Not surprisingly a flurry of activity resulted on the Russian side. Soviet General Konstantin Rokossovsky, whose Sixteenth Army was located just west of Moscow, received an unwelcome reminder of Stalin’s resolve. He said:
‘Comrade Stalin called me during the night. The situation was pretty difficult and our units had already fallen back in a number of areas. We knew that the Commander-in-Chief would give us such a dressing down we would feel sick. So I picked up the receiver with the special line with some trepidation. He asked me one question “Are you aware, comrade Rokossovsky, that the enemy has occupied Krassnaya Polyana, and do you realise that if Krassnaya Polyana is occupied it means that the Germans can bombard any part of the city of Moscow?”’(10)
Rokossovsky could only agree. Counter-attack orders were issued. Sixteenth Army had already been forced to pull back from Solnechnogorsk, ‘giving rise to a serious situation,’ as General Zhukov later explained. Units were moved into the area from the Supreme Headquarters Reserve. The Russian line was bending in an arc commensurate with German pressure, but did not buckle. Zhukov in early December was beginning to detect ‘from the nature of the military operations and from the attacks of the enemy forces that the offensive was grinding to a standstill and that the Germans had neither the manpower nor the arms to continue their drive’. Michael Milstein, an officer on Zhukov’s staff, recalled, ‘we were able to capture German staff documents in front of Moscow and all these indicated that Soviet reserves appeared to be exhausted, and there would be no more available.’(11)
The Russian Supreme Command inserted forces sufficient only to hold the line while they amassed forces for a counter-offensive immediately behind the front. Soviet tank driver Benjamin Iwantjer remarked on the extent of the casualties they had already suffered. ‘Standing before those who have already died in this war leaves us remaining alive with a sense of almost unbearable guilt,’ he admitted.(12) General Zhukov, however, had no compunction in exacting whatever price was necessary to create the necessary conditions for his planned counter-stroke. The Soviet West Front continued to be reinforced with two newly formed armies – the First Shock and Tenth Armies – as well as a number of other units combined into a third, named Twentieth Army. Still the Germans suspected nothing.
Zhukov was a master of military deception. He applied measures similar to those he had conducted as commander of the First Mongolian Army Group in 1939 after the Japanese invasion of Mongolia. The formation successfully encircled and destroyed a Japanese force in a surprise assault on the River Khalkhin Gol. Although Zhukov’s force had been 644km from the nearest railhead he clandestinely organised massive deliveries of matériel, assembling a huge tank force which subsequently overwhelmed the Japanese in a totally unexpected attack. These same deception measures were reenacted on the Moscow front to give the impression that the Russians were intent on defence rather than offence. Soviet artillery observer Pawel Ossipow, preparing for the attack, recalled:
‘We had to dig ditches at temperatures of −30°C with the ground frozen hard to a depth of 60–70cm. There were only picks, crow bars and shovels available to do the job. The work was done mostly at night because we would have been seen by day. It took about two days before we were dug in. On 1 December we occupied the fire positions. A few days later the warm clothing was brought up, fur jackets, gloves, mittens, padded trousers and felt boots. It was already much better after that, because we had to sleep in the snow next to the guns, on top of the ammunition boxes. It was uncomfortable but we did not freeze and we remained combat-effective.’
Soviet soldiers were prepared to endure whatever was necessary to win this war. Lew Kopelew, a junior officer, pointed out, ‘a lot of people forget the fact that we fought voluntarily, many of us, millions – and we wanted to counter-attack.’(13)
Zhukov transposed this Mongolian experience to camouflage preparations for the pending counter-offensive. Transport movement from the interior was cloaked in secrecy. Extensive reconnaissance was conducted alongside meticulous planning to enable the passage of large formations from their assembly areas to attack points. Strict security was applied to briefings on a ‘need to know’ basis. Bogus signals, radio traffic and other disinformation methods were used to cloak the intent of the operation. Pamphlets had even been issued during the Mongolian operation which offered Soviet soldiers advice on defence and were left in situations where they might be found by the Japanese. Concentrations and all regrouping activity were conducted by night. Officers carried out reconnaissance dressed in soldiers’ uniforms and used lorries rather than distinctive cars and jeeps. Tanks, heavy weapons and other equipments were painstakingly camouflaged and dispersed. Artillery barrages were fired to disguise the noise of marching units and other methods were employed to dampen engine noise.
