On July 7, we reached the Latvian city of Rauna, located about 50 miles east of Riga. At Rauna our division encountered our first real fighting with the Red Army since crossing the frontier. Our company deployed its heavy weapons in support of our regimental infantry, but the fighting quickly ended as the Soviet troops retreated.
Since our Panzer formations had already outflanked the enemy’s defenses, we were facing only rearguard forces protecting the Red Army’s retreat. The coming days would see frequent episodes of this type of skirmishing, but they produced no more than short delays in our advance.
A couple of days later, our company bivouacked among the homes of a village located along the road. Aware that any village presented an inviting target for Soviet artillery, I chose to sleep in a shallow hole in the ground a short distance away.
In the middle of the night, I came awake to the sound of voices, but the barely audible fragments of conversation that reached me made it hard to determine whether the speakers were German or Russian. Peering through the pitch blackness in that direction, my eyes could only make out the movement of shadows, though they were only perhaps ten feet away.
Straining my ears, I became increasingly certain that the speakers were not using German. While it could have been a night attack against us, my intuition told me that this was probably another small band of Red Army troops attempting to reach their own lines after becoming separated from the main body of forces. My first thought was that they had somehow succeeded in eluding our sentries, but then I realized that it was equally possible they may have been as ignorant of our presence as we were of theirs.
Unsure whether the men represented a threat to our company, I anxiously debated what to do. Firing my rifle or tossing a hand grenade might kill a few of the enemy, but my alarmed comrades would probably be mowed down by the enemy as they ran toward the noise. Weighing the risks, I concluded that it was better to remain quiet and allow the Russians to pass through our position. To my great relief, the shadowy figures moved on without incident.
Covering about 100 miles from Rauna in less than a week, our division entered the territory of Russia itself. On July 12 we reached Pskov on the southern tip of Lake Peipus, where we caught up with the Panzer divisions that were awaiting infantry support before renewing their advance toward Leningrad.
Turning north, we would now operate on the far left flank of Army Group North, with the 1st Infantry Division on our right and the eastern shore of the lake on our left. As we moved forward across the flat, lightly wooded terrain near its shores, Lake Peipus itself remained just beyond our field of vision a couple of miles distant.
In our advance northward, we began to be increasingly hindered by both the worsening roads and intensifying resistance from Soviet rearguards. Our advance was also complicated by maps showing main roads and highways that simply did not exist. Beyond problems with a lack of accuracy, there were also few maps to go around. While a company commander was lucky to obtain local maps, the ordinary foot soldier, of course, had little idea where he was or what significance a particular location held in the wider struggle.
Lacking radios, the only information we received came in twice weekly newssheets issued by the 58th Division headquarters. Excerpts of speeches by Hitler and Göbbels filled most of the space, but there would also be brief reports about battles and advances on the Eastern Front as well as news about the fighting in North Africa and the Atlantic. Despite featuring a great deal of propaganda and information that was heavily censored, these newspapers offered us at least a general sense of what was happening elsewhere.
Around this time I developed a high fever that left me feeling weak and exhausted. When the march temporarily halted, I entered a nearby abandoned home. Finding a bed, I collapsed into a deep sleep lasting six or seven hours. Feeling rejuvenated, I rejoined my company a short distance away. Since we were usually only able to catch short—and frequently interrupted—naps when we were on the march, my long slumber in a bed was a rare luxury.
Covering the 40 miles from Pskov in five days, the 58th Division reached the small city of Gdov on the northeastern shore of Lake Peipus on July 17. There was only light enemy opposition as we entered, but we now faced supply problems. The difficulty of transporting supplies from the south on the poor road network forced our division to instead ship supplies across Lake Peipus.
Still lacking adequate food, our division was able to put a Soviet flour mill back into operation, which helped to feed both German troops and the local civilian population. Because the retreating Red Army forces had contaminated the abandoned stores of grain with oil, the bread possessed an unpleasant taste that was barely hidden by the salt we mixed into it.
On July 19, our division renewed its advance northward and two days later reached the town of Niso about fifteen miles northeast of Gdov. Our mission was now to seize the corridor between Lake Peipus and the Baltic Sea in an effort to block the retreat of the remaining Red Army forces still trapped to the west in the Baltic states.
For the first time since the start of the campaign, our efforts to advance confronted stiff enemy opposition as Russian troops and heavy artillery battled fiercely to hold open the passage to the east. Though the key road junction in the Estonian city of Narva was only 15 miles north of us, it would be almost a month before we seized the city and sealed the escape route.
THE EXPERIENCE OF SOLDIERING
During the long marches into Russia, it was natural that my mind would dwell on my loved ones back home as well as my ex-girlfriend Anneliese, with whom I still maintained a monthly or bi-monthly correspondence. Since the end of our romantic involvement in January she had, however, already become engaged to marry the son of the proprietor of the florist shop where she had apprenticed in Lüneburg.
