by Roy Jacobsen
“He’s got two brothers there, and about a week ago he went in, he rode north, crossed the Don, to Shebalino, from there he went on foot along the gullies…”
Markus had heard about these exploits before, people who went in – or came out – under cover of the ten-to-twenty-metre deep gorges which rainwater cuts into the Steppes in the spring, the only cover there is, but he had regarded it as an element of local mythology, the people’s belief that they possessed supernatural powers, the wisdom of the gods.
“One of the guards has been A.W.O.L. for over a week?” he asked in disbelief. “And you didn’t report it?”
Jaromil refused to answer. Markus looked him in the eye. “You did report it, didn’t you?” And the Cossack threw back his head as if invoking some higher power. Markus saw by the sinews in his muscular neck that he was chewing and again felt a deep antipathy, play-acting, he thought, pretence. “You did report it, didn’t you?” he repeated. “But the head of the guards didn’t take it any further. Is that what you’re saying?”
“I never said that!” came the abrupt response. “Not at all. But what I will say, Herr Leutnant, is that the head of the guards has a lot to answer for.”
Markus thought that if Jaromil himself, or someone close to him, was behind this murder then they had played their cards extremely well.
“What did the poor wretch have to report from his trip to Stalingrad?” he asked sarcastically.
“Both his brothers had been killed, Herr Leutnant. He claimed they died of their wounds because they weren’t taken on the planes; he said they only flew out German soldiers. I know it’s a lie, Herr Leutnant, but that was what he said.”
“And that’s why he committed suicide?”
Jaromil nodded.
“Out of grief. He hasn’t got any children,” he added.
“Let’s call it suicide then,” Markus said coldly, turning away. The Cossack accompanied him through the dormitory where Markus now felt they were all holding their breath. “Write a report,” he said when they were outside, “and see to it that he gets a decent burial.”
Jaromil grabbed his hand.
“Thank you, Herr Leutnant, thank you. I knew I could rely on you.”
How is it that I can never work out whether I can trust you? Markus thought, and he claims that by choosing not to put the question to Jaromil he was taking another pragmatic decision. The advantage of pragmatic decisions is that rather than passively submitting to difficult realities they try to improve them. Moreover, this gave Markus a reason not to let it go further and also a good defence, should the death, despite everything, reach the ears of his superiors. It was only then that he realised there was something he had forgotten to ask. He went back to the Cossack where he had left him, in deep thought.
“How did he cross the Don?” he asked.
“Ten days ago …by boat, I think…”
“And today?”
“On the ice. He walked across the ice.”
18
The next days have as good as been erased from Markus’ consciousness. He “awoke” on the morning of December 18, with the following crystal-clear nightmare images seared into his brain: If Hoth’s forces manage to break through it would mean a victory for Hitler’s strategy and the Führer would never accept Manstein’s contention that it was impossible to keep the Sixth Army in Stalingrad. Only a failed attempt to break through the lines would make Hitler take a more realistic approach and order a breakout!
With this catastrophe clearly etched in his weary consciousness, Markus started a new day’s work. He struggled through December 18, and he refuses to comment further on “the absence”, as though he regretted having brought the topic up at all. And seen in the light of his own plan – to cut the line between Hitler and Paulus – this was perhaps understandable; a blind old man who tells his story to a youthful audience who has never experienced war, even if the listener is his own godson, well, maybe especially in that case, tends to present a mixture of confession, apologia and pedagogical obligation and may not have the energy also to broach those factors which undermine his own version of events.
