We glimpsed through the trees an area of open meadowland – in which an American Flying Fortress bomber was crash-landed, with its belly sunk into the ground and its tail fin as high as the trees. The meadow was being shelled, and although we were tempted to explore the plane wreck for possible fuel or supplies, we watched as the shell bursts straddled the great aircraft, and then hit it, blowing its fuselage to pieces in towers of flying metal. The shell bursts moved into the trees among us, and for a minute the forest was full of the screams of civilians between the detonating rounds. When the barrage moved away from us, it left a line of cars on fire, dead civilians scattered in the undergrowth, and then the columns of vehicles and walkers began moving on again. All around us, civilians and troops begged for a ride, for water, food, medicines and directions, nobody knowing exactly where their friends or their units were. Some troops remained in units or groups with their officers, but many were now making their way west without leaders, combining together as the journey demanded.
Money seemed to have no value in the Kessel. I witnessed a staff officer offering a wallet full of Reichsmarks to a Hanomag driver in return for a ride; the offer was rejected with a curse, but the driver took on a civilian couple who paid with a gold ring. The only viable currencies were gold, water, gasoline, food and morphine – these were the things that the people of the Kessel held dear to their hearts. Order had broken down, and discipline, where it was enforced, was brutal and arbitrary.
At one stage in this sector, we passed what appeared to be a panzer maintenance workshop set up beside a barn. I saw first the large steel gantry which was used to lift turrets and engines from our panzers: a tall steel frame on wheels which rolled over the top of even the heaviest panzer. I was desperately relieved to see this maintenance site, as the final drive transmission in my Panther was in its final stage of service. The huge power chain only lasted for eight hundred kilometres, and mine had passed nine hundred in the entry into the Kessel. The steel casing in the forward hull was leaking oil badly, and I could hear the mesh slipping in the gears as the driver sought to control it. If the system jammed in combat, it would surely finish us all.
Did we have time to replace it, if a replacement was, by some miracle, available here?
I saw a Panther already parked under the gantry crane, and three mechanics standing on its forward hull, looking down at the transmission cover. I knew the procedure well: the forward transmission on the Panther, positioned in the front hull driving the front wheels, required the mechanics to remove a rectangular plate in the hull roof above the radio operator and driver’s heads. This plate, part of the armour sheet, was unbolted and then lifted clear with the crane. The mechanics would swarm into the exposed hull, freeing the entire transmission from its mountings and then lifting that out as well. The new final drive would be lowered in, the machinery so bulky that it had to be swung down through the space a millimetre at a time to ensure that it passed through.
While this was going on, the engine deck at the rear would be opened and the armoured grilles taken out. The complete Maybach engine would be hoisted out by the crane, and a new one installed in the armoured box inside the engine bay. The whole process could be completed by skilled mechanics in a day, leaving the Panther ready to travel another 800km before the entire engine and transmission had to be replaced again.
And so, when I saw the gantry crane in place over this Panther beside the barn, and the three mechanics standing there on the hull, I expected this operation to be underway; but I saw no sign of the spare parts which were usually strewn around the service area. There was only the Panther, with the crane overhead, and the men standing on the deck. Then I realised that the men were connected to the crane, with lines stretching from their necks to the steel girders. The men, in fact, had ropes around their necks: ropes strung up to the crane.
I shielded my eyes to see what was happening there. The Panther under the crane revved up, spewing out fumes, and then moved backward rapidly a few metres. The men on the front deck were left dangling, their feet jerking and their bodies convulsing as they were hung on the ropes. The Panther commander turned to look at them – and then turned to face forwards, as the panzer revved again and moved away down onto the forest track. The Panther bore the markings of the SS Panzer Corps.
Time was pressing, and we could not stop to examine the scene. But as we passed, I did observe that the three men, swaying on their nooses as their bodies went limp, were in Wehrmacht panzer mechanics uniforms: the oil-stained overalls I had seen so many times. Around each man’s neck was a placard, with writing which I glimpsed before we moved off:
This man helped the Reds
By refusing to help the Waffen SS
When I glanced back, the gantry of the crane was full of ravens.
The Kessel was not the place to make protests or complaints, or to debate the question of martial law. It was the place to keep moving, and keep your mouth shut, and listen to the groans of your transmission, not the sounds of the wounded or dying.
*
By shouting out requests for directions, we made our way through the gathering gloom into an area where panzers and other armoured vehicles were dispersed among ancient oak trees. There were a trio of Hetzer tank-destroyers, these useful little vehicles being worked on by their crews, and a unit of Panzer IV vehicles. The Panzer IVs were in bad shape: their mesh armour screens buckled and torn, and their engine hatches emitting brown smoke. One was being towed by a captured T34 chassis used as a tractor with no turret. That sturdy Russian panzer had travelled how many kilometres, and changed hands how many times – and it served whoever drove it reliably, with no complaints.
