by Roy Jacobsen
“I’ll tell Hoth that you’re an advocate of the front, Hebel,” the General said with his eyes on the map. “He’ll appreciate that. From now on, you concentrate on that mystery man, Paulus. Oberst Busse will give you further instructions.”
Markus looked in bewilderment from the General to the Oberst, who still had a faint smile on his lips as he nodded benignly towards the door. Markus saluted, turned, looked searchingly at the Oberst once again, who made a gesture for Markus to lead the way out, but they were stopped by Manstein.
“One moment, Hebel. Perhaps you could also update us about Richthofen, since you are better informed than anyone else here?”
Markus turned, thought for a moment, but was then given another nod by Busse and delivered the report which he had learned off by heart and which he has repeated every year since the war and blindness isolated him from the world.
“Richthofen will primarily use the airstrips at Tatsinskaya and Morosovsk for the airlift to Stalingrad, Herr General. Generalmajor Pickert will be in charge of receiving supplies. Of the six strips there only Pitomnik is adequately equipped with lights, a signals system for night flights, snow-clearing facilities, heating devices for the engines and quarters for the wounded …Gumrak and Basargino have some of the requirements, but the other three strips can be considered as little more than potato fields, which even the most experienced pilots would shy away from landing fully loaded planes on. The airlift also needs a fighter escort, between ninety and a hundred planes, for now. They will operate from Tatsinskaya and Morosovsk. Generalmajor Viktor Carganico has been given the task of coordinating the whole operation…”
Markus drew a measured breath and looked around.
“But…” Manstein asked, as if to order.
“I don’t know, Herr General…”
“Oh yes, you do – out with it!”
Markus savoured the moment even though the ability to foresee the course of events is a poor substitute for being able to do something about it.
“Carganico is a very competent commanding officer, Herr General,” he said. “He has also run Tatsinskaya with great skill, but he has never overseen operations on the scale we’re talking about here …So …I would think Richthofen will replace him with someone more experienced in the coming days.”
“I see,” Manstein chuckled, though sceptical and intrigued.
“So perhaps you could also predict whom Richthofen will choose to replace him?”
“I believe, Herr General, that he will choose Generalleutnant Martin Fiebig, whose work for Hollidt along the Chir Front has already made him a legend. I can’t think of anyone better qualified.”
All went quiet. Markus looked on with satisfaction as Manstein and Busse exchanged meaningful glances. The only sound there was emanated from the boots of the Chief Intelligence Officer, Eismann, who moved into Markus’ field of vision from the left.
“Are you psychic?” he asked.
“No, Herr Oberst,” Markus said, prepared for this too. “Fiebig was ordered to Tatsinskaya yesterday, with his whole staff, I assume that was not to have a cup of tea with Richthofen.”
Restrained laughter filled the Command H.Q., followed by something that resembled lighthearted but muted relief. Manstein and Busse exchanged glances again, and the latter turned to Markus.
“On our way here we were trying to get an idea of Richthofen’s options,” he said slowly. “What is your opinion?”
Now Markus struggled to hide his enthusiasm; for good measure he took a piece of paper from his back pocket almost as though he needed something to hide behind.
“I’ve been working out Richthofen’s figures for September and October, Herr General. In the course of these two months he has transported more than 20,000 tons of fuel to the front, 10,000 tons of ammunition, plus 7,000 tons of equipment and supplies. During the same period he has flown more than 27,000 troops for the army as well as shifting 5,000 tons of tank fuel and 2,000 tons of ammunition for them – in addition he has evacuated more than five thousand wounded, a formidable achievement, if I may say so, with the meagre resources he has had at his disposal. But this means that the fleet of planes is run down; the sortie rate for some aircraft is down to 30 per cent. On 9 November – to take an arbitrary example – Transportgeschwader 900 only managed to get twelve out of forty-one Junkers into the air…”
“That was a particularly black day,” Eismann interrupted coldly.
