 Words at war, the last days of Sevastopol. The chief of naval officers here? Yes. My name is Boris Voitegov. I'm a newspaper correspondent for Pravda in Moscow. Here are my documents. So? I request passage on the destroyer to Sevastopol. Sevastopol? Impossible. Visits to Sevastopol have been prohibited since yesterday. By whose order? The Admiralty's. Where is the Admiralty? At Sevastopol. Look here, this is senseless. I must get to Sevastopol. Can you alone do the work of five divisions of troops? No, of course not. Then there's nothing for you to do in Sevastopol. Listen to me, comrade. If you don't let me go, I shall report to the Pravda editorial office that you personally, without the sanction of the Admiralty, prevented me from describing what is happening in Sevastopol. Very well, comrade Vodikov, if you insist. Very well, follow me. This is my home as well as my office. Make yourself comfortable. This is my wife. What is the matter, comrade? Are you afraid of her because she greets you from her coffin? Are you afraid of those staring eyes? Are you shocked at the agony and horror in her dead face? This is my wife, I tell you. This is Sevastopol. She was there. Friends sent her body to me. My misery and hatred. Multiply them by the thousands. Add smashed hopes. Rubble buildings and homes. And you have Sevastopol. You wish to go there, comrade Vodikov? You have my permission. Go ahead. Our Words at War. Tonight the National Broadcasting Company, in cooperation with the Council on Books in War Time, is bringing you another in its series of radio adaptations of great books of this war. Tonight by request, we repeat our dramatization of the last days of Sevastopol by Boris Vodikov, translated from the Russian by Ralph Parker. This book was sent to New York by Cable, the first time in history that an entire manuscript has been delivered to a publisher in this way. Sevastopol, which fell to the Nazis July 1st, 1942. Boris Vodikov, Sevastopol, June 10th, 1942. Russians, your city of Sevastopol lies bruised and bleeding. Sevastopol, your last stronghold on the Crimean peninsula, whose eight months of siege have already given it legendary glory, is enveloped tonight in flame and smoke. The fascist knife is at its very throat. Sevastopol's days are numbered. Sevastopol's days are numbered. Sevastopol lies bruised and bleeding. Send this. A report on interruption. A telegraph operator. His face is drawn, his eyes are red from lack of sleep. Stop sending long enough to quarrel. Do you dispute me, old man? To this extent only, my comrade. Sevastopol lies bruised and bleeding, yes. But Savastopol is not broken. Sevastopol's days are numbered, yes. But in those days, comrade, you shall see here and perhaps survive happenings which will surpass invalor and endurance anything your imagination can picture. I have no use for prophecies, old man. No for imagination. My job is to report what I see and hear. I am the sky as I send you this message. Hundreds of beams from searchlights Russian and German cross in an air gul. A plane is caught by them. It slips and turns wildly, but in vain. Like a streaming torch belching sparks, it sweeps down through the smoke pole overhanging the darkened harbor. A long, loud explosion as it crashes far away. One wonders. Is this symbolic of what lies in store for Sevastopol? No, Savastopol will never be taken by the fascists. That would be the trade school just around the corner from us. Where's my list? Here it is. 47 minus 1 leaves 46. 46 what, old man? 46 buildings left standing in Savastopol. To Pravda from Sevastopol, June 12, 1942. There are few streets left in Savastopol not filled with rubble, dust, smashed brick and broken concrete. There are now 41 buildings left standing in the city. Sevastopol, June 15, 1942. The German loudspeakers announced that this is our last day. Surrender they say or die. Nobody pays any attention. The Luftwaffe has divided the city into sections for bombing. They are systematic, these Germans. Section by section. They have reduced all but 38 buildings. But life goes on in Sevastopol. My little boy, my little boy. My little boy, I must find them. I must, I must. There is no little boy here, woman. No, they've taken him away on the stretcher. I'm looking for his legs. My little boy, my little boy. Life goes on in Sevastopol. June 16, 1942. There are 33 buildings left in the city. But life and the fight goes on. The Germans announced this is Sevastopol's last day. I stand by a water butt. A girl comes running from a burning cellar. The dress is on fire. I reach for a bucket on the ground. No, no, don't touch it. Not the bucket, not the bucket. Throw me into the tank. It feels good. So good. Thanks, Conrad. You haven't been in Sevastopol long, have you? Why, how do you tell that? You were about to waste buckets of water by throwing it on me. You were on fire. I know. But water is scarce here. It must not be wasted for any reason. Remember that, Conrad. Sevastopol, June 20, and last beyond today. 