FROM A SOLDIER’S DIARY: Memories of World War II
Heorhii Petrovych Savenko / Photo from a personal archive
Heorhii Petrovych Savenko was born and spent his entire life in Ukraine — in the city of Dnipropetrovsk. In October 1941, he volunteered for the front. He served throughout the war as part of an airborne rifle regiment, ending his military journey in May 1945 in Prague. After demobilization, he continued his service until 1948, and then became a surgeon, saving lives in peacetime for more than forty years.
Strong in spirit, modest, honest, and deeply decent — he not only performed surgeries but also painted landscapes, which he later gifted to friends and family. He is remembered as a man of high moral character and exceptional dignity.
Fragments of his personal diary have made their way to the Huxley editorial office — memories recorded decades later, echoing with the living intonation of the 20th century. These texts are not merely a chronicle of war, but the portrait of a man who walked through it. A memory that cannot be fabricated.
THE LOT
In 1941, I was eighteen. The order was brief and harsh: blow up the railway bridge. Four of us were sent. It was far from the partisan unit’s location. The forest was dense and wild. We marched silently, fully equipped. We reached the target without incident, although the Germans had strong security in place.
When we tried to start the demolition, we gave ourselves away. A firefight broke out. One of us was wounded — a bullet hit his leg. We realized we wouldn’t be able to complete the mission and had to retreat. We picked up the wounded man and began to withdraw. They pursued us, but at some point, we managed to shake them off.
When we finally stopped and examined the wound, we understood the situation was bad. Gangrene had set in. One of the fighters, an older man, said:
— If we don’t find a doctor, he’ll die.
But where could we find a doctor in this forest?.. We had to amputate the leg — there was no other way.
Several days passed. The wounded man was unconscious. We carried him in our arms. We decided to draw lots — to see who would perform the operation. I drew the short straw. Maybe it wasn’t by chance — I was the youngest.
We discussed how we’d proceed. Each drank a glass of vodka. I took the knife and cut off the leg. The others held him down. We gritted our teeth, but we did what we could. Then we carried him to the partisan camp. From there, he was flown over the front line.
Many years later, when I was working at a medical commission, a man came in — with one leg, accompanied by two grown sons. He approached, greeted me, and said:
— I’ve been looking for you for a very long time. I found you. My sons want to thank you.
It turned out they had come from Yaroslavl. Just to see me.
RETURNED FROM THE DEAD
On January 8, 1943, we were transferred near Staraya Russa. At that time, I was in the hospital after a severe concussion. Before that, another soldier and I had been sent on a mission — we had to cross an area of sparse forest, part of which was under enemy fire. On our way back, enemy artillery hit us. We were presumed dead. Our documents were taken, as was done with many others, and during the night, the burial team covered everyone with earth in the shell craters.
But one old soldier suspected I was still alive. He pulled me out and brought me to the medics. I was completely blue — apparently, the blast wave had slammed me against trees. I was unconscious, but my body hadn’t stiffened yet. That’s how I ended up in the hospital.
When I regained consciousness, I remembered nothing. I couldn’t speak or understand anything — a result of the concussion. Fellow soldiers who were also wounded recognized me. The doctors slowly brought us out of that state. I wasn’t the only one. They taught us to speak again. First, through singing, to overcome the stuttering, then gradually through normal speech, though with many pauses. I had neurological paresis on one side. But I responded well to treatment, made an effort, rejoiced in life, and followed around those who looked after me — my fellow soldiers.
Then we heard that our regiment had been pulled back from the front line — for rest. The soldiers were upset: after the hospital, they would be reassigned to other units. The doctors didn’t allow anyone to request leave. So they decided to flee. And said, «We’ll take Zhenka with us!» — that’s what they called me in the army, even though my name was Zhora.
At night, they stole their uniforms, and in two or three days, we caught up with the regiment. I reported that I had arrived from the hospital. I had no documents: they had been taken when I was buried and later filed away with the rest. At the hospital, I was registered as «unknown». My comrades confirmed who I was, but they didn’t have documents either — they had fled as they were. And the commander was new — the previous one had been killed.
I couldn’t speak clearly. I tried to sing: «To-o-v…»
And he said:
— Singing songs? Are you mocking me?! — and hit me.
So I hit back. So hard that I ended up facing a tribunal.
Only then did the documents from the hospital turn up, along with a certificate stating I was not to be punished. The commander I hit died from that blow. They released me, and I rejoined the regiment. But it turned out we weren’t headed for rest — we were being sent to the hottest spot on the front…
HUNGER
The entire war was constant hunger. On the Northwestern Front — just swampy forests. The command decided: we needed to build a corduroy road for the tanks. That’s how I became both a soldier and a construction worker — we laid logs straight across the swamp.
The Germans suffered too. Both they and we fought as best we could. The dugouts were no deeper than a meter, but even there, water stood. We laid logs and branches on the ground. We couldn’t use stoves — you could only crawl into such a dugout through a narrow hole. Supplies came only by plane. They dropped sacks of hardtack. Both sides — ours and the Germans — hunted for them. Talking about food was forbidden. If someone forgot, they got beaten. Harshly.
