Ludmilla Pavlichenko - the woman who brought death to fascists

Ludmilla (Lyudmila) Pavlichenko (12 July 1916 – 10 October 1974) was a Soviet sniper during the heroic defence of Sevastopol against the German and Romanian fascist invaders.

The account that follows is from the book “The Heroic Defence of Sevastopol” (Foreign Languages Publishing House, Moscow, 1942).

In the fight against the fascists, Soviet women excelled in both civilian and military fields. Pavlichenko’s name sits honourably alongside such women as Lidiya Litvyak, the highest-scoring female air ace, and the inspiring partisan martyr Zoya Kosmodemyanskaya. These women paved the way for communist women to fight in the front ranks in Vietnam, in Palestine, and in the Kurdish YPJ.

In June 1942, Pavlichenko was wounded by mortar fire.  She was removed from the military front line and sent to the diplomatic front. The fight for the long-promised second front against the Germans was as important as the actions of the sniper, and Ludmilla toured the US and Canada. You can read more about this on Wikipedia and here.

The great Communist and anti-fascist, Woody Guthrie, wrote a song for Pavlichenko. The lyrics and a link to Youtube follow the story of Ludmilla Pavlichenko, below.

And there is a great storybook version of her life on the Rejected Princesses website here: https://www.rejectedprincesses.com/princesses/lyudmila-pavlichenko 

…...……………………..

The Girl With The Gun

L. Ozerov

To the onlooker it was like watching a performance at a puppet theatre. A German was sitting behind a screen of thick, impenetrable shrubbery, and acting out a comedy. First of all he held out his steel helmet in front of him. Rusty, with its rim crumpled, a bullet hole on the left, the helmet lay motionless and then suddenly began to jump about like a wound-up toy.

Then Ludmilla Pavlichenko saw a skilfully rigged-up dummy figure of a German seemingly rise from under the ground near a lone poplar. It was clothed in a light grey greatcoat, a trench hat, brown boots that had been muddied over. This rag soldier even carried a rifle with the ease of a real live person.

“Well, you’d better get ready! That German won’t have the patience to hold out another hour,” said Ludmilla.

Sure enough, there was soon a stir in the bushes. The fascist spotter cautiously raised his head; resting his hands on the parapet of the trench, he listened intently and ducked down again. A minute later he looked out once more, this time with field glasses. Ludmilla’s index finger tightened on the trigger. A shot cracked. The field glasses dropped from the German’s hands and he fell nose down.

“One hundred and fifty-eight,” said the observer in a business-like tone, pulling out his notebook.

Ludmilla Pavlichenko spent the night in the dugout where the machine-gunners were billeted. Stretching out on the earthen floor, she covered herself with her greatcoat, placing her inseparable rifle under her head. She was soon fast asleep. From somewhere on the flank German guns were roaring. Trench mortars were firing almost incessantly. The dugout trembled wit the concussion of the explosions. But the girl did not stir. Her stalking of the enemy spotter, which had lasted eight and a half hours, had completely exhausted her and she slept soundly, dreamlessly.

Dawn was just breaking when Ludmilla set out for her post again. The terrain was familiar to her: woods, a ditch, a trampled vineyard, a meadow in the form of a perfect circle. So far nothing threatened her. Nevertheless, sniper’s fashion, she kept deep in the bushes, moving ahead, crouching, and then stopping to look around her carefully. Her cautiousness proved timely. Almost directly over Ludmilla’s head a bullet whistled past, followed by a second, a third, a fourth…A German automatic-rifleman was firing.

The girl jumped aside, dropped flat to the ground and began to feel about her. The Zeiss field glasses which she had captured helped he to see the scarcely noticeable trace on the slope of a rising. Without taking her eyes from it, Ludmilla crept forward and soon discovered the fascist ambush. Five automatic-riflemen lay by the side of the road over which our regiment received its supply of munitions and food. Taking aim, Ludmilla picked off one of the Germans. The others turned to flee, but suddenly getting a grip on themselves they turned and opened a furious fire.

Bullets hit the ground in front of her, behind her, on the sides. Hugging the earth closely, Ludmilla drew a bead on the German who was shooting from a shell hole. Throwing up his hands in a ridiculous gesture, the German remained motionless. She changed her position, took aim and got her third automatic-rifleman. The two remaining Germans declined the  of duel. Tearing through the bushes, through ravines, they beat a hasty retreat. Ludmilla sent two bullets flying after them and finished another one. The fifth managed to make off.

Towards evening she came back to the battalion with four automatic rifles, a dozen disks and quite a bundle of soldiers’ letters. Her knees were giving way under her with weariness and she felt as if all her bones were breaking. Sitting in the dugout, Ludmilla recalled her history professor, who before the war had helped her with her diploma thesis on Bogdan Khmelnitsky.

