Hero of the Soviet Union Pavel Semyonovich Svechnikov
Pavel Semyonovich Svechnikov was born in 1925 in the village of Kyzyl-Tuu, Sokuluk District of the Kyrgyz SSR, into a peasant family. Russian. Komsomol member. He was drafted into the Soviet Army in 1943. Guards sergeant. Gunner of the anti-tank regiment.
He received his combat baptism on the Voronezh Front. From the first days of his time at war, he fought bravely and boldly.
On December 24, 1943, for his heroic feat in defending the bridgehead on the western bank of the Dnieper, he was awarded the title of Hero of the Soviet Union. He was awarded the Orders of the Red Banner and the Patriotic War II class.
On January 16, 1944, in battle, Pavel Semyonovich Svechnikov was seriously wounded and died from his injuries.
THE SHORE OF HEROES
The Dnieper, second in length in Europe only to the Volga and the Danube, represented a serious natural barrier for the troops: its flow speed reaches up to 2 meters per second in places, its width is up to 3.5 kilometers, and its depth is up to 12 meters. The high, steep right bank dominates the low left bank over a long stretch.
The enemy not only fortified the right bank of the Dnieper but also created strong forward fortifications on the left bank. All this was supposed to make, in his opinion, the crossing of the river impossible.
It was stated in the directive of the Supreme Command Headquarters that it was important not to allow the enemy to recover and consolidate on the right bank of the Dnieper. For this, troops needed to be prepared to immediately cross the water barrier upon approach, without waiting for the arrival of pontoons and other standard crossing means. For the crossing, everything that came to hand should be used: fishing boats, rafts, logs, empty barrels. Surprise was an important condition for victory on the Dnieper.
On September 20-21, the left bank of the Dnieper was completely cleared of the enemy in the area of the Voronezh Front's offensive.
However, after retreating to the right bank and blowing up all the bridges and crossings behind them, the enemy unleashed mortar and artillery fire on the left bank occupied by our troops. Enemy bombers hung in the air, replacing each other...
Units of the 40th Army, which included the 1850th anti-tank regiment, were ordered to be among the first to cross the Dnieper in the area of the Bukrin bend.
On the morning of September 22, the first groups of machine gunners, having crossed the water barrier on improvised means, secured themselves on the right bank.
— It’s about time we went to that bank too,— said Sergeant Svechnikov gloomily, looking towards the river, boiling with the explosions of shells and mines.
While waiting for the sappers to set up the crossings, troops were gathering on the left bank. Tanks, artillery, infantry—all mixed together.
— Just a moment,— supported Svechnikov his friend Yegorov,— by the time they build us bridges with railings, there will be nothing left of our gun but the wheels.
Right behind them, several mines exploded. Clods of earth thudded heavily against the shell boxes.
— What do you suggest, fly over? — the commander of the gun, Senior Sergeant Ivan Mezentsev, said angrily, turning to them.
— Why fly over,— calmly continued Yegorov, brushing the dirt off his tarpaulin,— we can build a raft. Look at all those empty barrels. And we can find some boards if we look...
Rolling several barrels down to the shore, Yegorov, with Svechnikov's help, began to tie them together with rope.
They stuffed the necks of the barrels with wooden plugs. Then they nailed together a deck from the boards and lowered the finished raft into the water.
Nearby, following their example, other artillerymen were constructing rafts.
They set off from the shore already at dusk.
— Well, here we go,— Yegorov croaked approvingly, leaning on a wide board that served as his paddle. Svechnikov paddled from the other side.
Earlier that day, Mezentsev, having carefully studied the opposite bank with binoculars, had identified a convenient landing spot.
Considering the swift current, they began the crossing about two hundred meters upstream. But now Mezentsev realized that he had miscalculated. The current was quickly carrying the raft downstream from the designated landing spot.
— A little more, guys,— he urged the fighters, and, snatching a piece of board from one of them, began to paddle furiously.
Exhausted and taking turns, they fought against the current. From the nearby explosions of shells and mines, which poured tons of water onto the raft, they were all soaked to the skin long ago.