Markus shot him a quick glance, but continued undaunted:
“Let’s look at the sorties which have made it to Stalingrad since the circle was closed. On November 25 it was only possible to land thirty Junkers in the cauldron, carrying seventy-five tons, and that was ammunition and fuel. Paulus has agreed to allow the horses to be eaten, for as long as they last, but in time provisions will take up more of the load, and I would remind you that he needs at least 170 tons of ammunition per day alone. The following day, the 26th…”
“Erm …Hebel,” Manstein interrupted. “I presume all this is leading somewhere?”
Markus drew a breath and continued.
“Paulus needs 300 tons of supplies every day, just to stay alive. If the army is to be mobile and operative it must have at least 550. To fly in the 300 tons requires 150 fully loaded Junkers – daily, provided that the planes can be flown every day, which of course they can’t, the weather will no doubt be just as much a problem as the Russian air force. From ‘Tatsi’ and Morosovsk it is 230 and 200 kilometres respectively to the cauldron. Unloading and loading take time, even though Pickert, in Pitomnik alone, has between one and two thousand men working non-stop unloading supplies and clearing the snow. It takes a good hour to turn a plane round, but the ground staff there are already more than overworked, they don’t have enough to eat, they can’t sleep, so this figure will rise. That means that every plane can make one, maximum two, sorties per day. Thus Richthofen needs at least 800 planes to cover the minimum needs while the whole of the Luftwaffe has only 750 Junkers in service at the moment. Of these, half are in Africa, so the bottom line is that we only have 295 planes available here, of which nowhere near all are operative …That is what we have at our disposal, Herr General, to keep Stalingrad alive.”
Markus paused, made as if to continue, but instead bowed his head in regal submission vis-à-vis the harsh historical realities, which anyone will now be able to appreciate the full implications of.
“So the answer is no?” Manstein said after a few seconds’ silence. “That’s what you’re saying – it is not possible to supply the army from the air in your opinion?”
Markus sent Jakob Spitz a glance, an appeal almost, this was the cartographer’s opinion just as much as his own, but Jakob just looked gravely down at his polished boots without giving so much as the slightest hint of what he thought or knew.
“I’m convinced, Herr General,” Markus said slowly, “that von Richthofen has drawn the correct conclusions and communicated them to Göring, Jeschonnek, Hitler …and that the Führer will do what has to be done.”
“So that’s your considered opinion, is it?” Manstein mumbled acidly and turned away. “Alright, you may fall out.”
3
Markus felt the sweat on his body freeze. The wretched weather which had prevented the General Staff from taking off by plane brought new, sooty-grey blankets of snow across the Steppes, and there was hardly any daylight to speak of, the horizon was flat and near.
“What was that supposed to mean?” he suddenly heard behind him, like an echo of his own thoughts, and saw Jakob Spitz running towards him, obviously annoyed. “The last thing Manstein needs is all and sundry telling him that the airlift cannot succeed. What we need now is—”
“Oh yes, he does,” Markus broke in. “That’s exactly what he needs to hear, from all sides, so that he can order Paulus to break out at once!”
He noticed that his pulse was still racing. “Had it not been for that numbskull Hitler,” he shouted without restraint, “the army would
have been moving west long ago, and as for Göring, do you know what he’s been doing these last few days? He’s been in Paris, the head of the Luftwaffe has been in Paris to get his paws on works of art while Richthofen and his men have been running themselves into the ground to save what’s left of …No, forget it.” He threw his hands in the air while the cartographer heaved a perplexed sigh and ran a freckled hand through his hair, which shone like a flame in the snowy terrain.
“What’s got into the Russians?” he groaned. “It’s as if they’ve been transformed…”
“Yes,” Markus said. “You may as well take note of the names now: Rokossovsky, Zhukov, Vasilevsky, Yermakov …Before you know it they will be banging on our doors in Berlin!”
“My God – you are psychic!”
