Hero of the Soviet Union Otorbaev Asanbek
Asanbek Otorbaev was born in 1925 in the village of Chat-Bazar in the Talas region of the Kyrgyz SSR, into a peasant family. He was Kyrgyz. A member of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. In January 1943, at the age of 18, he went to the front. He served as a junior sergeant and machine gunner.
He fought on the Leningrad and 1st Ukrainian fronts. In battles against the German-fascist invaders, he distinguished himself with courage and bravery. He performed many glorious feats and was an exemplary and brave warrior. For his combat merits during the war, he was awarded the Order of the Red Star and the medal "For Courage".
On April 10, 1945, A. Otorbaev was posthumously awarded the title of Hero of the Soviet Union.
His memory is immortalized in the hero's homeland. The Chat-Bazar Secondary School is named after him, and a bust of the brave warrior is installed in the park near the school. The pedestal bears the inscription: "To the Hero from grateful descendants and contemporaries".
THERE, BEYOND THE ODER
The operation was discussed at many levels and in various versions. It remained to secretly cross the river, engage in battle, and win. The main thing is to win; only in this lies the success of the plan.
A patchy fog lay over the river. It concealed the water's expanse, and the foreign opposite bank seemed significantly closer.
And it was closer because it was illuminated by the wandering beams of powerful searchlights that were probing the still, leaden surface.
The regiment commander, Major Veredinsky, came out to see them off. He encouragingly spoke about the saving fog and advised them not to go under the searchlights but to maneuver as best they could. The officers, like Asanbek's group, remained silent.
— Well? — the major perked up. — How's the mood, junior sergeant? Remember, you are the first to step onto this land. Here is still Poland, and there is already Germany. Remember, sergeant... — He abruptly turned and walked away.
The morning of January 31, 1945, was just beginning to dawn. The paratroopers shook hands, wished each other good luck, and at least a little bit of fortune.
Embracing an elderly Kazakh from Jambul, Asanbek said cheerfully:
— See you on the other side, Kemel.
— Be careful, Asanbek, — replied Dosumbeev.
In war, a soldier does not choose his path; he is used to obeying the commander's orders and carrying them out unconditionally.
This harsh but necessary rule they experienced more than once — junior sergeant Asanbek Otorbaev, a native of the village of Chat-Bazar in the Talas region, and a private from Jambul, Kemel Dosumbeev. Fate brought them together two years ago in Almaty at the point of formation of a new military unit. Kemel was almost twice as old, but something drew him to the full-faced and sturdy eighteen-year-old boy, and their friendship blossomed almost immediately. They lost each other more than once during the capricious twists of war and found each other again, surprised that they were alive and unharmed.
They fought on the Leningrad front. Then, due to Kemel's injury, they were separated. Their new meeting occurred on the 1st Ukrainian front on the eve of decisive offensives at the end of 1944. And although they continued to serve in different units and even in different companies, it did not prevent them from often seeing each other and going into battle together.
The young, desperately brave sergeant was loved in the unit. Sharp-tongued, lively, and sociable, he distinguished himself in battles near Leningrad, for which he was awarded the medal "For Courage". His bravery was written about in the combat bulletins and leaflets of the unit. After a skillful action with a heavy machine gun in the battle for the village of Mikhailovka, an entire issue of the combat bulletin was dedicated to his feat, titled "Glory to the Brave Machine Gunner Otorbaev!".
— You see, I can't run ahead and look back, — Asanbek told his Kazakh friend as if justifying himself. — Only hatred, it becomes dark even in the eyes.
— You are too hot-headed, that's the trouble, — grumbled the elderly Kazakh. — You might end up foolishly and without a head.
In 1944, Asanbek was accepted as a candidate for membership in the VKP(b), and the gray-haired political officer tried to temper him:
— Reckless bravery, Asanbek, is, of course, bravery. But a bit of calculation would not hurt you, son... Fight with dignity and continue, take care of yourself, for the Reichstag is still far away.
In the very first offensive of the 296th Rifle Regiment on the 1st Ukrainian front, junior sergeant Otorbaev distinguished himself again. After throwing grenades at an enemy strongpoint and capturing it, he killed over twenty fascists with his machine gun.
And there were plenty of such battles in January. Therefore, no one was surprised when, on the eve of crossing the Oder, Asanbek was awarded the Order of the Red Star and, with his characteristic humor, told his comrades in the squad:
— Well, that's it! One star is already here; it's not embarrassing to go home now. When you return without an award, it feels like you haven't fought at all.
The company commander laughed along with the soldiers — what can you expect from him: for the boy, death is not death, all feats seem to be in sight.
