Eastern Inferno

by Christine Alexander

  Over the past few days the Reds have shot many messengers on their motorcycles, dragging them off their bikes in order to torture them terribly and then to kill them. The rashness of the Russian strategy can be seen in the following example:

  This afternoon, when Russian tanks appeared, the crew of one of our panzers climbed out to position its cannon. When we returned, we found it all in flames. A civilian who was in hiding had set it on fire. He was captured and also set on fire.

  There is strong ground and aircraft activity from the Russians during the evening. We hear rumors that we have been encircled by enemy tanks. Scheisse, scheisse! Stay calm and wait and see!

  27 June: Russian anti-tank guns (7.5–22 cm) hammered our positions the entire night. Once again, a night without any peace and sleep. By dawn, the Ratas are present in large numbers; however, none of their firing succeeds at making it into our holes. Like drunken men, they move in, veering to the right, then sharply to the left. We fire like crazy. We know very well what these maneuvers mean—they’re sniffing about our positions. Soon they will either take us under well targeted fire, or the heavy flounders [flundern] will dive down and dribble a dozen or so bombs into our holes. We are therefore ordered to immediately change positions, which is not that easy, since we are under machine gun fire.

  As expected, a jolly group of heavy bombers appear a few minutes later. Again, everything happens in a matter of seconds. Chunks of earth are propelled into the air just 40 to 50 meters from us. Dirt, mud, roots, and entire sections of ground swirl about in the air. Glowing hot pieces of shrapnel land right at our feet. Jagged bolts of lightning slam into the ground with a loud roar. Though as quickly as it started, it was over. The ghostly silence that follows eats on our nerves. Wounded soldiers are moaning.

  What will come next? A third and fourth wave, which uncover our exact positions and blow the living lights out of us? Minutes of anxious waiting follow, but nothing happens. Enemy fire has even started to subside. A single SMG [schweres maschingewehr—heavy machine gun] chugs on for a while, and then there is silence. What is going on? Why don’t the Reds attack this ridiculous bunch of ours? Shortly after, we are given an answer: Our infantry had hobbled in a forced march to our aid. (Hobbled, because it is impossible to talk about walking when mentioning these poor fellows, who have no shoes to cover their blistered feet.) As courteous as the Russians are, they left the area to our soldiers. Now though, the leaf is about to turn!

  28 June: The rest of our motorized groups and most importantly our artillery arrive in the morning. Even more important, though, is the food. The B-Wagen have also arrived. We would have suffered terribly had the Russians attacked us with only a few drops of gas left in our tanks.

  No enemy contact as we advance. Red fighter planes try to disrupt our convoy every now and then, but these brothers do not dare a true attack today, for we have our comrades from the MGK with us today. It is glorious how they pierce the blue skies with their twin-barrel machine guns. Our Heeres-Fla [anti-aircraft forces] stutter as if they are possessed. The gentlemen of the Ratas soon tuck in their tails and disappear while growling ferociously. The farewell they bid with their onboard cannons unfortunately costs us two wounded soldiers.

  29 June: The morning delivers an explanation as to why the Russians disappeared so quickly. We have taken a few Ukrainian POWs who had been hiding out in the bushes. They had lost the will to continue fighting, and are better informed about the situation than we are, and what they have to say, as their meaningful grins demonstrate, makes us happy. The Russians are encircled, and since the encirclement is weak around Dubno, they have begun to concentrate their forces there in order to try and break through.

  Town center of Dubno, present day Rivne Oblast, Ukraine, summer 1941. (Photograph courtesy of Håkan Henriksson)

  Summer 1941. Ruins from the relentless bombing in Dubno, present day Rivne Oblast, Ukraine. (Photo courtesy of Håkan Henriksson)

  We reach Dubno in the evening following a rapid march. The town is free of enemy troops. Earlier in the afternoon, the Russians were forced to surrender the town after putting up a desperate fight. They didn’t leave before vandalizing the town like a bunch of schweine [pigs]. Everything has been crushed to pieces. We find a large pile of mutilated dead bodies in the town prison.

  A so-called “check of the road” on our sidecar motorcycle almost costs us by a hair’s breadth our lives. The Reds need to schedule some extra shooting lessons for their recruits. One should be able to hit a motorcycle with three people from a distance of 150 meters—Yes, yes, when one has joyfully survived, one can make fun of the situation! I think that if our helmets had not been on top of our heads, our hair would have stood straight up—the odds were 100 to 3!

  Our artillery has let out some hell-fire in the area where the Russians were retreating at dusk. Along with our 9th Panzer Division, we advance in pursuit of the Russians. Our panzers continue to scope out the area under the cover of night. We stay behind to protect the flanks. Anyone who knows what it means to protect the flanks in a war with the Bolsheviks understands that we will have yet again another sleepless night.

  German soldiers atop a wrecked Soviet T-34 tank in the vicinity of Dubno.