“No, I can see the light, and you ought to be able to, as well. Even a child can see where this is going…”
He was interrupted by Oberst Busse stepping out of the H.Q. and walking with his back bent double through the gusting wind. Markus turned his back on the cartographer and signalled the Cossack guarding the canteen door to open up, and as the steam belched out into the cold like singed cotton wool, a whole new question began to preoccupy him: the General must have had something in mind when he told him about his son, some other motive than to confirm that this stray Belgian would give his all to save the Sixth Army, for Manstein didn’t take decisions on impulse, and hadn’t he himself just lost a son, somewhere near Leningrad? Could his pretty inappropriate information about Peter being in the cauldron be understood as an attempt to create an alliance of suffering between two anguished fathers, a spiritual communion between men who look on as their own flesh and blood are systematically slaughtered, and are themselves to blame? For one tiny moment Markus thought he caught a glimpse of eternity, but as usual this quickly dissipated into hallucinations, there are limits to what you can allow, even in your mind, a thought is not like a sturdy beech tree in the Ardennes, it is not a piece of fertile ground that can be ploughed and cultivated, a starry sky that can be charted and furnished with Greek names and myths; thoughts can handle love and bringing up children, letters of the alphabet and tales and melodies, but they muddle up everything else, thoughts are not clear even though there can be no doubt that this canteen really exists and that it is installed in the only school in the village and that Markus lets the Oberst go in first, to the smell of wet straw, diesel fumes and raw tobacco, nor that the wooden desks are stacked at the back of the room and tables seating six are placed along the outer walls while the dais – on which presumably a teacher’s desk used to stand – serves as a buffet table, with cutlery and a washing-up bowl, soap and a dirty tea towel, a tin plate piled with Schwarzbrot, a hotplate and a half-full pot of soup, and, my word, there is an apple there, a shiny red eye in a dark night, the Oberst spots it at once, he grabs it and sinks his teeth into it without a moment’s hesitation, while Markus stares aghast, unable to decide whether he is witnessing a miracle or a crime.
“I assume we can talk openly with you, Hebel,” Busse said to Markus, who could not take his weary eyes off the yellow molars crunching and grinding the juicy flesh.
“Of course, Herr Oberst…”
“Let’s sit down. Have you eaten?”
“Yes…”
“You have a line through to Stalingrad, I understand…?”
This was said before they sat down.
“To that mystery man, Paulus,” Markus ventured, now more focused. He felt that the Oberst was eyeing him in an almost shifty fashion; he finished chewing the apple and placed the stalk carefully on the windowsill, again to Markus’ astonishment, this time that it was possible to end such a sacred repast with the same casual expression as he started it.
“Although you’ve been holding the fort here for almost a week,” the Oberst said, “we’re still not sure what kind of general impression you have formed of the situation. To begin with, I will give you a quick update. Is that O.K.?”
Markus looked at him wide-eyed.
“Is what O.K.?”
“Officially the Sixth Army is under our command, but in practice this is not the case as long as Paulus is at Hitler’s beck and call. They’re in touch by radio, they listen to one another, but we have only this teleprinter. Hitler and Göring also have control of the airlift. So we can’t actually tell Paulus what to do as we would have done in a better world, if you see what I mean…?”
Markus nodded. “But hopefully we can help him,” the Oberst went on, “by opening a corridor into Stalingrad. Zeitzler has agreed to this in principle and has also promised us two new panzer divisions, as well as an artillery division.”
The Oberst drew breath, and Markus thought he heard a sigh. He knew that people everywhere in the field had high hopes of this Zeitzler, who earlier that autumn had taken over as Generalstabschef at Hitler’s headquarters and who was thought to be well equipped to influence the Führer with regard to transferring a greater share of the operational responsibility to those who were actually there at the front.
“Where was Zeitzler – or Hitler for that matter – going to get these reinforcements from?” Markus deemed it permissible to ask, for as far as he knew there was a crying shortage of most things on all fronts and also at home in the Reich.
“From Army Group A in the Caucasus or from Elista,” Oberst Busse said. “Furthermore, in a few days’ time we’re getting a division from France. But to get back to Paulus, before we left Vitebsk, Manstein sent strict orders that Paulus should focus his firepower on Kalach and the Don in the west, to cover his back…”
“Really?”