The attack orders were not issued until the last possible moment for fear of compromising security,(14) after which routes needed to be cleared of snow. This strategic deception was based on a fine balance between concentrating the mass of overwhelming strength at a given point and not dissipating its impact through compromising surprise. Applying barely sufficient and piecemeal resources to counter local German penetrations contributed to the overall deception. German units had become accustomed to strong local counter-attacks, and never realised the sinister implication behind these probes. As a consequence, the steady Soviet build-up was misinterpreted as ‘last-ditch’ efforts to retain key ground. The 7th Panzer Division front line reports, for example, gave little indication that its bridgehead across the Moscow–Volga canal was clashing with the newly formed First Shock Army. Likewise, 2nd Panzer Division, pushing forward a salient in the Krassnaya Polyana area within striking distance of Twentieth Army – similarly expanding and preparing to attack – misconstrued increasing resistance as fanaticism.
Soldiers from the 2nd Panzer Division occupying the villages of Katjuschki and Gorki near Krassnaya Polyana on 4 December soon found ‘it was possible to observe everyday life in the capital using scissor-telescopes’. The distance as the crow flies to the edge of the city was 16km. Much to their frustration, they were unable to engage Soviet soldiers daily disembarking at Lobnya station in sight, because their supporting artillery was out of ammunition. Kampfgruppe ‘Buck’ from Infantry Regiment 304, in taking these villages had placed themselves within ‘cannon range’ of the Moscow city limits. Conditions were harsh. Layers of jackets of temperate issue coats offered the only protection against an icy east wind. Movement was so difficult that it was decided lightly wounded soldiers should be kept with the battle group rather than sent to the rear. Partisan activity and snowstorms had converted administrative and resupply runs into perilous activity. Nightfall came abruptly and as early as 15.30 hours in these wintry conditions, at which point whoever was not on guard or building defences disappeared inside a dwelling for shelter.(15)
A number of German probes were conducted toward the city outskirts. One combat group from 240th Infantry Regiment, supported by a 52nd Flak Regiment unit, worked its way forward in temperatures of −40°C to the Krjukowa railway station. This was a stop on the local Moscow suburban railway line. They passed a signpost at a road intersection, barely visible in light snow, reading ‘22km to Moscow’.
Leutnant Heinrich Haape, moving forward on a liaison visit to the 106th Infantry Division south of 2nd Panzer, found the optimism in the rear was greater than that at the front. ‘We were told that the great final attack on Moscow would begin within the next few days,’ he heard. ‘Morale was at peak level and everyone seemed confident that the city would fall before the year was out.’ Spiritual momentum alone seemed to be maintaining the advance. ‘The troops argued,’ observed Haape, ‘that rain, mud, snow and frost had failed to stop them; they had earned Moscow and now it must fall to them.’ Haape’s view encapsulated what every soldier felt: the culminating point of this battle was fast approaching. ‘Moscow, a city that had haunted our thoughts during the long, marching kilometres, and which now seemed
to be approaching us like a city in a legend,’ he wistfully reflected, ‘screened from us by seven veils’. Haape was close to the city centre. ‘It was a sobering, almost frightening, thought that if one continued at this speed for only 15 minutes we would be in Moscow itself, and a further 15 minutes would bring us into Red Square or to the walls of the Kremlin.’(16)
Across the front there were repeated glimpses of the tantalising prize. The combat diary of the 87th Infantry Division reported its 173rd Infantry Regiment was manning positions in temperatures of −30°C on 3 December on the edge of the forest of Masslovo, at the confluence of the Istra and Moskva rivers. They were ‘no more than 20km from the outskirts of Moscow, whose towers are already in sight’. The report’s author felt able to ‘boast with pride that they were among those German soldiers in World War 2 who came nearest to the capital of the Russian empire’.(17)
Back home in the Reich, the gulf between expectation and reality had become even greater. Wehrmacht High Command reports were no longer effusive. There were no more Sondermel-dungen. On 25 November it was officially reported, ‘the attack in the central sector of the Eastern Front is enjoying further success.’ Four days later, ‘further progress has been made in the attack on Moscow’. On 1 December it was announced that ‘infantry and Panzer formations are advancing closer to the capital’, ‘deep penetrations’ on ‘a broad sector’ were reported the next day and ‘gains’ on 3 December. The population suspected developments of greater significance than these frugal statements. Newspapers tended to give more space to ‘smaller’ successes achieved by minor Wehrmacht units, which were regarded as insignificant compared to previous epic results. Public opinion was convinced the reportage was masking unannounced important developments. A brief stir was created by the capture of Solnechnogorsk, 50km northwest of Moscow, which appeared to indicate the Wehrmacht’s determination to prosecute the advance whatever the weather.