We edged past these vehicles, still with our load of wounded and trailing our column of followers on foot, until a solitary Kettenhund (military police officer) directed us forward to a clearing point where information would be available. By the time we finally pulled in to this point, darkness was gathering, and our engines were overheating badly again. The SS King Tigers moved away at walking pace, led by guides on foot who had cable phones connected to the drivers, seeking their SS Panzer Corps unit which had its elements in the forest to the North. The Capo and his gunner went to confer with the other panzer officers. We on my panzer opened the engine grilles and checked over the Maybach as it gurgled and clattered in the twilight.
All around us, people on foot were preparing to pass the night. People’s behaviour was becoming unpredictable, and it seemed that many wanted to drown out their fears. Among all the cries of the wounded, the sound of improvised drinking parties was clear on the breeze, complete with mournful singing and the chinking of bottles.
Some men and women were going into the shadows as couples, and the sounds of their copulation were clear to hear: the sound of people desperate to find some distraction, some suspension from the Kessel. One woman, a Luftwaffe Flak worker, did not bother to find a discreet place, but accepted a Waffen SS man on the ground between the trees, her eyes blank as she stared up over his shoulder. We shook our heads at her audacity, but truly, who could blame her – because who knew how long their life would last, or their body would remain unscarred? A parachute flare ignited high above us, and its lunar light showed the whole scene in sharp relief. Behind the lucky SS man, others were waiting to take his place.
The Reich had come to this condition now.
How much further would it fall?
It was around eleven pm, and the sky was at times as bright as day, as the flares drifted over the trees or lines of tracer twisted overhead to strike the forest some distance away. The sound of combat along the perimeter of the Kessel was loud now, and it seemed that the Reds were drawing the noose tighter all the time. Groups of wounded soldiers came limping through our positions regularly, pleading for medical attention, or knots of civilians pushing their wounded on hand carts, telling us in wild voices that the Russians were getting closer, always closer. One civilian woman shot herself with a pistol, and her dead body lay
among the trees, near the brazen Luftwaffe girl and the eager SS men.
The Capo returned, and with him the leaders of the other armoured units drawn up in this part of the forest. They stood near our Panther for a few minutes, talking in low voices, and then dispersed. The Capo called us together, away from the milling foot soldiers, in the channel between our two Panthers, with the great dish wheels on either side of us. Our drivers ran their hands instinctively along the track links as they listened, mentally assessing the tension of the track length. A green flare exploded above the treetops, casting a jagged light across us as it floated downward.
‘The Kessel is small, but crowded,’ the Capo said, without emotion. ‘There could be a hundred thousand troops inside here, and maybe twenty or thirty thousand civilians. The Reds have fresh troops stationed around us, with new armour, and they’re pushing in all the time. In one day, or two days, the Kessel will surely fall.’
He looked between the panzers at a group of civilian women and children, asleep in the carcass of a truck that had become stuck between two trees. The children were asleep on top of the women, their faces lit by the swaying green flare light. With that colouring, their bodies already resembled corpses.
‘Those in the pocket who can break out, will break out now. At midnight.’
‘In forty-five minutes, Herr Leutnant?’ I said. ‘Our fuel –’
‘In forty-five minutes,’ the Capo nodded. ‘We will fight through a place called Halbe, that is the village immediately to the West. The Reds hold it, but we have a lot of panzers concentrated in a small zone. We will punch through Halbe, into the flat land on the other side, and cross the North-South autobahn at Baruth, or near there. After that, it is forty or fifty kilometres to the positions of the Twelfth Army, who are ready to receive us. We will pass through the Twelfth Army corridor and reach the river Elbe. We know that the Elbe is held by Americans on the west bank. We will be taken prisoner in the West, in the American zone. We know why this must be done. Germany needs us after the war ends - and if we are captured by the Russians, we will not see Germany again.’
The green flare overhead caught in the treetops and set light to the foliage. At the same time, there was a shriek of descending shells, and we threw ourselves flat between the Panthers, trusting to their steel to fend off the explosions. Looking up, I saw the truck full of women and children fly into pieces, with bodies whirling through the air in the flashing light. I pressed my face into the ground and dug my fingers into the earth, as the Panthers rocked in the bombardment and the stink of explosive and smoke enveloped us, the screams and cries of the wounded over the echoes of the detonations.
When that was over, and the artillery rounds stopped falling, I stood up, unwilling to face the sight of the blown-apart truck. The Capo was already on his feet, staring at the wreckage. The civilians were dismembered, lying in dark pools in the green light of another flare. Nearby, the Luftwaffe woman and her SS lovers were also dead, their bodies jumbled together in a smouldering pile, her eyes still blank and open.
We started the panzer engines.
*
The way to the breakout point was marked by Kettenhund (military police) men and panzer officers, holding masked flashlights and keeping all pedestrian traffic off the forest tracks, by force if necessary. We saw one Kettenhund kick an encroaching infantry man out of our way – and then shoot him with his MP40 when the man fought his way back onto the road. Whole carts and wagons were tipped over to clear the roadways, their civilian owners watching us mutely in the light of the overhead flares and the flashes of explosions from the perimeters. We passed under an oak tree burning like a brazier, surrounded by the bodies of wounded troops who had been sheltering under it when a shell struck.
