My Signalman Grandpa

My grandfather never talked about the Great War. He never had a single picture from the war either, just memories in his head that he'd like to forget, as he kept saying.

He was drafted shortly after turning 21 in February 1942, went through a quick 2-week boot camp where they trained him to be a signalman and ended up with the division that defended Stalingrad. That's where he damaged his lungs forever, sitting in cold wet winter trenches for days and weeks at a time.

His other major health damage from the war was almost completely lost hearing from a bomb that exploded near him and gave him a concussion. We always had to speak loudly, almost yell, around him. Other than that, he considered himself lucky to have come back with all his limbs and the head in the right place, as he used to say.

I was his first grandchild and we had a special relationship. He was very reserved and most kids didn't know how to approach him thinking he was stern. I always had meaningful, albeit short conversations with him. Even my grandmother would send me to tell or ask him something rather than doing that herself. I loved that bond between us.

When in the fall of 1992 my grandfather, who still worked his little farm, fell on a hoe breaking a couple of ribs that pierced his right lung, we thought we would lose him. He had to endure a couple of surgeries and bi-monthly pumps of liquid out of his right lung for the rest of his life.

After his first surgery, I sat near his hospital bed and promised him that when he recovers fully I'd take him to Stalingrad where he had spent the longest stretch of the time in the war. His eyes sparkled when I said that. We never made that trip because I went to study abroad and then with every year after that he was getting weaker and more fragile. I still feel guilty about not fulfilling that promise.

Shortly before he died in January 2003, around New Year's, I had a conversation with him that was probably the closest to an oral history interview, which I had planned on doing and never got around to. You always think and hope that there will be more time. This is my cautionary tale that you will most probably not. If you have a loved one you keep delaying those conversations with, get to them right now. And have your Voice Memos on.

In that conversation, my grandpa answered my questions willingly, although some - reluctantly. I didn't have anything to record his voice with and drafted some rough notes in my computer after I got home.

Recently, I was looking for something in my old files and came across those notes. Since I need the last story for my own 2025 Vocal challenge for the Interview Community, I am going to write them up here, to the best of my recollection and with the help of the notes I have. My grandfather's name was Peter, so he'll be GP, short for Grandpa Peter here.

Me: Grandpa, you've never really talked about the war with us, your children or grandchildren. Even when I talked you and my great uncle to come to my elementary school for the Victory Day's meeting with the veterans, it was mostly him who talked, and you just stood there, smiling awkwardly. Why is that?

GP: Well, I heard only about half of those questions, from the first row [points at his ears]. And your great uncle sure knows how to talk, doesn't he? [laughs as my great uncle, a great jokester and a tank driver during the war, was indeed famed for his endless stories] But to be serious, people like glorifying the war and talk about heroism and patriotism in it. There's nothing glorious about the war. It is a lot of wet dirt, torn limbs, blood, and tears. I will never forget what I saw there and for the first several years I had nightmares about it.

[Note: no one ever talked about PTSD in the Soviet Union, or anywhere for that matter until the 21st century.]

Me: Did you ever have to kill anyone in the war?

GP: Thankfully, no. I was a signalman, rarely in direct combat. I don't know how I would have lived with myself if I'd killed someone. I got shot at a lot, though.

Me: But you came out of it largely unscathed, right? Hearing loss and damaged lungs aside, did you ever get wounded?

GP: Yeah, I was lucky. My buddies joked that I was protected by some invisible shield or something. I was responsible for laying and repairing field telephone cables, and maintaining communication between front lines and headquarters. I usually worked alone, only on occasion paired up with someone, for long distances or large open fields. Often, I had to work under direct fire to restore broken lines. I was shot at countless times, but wounded only once during the entire war.

Me: Really? Where?

GP: I don't remember exactly. It was in the spring of 1944, our army was advancing westward quickly, freeing 2-3 villages every day. It must have been somewhere around Kursk because that's where I met your great uncle.

Me: No, grandpa, I mean where on your body?

GP: Ah, that's the most embarrassing part about all of this. That's why I don't like talking about it. When I was getting into the trench after successfully laying the cable, I stuck my butt out...

Me: Oh, no, did you get shot in your buttocks? [I don't know if I'm allowed to laugh]

GP: Yes, the right one [laughs awkwardly]. And the damn bullet got stuck there in soft tissue. [points at the middle part of his right buttock] I'd seen too many infections from stuck bullets, so I had to go to the field hospital to get it out, otherwise I would have just walked it off.

Me: How long did you spend at the hospital?

GP: Three days. They wanted to keep me longer because the damn wound wouldn't heal. You can't even imagine how horrible I felt there, among all those seriously wounded soldiers, many with cut off limbs, horrible burns, missing eyes and ears. They also teased me relentlessly about "lounging" there on one side or laying on my stomach. But it was all in good spirit.

Me: So, what did you do?

GP: I talked a nurse into giving me enough bandage and alcohol to change the dressings on my own and left. My unit had advanced so far by then, it took me a couple of months to catch up with them. That's how I met your great uncle, by hitching a ride on his tank. He was a tank unit commander at the time. And the rest is history...

Grandpa said that with a smile because I knew the rest of the story. He saw my grandmother's picture that my great uncle carried around with him. My great uncle was a good big brother, only two years senior to my grandma, and they were very close. My grandmother was strikingly beautiful and grandpa fell in love at first sight with the photograph. After the war, he went with my great uncle to our village, to meet my grandma in person. They got married in 1946 and had five children and nine grandchildren. My grandfather also lived to see three of his great grandkids, including my son.

In our very last conversation, about a week before he died in his sleep, grandpa told me that he had a good life and his only regret was that we won't spend more time with us and see more great grandkids that "were on their way" (my first cousin's wife was pregnant at the time). When I asked for his forgiveness that I never took him on the promised trip to Stalingrad, he said, "Oh, please, don't feel bad about it. I probably would have never been able to make it anyway because of my weakening health. But it was the hope and dream of it that kept me going, especially after that big surgery."

Ok, I'm going to stop here because I'm crying. Rest in peace, grandpa. I'll always love you.