'Girl with a Sniper Rifle'
A vivid account of training in the Central Women's Sniper School near Moscow
For decades after the war Yuliya Zhukova was traumatised by her experiences on the front line. It was only late in life that she found the capacity to write about it. The writing was an ordeal for her, dragging up many painful memories. But changing attitudes within Russia to her wartime generation forced her on. She felt compelled to tell their story, how they lived and fought - why they fought - and how so many died. The result Girl With A Sniper Rifle An Eastern Front Memoir is an illuminating insight into the Red Army at the time, not just the life of a woman soldier.
The following excerpt describes some of the training that turned an eighteen-year-old girl into a proficient killer:
Sniping is one of the hardest and most dangerous military professions. What is a sniper? What is demanded of her or him?
‘A sniper is obliged ... in all cases to hit the target without fail and with the first shot... To be able to observe the field of battle extensively and thoroughly, to persistently track down the target ... To be able to operate at night, in bad weather, in broken terrain, amidst obstacles and landmines’ (from the ‘Sniper’s Notebook’).
Our tuition was also organised in accordance with these demands. Thus, the programme included training in tactics, firearms, parade drill, physical development and politics. We were supposed to know by heart the Red Army regulations and the ins and outs of all types of firearms - rifles, pistols, and both machine guns and submachine guns. We were taught how to set up fox-holes, including reserve holes and decoys; we had to know how to camouflage ourselves and sit in hideouts for lengthy periods, to familiarise ourselves with a new locality and to crawl on our elbows. There were special exercises to improve
our powers of observation and memory, sharpen our vision and develop firmness of hand. We set about mastering the techniques of hand-to-hand combat and tossing hand-grenades.
Training took place in field conditions in all weathers - heat and cold, rain and snow, under burning sun and driving snowstorm. An exception was made for the theoretical studies - sessions on socio-political issues, regulations, and the operation of weapons. But then our political instructor, for example, also enjoyed teaching in the fresh air. Whenever the weather permitted, he would take us out into the yard, sit us down under an old spreading tree that grew in the school grounds, seat himself on a tree stump, and start the tuition. I remember that at first everyone listened attentively, but after several minutes you could see one head drooping, then another, and a third ... The instructor would notice, get us all onto our feet again and make us flap our arms, run around a little, or otherwise stretch our legs. We would sit down again and within a few minutes everything would be repeated anew. Of course, this was due to our extraordinary weariness, but perhaps the session was not taught in the most interesting way.
We would crawl along the ground on our hands and knees, looking in the mud and grass for the gleaming gold discharged cases.
Most attention was devoted to firearms training. Back in May we had already begun to visit the shooting range every second day. First, we dug deep trenches there, set up firing positions, and built elementary defensive works. What a lot of digging we did with our small sapper’s spade! What a lot ofearth we turned over! On the other hand, we learned how to do it quickly and well. We often moaned after all this digging, but the commanding officers would explain: ‘At the front this is what your security, your lives, will depend on.’
I remember one fine summer day, when the sun was beating down mercilessly. However, we were still working in our thick tunics. The only concession was that we were allowed to take off our belts and unbutton our collars. Everyone was already exhausted from heat and hard work. A field kitchen arrived with our dinner - a big cauldron of porridge to be divided between four and a large hunk of bread each. With our spoons we took it in turn to scrape out the extraordinarily tasty porridge from the common pot and ate the bread with it.
After dinner we were allowed to relax. I collapsed onto the cool, damp earth at the bottom of a trench that had just been dug and looked up at the sky. It was clear as clear, without a single cloud, and seemingly infinite. The girls lay down alongside. Someone fell asleep for a moment and began breathing heavily; others, like me, lay there with their eyes open and enjoyed the silence, peace and beauty of a summer day. I felt such calm in my soul that I wanted to cry. The hour of rest flew by in an instant, ‘On your feet!’ came the command, but there was no way I could snap out of my blissful state. Finally. I tore myself away from the ground, took up my spade and went off to dig.
Such wonderful moments were a rarity in a life that was burdened and strained to the maximum, and that is probably why that day has stayed in my memory...
The next step involved regular practice on the shooting range. Usually we would spend the whole day there, setting off straight after breakfast and only returning to the barracks in time for supper. And all that time we were digging, camouflaging ourselves, learning how move in swiff dashes.
And shooting, shooting and more shooting. We fired at targets from full, waist and chest height - at both moving and stationary targets, open and camouflaged. We fired standing, lying and kneeling, with and without support for the rifle; we fired both on the move and while standing still.
All in all, you could not complain that the exercises lacked variety.
There was no restriction on cartridges for practice, but afterwards the cartridge cases had to be handed in - one case for every cartridge you had been issued, or else there would be trouble. This was understandable; cartridges were for real fighting. So, if anyone was short of cases, the whole detachment would come to the rescue. We would crawl along the ground on our hands and knees, looking in the mud and grass for the gleaming gold discharged cases.
A whole day of running, crawling and shooting took so much energy that you just wanted to drop and go to sleep. Your feet would ache, your eyes were sore from lengthy concentration and your shoulder hurt from the kick of the rifle butt. But you had to get up, load all your gear and head back to the school. Again, in formation, singing, and with full military kit: rolled-up overcoat, rifle, gas mask, sapper’s spade, and sometimes something extra like a shooting stand or a target. Seven kilometres - in summer heat, with the sun baking down - but we were not allowed to unbutton our collars, or take a moment’s rest in the shade, or drink the water from a village well. We were advised to suck a little salt. Strangely enough, it helped.
And then suddenly we would be ordered to sing! What thought could there be of singing! Your thoughts were only on one thing - getting into the shade as quickly as possible. However, there was no arguing with the commanding officer. Someone would strike up a song and the others take it up; life would seem a bit more cheerful and the march not so arduous.
The teaching staff persisted with the same message: get used to it; it’ll be harder at the front. When autumn came, and then winter, things got even tougher, and we often recalled the days of summer. But that was still ahead of us, and in the meantime, we were wilting from the heat.
As soon as we had learned to handle our weapons more of less tolerably, our ordinary rifles were replaced by snipers’ models, with telescope sights. They were good rifles! We instantly appreciated the advantages of the new weapons, which would accompany us to the front. But they brought additional concerns.
… we were invariably reminded: ‘It’ll be even harder at the front.’
These rifles were more sensitive to bumps and more complicated to look after. And you can imagine how the sergeant-major checked on the state of each cadet’s rifle and how well it had been cleaned after use. She would pick up the rifle, examine it from all angles, then take a piece of snow-white rag and run it along the whole rifle, from the edge of the butt to the muzzle. After that she would wind this same white rag around a cleaning rod and stick it into the barrel. And God forbid that after all these manipulations even a small blot should turn up on the rag! Extra duties would be the minimum penalty. But we looked after our rifles zealously, never begrudged the time spent on them, and therefore more often than not we got by without a box on the ears.
Route marches became more frequent. One night they got us up by sounding the alarm and took us in full military kit along the road around Moscow. We covered, according to Maria Duvanova, about 150 kilometres! In accordance with the situation that had developed on the front they were training us for fighting on the offensive. Therefore, lengthy tramps of many kilometres in full military kit, forced marches and cross-country runs were organised regularly. We were unbelievably tired but, if anybody began to squeal, we were invariably reminded: ‘It’ll be even harder at the front.’
© Yuliya Zhukova. This excerpt from Girl With A Sniper Rifle: An Eastern Front Memoir is courtesy of Pen & Sword Books Ltd.
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