in those that remained, almost only girls studied. The eighth graders remained as the older students, and they were an organized, reliable, highly mobile workforce. Unloading, loading, digging, carrying—all fell to us. We also met trains with the wounded. For some reason, many of us thought that these burned by war, tortured people were the very ones we had just seen off.
...I cannot forget that column of recruits. In the heavy forty-first year, an endless line of people moved in the rain toward the station. There was still no asphalt on Lev Tolstoy Street—the cobblestone pavement echoed loudly.
It was getting dark, and a tedious, prickly rain was falling. The mud squelched underfoot. Men in their thirties and very young guys walked in disordered rows from the flour mill to the Pishpek station: there, wagons awaited them. From a loudspeaker installed on a power line pole, the rumbling baritone of Levitan suddenly rang out:
— From the Soviet Information Bureau...
One, then another, then a third recruit separated from the column. They froze, listening to the broadcast. The middle of the column stopped, catching every word, commenting:
— We are retreating...
The voice of the commander came from the front of the column:
— Halt! Listen to the radio broadcast!
Yesterday, these men and boys were still living peaceful lives, building, studying, plowing the land, raising children. Today, the war tore them from their families, factories, and fields, imposing its grim, unnatural task. They were still here, in Pishpek, and already not here, because thoughts flow faster than the rolling train wheels.
I do not know if Ivan Pavlovich Krasilnikov was in that column heading to the train, but he could well have been, judging by the time: he was called up to the army in August 1941, and he was just over thirty then. What was he like? A handsome man: well-built, with thick light brown hair, an interested lively gaze with a spark of laughter. He was probably cheerful. And kind.
That’s how I see him now. Because in peaceful times, he baked bread...
What fell to his lot? How did the war force him to do what earned him the title of Hero of the Soviet Union, marked with the Order of Lenin and the "Gold Star"? Private of the 685th Rifle Regiment of the 193rd Red Banner Rifle Division. In this capacity, Ivan Pavlovich fought against the fascist filth near Stalingrad, Kharkov.
The memory of that great confrontation is the medal "For the Defense of Stalingrad." And many mustached and beardless soldiers, looking at it, could imagine what a person experienced at that fiery frontier. How simple it looks in the award sheet: "Fought against the fascists on the Volga." In reality, it was much more complicated. Every meter of one's own land had to be taken in fierce battle. And for each, one had to pay the most precious, irreplaceable, and irreversible—blood, health, life.
Thus, the soldier emerged as a seasoned, battle-hardened warrior on the Dnieper River, where the 2nd Belarusian Front unfolded.
No matter. Let the soldier be born on Saratov soil, his homeland became Kyrgyz land, and now he fights for Belarusian land—also his own.
Veteran front-line soldiers, recounting river crossings, shook their heads, reached for their pouches—to smoke, because it was not easy to even remember such things.
On the ground, if you fall wounded—nothing, you can rest, they will patch you up in the hospital—you will become as good as new. If you fall into the water during a crossing—write it off.
And after the Dnieper, Ivan Pavlovich also crossed the Sozh. They say that whoever has drowned once is not afraid of only that water which is in a bucket. How much strength and will a soldier must have to force himself to step over the bank again, knowing that deadly fire awaits him on the water and on that enemy shore? Here was a bread baker, a quiet, kind man. But the war forced him to overcome himself, to find the strength to bolster his courage—and he did everything as he should. Although he was just a man, who would want to die in the prime of life?
And then there was the crossing of the Dnieper. Here, Ivan Pavlovich Krasilnikov, our fellow countryman, accomplished his heroic feat. He received a standard assignment: to cross over, seize a "patch," and expand the bridgehead for the approach of reinforcements. Is that all?
...An explosion damaged the boat when they had already passed the channel, and the enemy shore was closer than their own.