The shore was close when one of the shells exploded about five meters from the raft, immediately tilting it to the right side.
The gun lurched sharply, ready to slide into the water, but Svechnikov, timely putting his shoulder in, held it, and Yegorov, coming to his aid, shoved a box of shells under the wheel.
— Well done, Pavel! — shouted Mezentsev, trying to shout over the surrounding noise.
There were about twenty meters left to the shore when the barrels scraped the sandy bottom. The raft stopped as if it were anchored.
— Everyone into the water,— commanded Mezentsev.
The lightened raft, rising above the water, moved forward another ten meters. After unloading the boxes of shells, the artillerymen pushed it almost to the shore and rolled the gun off. Two more rafts were mooring nearby.
— Yegorov, Svechnikov, scout the situation. — ordered Mezentsev. But at that moment, two fighters in tarpaulin cloaks emerged from the darkness.
— Welcome, artillery,— one of the machine gunners smiled widely, lifting his helmet. — We’ve been waiting for you since morning. We’ve been fending off with grenades. So you arrived just in time...
— There’s a hollow nearby,— the second continued,— we’ll help you get up. You’ve found a wonderful position.
That night, several more guns from the 1850th anti-tank regiment were ferried to the right bank. By morning, a fierce battle had erupted on the captured bridgehead. The artillerymen were commanded by the deputy commander of the regiment, Captain Petrov.
On September 30, the Soviet troops' bridgehead at the Bukrin bend was expanded to 11 kilometers along the front and 6 kilometers in depth. By this time, the main forces of the 40th Army and the motorized rifle units of the 3rd Guards Tank Army had concentrated there. However, the majority of the artillery and tanks were still on the left bank of the Dnieper. The fighting took on an extremely fierce character.
The courage and bravery displayed by Soviet soldiers in the battle for the Dnieper were acknowledged even by the enemy.
Many years later, Hitler's General Dorn wrote in his memoirs about the war: “Wherever the positions of the Russians and Germans were separated by a river, a crossing could be expected at any moment... The tactic of infiltration was often masterfully employed. No vigilance could prevent the Russians from crossing the river at night using various means. The Russians were often unexpectedly discovered in places where they were least expected. They acted with incredible speed. It took them just one night to turn a small bridgehead into a powerful stronghold, from which it was very difficult to dislodge them. As soon as enough forces accumulated on the bridgehead, the offensive began.”
On the eighth day, entrenched in the ground, they repelled fierce enemy attacks. Deafening artillery shelling and bombing were followed by attacks from machine gunners. Tanks crawled out from the coastal ravines to replace the exhausted infantry attacks. More than a dozen of them, charred from fire, with broken tracks and torn sides, froze on the plain before the artillery positions. But they kept coming.
At night, ammunition, personnel, and equipment were delivered to the right bank by ferries and boats. During the day, aerial battles flared over the crossings across the Dnieper.
...Pavel touched the barrel of the gun and immediately pulled his hand away from the burning metal. A tank attack had just been repelled. The third one of the day. The rumble of battle shifted to the right flank. He wearily sat down on the bottom of the trench.
The smoldering dry grass at the edge of the trench reminded him of his childhood, the smoky bonfires of dry autumn leaves that he used to light with the neighborhood boys in the evenings. But that fire was kind and peaceful. And the smoke was warm and homely. Pavel remembered the letter. He had received it from home about two weeks ago and hadn’t even had time to read it properly. With anxiety, he felt for the crumpled envelope in his pocket: no, he hadn’t lost it.
He smoothed the crumpled sheet from a student notebook with his palm and began to read from the beginning.
“Dear son,— wrote his mother,— I don’t know when and where my message will find you. Soon it will be your birthday.
And you won’t be here with us. We decided to send you a package with apples, your favorites, from our garden...”
Pavel suddenly stopped reading, painfully trying to remember what date it was today.
— Comrade Senior Sergeant,— he quietly called to the commander, who was wearily leaning against the wall of the trench with his eyes closed. — What’s the date today?
— The thirtieth, the thirtieth of September, 1943! — Mezentsev replied without opening his eyes.
