Under those living conditions and as the product of the Bolshevik Regime, it is not to be wondered at that sexual morals sank to the lowest imaginable, without boundaries or control. The situation grew out of all proportion. It had its roots in inhumane politics. Year after year thousands of illegitimate children, in exploding numbers, without parents or state to look after them, gradually became a danger to the land and its people. We could assess it for ourselves. The picture was of orphans dressed in rags, without having washed or bathed for months on end, with boils, other skin infections and festering wounds. All of it made a mockery of everything and everyone who possessed a healthy, hygienic and normal standard of life.
In large numbers, those bands of orphans wandered from town to town to beg, steal and rob, in order to keep themselves ‘above water’. Already in 1941, the numbers could be assessed by non-Russian experts at some millions. The state that had caused the catastrophe, sought to solve the problem with a law that permitted youngsters from the age of twelve to be given the death sentence. As a result, the gangs armed themselves and then battled with the police. Such scenes made a very grave impression upon us. It confirmed to every one of us that Communism had to be repulsed at all costs. It also justified our presence in that land.
My friend Robby had a close contact with a Russian family, or perhaps it would be better to say, with the daughter of the family. He was very much enamoured. I had orders to accompany him on his visits and, more often than not, a loaf of bread found its way into the very modest wooden house of the family. That charitable ‘fraternisation’ released a very moving response.
To digress briefly, I would point out that six months later, in the middle of July 1942, and with the advance of the southern army groups, Hitler’s headquarters was moved to fifteen kilometres north-east of the town and on the road to Zhitomir. The new headquarters named ‘Werwolf, was nearer to the front-line and ensured a far more efficient direction and organisation of troop movement, formation and liaison.
Underway, once more, after our stay in Vinnitsa, we journeyed undisturbed, reaching the town of Uman, in the centre of Ukraine. It was not far from the airfield. We were in primitive but warm wooden barracks. Suddenly everything was hurried. Our transport to the front was no longer overland by train, but by plane.
However, bad weather delayed the flights. Day after day we marched with a full pack on our backs to the airfield, but could not take off. As the bad weather cleared, Junkers 52s of the transport squadron landed one after another, on the snow-covered airfield. Marching to the planes, we noticed two wolves, totally unimpressed or disturbed by our presence, until the noise of the starting engines drove them back into the forest.
There was a weight problem to be solved, much to our disgust, by being told that our food rations had to be left behind! We, with our insatiable appetites, were indignant at such a suggestion, and they were not going to do that to us. We solved that problem by making short work of our rations very quickly. Despite the hard and icy-cold sausages we did not give a thought to the weight, inside or outside our stomachs.
Like excited schoolboys waiting to board the bus, we finally took our places in the Tante Ju, Auntie Ju as they were called, the word Tante not always having a nice meaning. We had to sit on our rucksacks. The seats had been removed because of our numbers, but we didn’t mind this lack of luxury for were we not flying at the cost of the State? With their 600PS, BMW star motors, the Junkers prepared for take-off. It was not only the motors that started to throb. Many hearts of us first-time flyers started to beat in time with the engines too. It was a sluggish take-off for a Ju, loaded to full capacity. They headed in an easterly direction, flying over the low-lying clouds at first. Then, in order to shake off any enemy fighters, the formation reduced their height and we crowded at the large portholes.
The Russian Steppes, covered in snow, unfolded like a map beneath us. It was unending. We were astounded at the view from above, seeing dark forests and black craters in sharp contrast to the white snow. Destroyed bridges were clear to see. Now and again, an air-pocket lifted the Junkers, with its thirty metre wing-span, a foot or two into the air. We were like children on the switch-back at the fair. We let out a cry as the metal bird dropped again, like a stone. Unconcerned and naive we soaked up this new experience until, during the course of the hour-long flight, small dark spots appeared in the sky, approaching our format ion rather quickly. Enemy fighters! Then our radio operator rose hastily, and dressed in a thick fur-lined jacket, brown leather cap, goggles, and with a cartridge-belt slung over his shoulders, went to take his position at the rear of the plane, at the machine gun position. It was open to wind and weather. Only then did we realise how serious the situation was. The slow and clumsy Junkers, with a maximum speed of 270 kms per hour, would have been a very easy target for the Soviets. But luck was on our side that day, for suddenly they turned and disappeared into the horizon. We, as flying infantry, somehow had a feeling of being the ‘victors of the air’.