And no one suspected that this feat for Asanbek Otorbaev was already very close, that only six days remained until the feat for which the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR would award him the Order of Lenin and the "Golden Star" of the Hero of the Soviet Union. Just six nights and six days of this young life...
They called him up in winter, in January. An early morning carriage approached, in which several fellow villagers were already sitting, and he, so eager to go to the front, suddenly felt an extraordinary heaviness in his legs and could not open the gate of his family yard for a long time. Behind his father's house and the gardens sloping down, the mighty river of his childhood was noisily crashing against the icy banks.
His mother held his younger brother in her arms, crying. His other brother, Sultan, was running towards the carriage, dragging a loose wooden toy horse.
His mother gave him a slap on the head, but Sultan probably did not even feel it; he was worried that he almost missed Asanbek's departure. And he stretched out his little hands towards him.
Asanbek jumped off the carriage, picked up Sultan, held him close to his chest for a long time, and, hearing the furious chatter of the unbridled river, whispered passionately and fervently about how fiercely and mercilessly he would destroy the fascists...
For the crossing, they prepared an inflatable boat.
The noisy, almost defiant junior sergeant became silent and sullen in critical moments.
He gave commands only with gestures, as he did now, pointing with an outstretched hand to the boat.
There were seven of them, including Asanbek. They were to secretly cross the Oder to the other bank, capture the pillbox guarding the bridge over the river, and open the way for our troops into fascist Germany.
The fog had just lifted from the water, but the beams of enemy searchlights still tangled in its clouds, and the crossing was successful. The paratroopers rowed silently, without splashes, rustling, or creaking of oars.
Just as silently, with a hand gesture dividing the fighters into two groups, Asanbek indicated each group's path to the threatening structure made of iron and concrete.
The sentry was removed silently. Kicking the metal-bound door with his foot and raising his automatic weapon, the junior sergeant sprayed a burst over the bunks. And when the fascists were startled and began to jump off their cots, he threw two grenades into their midst, one after the other.
In a minute, it was all over, but some kind of secret alarm went off, and a rocket soared above the enemy trenches on the hill.
— Sergeant, machine gunners! — a worried shout came from the street, and Asanbek again indicated with his familiar gesture where each should take their defensive position.
It was easy for the fascists to run down the slope, but escaping from the relentless fire of the paratroopers proved much more difficult. They scrambled up the slopes, slipped, and fell silent forever among the sparse thickets of willow.
It seemed the right time for the assault battalions to rush the bridge and begin the crossing, but two new enemy machine guns opened fire, and the bridge was caught in crossfire.
— Quickly... With grenades, — Asanbek ordered hoarsely, and two of his fighters silently disappeared into the bushes.
When the third attack was repelled, Asanbek was surprised to find that he was alone. All his comrades were either killed or seriously wounded and could not continue the fight.
The morning was gaining strength, and the fog was thinning. Taking advantage of the respite — the enemy, apparently, was gathering new forces — the junior sergeant carried the wounded into the recently neutralized pillbox.
On the Polish bank, where our units were waiting for the signal to attack, some feverish activity caught the eye, and the enemy trenches bristled with new bursts of machine-gun fire...
"They didn't wait, they're preparing to charge," — a worried thought flashed through Asanbek's mind, and he clearly imagined what this desperate charge across the bullet-riddled water barrier would cost the regiment.
But there was no time to think; with the force of two companies, the fascists were attacking again. A little to the left, cautiously probing the slope with its treads, a self-propelled gun was descending towards the pillbox and the bridge.
Instantly assessing the situation, the sergeant realized that the crossing of the breakthrough battalion in such a situation was impossible, and he seemed to feel hundreds of anxious gazes from the distant bank upon him.
"After all, I asked for this," — a nagging thought echoed in his mind. — "I declared to Major Veredinsky: I will do everything, comrade commander. A braggart, I did it..."
The steep bank and deep ravines hindered the self-propelled gun from approaching the pillbox for direct fire. It was hiding in deep washes, searching for a new path with its armored nose, continuing its maneuver.
— Well, come on, dive around some more, — the junior sergeant encouraged, — and we'll hold on here.
For about an hour, the fascists made two more charges on the pillbox, and unable to withstand the hail of machine-gun fire, they were forced to press themselves to the ground. But now they were no longer retreating; their ring was tightening. Slowly and inexorably, enemy companies were flanking him.
Again, having crossed the deepest ravine, the self-propelled gun appeared on the ridge. It struck the bridge. A column of water soared above the river. Then, as if reminding the sergeant of itself and its serious intentions, it slammed a shell into the pillbox.
