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When you're a pro, you gotta do a little bit of everything. A little, a little and even a little. And it helps to have something that works as hard as you do. That's why Valspar has durable, high coverage. Paint for every job. Every time made for more Valspar pros. Head to Lowe's today and talk to a pro rep about saving time and money on your next job with Valspar. Signature paint exclusions apply. See valsparpro.com for details. Words AT WAR THE LAST DAYS OF SEVASTOPOL. Enter. You are the chief of naval officers here? Yes. My name is Boris Vojtikov. I'm a newspaper correspondent for Pravda in Moscow. Here are my documents. So? I request passage on a destroyer to Sevastopol. Sevastopol? Impossible. Visits to Sevastopol have been prohibited since yesterday. By whose order? The Admiralty's. Where's 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 at 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 Vojntekov. If you insist. I do 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 of her dead face? This is my wife, I tell you. This is Sevastopol. She was there. Friends sent her body to me. Her broken dead flesh. My misery and hatred. Multiply them by thousands. Add smashed hopes, rubble, buildings and homes, and you have Sevastopol. You wish to go there, comrade? Vo. You have my permission. Go ahead. These are words at war. Tonight, the National Broadcasting Company, in cooperation with the Council on Books in Wartime, is bringing you another in its series of radio adaptations of great books of this war. Each week at this time, we bring you selected dramatic episodes from some of the most vivid of our war inspired literature. Tonight's story is based on the recently published book the Last Days of Sevastopol by Boris Voitkov, translated from the Russian by Ralph Parker and sent by cable to New York. It is the first time in history that an entire manuscript has been delivered to a publisher by cable. The last days of Sevastopol, which fell to the Nazis. July 1, 1942. To Pravda, Moscow, from Boris Wojtekov. Sevastopol, June 10, 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. I report an interruption. The 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, Sevastopol is not broken. Sevastopol's days are numbered. Yes, but in those days you shall see, hear and perhaps survive happenings which will surpass in valor, bravery and endurance, anything your imagination can now picture. I have no use for prophecies, old man, nor for imagination. My job is to report what I see and hear. Get on with your sending. High in the sky, as I send you this message, hundreds of beams from searchlights. Russian and German cross in an air duel. A pain is caught by them. It slips and turns wildly, but in vain, Like a streaming torch, belching sparks, it sweeps down through the smokefall 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? Sevastopol will never be taken by the fascists. That would be the trade school just around the corner from us. Now. Here's my list. It is 47 minus 1 leaves 46. 46 what, old men. 46 buildings left standing in Sevastopol. To Kravda from Sevastopol, June 12, 1942. There are few streets left in Sevastopol that are 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 announce 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. There are 38 buildings left standing in the city. But life goes on in Sevastopol. My little boy. My little boy. My little boy. I must find them. I must. I must. There's no little boy here, woman. No. They've taken him away on the stretcher. I'm looking for his legs. My little boy. Life goes on in Sevastopol. Sevastopol, June 16, 1942. There are 33 buildings left in the city, but life. And the fight goes on. The Germans announce this is Sevastopol's last day. I stand by a water vet. The girls come running from a burning cellar. Her dress is on fire. I reach for a bucket on the ground. No, no, don't touch. Are you crazy? Not the bucket. Throw me into the tank. Come on. It feels good. It feels so good. Thank you, comrade. You haven't been in seven for long, have you? Why? How can you tell that? You were about to waste buckets of water by throwing it on me. Yeah, but you were on fire. I know. But water is scarce here. Must not be wasted for any reason. Remember that, comrade. Sevastopol, June 20th. The Nazi loudspeakers boast that we can't last beyond today. There are 29 buildings left standing in the city. SEVASTOPOL, June 22. Today I'm at the admiralty. The Commissar is angry. Look at this paper. Look at it. Read it. I say. A citation. Well, I don't understand, Commissar. This citation says this man is a hero. Yes, they're all heroes, and it's my job to decorate them. But where am I to get the decorations? Why can't these people consult me before they do these heroic deeds? The Commissar is more than half in earnest now. He calls in some rebellious 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 airplane 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 and you'll be satisfied that it's impossible to get up those motors. They're covered with piles of dead horses and cavalrymen. Behold. I just can't go there. Me neither. No, go down there. Go into that cabin where if I open the door, dead bodies of children will rush. Taught me. No, I can't and I won't. Let's get on to Something else. 