With the passage of time, I gradually came to realize that I had overreacted to Anneliese’s desire for us to enter a more committed relationship. It also became clear to me that my affection for her ran much deeper than I had previously acknowledged. Her engagement to the florist’s son made it improper for me to convey these feelings and pursue her openly, but I believed there was still hope that Anneliese would come back to me. I intended to see her again on my next furlough in Germany.
Separated from home, the bond of comradeship that I shared with other enlisted men in my company had grown deeper, even though I continued to feel myself to be naturally more of a leader than a comrade. For me, camaraderie in the army was distinct from friendship in civilian life.
In war, relationships form out of practical necessity among enlisted men forced together by circumstances, especially in the regular infantry. Camaraderie at the front reflects the soldier’s practical need to depend on those around him for mutual support and protection, while friendship in civilian life involves a more intimate bond precisely because it is a relationship created by choice. It is also only natural that someone is much more willing to form a close relationship when death is not a daily occurrence.
Perhaps because we realized that our deaths might occur at any moment in war, losing comrades affected most of us only in the short term. Within a couple of days, the pain of a comrade’s passing faded as other concerns took priority. By the end of a month, the lost comrade disappears from a soldier’s immediate thoughts altogether.
A soldier must focus on fighting. If the loss of a comrade caused some stress, the deaths of enemy troops caused almost none and became routine. They were battling us and would kill us with exactly the same lack of emotion. In combat, it is simply you or the enemy.
All the troops focused on fulfilling their duty, but there may have been some difference in outlook between those who had volunteered and those who had been drafted. Volunteers were naturally more gung-ho about their tasks, while the conscripts were by nature more cautious.
My enthusiasm matched that of the volunteers, though unlike some of these soldiers, I was never reckless with my life on the battlefield. My only real fear was being killed or captured. O
therwise, I accepted the austerity and all the hardships that we faced as a normal part of the life of a soldier in war.
Throughout the war, I would estimate that the casualty ratio remained roughly constant at four or five men wounded for every man killed. At the front, our company possessed trained medics for emergency field treatment, but they would typically just patch up the wounded for further treatment by regimental doctors. If the injury or illness proved more severe, the soldier would be sent back to a divisional field hospital or returned to Germany.
Our medical care and facilities were excellent and helped return about fifty percent of the wounded to duty within a week. Illness was not a major problem, though minor ailments like diarrhea were common. Sometimes our medical problems required specialized care that was not available at the front and thus called for creative solutions.
As my wisdom teeth came in, it was extremely uncomfortable for me to bite down hard on anything. Deciding to resolve the problem on my own, I went to the regimental doctor. In reply to my request for a scalpel, he asked, “What are you going to do?” I refused to tell him, but he gave me the scalpel anyway.
Finding a mirror, I cut open the flesh covering the incoming teeth to relieve the pressure. Though the absence of anything to numb the excruciating pain almost caused me to lose consciousness, my do-ityourself dentistry proved successful. In wartime conditions, a soldier learns to work with what he has and make the best of the situation.
Arrows trace the route of the 58th Infantry Division’s advance to Leningrad between June 22 and September 15, 1941. Heavy lines show furthest extent of the German advance into Russia during 1941.
Chapter 7
TO THE GATES OF LENINGRAD
July–September 1941
FORWARD OBSERVER
Still a private first class in the 13th Company’s communications platoon, I was craving a more challenging responsibility than my existing routine of establishing communication links and occasionally acting as a runner delivering messages. As always, I wanted to be in the middle of the action, even if this placed my life at greater risk.
When the company commander offered me the opportunity to serve up front directing the company’s heavy guns following the promotion of the previous forward observer, or F.O. (Vorgeschobener Beobachter or V.B.), I enthusiastically seized the chance. In our company, forward observation was more of a task conducted on an ad hoc basis rather than an officially designated position, but the need for someone to fulfill this role was so constant that the distinction was almost meaningless. My initial assignment in this capacity was on a temporary basis, but gradually become permanent over the next half-year as I proved myself.
In my role as F.O., I would act as the eyes for our company’s howitzers located about half a mile to a mile behind the front. The 13th Company’s 75-millimeter howitzers had a maximum range of 5, 630 yards (3.2 miles), while our 150-millimeter howitzers possessed a maximum range of 5, 140 yards (2.9 miles). This meant that we could begin to bring targets under fire once they were about two and a half miles in front of us.
These howitzers were organized into four batteries with each battery operating two howitzers manned by a five-member gun crew and supported by numerous additional personnel. Three of the batteries deployed the six short-barreled 75-millimeter howitzers, and one battery deployed the two short-barreled 150-millimeter howitzers. If the forward observer called for all heavy guns in the company to deliver a barrage simultaneously, their firepower was roughly equivalent to an artillery company.
During boot camp, our instructors had familiarized us with the basic targeting procedures for the heavy guns, but since that time I had acquired invaluable additional knowledge by regularly watching and working with the previous F.O. Still, only firsthand experience working as the F.O. would allow me to gain a real feel for the position. Before long, the determination of the appropriate firing solution for a target as well as the numbers and types of rounds to employ would become second nature to me.