— That’s great,— Pavel exclaimed in such a joyful voice that Mezentsev opened his eyes and looked at him in surprise.
— It’s my birthday today, comrade commander.
— Indeed, an event,— the senior sergeant moved closer. — And how old are you now?
— Eighteen!
— What? — Mezentsev made surprised eyes for the second time and looked at Pavel as if he were seeing him for the first time.
— I added two years at the enlistment office,— Pavel explained shyly, anticipating the commander’s question. — Half our village went to the front. How would I have looked if I had sat at home all through the war...
Only now did Mezentsev suddenly see that one of the best gunners of the battery was still just a boy. He suddenly noticed the childishly protruding ears and the golden fluff above the upper lip.
— Well, what should I give you? — Mezentsev hurriedly asked and immediately took off his watch and handed them to Pavel.
— What are you doing, comrade commander! How will you do without them? — Pavel blushed.
— Take them, take them, keep them as a memory,— said Mezentsev and put the watch on his wrist.
Pavel looked at the watch: “Twelve forty...” and smiled joyfully like a child.
From behind the hill came the rumble of tank engines. The fascists launched another attack.
— To battle! — commanded Mezentsev.
The gun crew took their places. Six tanks were advancing directly towards them. Svechnikov, leaning against the sight’s eyepiece, caught the lead tank in the crosshairs.
— Fire!
The gun shuddered, slightly recoiling backward. Pavel saw the shell explode on the frontal armor. The tank kept moving.
— Aim for the tracks, Pavel, aim for the tracks,— Mezentsev gritted his teeth,— you won’t hit them head-on.
The second shell severed the right track of the lead tank, and it sharply turned, exposing its left side to the fire. Two more shells sent up clouds of dirt beneath it.
And from behind the burning tank, another one was turning out. Its gun, aimed directly at their trench, was firing continuously. One of the shells exploded about five meters away, showering them with a hot wave. Shrapnel from the shattered sight cut painfully across his face.
Yegorov screamed behind him. Pavel turned around and saw him lying at the bottom of the trench. His heart tightened painfully, but, catching the stern look of the commander, Pavel began to aim the gun again.
They continued the fight, now as a duo. Mezentsev was bringing shells and loading.
The second tank, as if tripping over an invisible obstacle, stopped and caught fire about fifty meters away. Tank crew members jumped out of its top hatch and scattered in different directions.
— We really got them! — shouted Pavel and, not hearing a reply, turned to the commander. Mezentsev was lying by the gun with a shell in his hands. Blood was streaming down his face from under his pilotka...
The tank was approaching. Svechnikov could already clearly see every rivet on its armor. Fifty, forty meters.
Confident that the gun crew was completely destroyed, the enemy tankers did not open fire.
Choke on it, bastards! — shouted the sergeant, no longer hearing his own voice in the roar of battle. The severed tank track slithered to the ground like a snake. The tank fired back with one shot, then another and another, but the shells whizzed just above the gun.
“You won’t hit them head-on!” — the commander’s words, spoken a few minutes earlier, flashed through his mind. Svechnikov loaded another shell into the barrel and began to aim the gun. For a moment, it seemed to him that he saw the eyes of the driver of the enemy tank gleaming in the sight’s viewing slit. He aimed carefully again, right through the gun barrel into the viewing slit.
Something crunched inside the tank, and at that moment, a deafening explosion erupted, lifting the tank turret and throwing it aside.
The remaining tanks were turning around and retreating.
The sergeant glanced at his watch. The hands showed one o'clock in the afternoon. The battle had lasted only twenty MINUTES...
The crossing of the Dnieper on the fly after heavy offensive battles, using improvised means, without waiting for the accumulation of forces and the arrival of heavy crossing equipment, went down in the history of the Great Patriotic War as an unprecedented feat, accomplished not by individual heroes, but by the entire mass of advancing troops. For the successful crossing of this serious water barrier, over 2,000 soldiers, sergeants, officers, and generals were awarded the highest honor—the title of Hero of the Soviet Union. Among them was our fellow countryman from Kyrgyzstan, Guards Sergeant Pavel Svechnikov.
V. CHERNYSHEV