The victorious spring of 1945. The Red Army pushes toward Berlin—“to finish off the fascist creature in its very lair.” The war is nearing its end, and for the first time soldiers can sense the hope of surviving. But ahead are still the last battles— the toughest and bloodiest ones— that will separate the living from the dead…
“Fighting in Berlin was terrifying. Severed heads lay underfoot, it was a bloody mess. And the closer to the center— the more deadly it was. But you wanted to live! Just one more block, a house, an assault—and all of it would be over. The smell of Victory! But one wrong step, and—‘hello, Shishkin.’ How many guys we lost!.. Every man had a banner, but not everyone would be destined to raise it…"
“In Berlin, I commanded an assault group. Five tanks, a platoon of automatic riflemen, and a platoon of sappers. We moved forward slowly, pressing against the walls of buildings so as to save at least one side from the ‘faustpatrons.’ If someone drove out into the middle of the street, they would immediately be set on fire. We reached a large intersection, and from behind a corner building came a solid curtain of fire—deadly. The infantry fell prone, and I had no right to blindly send the tanks under the ‘fausts’ and the anti-aircraft guns. I picked up an automatic rifle, climbed out of the tank, and went out to reconnoiter—then, together with the infantry, we climbed into the Germans’ building to drive them out. We broke through the first floor, but on the second floor a bullet pierced my leg through—straight through. The bone wasn’t hit. They dragged me back, brought me into some house, and there they bandaged me. Someone from our side said it was the house where Field Marshal Paulus lived before the war. For two days in the medical unit I ‘rested on sick leave,’ and then I limped back to my company, with no lectures—nothing like, God forbid you die in the enemy’s lair, a moment before Victory. And I felt no self-pity or fear of death whatsoever…”