Nominally still a member of the communications platoon and subordinate to Staff Sergeant Ehlert, I would now usually receive my assignments directly from the company commander. As my role in the company changed, I gradually grew somewhat isolated from the other troops physically and psychologically.
My initial responsibility as forward observer was to direct our heavy guns in support of our offensive operations, eliminating enemy strong points and reducing their ability and will to resist. During intermittent fighting, the gun battery’s duty officer or top sergeant would have to authorize the F.O.’s request for fire missions in support of the regiment’s infantry. When combat was continuous, however, the F.O. could request fire support missions without such approval.
Once it became clear that the enemy was retreating from a position, our guns would advance as the infantry went forward. Especially during periods where there were rapid advances or retreats, enemy forces would sometimes become intermingled with our frontline. In such moments, it was not possible to distinguish between the enemy and my comrades. Though never feeling like I was really in danger of capture, I had to remain constantly vigilant and keep my newly issued MP-40 submachine gun nearby.
Combat might be described as controlled chaos, but you have to maintain a sense of calm so you can focus on your mission. The forward observer position was well-suited to my character since I found I had a knack for staying calm under enemy attack as well as an insatiable curiosity to know what was happening at the front. This is not to suggest, however, that I did not have moments of anxiety and sheer terror, especially under enemy bombardment.
If there was one thing that I learned fast, it was that you could not avoid becoming scared for the first five or ten minutes of combat. It is an instinctual animal reflex to danger. Even as an old veteran late in the war, an initial rush of fear would still run through me during the first two or three minutes under fire. Yet, after the preliminary anxiety had passed, my composure would return as my mind and training took over. From that time, I controlled my actions, not the enemy. There was a job for me to do and I was going to do it.
CROSSING THE PLYUSSA: July 21–August 17, 1941
Following a two-week pause to regroup, on August 8 the German offensive was resumed. In an effort to reach Narva and shut the corridor to the Baltic region, our 154th Regiment had pushed about ten miles north of Niso to the junction of the Plyussa and Pyata Rivers. At this point, roughly four miles south of the Estonian capital, a destroyed bridge across the Plyussa on the main road to Narva halted our advance.
Our new assault commenced early on the hot, sunny morning of August 14 with German artillery pounding the Soviet positions across the river. With enemy resistance reduced, infantry from our regiment began crossing the river on rubber rafts about 50 yards to the right of the ruined bridge.
Though lacking specific orders in my still sporadic role as F.O., I decided to tag along with a group of infantry troops heading up to the Plyussa River in order to get into the action. Just as we reached the river about nine o’clock that morning, the air around us suddenly filled with the shriek of incoming artillery fire. Reacting instantly, I darted to the left of the blown bridge, seeking cover in one of the many foxholes dug into the riverbank.
The entire area was soon inundated with a storm of shells. With some landing as close as a few feet away from my position, it was impossible even to stick my head above ground. There was nothing to do but to press myself into the bottom of the foxhole. When shelling is that heavy and that close, you simply hope the enemy gunners do not manage to land a direct hit that will turn your refuge into a grave.
A couple of hours into the barrage, a brief pause in the whistle of incoming shells allowed me to poke my head up to see how the dozen or so men around me had fared. In the foxhole just a couple of feet to the left of me, I witnessed a bizarre sight. Second Lt. Münstermann, the commander of one of our company’s platoons, sat reading a book as if he were on a park bench, completely oblivious to the sh
elling.
It was apparent to me that he was suffering the effects of shell shock brought on by the intense barrage, but there was nothing I could do for him. To my knowledge, the German Army did not even recognize such trauma as a legitimate medical condition that would justify a soldier’s removal from combat. My scrutiny of Münstermann lasted only seconds before more artillery rounds came screaming into our area, forcing me to retreat back down into my hole.
When the shelling finally slowed about five hours after it had started, Münstermann had disappeared. I decided to cross the Plyussa River in order to seek out my company and obtain new orders. Climbing out of my foxhole, I joined other soldiers who were making a crouched dash to the position about 50 yards to the right of the bridge where our troops had resumed crossing. Squeezing onto an infantry squad’s raft, I headed for the opposite shore perhaps 30 yards away.
There was shooting all around us as we gained the far side. Leaving the infantry, I cautiously crept back along the riverbank toward the wrecked bridge and crossed the dirt road to the lefthand side, keeping my new MP-40 submachine gun constantly at the ready. Inaccurate beyond any distance greater than about 50 feet, the fire of the MP-40 resembled that of a shotgun more than a rifle. Though it was the standard weapon for a forward observer, I would have preferred to retain my Mauser.
Moving forward from the riverbank, I kept to the brush and trees parallel to the road on my right. Perhaps 150 yards from the river, an enemy bunker built of wooden logs appeared just ahead of me on the edge of the road. The Soviet troops inside were blazing away in the direction of German troops to my rear.
While lacking any means to communicate with our company’s heavy guns, it was clear to me that our advance would be slowed until the bunker was eliminated. With the attention of the Russians focused on the road, there was a chance for me to destroy the fortification on my own, if I could get close enough to use one of the three or four grenades that I carried.
At Leningrad's Gates Page 11