29 buildings left standing in the city. For June 22, today I'm at the Admiralty. The commissar is interviewing deep-sea divers whose job it is to retrieve desperately needed material from cargo vessels sent to the bottom of the harbor by the Germans. Mark you, these men have not had more than four hours rest each day for nine weeks. But the commissar is insatiable. Well, you lazy hounds. Where are those six aeroplane engines you were supposed to bring up from that sunken ship? Why haven't I had those cases of dry bread? Where are the bandages, the cotton, wool, and drugs? What are you doing there on the bottom, playing chess with the dead? Yes, just that. Maybe you'd better come down below yourself. Then you'll be satisfied that it's impossible to get up those motors. They're covered with piles of dead horses and cavalrymen in the hold. I just can't go there. Me neither. I'm not going down again. Going to that cabin where if I open the door, dead bodies of children will rush toward me? No. I can't and I won't. I won't either. If that goes for me. So, you'd let living children die for the lack of food and bandages. The divers look at each other without a word. Then their spokesman says quietly, we'll go back down to the ship. The loudspeaker in the German lines today, Voitakov, did you hear at bellow that the spirit of resistance is dead in Sevastopol? Sevastopol, June 25th. Good news today. Ammunition was low yesterday, looked like the end. But last night some ships arrived, loaded down with several days supply of shells and powder. But the Germans know it too. The Luftwaffe at work. Come on, my little one, give me faster tempo. These ships must be unloaded by morning and out of here. Otherwise, Petro, move that gang of yours. Faster, my little one, faster. The front needs this stuff. We must let the front down. And they're not letting it down. But the price is high. The men must be ruthless. Come quick. What is it, Petro? It's Ivan, the leader of the convicts who are part of my gang. He's refused to work any longer to threaten the others if they continue unloading. Oh, so little Ivan did that. Yes. Listen to what I say. What does it matter to us if this stuff gets to the front or not? What do we care if the Germans win? I tell you. Yes. Yes, go on, Ivan. You heard my invitation, Ivan. Proceed with your exhortation. I have nothing more to say. Then open your mouth and say ah. I said open your mouth and say ah. Ah. I must apologize to you men. Now get busy. I want tempo. Do you understand? Tempo. He gets tempo. Devastopol, June 26. Today there is a lull. Only the Nazi loudspeakers break the unaccustomed silence to tell us we are beaten. That tomorrow they will be in the city. Last night the Luftwaffe came again. Today the number of standing buildings is 13. And now there is a hush over Sevastopol. The day is dazzlingly bright and hot. I sit on the beach to rest. Shaking here, Grigori. Good. Ah, it is well for him to sit in the sun. His hands and feet will heal more quickly. It is two Marines. They carry a boy of mine or thin. Boy's hair is gray. Almost white. His hands and feet show the scars of bayonet wounds not yet healed. Tell me his story. He cannot walk comrade. His feet have been burned as you can see in both his feet and hands pierced by bayonets. We found him one day crucified. Nailed to a rude cross with bayonets. The Nazis. Caught him when he was returning home from his 12th reconnaissance raid of the month. You mean he was a Soviet reconnaissance officer? Oh, no, comrade. He is much too young for that. But here all must do their part against the fascists. Regardless of age. So we bring him to the sleeping sea each day in the hope that his body will be cured. May I speak to him? May, comrade? But it took us many weeks to piece his story together. You see, the only thing he remembers is what happened in his mother's home just after he had been captured by the Germans before they had crucified him. Listen. Nicolai. Nicolai. Yes, comrade. What are you thinking about, Nicolai? There were many of them. Our men in the gray fascist uniform. They pushed me into the house. My mother came to me with tears in her eyes. They beat her on the face. All of them held her arms. Two others stripped the claws from her body. When it finished, I ran to my mother's side. I kissed her face. I told her I loved her. And what did your mother