Read Underground Soldier Online
Authors: Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch
The spring of 1944 blended into a series of skirmishes, some with the German Gestapo, others with the Soviets.
We saw more Soviet planes fly overhead for apparently no reason, but we finally understood: they were dropping NKVD agents by parachute behind the German lines.
As for the regular German army, entire units stopped fighting and fled. For them, the war was over.
But for those of us in Ukraine, another chapter of the war was just unfolding. Now that they couldn’t get the Germans to do their killing, the Soviets sent in special NKVD groups of hardened soldiers to assist the parachutists. They would encircle a village at dawn and order every man, no matter his age or health, to come to the centre square. These soldiers knew about the hiding spots and tunnels beneath the villages. They weren’t as easily fooled as the Nazis had been. Any men who didn’t come out were found and shot as traitors. Those who did come out were forced into the Red Army without weapons or uniforms, and most ended up being killed in their first battle. It was a terrifying time.
The UPA still held the mountains and forests. I did what I could to help what was left of Zhuraki.
The village self-defence units set up a central hospital in Zhuraki and fortified the protection in the villages on either side of it. A large home was emptied, then outfitted with cots, a surgery area and a supply room, plus a sleeping area for staff in the cellar.
Vera came in as the doctor. Martina and the other young people I trained with were assigned to defence. Because of my experience as a medic, Danylo decided that I would be Vera’s assistant. I was frustrated by that at first, stung by the thought that Danylo didn’t have faith in my abilities as a soldier, but secretly I was relieved to be healing instead of shooting.
As the weather grew warmer, herbs and wildflowers sprouted in the warming soil. I collected a good supply of herbs and roots. By the end of the summer I was able to collect poppy pods, which I mashed in honey to make a sleeping potion for patients in extreme pain. With a variety of oils and alcohol, I made up an array of natural medicines. And of course we had a good cache of supplies that the Germans had abandoned during their retreat, including sulfa, morphine, bandages, iodine, tourniquets and antiseptics. These supplies were more precious than gold.
Lalya, a village girl who was just about my age, would drop by almost every afternoon. She would lean patiently against the doorway of my supply room, watching intently as I sorted out my medicines and supplies.
“Can I help you do that?” she asked.
“I’m sure you have better things to do than to help me with this,” I said, straightening out the folds in a piece of gauze and carefully winding it back up.
“I don’t,” she said. “Baba takes a nap each afternoon. She scoots me out of the house because she says I’m too noisy.”
That made me smile. “In that case, I would appreciate help.” I handed her my clipboard with a listing and quantity of each item. “Can you read?”
“Of course.”
“Put a check mark beside each item as I call it out.”
* * *
Days would go by with nothing more than a case of scraped shins, but when the NKVD units attacked, we could barely keep up with the injuries. A bullet to the arm or leg was treatable, but a bomb or rocket blast all too frequently meant people coming in needing a limb amputated. Even when we could save the soldiers’ lives, without two feet and both hands, their chances of surviving the next attack were slim. Vera and I did what we could, treating their injuries, dulling their pain.
Late one day, a fighter named Ostap was brought in unconscious on a stretcher, his left leg torn up and bloody. “Shrapnel,” said the medic. “Lucky it didn’t kill him.”
Vera injected the man with morphine and we shifted him to the operating table. It took some time to cut away his shredded pant leg and clear away enough of the blood, but finally a peppering of wounds emerged. A person who stepped on a mine died a horrible death, and people nearby could die of shrapnel wounds. Ostap’s leg was a mess, but he was fortunate. Vera methodically probed the dozens of punctures. Each time she pulled out a ragged chunk of metal and let it clunk into the bowl, I winced. Finally, she stopped.
“There’s probably more in there,” she said, setting the forceps down on the tray. “But they’re imbedded so deep that I’d cause even more damage digging them out.”
Ostap woke just as we were finishing up. He looked down at his leg and asked, “Will I be able to walk again?”
“Can you wiggle your toes?” Vera asked.
He grimaced with pain but managed to make one toe wiggle.