Hiding in the concrete bunker was becoming pointless. This was becoming increasingly obvious, and Asanbek angrily pushed the machine gun away from him. In the thinning haze, the opposite bank became clearer. The figures of our soldiers were flickering, rushing toward the water: apparently, the major no longer counted on him. But could he not see this self-propelled gun?
The Nazis launched their sixth attack of the morning. The nervous, guttural shouts of officers were clearly audible.
The enemy's machine guns began to chatter excitedly.
The decisive moment was approaching. Asanbek understood this and, making several long bursts at the enemy line, anxiously turned to his wounded comrades. Two of them, overcoming pain, were crawling toward the exit with their automatics.
They tried to get up, supporting each other, and were immediately thrown back by an explosion that erupted at the entrance.
Stuffing grenades into the belt of his overcoat, Asanbek rolled into a bushy ditch.
The self-propelled gun was almost nearby. Clanking its treads, it was gaining speed more boldly.
Raising himself to take a quick look around, he felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder and almost immediately a new one in his side.
"They noticed my throw, bastards," — a bitter thought flashed through his mind, — "Now they won't let me out of their sights for anything."
In all the months of war, Asanbek had not felt such powerlessness and unbearable helplessness.
Enemy bullets flew over his head, flew in front of him, blocking the path to the self-propelled gun. And it was moving and moving toward the intended target — the bridge, while he was forced to press himself into the damp earth. And all this was happening before the eyes of his comrades and the entire regiment, still preparing for their charge.
His left arm was unresponsive. Tightening the belt on his overcoat, Asanbek adjusted the heavy anti-tank grenades, taking one in his healthy hand just in case.
The self-propelled gun, suddenly changing direction, headed toward him, and the junior sergeant pressed himself even harder into the cold earth.
— Come on! Come on! — he urged the rumbling giant in a whisper.
And when the self-propelled gun ground its treads again, when it was just a few meters away, Asanbek stood up tall so that he could be seen on our bank and understood that he had not ceased his last fight and had not lost it yet, raising the grenade clenched in his hand.
And he could not throw it; his hand fell helplessly, and the grenade slipped out.
And then junior sergeant Otorbaev took his step into immortality. The very step he had long been ready to take.
Gathering his last strength, losing consciousness, he threw himself, bound with grenades, under the rumbling and hated monster.
And the enemy's ground trembled beyond the Oder, the heavy machine swayed. It tilted, leaned, slowly toppled over, and crashed into the murky waters of the border river with a roar.
On the other bank, they saw all this.
On the other bank, they closely watched every desperate step of paratrooper Asanbek Otorbaev from the 3rd Rifle Battalion.
On the other bank, they believed until the last second that the self-propelled gun would not reach the bridge and would not destroy it, and only created the appearance of a possible attack over a long stretch of the wide river.
And a united "Hooray!" echoed in response to this immortal feat of the warrior from Kyrgyzstan, and hundreds of figures in overcoats and padded jackets rushed toward the bridge. Among the advancing was the elderly soldier from the Jambul region, Kemel Dosumbeev...
The pre-war friends of Asanbek are alive on Talas land. His memory lives on, immortalized in bronze, in the names of streets and schools.
As recalls the chairman of the regional DOSAAF committee, retired Colonel Amanbek Doskeev, the sense of friendship and mutual assistance in Asanbek was developed from an early age. After finishing seven years of school in Chat-Bazar, he dreamed of further education. Yielding to his son's persistent request, Tursun Aydyralievich and Nyurbubu-apa sent him to Frunze, to secondary school No. 5. But the war did not allow him to finish his studies.
Nyurbubu-apa still does not believe in the death of her firstborn son; for her, he is an eternal soldier, standing guard over the Motherland without fail.
— Asanbek did not die, — she says, glancing with a misty look at the only portrait of her son in the house, which, by all appearances, was not very successfully retouched by a self-taught post-war retoucher, — Asanbek lives. Yes, yes!
Alive. If he dies — my heart will die...
In his last battle, Asanbek Otorbaev fought near the Polish settlement of Warlich. Rather, opposite it. He was one of the few Soviet warriors of the 13th Rifle Division of the 1st Ukrainian Front who were fortunate enough to be the first to step onto the soil of Nazi Germany and secure a reliable foothold there.
The award sheet was sent to the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR on February 2, 1945. It was signed by the commander of the 296th Rifle Regiment, Major Veredinsky, the commander of the 13th Rifle Division, Major General Alexandrov, and a member of the military council of the army, Major General Lebedev.
A. SOROKIN