There was further anticipation by 1 December that Moscow may yet fall. Much popular news was concerned with the ‘tragic’ deaths of well-known Nazi personalities. The Luftwaffe general and stunt-flying film star Ernst Udet died, as did top-scoring fighter ace and Spanish Civil War veteran Werner Molders. This offered some distraction from the dramatic events being played out around Moscow. Winter thus far in Berlin had been reasonably mild, averaging 2°C. Only 14 days had been recorded below freezing. The ‘Frozen Offensive’ seemed a long way away indeed.(18)
When Leutnant Haape reached the forward positions of the 106th Infantry Division, temperatures had dropped to double figures below freezing. Russian positions were pointed out on the ground. Nearby was a solitary Moscow tram stop, which was wistfully regarded by Haape and his companions. They were so near, yet so far. The fall of Moscow could mean the end of the war. The tram stop was barely 16km from the capital.
‘We stopped and stared at the wooden seats on which thousands of Muscovites had sat and waited for the tram to clang down the road from Moscow. There was an old wooden bin attached to the wall. I felt inside and dragged out a handful of old tram tickets. We picked out the Cyrillic letters which by now we knew spelled “Moskva”.’(19)
The forward triangle of villages and towns around Krassnaya Polyana occupied by the 2nd (Vienna) Panzer Division was the nearest Kiel that had been driven toward the Moscow suburbs. Katjuschki, held by the Kampfgruppe ‘Buck’ from 134 Regiment, formed part of an integrated defence position mutually supported by Gorki, held by Kampfgruppe ‘Decker’ to its north-west and Putschki to the rear. Oberleutnant Georg Richter’s battery from Artillery Regiment 74 was in Putschki with Kampfgruppe ‘Rodt’ from 2nd Regiment. It was ‘a big town, practically a city with factory blocks and store-houses’, Richter explained, writing proudly in his diary, that they ‘were the furthest forward of all the divisions operating on the Ostfront’. Now wearing Russian felt boots, the artillery officer felt the rate at which temperatures were falling merited daily inclusion in his diary. Starting at −15°C on 3 December, he plotted a daily decrease to −28°C on the 6th. The battle had become merciless in his opinion, sustained by the inescapable logic that ‘what you took once, even with weak forces, was held’ because ‘if you give it up, it could only be retaken with very heavy casualties’. His artillery battery, not even directly in the forward positions, had already suffered a notable 12 dead and 20 wounded. ‘One learned what was meant by fear,’ he observed, because, in the face of such losses, ‘people who earlier commanded respect were exposed as panic-mongering cowards’. Doubts over whether they would actually take Moscow began to surface. ‘We were asking ourselves more often,’ he admitted, ‘whether we would truly break through this ring’. The frequency of local counterattacks also perceptibly increased. ‘The enemy is particularly lively with his attacks today,’ he announced on 2 December, ‘he has received reinforcements.’ It was a steady build-up, ‘first a battalion, the next day a regiment, two regiments, one division, two divisions’ and so on.(20)
The day before, Generalfeldmarschall von Bock accepted, ‘the fighting of the past 14 days has shown that the notion that the enemy in front of the army group has “collapsed” was a fantasy’. His forces were now dangerously over-extended. He complained to Halder, the Chief of the General Staff, that the seriousness of the situation appeared not to have been briefed to Hitler. ‘It was astounding,’ he said to Halder, ‘how little the highest levels of command were informed of my reports.’ The General Staff had retained a mystical faith in the resilience of the Ostheer, paralleled by a firm conviction that the Russians must be at their last gasp. Halder confided to his diary later that day:
‘I emphasize that we, too, are concerned about the human sacrifice. But an effort has to be made to bring the enemy to his knees by applying the last ounce of strength. Once it is conclusively shown that this is impossible, we shall make new decisions.’(21)
On a clear sunny day on 2 December, the men from Kampfgruppe ‘Buck’, occupying positions dug in the Katjuschki village graveyard, received their first hot food from the rear in many days. Previously they had endured snowstorms and the temperature was now −15°C. As they commenced eating, the forward outposts yelled ‘Alarm!’ The German battery outside Putschki immediately opened fire, sending salvoes whooshing over their heads to cascade in a series of crackling detonations on the edge of the wood south of the village. Crouching in their stand-to positions, the German infantry were acutely aware their hot food was going to waste, until Russian counter artillery fire interspersed with Katyusha rocket strikes, burst all over their positions.