But in this context something quite different occurs to Robert, perhaps it should have been mentioned earlier, but never mind, it is something Markus told him when he was a child, about all stories being lies, not only because every storyteller, like everyone else, is fickle and unreliable and has his own highly personal manner with regard to sensibility and memory, but also because stories have a beginning and an end, and nothing actually has, nothing stops and nothing begins, it just is. This can be illustrated by the fact that if one were to pack all the events which took place, for example, in this year of sorrows, 1942, into one book and call it “1942”, it would still be a gigantic distortion of the truth because 1942 also contains remnants of 1941 and 1939, not to mention 1901 …It may be that one of the main characters is still alive or a treaty is still valid which the parties involved have to abide by, or might wish to annul, and what about the Ten Commandments which people are still trying to keep, or they show remorse when they break them, and I haven’t even mentioned that 1942 was obviously affected by its expectations of 1943, by plans and decisions and ideals and airier notions, about paradise for that matter, or peace, let alone the theories those two English researchers have come up with, that our souls are tiny conch shells, containing the echo of God’s voice, which enter our children when we make love to our women, and there unfold as a variation of our own soul and hers; history is a river, Robert, seeing history as a river is the only valid truth, in my view, it roars and bubbles or describes a lazy, sleepy arc of a circle which runs through land and sea and heaven without ever repeating itself, if we are going to be pernickety about it. It is correct to say that what we see and hear and tell is a fair representation of the truth, we cannot ask for more, nor can we stomach more, I am afraid, modesty is the greatest virtue, you think about that as I go back to what happened during those two (or three?) days which have become so woefully distant, at least those elements which are important to understanding my further activity as a nonentity in the most formidable High Command in history.
On the 15th we received the following report, written by one of Hünerdorff’s company commanders:
We saw with our own eyes that the Russians were moving towards Verkhne Kumsky in large columns – tanks, anti-tank guns and infantry – without worrying about us in the least, even though they had a full view of us. It was weird. From the village came the sound of fighting, and we were in a very demoralised state, almost completely out of ammunition, unable to make any advances and on top of this the sight of those unending hordes of Russian troops pouring across the Steppes …Then two things happened that breathed life back into us. First of all, Oberst von Hünersdorff drove his tanks right up to our group, tore off his headphones and bellowed (I can put it no other way):
“Is this supposed to be my regiment? Do you call this an attack?! I’m ashamed of this day!” …and so on. We were incensed at this outburst, however much we valued and loved his forthright manner…
But then there was a new cry for help from Verkhne Kumsky from Major Löwe, Kommandant 1/Pz. Rgt 11, who had been cut off, and anyone who was familiar with the old warrior knew what this meant…We, the commanders, were summoned by Oberst Hünersdorff and Generalmajor Bäke and given a quick briefing regarding the situation. We were then ordered to storm Verkhne Kumsky regardless of losses – our comrades had to be freed, the village purged of the enemy and all the wounded rescued …Those tanks that still had ammunition were to lead while the others would be equipped with what was left of the machine-gun ammunition and were to shoot wildly to cause panic. Two companies at the front and three behind. The snow swirled around our caterpillar tracks, our mood was euphoric, and if there had been any sense in it we would have shouted Hurrah. We let rip with everything we had, at anything that moved. A Russian tank right in front of mine received a direct hit, Russian infantrymen fled in all directions; th
ey must have thought we were out of our minds. But it worked. In the space of an incredibly short time we were in the middle of the village, without any losses to speak of …There we found the men of 1/Pz. Rgt, three of the officers had been killed, almost all the others were wounded, tanks were on fire everywhere, our own and the Russians’, all in a jumbled heap, the dead and the wounded lay in the streets, all the houses were ablaze…
The rest of the report was a detailed description of the rescue before enemy forces once again broke into the village and Hünersdorff had to evacuate it in a headlong rush, all the bloodstained kilometres back to the Aksay, also completely surrounded by the enemy.
Markus saw from the next reports that while the Chir Front still held, like a drumskin at bursting point, or “like a sieve”, as Busse put it, two days previously the Italians on the Upper Don had talked of “partial attacks” and “skirmishes” as well as the discovery of “a new army” north of the river, which eventually was identified as Vatutin’s’ Third Guards, reinforcing the suspicion that the Russians were now finally preparing for the lethal pincer movement – and heading for Rostov.