Our joviality was to disappear very quickly with the increased turbulence. Face after face lost its pink colour, slowly turning to an ill-looking white. Many rued the hasty consumption of their rat ions, which now landed undigested in hastily emptied gas-mask cases. There was nothing else available. There were no exceptions, all of us, but all of us were horribly air-sick. Busy only with ourselves, we did not notice, some time later, when our Junkers approached a landing strip with very provisional markings.
With the motors still running, we sprang from the ice-cold Junkers. I cannot impress enough how good it was to have the earth under our feet once more. Shivering with the cold, we ran through flurries of snow to a large, open hangar. There a log-fire burned in an empty oil-barrel, to warm our frozen joints. At that time, we had no clue as to where we were, only later did we learn that the airfield had the name of Orel. Shortly after, it was clear to us that the town did not lie in the south, near Dnjepr, but in the centre of the Soviet Union and on the river Oka. We had flown in a straight north-easterly course over Kiev and had landed roughly 250 kilometres from Moscow. It meant that we were not to fight with the Wiking Division, and the question was ‘why’?
The English historian, David Irving, in his research for his book on Hitler and his generals, came up with the answer to the question that we were then asking. In a tense situation caused by the bitter Russian winter, Hitler had taken over as Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, from Field-Marshal Walther von Brauchitsch, just before the attack on Moscow. His orders were for fanatical resistance, and no consideration for the enemy who had broken through the flanks or at the rear. He had given the order for replacement troops to be sent from the Waffen SS and at the shortest notice possible, by air. They had to act as ‘flying firemen’ to support the troops who found themselves in a very tense and dangerous situation, in the middle sector of the front.
In his observations David Irving summed-up by saying, that in those dark months of the winter of 1941, Hitler displayed his determination, combined with the legendary strength of the German soldier, who bore every hardship. On the evening of our arrival in Orel we witnessed, from the edge of the airfield, a huge fire-ball, followed by a hefty explosion. Upon landing, a four-engined Focke-Wulf-Condor plane had crashed, killing all of the passengers, mainly Generals, but it had not been attacked.
The Junkers 52 were no luxury machines and had deficiencies, in comparison with today’s planes. There was no heating and no toilets. One of those deficiencies endangered the take-off of the Junkers that we had just used, upon its turn-around. One of our chums, in his moment of need during our flight, had used a half empty petrol canister in the rear of the plane as a pissoir, not knowing that the mixture of urine and petrol was not digestible for a Junkers, robust as it was. It gave the pilot a couple of uncomfortable minutes.
We spent the night in that hangar, with temperatures of minus thirty degrees. Our journey the next morning was in goods wagons in which we had an iron stove. We could huddle
around and thaw our deeply frozen joints with the added small comfort of fresh straw covering the floor. It did not therefore take very long before we oiled our vocal cords and were singing our old songs. More than once, snowdrifts stopped our train and we had to alight and shift the snow. Those who were first to jump from the wagons unexpectedly landed in chest-high drifts. It happened more than once. So we shovelled ourselves free for the rest of the journey, from one drift to another.
CHAPTER 11
War in Winter
In the north, a bitter winter with minus 52 degrees was recorded. Such temperatures for this latitude had been known, but not for the previous 140 years. There has never been a soldier born, nor a weapon invented that could combat those extreme conditions. The result was devastating.