“From the positions we were given last night it looks as if he has done the opposite, focused more firepower on the town centre, thus leaving his back open. We don’t even know whether he received the order.”
This time Markus’ jaw dropped. The Oberst continued:
“On the 22nd or the 23rd of November Paulus asked Hitler a second time for permission to break out. This was without doubt a psychological mistake. Paulus has served in the headquarters, knows Hitler personally and knew what the answer would be. On top of that, thirty-six hours passed between him sending the request and receiving a reply. In other words, Paulus had thirty-six whole hours to take on the responsibility himself – as operational commander – to break out with his army and present Hitler with a fait accompli. Do you understand?”
“Yes …er …no.”
“When Hitler’s ‘no’ came, it was too late. By that time it would have cost Paulus his head to start a retreat although we doubt whether it was that that worried him, nor would it have been much of a price to save a whole army.”
At long last Markus saw what he was getting at.
“He doesn’t want to break out?” he said, dumbfounded.
Busse smiled weakly.
“That’s not what we’re saying. But the truth is that we don’t know Paulus, we don’t know how he thinks, nor what he is capable of.”
He paused, directed his eyes on the area around Markus’ palpitating heart and then slowly raised them until they exploded in his face like shells as he said:
“‘Alethe’s white dog’ …what’s that?”
The question was posed in an open, almost cheerful manner, like the rest of the monologue, but Markus felt the blood draining from him, wave by wave, he was filled with shame and fear, gasped, and in his own words looked as if he were having an epileptic fit. He also claims this was the first time he had felt his eyesight fail him.
“An old game,” he mumbled. “I was trying to send my son a sign last night, or find out if he’s there. I have to know if he is there!”
He stood up, then slumped back down. “So I signed off with something only he and I know about, a legend about Bernard de Clairvaux, hoping that he would respond, but he didn’t…”
“And what was special about this Bernard?”
“Just something I kept going on about, the way fathers do …Is that why I’m here?” he sai
d suddenly.
“That’s why we’re all here.”
“You want me to ask my son to go behind Paulus’ back, his commanding officer, is that what you mean!?”
“Well, the phrasing is not very apposite, Hebel. I think…”
“But that’s what you mean?” Markus persisted. “You want him to go behind his superior officer’s back, inform us about Paulus’ real intentions, about his inner soul and what’s going on in his head, spy on him in fact!?”
The Oberst went silent and eyed him with the same unwavering patience.
“Are you a volunteer?” he asked doggedly, and Markus was unable to come up with any other answer than that he was there body and soul, at which Busse sighed and said with measured, clockwork-like composure: “There are more than 250,000 men in the cauldron. Our men. They’ve been fighting more or less non-stop since the spring. Their suffering is already indescribable. Winter is approaching. We know what that means and…”
“But I’m not thinking clearly,” Markus exclaimed. “He’s my son. Why did you and the General tell me he’s there? Of course, you had to, I can see that …but if the boy is alive and he fails, I’m sending him straight to his death, me, his own father, there was a summary trial only yesterday, three soldiers were shot because they lost their minds and three others because they had deliberately injured themselves in order to be flown out. Paulus shoots his own when he has to! I can’t do it! My son is a naive simpleton, can’t you understand that? He would never be able to pull something like this off. He’s afraid of authority and also believes in this …this…”
He was on the verge of saying “Nazi idiocy”, but chose instead “vision”…
“We all do,” the Oberst said with a sardonic smile and Markus said:
“Very true!”
He is on the ropes now. “Very true!” he repeated, but what he failed to add was that what he now saw as an inalienable truth was that it was not allegiance to Hitler and his madhouse that made all this possible but the soldiers’ fundamental and admirable allegiance to each other, the same human noble-mindedness and loyalty that hold a civilised society together, keep it at peace and well-functioning – the same ideals that underpin war underpin peace, keep it going, at least once it has started, indeed perhaps they even start it, what do I know? …“And I can’t accept it…”