“You were extremely lucky,” she said, smiling in relief. “You’ll be fine, but you need to let those wounds heal.”
When I finally collapsed into bed in the root cellar that night, I dreamed again of Lida, hollow-cheeked and barefoot. How did she manage without shoes all winter? Could she wiggle
her
toes?
I tossed and turned and tried to think of something else, but Lida hovered in my dreams …
Hands wrapped around an empty soup bowl, hungry eyes staring up at me. The bowl clatters to the ground … Now Lida’s hands are wrapped around a small shiny bomb. Her eyes close. The bomb slips from her fingers and explodes … Shards of metal blast in all directions …
I jolted awake, my head still filled with the image of that exploding bomb. Where would Lida be now? Would they still have need for her sewing skills, or was she making bombs now, like I had been? And then a terrible thought struck me. I had never wondered who made the
Soviet
bombs. Probably slave labourers like me and Lida. Perhaps even my own father.
There was no point in trying to sleep. I threw back my covers and got up, then walked up the stairs to the main floor of the cottage-hospital. I was splashing water on my face when Martina burst in.
“The villages of Mahala and Bilki, just west of us, have been captured by the Soviets,” she said breathlessly. “They’re probably coming here next. We need to evacuate to the UPA camp in the mountains.”
I looked outside and saw that our fighters were already positioned in defence, weapons poised. So it was all in place.
I got on my outdoor clothing, then filled a knapsack with supplies. Vera did the same. Between the two of us, we had the morphine, surgical instruments and antibiotics — the most precious items. The three trainee medics took bulkier but less critical supplies, like bandaging and bedding.
Danylo came in with people from the self-defence team, including Martina. “Where are your patients?” he asked.
Vera pointed to Ostap, his gauze-covered leg seeping blood. “We’ve just got one right now, but he needs to be taken on a stretcher.”
Danylo gestured to the door. “All of you out.
Now
.”
Two of the older soldiers helped Ostap into a coat, then onto a stretcher. They hurried out after Danylo. Martina shepherded our three medics while Vera did a final check to make sure that nothing important was left behind.
The only villagers left were eighteen women and six children, which included Lalya and her grandmother. The children all walked on their own except for Sonya’s little sister, Ana. We walked through the village and out by way of the cemetery, into an area of sparse trees that led to the forests. Our fighters lined our way to protect us.
It was a long trek up the mountain, especially with the civilians, as well as Ostap on his stretcher, but we knew the paths like our own backyard. My knapsack was heavy and kept slipping off one shoulder, but I concentrated on the feet of the person in front of me and kept on walking. Vera and I were spaced in between the civilians. Soldiers protected our front and rear.
Once we had passed the first big hill, the trees got thicker and provided a bit more cover for our group. Martina had been walking up at the front with Danylo, but she slowed her pace until she was walking beside me, her rifle resting on one shoulder.
“Why don’t you take the knapsack off your back?” Martina asked. “We could each hold onto a strap and carry it between us.”
That made me smile. I missed spending time with Martina. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m fine.”
We kept on walking and no one fell behind, but we couldn’t hide effectively — too many children and old people for that. We were met by a second battalion of insurgents when we were a kilometre away from the village. They fanned out around us, giving our group — and most importantly, our medical supplies — a second layer of protection.
Just then a loud grinding whine sounded from above. I looked up — the silhouette of a Soviet bomber. All around us, the ground exploded with fire.
Lalya got hit with a piece of flaming metal. She ran into the woods, screaming, the back of her coat licked by flames. I was about to run after her, but her grandmother caught up to her and pushed her to the ground, rolling her in the snow. The flames went out. Steam rose from the blackened hole in Lalya’s coat, but she appeared unharmed.
Bits of forest all around us burned. We were incredibly fortunate that no one else had been hit.
“Speed up,” said Danylo. “We’ve got to get out of here before the whole forest goes up in flame.”
The two men carrying Ostap were replaced with two fresher men. They trotted as they carried him, anxious to get away from the fire. Sonya, two steps in front of me, buckled and fell, but she still clutched onto Ana.