The Red Army used that situation and prepared a counter-offensive to stop the German army at Moscow’s doors. They thanked ‘General Winter’ for the ‘Wonder of Moscow’, as it was called, for being an eternal ally to Russia. For the first time, Josef Stalin sat in the Kremlin and enjoyed the first glimmer of hope. Till then nothing, be it weather or enemy, had managed to bring the ‘victory’ march of the Wehrmacht to a halt. In the October of 1941, ‘General Morass’ succeeded in hindering the offensive. Then the frosts of November solved the problem.
In the summer, as the German army crossed the Beresina river, a right-hand offspring of the river Dnjepr, the Soviets lost all their confidence. That river held a ‘nimbus’, a storm-cloud, i.e. a threatening portent for the Red Army, knowing that Napoleon had had very heavy losses, on his retreat in 1812. The river gave his Grande Armée an insurmountable problem. The flow of the river simply had to stop all other attempts to cross it. The German spearhead had reached the last tram-stop of the outlying districts, 18 kilometres from Moscow. Privileged Russian officials packed their cases and left. Government and diplomatic corps members were then taken to safety, behind the Volga.
Many of the population were convinced that the Wehrmacht was about to march into Moscow. There was much unrest, leading to shops and flats being looted by evacuees. Some Communist Party members even burned their party membership books. Groups of the NKVD, the People’s Commission of Internal Affairs, took a hand, shooting mutineers. They also opened the doors of the prisons.
Soviet General Georgii K. Zhukov formed militia divisions from over 100,000 members of the population, to defend Moscow. Over half a million citizens built street barriers and anti-tank trenches. The same military laws now applied to civilians, as if they were fighting on the front, with ‘panic-makers, cowards, and traitors’, being shot. There was no return.
The seizure of Moscow however, never took place. A German Communist played a decisive role in that phase of the war. He was Dr Richard Sorge, Russia’s correspondent and agent in Tokyo. He gave unquestionable information to the Kremlin, that the threatening war between Japan and the USA, in the Pacific, would prevent Japan becoming an ally of Germany. Their support with their Kwantung Army would have to be withdrawn from the Russian borders. Russia now had the use of 150 divisions and 44 brigades in readiness along the 3,000 kilometre eastern border. They were fully equipped for a Russian winter. They consisted of highly experienced Siberian and Mongolian soldiers who were considered to be Russia’s élite. We were to experience how good they were. All of that tipped the scales against us taking Moscow at that time.
The German-Soviet frontline during the winter of 1941/42. A cross marks the area below Tula where the author fought
Before the question was settled, we had a local attack from a ‘Red’ fighter, literally diving at us out of the high heavens. It welcomed us with a high-explosive bomb. Landing fifteen feet away, it blew half of the tar-covered roof off the railway station in which we had newly made our quarters. The side walls fell away, and no one had heard it coming. The shock was greater than the damage, with only a few of the men being slightly wounded. Our journey was by no means at an end.
The next day we were transported by lorries. We moved over roads thick with snow, and were attached to a battalion of a motorised SS Infantry Brigade. The long column of vehicles drove through the bleak landscape of the white steppes in the direction of the Front. The ‘road’ was marked on both sides by wooden posts, with rough bundles of straw nailed to them.
Drawing by the author showing his front-line position in January 1942
Despite having woollen gloves, our hands were prone in those temperatures to a serious degree of frostbite. We had to conscientiously keep hands and fingers moving, beating our hands against our chests to avoid circulation arrest. In such temperatures frostbite would undoubtedly have been the result. The same exercise applied to our feet too. So we stamped continually on the floor of the lorry, for our leather boots, sufficient in warm Carinthia, were here totally inadequate. There were also no facilities for other bodily needs. There were no considerate stops made for ‘calls of nature’. They had to be performed underway, with the use of a cargo-hatch and the friendly help of our chums.
We were very happy when the vehicle had to stop because of snowdrifts. We warmed up by shovelling snow once more. When the motors were turned off, we heard the roar of guns in the distance and knew then that we were not so far away from the Front. In December, in Russia, the light fades at around three in the afternoon, and we could see the far off lightning of tracers flashing against the grey sky.