“Just picture to yourself,” said the Professor, “that all around are enemies, death threatens at ever step, but our hero calmly smokes his Cossack pipe, while not a shadow of fear is in his eyes, and his heart is as if it were encased in armour, beats quietly and evenly.”

“I wouldn’t mind having a heart like that, Professor,” thought Ludmilla to herself with a smile as she fell asleep. The German guns were roaring again. The flimsy dugout trembled and shook. Machine-guns barked.

At dawn she and the sniper Leonid Kitsenko were summoned by the company commander. Their orders were brief. Our scouts had discovered an enemy command post. It was necessary to get as close as possible, to keep a watch on and destroy the officers.

A thick, impenetrable fog hung over the front. The snipers skirted the ravine, cut across a field and plunged into the woods. They took up their positions on the other side of the woods. The fog was lifting and Ludmilla noticed the threads of a telephone wire. Almost simultaneously Leonid Kitsenko spotted a German orderly on the crest of an eminence, carrying a big tray. In addition to being an expert marksman, a sniper is also a keen observer and watchful scout. Following up the wire and observing the direction in which the soldier with the tray was proceeding, Ludmilla accurately gauged the location of the enemy post.

The two of them moved ahead some fifty metres and took cover. Two fascists were standing at the side entrance to the officers’ dugout. Ludmilla whispered to her partner: “Now!” Two shots rang out, and the Germans crumpled to the ground. A moustached non-commissioned officer came running up to the fallen men. Another shot cracked, and the N.C.O. met with the same fate that had overtaken his predecessors.

For some time complete silence reigned in the enemy camp. The bodies lay at the very entrance to the dugout, but no one dared pick them up. At last the door was cautiously opened, and a tall officer appeared on the threshold. Ludmilla took aim, waited until the officer came out, and fired. The German pitched backwards. Evidently he had been some kind of fascist high muck-a-muck. Several men ran over to the killed officer. Bullets immediately flew out to meet them, and three more German invaders found their graves on Soviet soil.

The enemy was beside himself with rage at the accurate fire of the snipers. Trench-mortars stationed around the command post went into action. Ludmilla picked her way to a new position followed by her partner. They did not cease fire even when a bomb burst only ten metres away. The fascist nest was smashed. Having lost a group of officers, the observers and signallers, the Germans fled.

Ludmilla Pavlichenko, who went through a school of marksmanship even before the war, volunteered for the Red Army. Here in the field she has become the first assistant of the men both in defence and in the offensive. A historian by education, a warrior by inclination, she fights with all the ardour of her young heart.

On the wall of the dugout hangs a thick sheet of paper lettered in gilt:

DIPLOMA

Awarded Sergeant-Major Ludmilla Mikhailovna Pavlichenko in testimony of her proficiency as an A-1 sniper against the German fascist invaders.

According to data up to April 6, 1942, Comrade Pavlichenko has destroyed two hundred and fifty-seven fascists.

Military Council of the Army

The girl looks at the diploma, glances at her rifle with its telescopic sight, and says simply:

“It will be more!”

(By July 1942, this figure had already mounted to 309 – Ed.)

..............………………..

Woody Guthrie, Miss Pavlichenko

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SHKjOl9ocR0  


Miss Pavilichenko's well known to fame;
Russia's your country, fighting is your game;
The whole world will love her for a long time to come
For more than three hundred nazis fell by your gun

Fell by your gun, yes
Fell by your gun
For more than three hundred nazis fell by your gun

Miss Pavlichenko's well known to fame;
Russia's your country, fighting is your game;
Your smile shines as bright as any new morning sun
But more than three hundred nazi dogs fell by your gun

Fell by your gun, yes
Fell by your gun
For more than three hundred nazis fell by your gun

In your mountains and canyons quiet as the deer
Down in your big trees knowing no fear
You lift up your sight. And down comes a hun
And more than three hundred nazi dogs fell by your gun

Fell by your gun, yes
Fell by your gun
For more than three hundred nazis fell by your gun


In your hot summer's heat, in your cold wintery snow
In all kinds of weather you track down your foe;
This world will love your sweet face the same way I've done
'Cause more than three hundred nazi hounds fell by your gun

Fell by your gun, yes
Fell by your gun
For more than three hundred nazis fell by your gun

I'd hate to drop in a parachute and land an enemy in your land
If your Soviet people make it so hard on invadin' men;
I wouldn't crave to meet that wrong end of such a pretty lady's gun
If her name was Pavlichenko, and mine Three O One



CHORUS