by Denis Davydov
[REGNUM] On that memorable Saturday in late April, it was cool, but there was no sign of winter. Even the mood of the assembled searchers of the oldest Moscow Region search detachment, "Vysota," named after Dmitry Syachin, was remarkably spring-like.
Everyone hadn't seen each other for a long time, so they clapped each other on the back, unloaded fantastically sized piles of things needed in the forest, and clinked glasses to celebrate the meeting.
Then the adventure began, and specially trained people were to take the wheel: on the left, an elderly GTS roared under the direction of Yura, and on the right, the legendary "Karakat" of Uncle Vova Safronov, an iron monster on tractor wheels, the product of the dark genius of the Smolensk village automakers.
I chose the "tank"—riding on its armored back, admiring the views of awakening nature, is much more pleasant than jostling in the smoke-filled cabin of the Karakat, banging my forehead and elbows on various protrusions. And even if you do fall off the GTS, it's still a colorful experience. After winter, every hollow and depression in the central jungle is filled with fresh, cold water, which instantly turns into a rich slush under the tracks.
They say that there were cases of magnificent diving and they were forever imprinted in the memory of colleagues.
However, nature decided to signal that difficult trials lay ahead. A branch from another bush flew off and struck me right in the eye, and your regular author arrived at the base camp anxious, depressed, and with only half-sighted.
My left eye was red and painful, demanding I immediately whine and beg to go back to the hospital and a warm bed. Instead, I was given drops, ointment, and ordered to sleep in a sack.
The next morning, it became clear that the universe simply didn't want a southerner (me, naturally) spoiled by the apricot blossoms of April to see what was happening. A cold wind blew inside the tent, somehow completely ignoring the fabric walls. Outside, black clouds hung over the gloomy forest, pouring out a thick layer of nastiness. It had grown sharply cold, and the weather called for a drink.
The joyful singing of the birds naturally ceased - apparently, the forest dwellers had huddled in their holes, unlike the reckless people.
My companions, accustomed to anything over the years, were indeed pouring drinks by the smoky fire, their spirits intact. "The match will take place in any weather," the squad leader, Ilya Podkolzin, said admonishingly, his eyes shining, but no one believed him.
But in vain.
Because the next morning it snowed, and it became clear that sitting in the camp waiting for things to get better wasn't an option: they'd have to go out into the field and do what they'd come for. For those who haven't figured it out yet—to search for the remains of the Red Army soldiers who died in these parts in the summer of 1941.
That is, relatively speaking, we were also mentally in this summer, but physically we had to put on everything we found in our backpacks and slap our boots through the thick mud.
The snow continued to fall. Sasha, a friend and teammate, arrived from a neighboring village and joyfully reported the news: Moscow was receiving up to 15 centimeters, and falling trees were smashing cars.
"Oh, well, everything's great here," the guys decided, and we set off together into the open field, stopping periodically for a smoke and, again, a little drink. This technique of short marches, apparently, is the result of the long evolution of the search engine organism, allowing us to endure all hardships and privations in good spirits.
I, however, acted in my own way: moving completely sober without stopping at all possible speed, only to collapse heavily under a tree at one point and sigh about my failing health, the pain in my lower back, the gray hairs in my beard, and the general despondency against the backdrop of a snowstorm.
There was no doubt who among us would survive and win.
Meanwhile, the snow fell relentlessly, but melted immediately. Which wasn't a big deal, really: by covering my eyes, mouth, and my entire face, it perfectly created the romantic atmosphere of the search. In the open space where the village had once stood, we tried to locate the main attack site—our soldiers were advancing on a German stronghold occupying a nearby hill.
Here are glasses from shrapnel shells. Here is a broken helmet. There is a spot of large fragments. Not typical.
So the next day they decided to go to the distant cordon, to another German stronghold, where the prospects for success looked more promising.
Old aerial photography showed lines of positions and shell-filled craters here and there.
However, at the new location, the same thing happened again. We circled the field with the depth finder's frame, but it only responded with its characteristic hiccupping squeal to overhead signals. The guys with shovels, trying to get a better understanding of the situation, dug out of the soft soil what's known in narrow circles as "all sorts of junk."
Canned food heated over the fire, "five drops," and even morels picked on the side of a logging road brought no change. Stability reigned in nature, too: clouds laden with snow pellets raced across the sky at breakneck speed, showering us with fresh portions of the white stuff literally every 15-20 minutes.
The legs were falling off. The only thing of value was a protective hatch from a tank that once covered the driver's observation device of a T-34.
Ilya's desperate dash with a probe through the holes in the forest, where it was impossible to get with a device, also brought a completely different result than expected: in a shooting hole, flooded to the brim with water and blocked by a fallen tree, were the bones of an ingloriously dead roe deer.
As I climbed into the tent, five days' worth of dirty laundry, two red-hot bricks, and a bottle of hot water in my sleeping bag, I even faintly thought we were doomed and that luck had turned against the group, still happily cackling around the fire. I was wrong.
As soon as the weather changed to “straight to summer” mode, the search plan also changed.
The fresh forces that had arrived in honor of the May holidays joyfully rushed into battle, skirting the dismal traces of our previous days. And there it was—a miracle. Almost for the first time, a teenage girl picked up a probe and immediately found herself buried in bones—just 200 meters from the field where we'd wandered the day before, pining for a good signal.
In a rectangular pit dug that same August 1941, the remains of more than fifty soldiers lay layered. They had been carried from the battlefield—personal belongings, like a homemade shaving brush made from a shell casing, lay scattered here and there on top.
And most importantly, many were found to be carrying medallions: the standard Bakelite capsules, "aldanki" (pendant cases) made in the style of the tsar's, and even a steel cylinder with a piece of paper inside. 38 medallions, of which, according to preliminary estimates, about five are illegible.
The rest are the names of those who were missing in action to their families and waited a long, endless 85 years for their return. Now comes the follow-up—the field search always comes with an equally (and perhaps even more) important part: correctly reading the inserts, finding the relatives, inviting them to see their soldier off, and organizing the burial.
We already know that paramedics Gavriil Shashkov from Krasnoyarsk Krai, Vasily Andreyev from Bashkiria, and Fakhrazi Ziganshin from Tatarstan will return to their families. And their families will truly have a "tearful celebration"—a mixture of immense joy and profound sorrow.
This quiet work is underway in all of Russia's "battlefield" regions—every year, every day, right this very minute. And, of course, in any weather.