Unexpectedly, some groups had to continue on foot. ‘Marching’ with full packs degenerated into simple torture in the deep snow. Now and again, a column of tanks would pass and we were readily given a lift. Although sitting exposed in the bitter wind and being uncomfortable, it was better than going on foot. We had not gone far before we had to spring from the tank into deep snow, as a small plane circled above us. We waved at first, thinking that it was one of ours, until we saw the red star on its rump and it started to dive in the direction of our column. The tank, a PzKpfw IV, zig-zagged at full speed in order to avoid the plane, which was firing at it with everything it had. Although boasting 30 to 50mm thick plating, the plane succeeded in bringing the tank to a halt, having damaged its most vulnerable parts, the track and track-wheels. We, as unprotected infantry, had been vulnerable too, but had been spared.
After the attack the column moved on once again. Once more, the men climbed on the moving tanks. At least most of them did. Somehow my friend Robby and I didn’t manage it. We were left behind with the damaged tank and its crew of five. The crew set about repairing their tank, which under normal circumstances was a quick and practised exercise and without problems. But under those conditions it was an inhuman expectation, the ice-cold track parts literally sticking to the men’s stiff fingers. We knew that we could do nothing to help. However, we did not like the idea of being separated from the rest of the battalion, and worried that we would not catch up with them. Perhaps they were in the next village? With that hope, we made the decision to go it alone, on foot. The decision was not a good one.
We ‘marched’ kilometre after kilometre without seeing a single house. It was now dark. We were also dog-tired. Eventually a misty shape was to be seen in the distance, to one side of the road. It had to be houses! Like a desert island in an eternal white sea, a low farm building, framed by naked trees, appeared. There was smoke wafting into the dark sky from its chimney-pot. It was in a small village. The smoke indicated people, but were they friend or foe?
We froze and sweated, at the same time, at the prospect of the only choice that we had. We must go into the village, for we could not have survived a night under open skies. We released the safety-catches of our weapons and, step-by-step, we slowly entered the unknown village with our hearts in our mouths. We had to make pauses because of the deep snow, but with ears strained and the eyes of Argus, we breathlessly reconnoitred the whole village. It had obviously come under fire at some time, for we found burned-out houses of which only the stone chimney-breasts were standing in the ruins. There was no movement in the village. It was all so still and so dea
thly quiet. Any tracks to be found had long been covered by wind-blown snow. So we returned, and very carefully approached the cottage with the smoking chimney.
‘Hands up! Rucki werch!’ The simple wooden door, with an old horse-blanket to keep out the draughts, was not locked. To our relief, only a Russian farmer’s family huddled in the corner of the room, anxious and looking questioningly at us. With gestures we quickly found out that Russian soldiers had been in the village, only hours beforehand, a patrol of Cossacks on horseback.
One has to realise that the Russian front was interspersed with single villages, miles apart from one another. It was not so clear-cut as one might imagine, and the villagers had a lot to endure. The villages had changed hands many times, between German soldiers and the Soviets. There had been casualties among the civilians, and we were to learn that our hosts were the only ones left in the village. Many had been killed, some had fled, and every able-bodied man left alive had been forcibly taken away by the Red Army.
After it was accepted by our hosts that we two Germanskis did not mean them any harm, they relaxed a little. We too thawed out, that meant our stiffly frozen uniforms and leather boots. The mother of the family, the Matka, cooked potatoes in their skins for us, which we ate with raw and half-frozen onions. In return, we presented them with bars of chocolate from our iron-rations, for they were friendly people. We shared the warm, smoky and petroleum-lit Russian home, not only with the family, but also, to our horror, with fleas! We stayed until daybreak, alternating guard duty in those hours.
The darkness firstly was the friend of partisans, and secondly the snow was the friend of the Cossacks, making them and their horses a silent enemy. We went to the door during the night to take a look now and again, but all was peaceful outside. Single stars twinkled in the sky above the endless snow-clad earth which gradually turned to a neon-red, over the thatch of the house, in the direction of the Front.
In the Fire of the Eastern Front Page 10