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 will go back down to that ship. Did you hear the loudspeaker in the German lines today, Vojtekoff? Did you hear it 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 is at work. My little ones, give me past the temple. These ships must be unloaded by morning and out of here. Otherwise. Petrov. Petrov. Move that gang of yours. Yes, it is my friend, the commissar, the man of many jobs and responsibilities, the man who handles tough deep sea divers. With so much diplomacy here in this inferno, where so many hesitate, he is in his element. I follow him as he moves from dock to submarine, to ship, to truck loading platforms, exhorting his men to speed, speed and more speed with a pat on the back here, a smile there, word of anger elsewhere. Front needs this stuff. We must have let the front down. And they are not letting it down. But the price is high. The methods 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 and has threatened the others if they continue unloading. Oh, so little Ivan did that, did he? Let us reason with him. Why worry? What does it matter to us if this stuff gets through 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. Open your mouth and say ah. I said open your mouth and say ah. I must apologize to you, men. Now get busy. I want temple. Do you understand? Temple. He gets temple. Sevastopol, 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. Here. Set him here, Gregory. Good. 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 nine or Ten. The 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. Both his feet and hands pierced by bayonets. We found him one day, crucified, nailed to a rude cross with bayonets. The Nazis, they 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 hope that his body will be cured. May I speak to him? You may, comrade. 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, Nikolai. Yes, comrade. What are you thinking about, Nicola? There were many of them. Armed men in a 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. One of them held her arms. Two others stripped their clothes from her body. Then, when they'd finished, I kissed her face. It was wet with tears and sweat. I told her I loved her. And what did your mother say, Nikolai? Nothing, comrade. My mother was dead. SEVASTOPOL, June 29 Listen to me, Russians at the battlefront at the city limits of Sevastopol. The German loudspeaker is working again. This is a German soldier speaking to you, people of Sevastopol. A man who believes in the same things you believe in. A man who loves honor and peace as you do. I do not love Russians. I can promise you that if you surrender, Zofur will give each of you a piece of land and attack them. Surrender, people of Sevastopol. Germany always treats her enemies with honor and consideration. Too bad little Nikola is too far to the rear tonight. Hear that? For the last time, men of Sar. Surrender or die. If you refuse, we resume. Finally, what is your answer? Yes or no? Sevastopol, June 30, 1942 all is quiet again on the front, and time now for a picture of a sector headquarters on that front. I am surprised at the thought of the command of one of the most vital positions defending Sevastopol. Snoring his brains out. Surprised and disappointed. I met him last evening at the admiralty, and he invited me to visit his headquarters. As I enter the dugout. Cautiously. I see a soldier. Hello. I am the correspond. Oh, I am the correspondent the chief was expecting. Yes, yes, yes. You must wait. Chief is sleeping. Sit by the door over there. 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. Are you talking to me, Captain? 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 soldier's uniform, have you no Captain? My cap. I left it on my husband's grave. Poor child. Forgive me. Take my cap. I will pick one up on my rounds. He places his cap on her head and she goes down into the chief's dugout. May I report? No need to go and have you cry. Tears spoil a woman's eyes, and it's difficult to revenge with bad eyes. Go, Olga. The battle that will decide Sevastopol's fate will soon begin. Oh, a correspondent of Pravda. Remember her, comrade Sapper? She lays mines. Before the war, she was a concert pianist. Thousands of Germans have been killed by the minefield she has laid. Yesterday she mined the pass they had chosen for their attack. She worked with her husband. He was wounded. She dragged him out of danger, killing 15 Germans on the way. But he died. She dug a grave for her husband and buried him. Or to write a story about it. No, you'd better not. People wouldn't believe it. Excuse me. 