  (Photograph courtesy of Håkan Henriksson)

  30 June: Against the odds, the night is quiet—quiet according to our standards, as we have grown accustomed over the past few days to quite a bit of noise. Shells fly here and there into the fields behind us. Smaller caliber shots are buzzing right before our feet.

  A hellish spectacle takes place near the runway around 0300 hours. Our panzers must have encountered enemy forces, yet the Reds are nowhere to be seen around here.

  The sun burns mercilessly onto our heads, our limbs are heavy like lead. How nice it would be to take a nap over there in the shade! The Alte [Sergeant] must be capable of reading our minds: “Anyone who is not in charge of the cannons can lie down and sleep.” People forget where they are. They just fall down on the spot. Others are able to make it into the barn, simply to collapse onto the floor and fall sound asleep.

  It is evening when we wake up, our stomachs growling. Here are my words of praise to our cook—the Rudolph [playful reference to the most dominant stag]. He is always with us on the front lines, and he is just as tired as we are, yet he is the one who has prepared a nice meal of pork while we were sleeping. Cries of joy arise from our troops, which is followed by a scolding from our superior officer. The cook is nonetheless touched by our delight. The meal that followed allowed us to almost forget the dead, which were lying a hundredfold everywhere.

  Shortly after dinner, something terrible happens. One of those damn 122-caliber cannons, which has been plowing around quite regularly, crashed into Group Franke. As the foul smoke retreats, the horrible sight is revealed. There amongst the chaos, between the tree trunks, shards of metal, and pools of blood, lie eight dead comrades. Franke himself lies half buried in the ground in a trench, staring obtusely at the chaos. He lashes about at us as we try to dig him out, yelling: “What do you want from me? I’m staying with my men.” The poor guy is close to insanity. After a short time he passes out. He has lost a lot of blood—almost too much blood. A piece of shrapnel has smashed his arm. Life is funny, it was the last Russian shell that struck our camp and caused all of that damage—not a single shot was fired that night!

  1 July: It is quiet again this morning. I am lying in the grass looking into the beautiful, blue summer sky above me. Tiny white clouds are sailing west, toward the homeland. The grass has a strong scent. Bumblebees and honeybees are flying from flower to flower. It is similar to peacetime in the Weil Valley. Do you remember, dear Rosel, how we used to lie next to each other under the sun on the slopes of the valley? You would talk so eloquently and passionately about the life of the ants. I wonder what you are doing right now. I long for you so much.

  A reconnaissance group returns, and has brought prisoners with them. Most of the prisoners are wounded. The unit di
scovered a few enemy positions. Most of the prisoners were taken from local pig farms, where they had been attempting to hide.

  The Russian soldier is a very strange creature. We Germans will never understand them. On the one hand, they are an immeasurably good natured, helpful, and hospitable people. On the other, they are sadistically gruesome. A German-speaking Ukrainian once told me regarding this: “A week ago, Russian heavy artillery was being put into position in Dubno, when a small child ran in front of one of the caterpillars [raupen] and fell. The Russian operating the vehicle saved the child from being rolled over at the last minute. Tears of joy ran down the soldier’s checks for the successful rescue. He picked the little girl up into his arms, gave her some candy and took her home to her mother. When he arrived at the house, the soldier destroyed everything, raped the mother, knocked her unconscious, and cut off her breasts. As he left, he gave the little girl some more candy and a small picture of a saint as a farewell.”

  As a reconnaissance cartographer, Hans Roth took great care to depict the 299th Infantry Division’s various plans of attack. Here in his first journal was an illustration of the encirclement of the town of Nowiny with its coinciding panzer attack.

  That’s Russia! Who can understand what is going on here? The Russian soldier is a tough opponent who stands his ground until the last bullet. He cannot compare to the bravery of the German soldier who gladly fights for the big goat [der groß ziege].

  “Comrade General put me here to shoot. This is why I stand here and shoot.” Dispassionate and in no way convinced by [Karl] Marx’s philosophy, they stand unexcited in their trenches and shoot. The political commissars in the cities and villages, however, are totally different. Like snipers, they ambush our troops marching through the cities. Good luck to the German soldier who falls into their hands. With sadistic joy they will torture him to death and then mutilate his body beyond recognition. We have already witnessed such atrocious scenes. I pray to God that I will not be taken prisoner.

  2 July: It is quiet again today. No shots have been fired. What is going on? I do not like this silence, it eats at my nerves. The Reds have run away and are surely somewhere plotting an evil plan. We hear no news from reconnaissance.

  The heat is making us anxious and aggressive. One even sits in the shade like a pig roasting over a spit. The wind blows the sweaty scent of decay into our noses. Damn the smell of dead bodies!

  Today everything is making me crazy! It is noon, and we are sitting around in a daze. We are sweaty and thirsty, yet we have nothing left to drink. The wells are surely poisoned, and the water that we had brought with us was drunk ages ago. Digging new wells during the day is too dangerous.

  The evening brings cool air and a better mood. We are looking forward to a good night’s sleep in the comfortable barn.