say, Nicolai? Nothing. My mother was dead. Sevastopol. June 29th. That's a battle front at the city limits of Sevastopol. The German loudspeaker is working again. This is too far to the rear to hear that. Positions defending Sevastopol, snoring his brains out. Cautiously. I see a soldier. The correspondent. The correspondent the chief was expecting. Yes, yes, yes, you must wait. The chief is sleeping. I sit by the door and watch a strange tableau. A military doctor addresses a soldier who is just getting down from a truck. Hello there, beautiful. If you're doing nothing tonight, maybe we can find a nice spot to be together. You're talking to me, Captain. Well, of course I am. You're a woman, aren't you? Even though you are dirty enough to be a soldier. I am a soldier. If I'd been only a woman, I wouldn't have said a word to you. Oh, is that so? Why then, since you are in the soldier's uniform, have you no cap? My cap? I... I left it on... on my husband's grave. Poor child. Forgive me. Here, take my cap. I'll pick up one on my rounds. He places his cap on her head and she hovers down into the chief's dugout. May I report? Well, no need to. Go and have your cry. Tears spoil a woman's eyes. It's difficult to revenge with bad eyes. Go, Olga. The battle that will decide Sevastopol's fate will soon begin. You are a sponder, the pravda. Remember her, comrade. A sapper. She lays mines. Before the war, she was a concert pianist. Thousands of Germans have been killed by the minefield she's laid. Yesterday, she mined the pass they'd chosen for their attack. She worked with her husband. He was mortally wounded. She dragged him out of danger, killing 15 Germans on her way. She dug a grave for her husband. Buried him. You want to write a story about it? Well, maybe you'd better not. People wouldn't believe it. Does he not snore beautifully, comrade? He does. Beautifully and quickly. Is that you talking, should not be killed? It is, comrade commander. Is it time to wake the Germans up? There's 40 minutes yet. All right. Give this comrade tea. Give him my portion. Your portion, comrade commander. Here you are, comrade. What sort of a name is that? Should not be killed. Well, you see, when I entered his service, I was very much afraid I'd hide during battle. He asked me why. I said, comrade commander, one should not be killed. And though I've gotten over my fear, he still calls me should not be killed. You wonder why he sleeps? Yes, I do. Well, comrade correspondent, he hasn't slept in 10 days. Yesterday they attacked 18 times and we only just pulled through. They haven't many ideas, those Germans, but they keep on pushing one must admit. Oh, they're ahead of time. Better wake up, comrade commander. The fascists are becoming impatient and the telephones will start ringing any minute. All right, should not be killed. We have destroyed all the fascists in the world. Oh, then I shall get a good sleep. Get some money to answer those phones. Stand. What? Forty tanks approaching. Why are you sitting there so calmly then? You aren't reinforcements. Don't you know I haven't got any? Don't you know you're my reinforcements? Take note. Forty German tanks divided by a cool-headed two and halved again by common sense give you 10 tanks. What are you worrying about? Destroy them, major, destroy them. Hello. You're pounding the enemy. God job's not to pound them but to beat them. Don't you understand that? Stop losing your head in front of your man. The phone sizzles as the chief goes from one to another. Hello. Hello. Well, don't phone me unless you're ready to talk. Yes, move some reinforcements up the back stern. But don't let him know it. It fights best when he thinks he's cornered. You don't need to be a military expert to know that the Nazis are opening up the biggest offensive to date. Nor to realize that the city's defenders of efficient weapons and power begins to look bad for Sevastopol. Yes, Admiral. Yes, we'll just try to get us the ammunition. We're going to be using plenty in these next few hours. Get us this stuff and don't worry. Well, of course we're jittery. Who wouldn't be? This isn't any tea party. Let's go, comrades, for the trenches. And I tag along with the heels of one of the most extraordinary commanders I've ever met. Sevastopol is about to begin. As soon as the artillery duel is over, no one tells me that. No one needs to. Everyone senses it. Men with unshaven cheeks and red-rimmed eyes munching bread and swilling it down with water. They're careful about the water. There's little of it. But who can tell when next they may get the chance to drink? Who can tell how many of them will ever get the chance again? Bullets carefully apportioned among the fighters. Just