Activity was apparent inside the wood. Trees were being snapped off and broken down like matchwood, until, with a series of deep-throated diesel growls, Russian T-34 and BT-7 tanks dashed aside the last trees and swung into an extended line and moved toward the German positions. Russian infantry were labouring through the deep snow behind them. ‘Like a steel Phalanx,’ the Russian armour bore down on the village of Katjuschki. As the Russian artillery switched fire to the rear onto Putschki the rumble of German artillery ceased. Low-flying bombers and thick-bellied ‘Rata’ Soviet fighters swept by and strafed and bombed the German artillery positions. Leutnant Richter had already developed a healthy respect for these attacks which produced a stream of casualties and ‘catastrophic’ damage to vehicles. ‘Enemy pilots,’ he recorded on 2 December, ‘kept our arses warm, as the Landser would say, throughout the day.’
The T-34s and BT-7s grew steadily larger within the sight telescopes of the two German 50mm anti-tank guns hidden among headstones in the graveyard on the southern edge of Katjuschki. Having lost artillery support, everything depended upon the detachment commander, Unteroffizier Hentsch, a cold-blooded veteran of many actions, to fight them off. Hentsch, aware of the T-34’s armoured protection, chose to open fire at the last possible moment and use all his stock-piled ammunition at close range. All were versed in the tactics: drive the accompanying infantry to cover and then engage the tanks. Any that broke through the position were to be l
eft to infantry anti-tank teams who would attack them with hand-held explosive devices. The Russian tank commander, intent on his objective, failed to notice he had outstripped his infantry, who were pinned down by German small arms fire. Kicking up great clouds of snow, the tanks drove directly at the German positions.
The lead tank exploded on a mine as it entered the obstacle belt and ploughed to a shuddering halt, the first of several 50mm rounds slamming into its flank. It suddenly burst into a slurry of flame and black oily smoke. Three tanks were disabled, one after the other, by the solitary 50mm anti-tank gun. Thick clouds of dark smoke pouring out of the wrecks soon disorientated the remaining tanks, which abruptly changed course and began to bypass the village, moving in the direction of Putschki. Hentsch immediately began shooting into their rear as they moved off.
Three tanks remained in front of the graveyard, seeking the antitank gun causing so much damage. They machine gunned the positions and grave plots in a reconnaissance by fire. Another BT-7 erupted, metal, boxes and equipment flying off the decks of the tank as the internal pressure of the explosion flung the hatches open. Unteroffizier Braun, observing the action, saw:
‘A dappled-camouflage T-34 with a red flag in the turret [probably the commander] now knew exactly where the gun was. Having got through the mine belt he accelerated at full speed toward the anti-tank gun. The huge tank was 60 – 50 – 40 – 30 – 20m away. All the time the anti-tank gun fired back. Ricochets bounced high into the air from the forward sloping armour of the T-34. A few metres from the position the tank swung slightly left and rolled over the infantry and crew positions. The endangered soldiers dived out of the way as quick as a flash.’
War Without Garlands: Operation Barbarossa 1941-1942 Page 54