Markus flicked feverishly through the rest of the reports, the casualties from “the missing days” exceeded his worst nightmares – on December 16 Hoth, Raus and Hünersdorff lost more than 1,100 men, on December 17 close on 600, as well as considerable losses of materiel, which Richthofen and Fiebig also suffered in the air, and at some point the costs would no doubt go beyond what even Manstein could defend, both in the present situation and the critical eye of posterity, if he ever entertained that kind of thought, that is, and we all do, even though we try our best to live in the present.
Early on the morning of the 17th Hünersdorff set off north again, fully equipped with reinforcements, fuel and ammunition, towards the doomed village of Verkhny Kumsky, fought for the whole of this day too, and still there was no clear victor. And then Kuntnagel held up a doctored page from the regiment’s war log, perhaps written by Hünersdorff himself that same evening, which Markus read with tremulous eyes:
Due to continuous fighting over the last few days, which has prevented us from fully rearming, the regiment’s combat capacity is considerably weakened. But also the tank crews – who since the 11th have hardly had a roof over their heads or a wink of sleep – are in a state of utter exhaustion. Under the present circumstances the prospects of another assault tomorrow (the 18th) are not good and in the commander’s view would only be a waste of effort…
“Is it all over?” Markus asked in horror as he solemnly put down the paper.
“No, I don’t think so,” Kuntnagel said. “He headed north this morning too, and Hoth reported just an hour ago that Hünersdorff actually seemed to be gaining control of the accursed village.”
“Did Hoth say that?”
Kuntnagel nodded, both sceptically and encouragingly, at a complete loss as to what to think.
“And that’s all you heard from him today?” Markus persisted.
“So far, yes …Why do you ask?”
“So nothing from Hünersdorff himself?”
“He doesn’t say anything. But what I can say to you is that the front all along the Upper Don has given way.”
Kuntnagel tried to conceal his disquiet with a wry grin. “Vatutin – with his new 3rd Guards – crossed the ice during the night. The Italian lines have collapsed, the Russians don’t give a damn about the minefields and artillery and ‘are charging across the plains’, according to the officer I spoke to. It sounded as if he were standing there and watching it happen.”
Manstein in his memoirs called December 18 “a day of monumental crisis”, which Markus maintains is a gross understatement or a manifestation of military vanity, even though he believes the best lie is the one that is virtually indistinguishable from the truth. He also maintains that he had never seen the General more conscious of the fact that he now held history in the palms of his two hands, and that he was personally sitting beside him when once again – over the telephone – he asked Zeitzler for permission to send Paulus and his army southwards to link up with Hünersdorff:
“The plan can still work!” the General said down the phone. “The 16th Motorised Division stationed at Elista will also have to come to Hoth’s aid…”
A few moments of silence passed while Zeitzler discussed the matter with Hitler, and General Manstein smoked a cigarette, and the rest of the Command stood around in the crowded Ops room like the Chinese terracotta warriors in their mass grave. Then Zeitzler was back, with his crackling voice, and said that “the Führer refuses”. Hitler used the latest developments on the Upper Don as his justification this time; they also affected the Luftwaffe, as Vatutin obviously couldn’t be allowed to continue his surge south unopposed, towards Tatsinskaya, the Reich’s lifeline to Stalingrad. Manstein received orders to redeploy all the forces which were currently on the move, in whatever direction they were going, to the Upper Don, which was where everything would be decided!
Then Zeitzler asked a question:
“Can Stalingrad still be held?”
Markus gesticulates wildly as he describes to Robert the impact of this question on the officers. It is inherent in human nature, he asserts, that intelligence will always succumb to the tyranny of stupidity because it – eo ipso – accepts it. Confronted with such paralysing incompetence, there was only one thing to do: mutiny, a brutal severing of the umbilical cord, seizing command of the whole front and taking whatever steps were necessary to save as many lives as possible, in other words, performing a macro-version of Markus’ own – and for the moment utterly failed, let’s not forget that – attempt to steer history into more manageable proportions.