“What happened?” I asked as I helped her to her feet.
She winced. “My ankle. It’s twisted.”
Martina dashed into the woods and came back a moment later with a sturdy stick. She broke off the side branches, then handed it to Sonya. “Lean on this,” she said. “And let me carry Ana.”
Martina held the little girl on one hip and we walked on either side of Sonya in case she fell again. We had to step carefully through trees and over rocks, avoiding patches of ice, so I held Sonya’s elbow and steadied her when she needed it, but I also noticed that her ankle was ballooning up.
In less than an hour, Martina, Sonya and I were trailing behind everyone else. The only people behind us were the village fighters who were protecting the rear.
Below us, a huge swath of the forest billowed with black smoke. Another grinding whine came from up above and a Soviet plane swooped low, peppering us with bullets. Martina passed Ana to me, then aimed and fired. Our fighters up ahead shot at the plane too, and bullet holes appeared in its side. It flew past unsteadily, then plunged into the forest and disappeared. Moments later, the spot in the forest where the plane had disappeared burst into flame.
I turned to Martina and was about to congratulate her on the shot, but her face looked oddly pale. Her knees buckled and she fell to the ground. Her chest was wet with blood.
I knelt down beside her, feeling for a pulse. The rest of the group clustered around. “Viktor, Roman, make a stretcher!”
As they assembled two long branches and tied one of our blankets between them, I unbuttoned Martina’s jacket. The bullet had hit the right upper chest. I took off my coat and rolled it up like a pillow, then lifted Martina onto the stretcher, propping up her back with my coat. I covered the wound with some cloth and applied pressure, then put her arm in a sling.
Danylo pushed through the cluster around us and grabbed the front of Martina’s stretcher. I carried the back end. Vera picked up Ana and walked beside me. “That was quick thinking,” she said.
The rest of the trip was a blur. With every step I took, I was plagued with doubt. If Martina hadn’t slowed down to walk with me, would she have been shot? I should have been more careful. One thing only was clear to me: If Martina died, it would be my fault.
When we finally reached the first layer of the UPA mountain defence, the men stationed there radioed ahead. Two fresh soldiers took Martina’s stretcher from me and Danylo and we ran the last kilometre to the hospital.
Vera had Martina on an operating table soon after we got there. Her bloodied jacket was open and the sling loosened. Her breathing was laboured and her lips had turned blue.
“Scrub up and you can assist,” said Vera. “She’s got a collapsed lung.” I swallowed back my anxiety and did what needed to be done, handing Vera instruments one by one. She made a small incision on the side of Martina’s rib cage and plunged in a chest tube. Fluid and blood drained out. Martina gulped in air. Her lips slowly turned a faint pink.
Next Vera explored the wound to find the bullet, and I irrigated the area with sterile saline so she could see what she was doing.
“I think I’ve got it,” she said, withdrawing the long metal cartridge with forceps. “But she has a broken collarbone and maybe a rib.”
She bandaged Martina up and immobilized her arm to keep the collarbone straight. I sat by her bedside for the rest of the day and all through the night.
Sometime before dawn, Martina whispered, “Luka? Are you there?” In the semi-darkness I could see that her eyes were heavy-lidded but open. “Can you hold me? I’m cold.”
I turned on the light to get a better look at her. The wound on her chest had opened up again and her dressing was bright red. There was a trickle of blood at the corner of her lip. I gathered her into my arms and held her close, feeling the warmth of her blood soaking my shirt.
“It’s not your fault, Luka,” she said.
But it
was
my fault, and I knew it. I fought back my anger and rocked her gently, trying to keep her warm, keep her safe. If only I could have done that before she got hurt.
And now she wouldn’t stop bleeding. I knew she couldn’t survive it, and from the look in her eyes, Martina understood that as well.
“Get away from here, Luka,” whispered Martina. “You need … to live. To tell our story. Don’t let my death … silence the truth.”
“Please don’t leave me,” I murmured, rocking her gently.
But she was already gone.