Every day, the company sergeant gave each of us a pine-needle brew and handed out «food». For weeks, we sometimes had no more than a single hardtack per day. We ate bark, berries, and mushrooms. And in winter?.. Everyone had dental problems. But we held the line. The Germans weren’t aggressive, but constantly provoked us. If anyone was careless — they’d shoot right away.
One day, a horse wandered into the no-man’s land. It was killed during an artillery strike. Both sides, risking their lives, tried to drag it to their trenches. We won that «battle», but the meat was taken by the officers. The soldiers got only the bones. But we couldn’t even boil them — fires were forbidden. As soon as smoke rose, a targeted artillery strike would follow.
In the evening, the Germans would «entertain» us: they’d turn up a gramophone at full volume and shout:
— Russki! Enjoy the concert!
And they played for us — Shulzhenko, Ruslanova, and others.
THE COST OF A MISTAKE
It happened in May, as we were nearing our own lines. We had to cross a railway — a high embankment. We crawled up, emerging from the forest. The commander ordered one of the soldiers to check if there was any danger on the other side of the embankment. He crawled ahead while the rest of us lay low. The plan was this: if all was clear, we’d make a dash across and into the forest on the far side in seconds. The German sentries were posted frequently, right on the tracks. They would see us no matter what — we just had to beat them to the punch.
We were all exhausted, sick, and wearing felt boots. The soldier came back and said:
— All clear.
When the group burst onto the tracks, they saw it — right behind the embankment, a German unit was having a break. Eating lunch.
A firefight broke out. Our men were forced to retreat with heavy losses.
At the first rest stop, the soldier was court-martialed. He said:
— I didn’t see them… I was afraid to climb up onto the tracks.
He was executed.
HALF AN HOUR TOO LATE
When our unit was stationed near the village of Ageyeva in the Odesa region, we were suddenly put on alert. A report came in: as they retreated, the Germans had begun to wipe out local Roma camps. It was a barbaric, premeditated extermination.
We knew there were two large camps nearby. In one case, we managed to arrive in time — we stopped the massacre and saved the people. But in the other — we were literally half an hour too late. The Roma were already gone. All that remained of the camp were blood-soaked rags, tank tracks, and scorched wagons. The Germans had driven their tanks straight through the site, leaving no one alive. It was terrifying to look at what was left.
THE STRIPES
What struck me in Romania was the poverty of the peasantry. Tiny houses, made of clay, are low and windowless. They were heated in the old way — no chimney, the smoke just filled the room. And not far from such huts stood the estates of the landowners. There was King Mihai and the boyars. The peasants were obedient and crushed. When they saw their master, they would remove their hats and drop to their knees. Could such people truly support the Germans? In the cities, of course, things looked different. The estates were luxurious, but the landowners were rarely there — most had fled before we arrived.
Near Bucharest, I came across an estate that, judging by the items left behind, belonged to a general. I found his uniform. The fabric was good, high-quality. I desperately needed new trousers — mine had completely fallen apart. I took the set, but right away my commander took the jacket from me. But he let me keep the trousers. I put them on, and we moved on.
At a rest stop, I lay down on a cart and fell asleep. I woke up to see the regimental commander galloping by. He saw me and suddenly lashed me with his whip:
— And who do we have here — a general?!
It was the stripes on the trousers. I tried to explain that I had no other pants, but he wouldn’t listen. He said:
— By evening, I want a report that the stripes have been ripped out.
So I ripped them out, stitched them up as best I could, but afterward, they were too tight. I had to give them to a comrade. And for myself, I found some rags, barely wearable — and kept serving in those.
HOMEWARD
After the war, demobilization began. I hoped too — I had been fighting since 1941, as a volunteer. I thought — now I’ll go home. But so many had died that there was no one left to replenish the army. They told me plainly:
— The draft office didn’t call you up? You volunteered? Well then, now we’ll officially draft you. You’ll serve the required four years.
And so I stayed in the army. They loaded us into transport, and part of the way we marched on foot — from Prague, all the way home. That’s how I walked back in the summer of 1945: under the blazing sun, across the steppe, through the mountains, in formation. Our uniforms were torn again, the same old problems. But no one was supposed to guess that the victors were tired, worn out.
The young soldiers wanted joy, they were loud, unruly. So an order was issued: address each other formally, no foul language. Even venereal disease — especially gonorrhea — was punished strictly, equated to a criminal offense.
The heat was unbearable. Heatstrokes began. So it was decided we would march at night. But from a lack of sleep, soldiers began to fall asleep on their feet. If someone started wandering off, eyes open — others would gently take him by the arms and guide him back. Crossing the mountains was especially dangerous — one wrong step, and you could fall into the abyss.
We marched silently, attentively. We watched over one another. Everyone understood what state we were all in. That’s how I reached the Zakarpattia region. I served there until March 1948.
And after that, I entered medical school…