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 is 40 minutes yet. All right. Give this comrade T. Give him my portion. Your portion, Comrade Commander? Here you are, comrade. What sort of name is that? Should not be killed. Well, you see, when I entered his service, I was very much afraid. In battle I would hide. He asked me why. I said, comrade Commander, one should not be killed. And though I have gotten over my fear, he still calls me should not be killed. You wonder why he sleeps naturally. Well, you see, comrade correspondent, he has not 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, but. And we've destroyed all the fascists in the world. Then I shall get a good sleep. Get some men in here to answer these phones. Hello? Stern. What? 40 tanks approaching. Why are you sitting there so calmly then? You want reinforcements? Don't you know I haven't got any? Don't you know you are my reinforcements? Take note. 40 German tanks divided by a cool headed two and halved again by common sense, gives you 10 tanks. So what are you worrying about? Destroy them, Major. Destroy them. Hello. You're pounding the enemy. Your job's not to pound him, but to beat him. Don't you understand that? Stop losing your head in front of your men. The phones sizzle as the chief goes onto another. Hello? Hello? Don't phone me unless you're ready to talk. Yes, move some reinforcements up to back scratch. But don't let him know it. He bites better, takes his corner. You don't need to be a military expert to know that. I tag along at the heels of one of the most extraordinary commanders I have ever met. The final battle for 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, but without using precious ammunition. And then the artillery hushes its angry voice and a strange sound reaches our ears. Yes, Chief, but what is that? It's the Romanians praying. Very helpful to us. We know that as soon as they've finished, the Axis attack will begin. Ready, fellow Russians? Zero hour. Here come the fascists. The battle has begun. The 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. Butts of their Tommy guns pressed against their sweating bodies. Only the officers are in full uniform. All have cotton in their nostrils because of the stench of corpses. The enemy advances in solid waves, quicker and quicker. Their tanks come on. The Russian chief at his home takes it in at a glance. Armor break is to advance. Fifth unit to separate German entropy to thanks Machine gun fire to be held. The big rifles open up now. At the chief's orders, the armor breakers advance. Everything is enveloped in smoke. 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. The men are piling up like lava against our positions. Thousands of men cursing and praying as their weird rifle butts against human grip. Groins ripped, bodies with cold bayonets. Now low overhead, the Luftwaffe comes into play, strutting the life out of Russian patriots. Our planes are outnumbered 8 or 9 to 1. The Nazi planes operate almost unpunished. Off to Morad, the chief and his staff desperately bark orders. Beyond them, still further, an indescribable hand to hand battle. The German long range artillery and monster mortars 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 beset one's path. Sector by sector. The dive bombers plaster us, the enemy's infants and tanks extend their menacing concentration. Everything indicates the imminence of a breakthrough. Having driven that awful wedge. If they can muster enough force to break our stubbornness, in about 20 minutes of fighting they can reach the road leading to Sevastopol. We have held them, comrade correspondent. They have paused, waiting for reserves. You couldn't have brought better news. Should not be killed. Take me to your gallant chief. I must congratulate him. Our chief is dead. You care to come and help bury him? Beside a smashed gun lies the commander, enjoying at last the long sleep he had so much desired. There is blood on him. His men kneel beside him. Some of them cry. Then they carry him to his dugout. They press their jerseys to his wounds that they may carry the blood of their beloved leader on their claws. Then should not be killed. Places his cap on his chief's breast and says, give what you can, man. We will pay for a tank as a memorial, you understand? There is not a dry eye in the place. And then the commander snores and wakes up and says, what the devil? Payday already? Get there surgeon and the 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'll please call me in time for my operation in the morning. In the morning the 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 doomed Sevastopol. There is not one building left standing in the city. It is July 1, 1942. As the fourth program of Words at War, we have brought you fragments from the last days of Sevastopol by Boris Void. The radio adaptation was by Richard McDonough of the NBC script staff. Boris Wojkov was played by Stefan Schnabel. Others in the cast tonight included Barry Kroger, Martin Wolfson, Sam Wanamaker, Olive Deering, Alistair Kyle, Edward Franz, Esther Sundergaard, Charlotte Holland, Joseph DeSantis and Phil Clark. The original music was composed and conducted by Frank Black. The production was directed by Joseph Losey. Next week you will hear the Ship, adapted from the novel by C.S. forrester. The fifth program in words at War, presented by the National Broadcasting Company and the Independent Radio, stat affiliated with the NBC network in cooperation with the Council on Books in Wartime. This program came to you from New York. This is the National Broadcasting Company.