They managed to grab the machine guns and push them ashore. In such cases, every minute counts: if you hesitate, you miss it—you will be overturned, cut down by machine guns and automatic weapons. And no artillery is needed. This is what our classmates, who made it to Victory and returned home, told us. Those who had to cross. The soldiers did not waste a moment: some set up machine guns, while others rushed into the fascist trenches, throwing grenades, shouting, shooting, and crashing in. Ivan Pavlovich was at the forefront. What was he like in those moments? Probably terrifying. The excitement of battle, fierce anger, thirst for victory over the enemy: eyes—face to face with death. He showed true courage, setting an example for others...
They seized a piece of shore. Let them have driven a small wedge into the enemy's defense. But the system of fire was already disrupted, plans were confused, and our fighters had the opportunity to "pin down" the fascists with fire when their own would approach. To cover, to help, to secure. From this handful of fighters began the liberation of right-bank Belarus.
Ivan Pavlovich not only went into attacks, he cleaned his automatic rifle, shaved, ate soldier's porridge, laughed with his comrades—there are indeed breaks even in war. He healed his wounds—and returned to his unit. And the award sheet describing his feat on the Dnieper went its own way through army channels. "Deserves the high title of Hero of the Soviet Union with the awarding of the Order of Lenin and the medal 'Gold Star,'" concluded the commander of the 685th Rifle Regiment of the 193rd Red Banner Rifle Division, Lieutenant Colonel Nikонов. This was on October 21, 1943. Under this conclusion, the signatures of the division commander, Colonel Fedorenkov, a member of the Military Council of the Belarusian Front, Major General Radetsky, and finally, the front commander, Major General Rokossovsky, were placed.
We did not know the others who signed and duly appreciated the greatness of the soldier's feat, nor could we know.
But everyone knew the name of Konstantin Konstantinovich Rokossovsky from newspapers and radio reports. Here, in the rear, it seemed to us that Rokossovsky, whose portrait we examined closely and lovingly, fought not only skillfully, fiercely, but also optimistically, with bright faith in victory. Well, let the commander be a man in whose hands lies the fate of the front, the life and death of thousands of those guys, for whom just yesterday at the Pishpek station the march was played, let him not be able, not in a position to embrace, to kiss each brave man three times in Russian. But in the award sheet, after familiarizing himself with Ivan Krasilnikov's feat, without hesitation, he put his signature under the conclusion "deserves." This is something to be proud of until the last breath. This is a blessing for a lifetime: "keep it up!"
He shared great joy with the front and the rear. Front-line triangles flew home to Frunze, informing that the soldier was alive, healthy, and fighting. And that he has the Order of Lenin and the medal "Gold Star." That star shone like a victorious one, although from afar. There was still a long way to Berlin.
Our fellow countryman became the commander of a mortar crew, healed his wounds in the hospital two more times, and returned to the ranks again.
For the liberation of Belarus, for the storming of the fortress of Gdansk, for crossing the Oder River, he received thanks from the Supreme Commander-in-Chief, was awarded the Order of Glory III class.
What were they like—both heroes and unknown workers of the war—there? In that line, before which the gray-haired general expressed his gratitude: "You served your Motherland honestly and selflessly in the Great Patriotic War against the German-fascist invaders in the ranks of Marshal Rokossovsky's troops. You passed from the Volga to Berlin. You gave all your experience, strength, and knowledge to the cause of Victory..."
...Now that they are becoming fewer and fewer, they are called people from legend. But then they returned home ordinary, although far from the same as when they left. In war, one can experience so much in one battle that it is enough for decades of peaceful life.
After the war, Ivan Pavlovich Krasilnikov worked for almost another quarter of a century. He established his life, raised children, and... baked bread. The war shortened his life significantly. And after Victory, it caught up with him, said its word. He died almost young: 58 years is not old age for men. On January 13, 1968, he was gone. It was cold, snowflakes were swirling. A farewell salute thundered over the Hero's grave. And in the grateful memory of descendants, he will live forever.
V. ONISHCHENKO