Manstein told his colleagues that preparations still had to be made for Operation Thunderclap no matter what Hitler’s orders were, and the most propitious moment for Paulus’ breakout had to be fixed. In response to Hünersdorff’s desperate pressure from the south, the Russians had moved a massive number of troops to the southern part of the “ring”, thereby weakening other parts of the front. Eismann had to go into the cauldron to make the final arrangements with Paulus and his Chief of Staff, General Schmidt, the biggest waverer of them all and also the person who had the most sway over his commanding officer.
And Markus was ordered to go along with him.
“Me? Into the cauldron?”
Yes, right now.”
He spent a few minutes getting together the necessary equipment, a bag of apples, some bread, butter, salami, a service pistol, which he claims he didn’t normally carry, and whatever clothes and blankets he could muster, and he felt an indescribable relief at finally being able to cast off the iron burden of passivity. Kuntnagel organised the reception at Gumrak Airfield inside the cauldron, and a quarter of an hour later the Junker took off from Novocherkassk with Oberst Eismann and Markus, and two pilots.
A veil of cloud hung over the frozen wastes, visibility was good, and Markus listened to the Head of Intelligence’s loud discussion with the co-pilot, who was squatting with his legs apart, like a milkmaid, in the gap between the cockpit and the hold, about whether it was possible to fly over Hoth’s operational area, an idea which the pilot strongly advised against, until they decided on a compromise, to follow the corridor north along the Don.
As they were approaching Potemkinskaya, where the Myshkova ends, the white expanses in the east were broken up by ever larger black patches – looking more and more like wet newspaper – and scattered columns of smoke, thin red and lemon-yellow tongues of fire burst into the sky, the whine of shells, planes darted around like black fish in a white sea, beneath them a vast mesh of winding tank tracks, spirals and circles, and south of all this a wriggling black dragon as far as the eye could see – the convoy from Kotelnikovo, 800 lorries and 3,000 tons of vital supplies patiently waiting for Hünersdorff to burst his way through.
They crossed the southern lines of the encirclement, a jagged lattice of Russian positions winding round the
town like frayed cables. The flak became more intense, the fuselage shook twice, but Markus could see from the pilot’s hurried glance at the scratched Plexiglas windows that they must have been puffs of flak, then the countryside – as they juddered into the cauldron and began to lose height – lost the last remnants of whiteness and looked more and more like the glistening pile of coal where he had found the dead Cossack a few days before, with the Volga like a white, rippling band of mourning to the east: not one house intact, no roads, a mining community stricken by an earthquake, with wrecked vehicles, clusters of tanks, horses and tiny human silhouettes in a grotesque flea circus beneath swirling dust and smoke.
Markus saw the pilots smile and realised they were congratulating each other on yet another rebirth as the runway came up to hit them like a battered wall, ten or so bone-shaking bumps before the plane, with a few final snorts, rolled up in front of what had resembled a concrete bunker from the air, but now turned out to be a large military tent with two chimneys sticking out like broken index fingers into the white frosty air.
Markus says what he witnessed there will forever remain imprinted on his retinas, however blind he makes himself, or God makes him, for there is never going to be a reasonable explanation for this blindness of his. What he remembers most clearly is the chaos, the Junker being surrounded by guards before it even stopped, the hatches being flung open and the cheering that filled his body with “exotic warmth”, as he puts it – here several hundred thousand men were making supernatural efforts (he ought to have said one and a half million at least, to pay fitting respect to the “enemy” or to be even close to the true figure of all those involved) with only one goal: annihilation. Nothing to gladden the eye, not a second of the cosmic silence that brooded over Novocherkassk, what Manstein called “the truth” presumably, unless he was referring to Markus’ next observation, made as he darted across the airfield on the heels of Eismann and an aide, namely that there was a strange kind of order in the chaos: silent, red-eyed ground staff working with a precision and zeal that took his breath away, a rare esprit de corps or some innate reflex which at decisive moments transforms panic into death-defying courage.