a few rounds for each man. Machine gunners take practice aim along the barrels without using precious ammunition. And then the artillery hashes its angry voice. And a strange sound reaches our ears. Yes, Chief. What is it? It's the Romanians praying. And very helpful to us. We know that as soon as they've finished the Axis attack will begin. Tanks are coming out from the left side of the valley. I can see running figures following them. Germans. Half-naked Germans. They act as though they're drunk. Bots of their tommy guns pressed against their sweating bodies. Only the operatives are in full uniform. All have cotton in their nostrils because of the stench. The enemy advances in solid waves. Quicker and quicker their tanks come on. The big rifle's open up now. It achieves orders. The German breakers advance. Everything is enveloped in smoke. Nothing is visible. The German tanks break through. And several of our batteries have been silenced by direct hits. Now our machine guns open up. But the Germans advance behind their armor. Like lava against our position. Cursing and praying as their weird rifle butts against human droids. Rip bodies with cold bayonets. Strapping the life out of Russian patriots. Our planes are outnumbered eight or nine to one. The Nazi planes operate almost unpolished. The machine guns on the right break open up. Up to my right, the chief and his staff desperately park orders. Beyond them, still further. An indescribable hand-to-hand battle. The German long-range artillery and monster borders are now in action. Ours are knocked out by the Luftwaffe. Night has long since fallen. But night cannot wipe away the smell of fresh spilled blood. Night cannot cover the cries of anguish and pain that rise from the wounded. Night only makes more horrible the pools of gore which everywhere be sectorized. Sector by sector, the diet bombers plough to us. The enemy's infantry and tanks extend their menacing concentration. Everything indicates the imminent of a breakthrough. Having driven that awful wedge, if they can muster enough force to break our stubbornness in about 50 minutes of fighting, they can reach the road heed to Zemostokol. The renews should not be killed. Take me to the gallant chief. I must congratulate him. Our chief is dead. You care to command. Help Barion. Beside a smashed gun, lies the commander. Enjoying at last the long sleep he had so much desire. There is blood on him. His men near beside him some of them cry. And they carry him to his dugout. They press their jerseys to his wounds, but they may carry the blood of their beloved leader on their clothes. Then should not be killed places his cap on his chief's breast and says, Give what you can, men. We'll pay for a tank as a memorial. Do you understand? It is. There is not a dry eye in this place. And then the commander snores and wakes up and... What's that? Hey there already? Get me a surgeon and a major quickly. The major comes and gets a dressing down from the chief. Seems he hadn't directed his end of the battle the way he should have. The surgeon can't be found, but the girl soldier Olga arrives. She examines the chief and says... Your leg will have to come off, comrade commander. Can it be done tomorrow? Yes, I think it can wait till tomorrow. Good. Should not be killed. You will please call me in time for my operation in the morning. Commander loses his leg. A member of the military Soviet arrives and bestows not a tongue lashing, but a decoration on the major. And the Germans resume their attacks on Doomtsevastopol. There is not one building left standing in the city. It is July 1st, 1942. Words at war. We have brought you fragments of the last days of Sevastopol by Boris Foytakov. This is a repetition of a broadcast previously heard on this series. The radio adaptation was by Richard McDonough of the NBC script staff. On Saturday evening at 8.30 Eastern wartime, Words at War will bring you Malta Spitfire by flying officer George Burling. Next week and thereafter, Words at War will be heard only on Thursday evenings at this time. Next week, Burma Surgeon by Dr. Gordon S. Seagrave. The cast in tonight's performance included Stefan Schnabel, Jackson Beck, Martin Wilson, Joseph DeSantis, Oleg Deering, Charlotte Holland, Hester Sondegard, Alastair Kyle, Byron McGrath, John Berry, Percy Hemis. The original music was composed and conducted by Frank Flack. The production was directed by Joseph Lose. Words at War is presented in cooperation with the Council on Books in Wartime by the national broadcasting company and the independent radio stations affiliated with the NBC network. This program came to you from New York. This is the national broadcasting company.