Our way was lit again by the flames of a burning aircraft which scraped the treetops and then crashed to our right, in a ball of flames that resembled the morning sun. We followed two of the Hetzer destroyers – and when one of them was hit by a falling tree and immobilised, we bulldozed it out of the way with our front plate and simply carried on. Behind us was a jumble of armoured elements, all racing for the breakout point, and behind that we knew that there was a dense column of foot soldiers and civilians, people in wagons, cars and trucks, all desperate to follow the armoured spearhead through Halbe and out to the West.
The plan for the breakout was crude – it had to be, because the Reds were crushing the pocket around us, minute by minute, metre by metre. The first blows would be struck by the King Tigers of the SS Panzer Corps, supported by the remaining armour, artillery and Panzergrenadiers from the 21st Panzer.
‘The SS boys are desperate to be the first ones out of the Kessel,’ the Capo had said to us with a wry smile. ‘They know there’s no prison for them – not even in Siberia. Any SS who falls into Red hands is shot or clubbed to death. We can rely on them to lead the way.’
I could see the flashes of our artillery firing through the trees on either side of the road. The gunners were under orders to fire off all their rounds, then smash their gun breech blocks and race for the breakthrough point on foot; the fuel tanks of their trucks had been drained to provide gasoline for the panzers. Ahead of us was the Capo’s Panther, his exhausts trailing flames, and beyond him the stretch of open country that led to Halbe itself. I could see that fighting was already erupting out there, beyond the screen of the forest. Bursts of flame, drifting flares and the starburst explosions of rockets lit up the open heath in spasms of light. I slid down into the cupola, sealed the hatch, and held on as we lurched out of the final forest track out into the heath.
Through the periscopes, I saw the church tower of Halbe town, illuminated against a curtain of flames. Whatever was happening in that small town, the place resembled a medieval inferno, full of sparks and fires. Our Panther rolled across the heathland, smashing apart stationary cars and trucks that were strewn in the open. The flares overhead gave a light that varied from dusk to bright sunshine, making my eyes constantly adapt and readapt to the intensity. In one such flash, I saw the Capo’s Panther run over a motorcycle and sidecar, and send the whole machine flying through the air behind its tracks. The motorcycle span towards us, blocking my vision as it crashed onto our turret before disappearing. We slammed down into a sudden defile – and I cursed out a prayer that this was not an anti-tank ditch. As we clawed up the other side, I saw tracer flash past us, and then we were hit twice on the glacis plate as we levelled out. There were Red PAK guns down there around the village, and the decision for us was whether to halt and fire on them, or to keep moving and present a rapid target. The Capo had no doubts: I saw his Panther sway and lurch as he approached the town in a ragged zig-zag, with tracer flying past him at each turn.
With a few hundred metres to go, we had to slow down to pick our way between craters and ditches which would trap us for sure. In this zone, we came to a King Tiger that was immobile in a crater, its nose slumped down and evidently stuck fast. Its huge gun barrel was elevated so that it could fire on the PAKs, and it was maintaining a storm of fire on those positions. As we went past this stranded panzer, I saw it struck on the side of the turret by a tracer round – and then by another. The whole seventy-tonne machine lurched, its hatches flying open and emitting towers of flames, until one final explosion from inside lifted the entire turret off the hull, and sent a sphere of red flames boiling up above us.
Lit by this fire, we presented an easy target, but within a few seconds we were literally on top of the surviving Russian PAK guns, too close for them to fire over open sights.
The PAKs were dug in along a series of emplacements before the town, and the advance wave of King Tigers had already mauled them badly. In the chaotic light of the flares, I saw that several guns had been run over and crushed by panzers, their barrels and wheels reduced to a jumble of steel, and their crews dismembered around them. One PAK was still intact and surrounded by living men, and we halted with a great screech of metal to let our gunner lay his sight on it. At a
range of fifty metres, we used one high explosive round to demolish the emplacement. Some of the Red gunners, outlined against the flames from the town behind them, raised their hands in surrender. My gunner shot them down with his coaxial MG, and we rolled forward into the outskirts of the town itself.
The open heath gave way to a series of farm buildings, and then the first outlying houses of Halbe, at some distance from the town itself. The Capo’s Panther was already moving between the farm units, and ahead of him I could make out one of the King Tigers which had spearheaded the breakout, its profile stark against the flames. All around, shells were detonating, knocking huge pieces out of the farmsteads and rocking us with their blast. In the swirling light, we almost collided with a Panzer IV which was immobile beside a barn. Peering through the periscopes, it was difficult to make out what was happening around us, with so much smoke and dust. I put my head up out of the cupola to try to see the way ahead.
The roar of explosions and flames surged over me.
The Last Panther - Slaughter of the Reich - The Halbe Kessel 1945 Page 5