  I continue to be suspicious because of the silence. The thunder of cannons is approaching us from the west. West—that is the direction we came from. Something is going on! This comes as no surprise. A motorcycle messenger from the division races up to us. “Alert! Get ready and climb in your vehicles!” We leave camp five minutes later. It is 2100 hours. We depart on the road that we arrived on from Dubno. Meanwhile though, it has become pitch dark. The awful road, ripped open by shellfire, is the biggest challenge for Sepp’s driving skills and my good eyes! All of a sudden a sharp jerk and we’re stuck in a crater left by a shell. Damn darkness! I hit my shinbones so hard that I am seeing stars. By the time we have pulled the motorcycle out of the hole, our entire convoy has passed and is far ahead. There is no one to be seen around; black loneliness is all that surrounds us. We hear the staccato of a machine gun somewhere in the distance. We pass intersections and forks in the road—nothing, we just keep moving. Thank goodness I know our destination, Nowiny. There are officers sitting in a ditch off to the right side of the road.

  “How do we get to Nowiny?”

  “You have to turn left!”

  And so we drive and drive; it has now been hours. At 0130 hours, we reach a small village. An officer is standing at the last house and stops us. He is terribly anxious and asks us if we are crazy. I take this as a matter of fact, and calmly ask why he is so agitated. The news that he shares does not bring me any comfort: the village and the surrounding area has been cleared by our infantry because an attack of about 200 Russian tanks is expected in an hour. Scheisse! Our guardian angel advises us to turn back, as it would be suicide to drive any further.

  “We are Panzerschuetzen [anti-tank reconnaissance] and not infantrymen, Herr Lieutenant,” and we continue on our way. We drive and drive, no creatures are anywhere to be found. Daylight is starting to appear in the east.

  I have a weird feeling in my ass. We should have arrived in Nowiny a long time ago! Before us stands a large forest and I order the engine to be turned off. Intently, we listen into the night. Not very far from us, Russian commands are clearly audible through the humming and banging. A chill runs down my back; the shock almost overwhelms me.

  Roth depicts the enemy tank (Feindpanzer) attack on July 3, with the infantry’s old and new positions, as well as the counterattack by German Sturmgeschütz assault guns.

  We are in the sector where the Russians are positioning their tanks for the attack! In an instant, we jump on our motorcycle, start the engine, and race off. After an hour we arrive at that infamous intersection. The officers are gone and the Sturmpionieren are digging in anti-tank mines. When we arrive, they stare at us as if we are ghosts. We had to turn to the right—not to the left! Five minutes later we rejoin our division in Nowiny.

  3 July: It is 0300 hours and the PaKs are being brought into attack formation. We lie in our trenches and await the first wave, which should roll toward us within the next few minutes. Our hearts are hammering in our chests; our foreheads are cold and white. With fire in our eyes, we stare toward the gentle waves in the field from where we expect the attack. Soon masses of Russian tanks will approach. We know all too well that it will be life or death for each and every one of us today.

  To surprise our leaders, the Russians have organized an entire tank division and infantry in the adjacent forests. They are going to attempt to break through in this area, since the front line here is extremely narrow. On the double we gathered together an infantry battalion and our tank buster unit, along with ten anti-tank cannons in order to oppose the Russians.

  It is now 0330 hours. There, on the hill directly in front of us, the Russians suddenly appear. Slowly, in a zigzag maneuver, the first wave approaches. They have all the time in the world to floor us.

  “Aim 70!” Damn it, just keep cool! Patience. Let these schweine come closer. 100 meters… 90 meters, 80, now 70 meters. Almost simultaneously, ten shells from our ten anti-tank cannons strike the approaching steel monsters. Is it possible, flames and black smoke are rising from four tanks? Five other tanks are standing motionless. The halt has been lifted; now our task starts. Leave the trenches!

  The next stage of the July 3 battle, with the Soviets third wave (welle) of tanks and the German assault guns advancing.

  Under the cover of our cannons, we draw closer to the tanks that are still standing, and which are still firing like crazy. The second wave approaches, and there on top of the hill one can already see the third wave. We must retreat, as we are under heavy fire. One after the other, we work our way back from one trench to the next. My comrade on the left throws his arms in the air—he’s been hit. The cannon that was protecting us suddenly breaks apart—a direct hit. A comrade lies motionless on the ground right in front of me—dead; and to my right a soldier is also shouting for the medic.

  Just twenty meters to the trench! Please God, help! Will this be the end? They are now shooting shells right in front of our feet. I throw myself down on the ground and hold on to the earth. The ground is being ripped up right before me. I jump up once again, almost stumbling over two comrades who have been torn apart from the shelling. Damn tank cannons! Another impact right in front of me! The shrap
nel is howling around my ears. A fist-size chunk shreds my gas mask; more shrapnel severs the hand piece from my machine gun.

  And then, I finally make it! I am now in the trench. I suddenly do not care anymore. I throw myself on the ground, face to the sky, and wait for the tanks to arrive and crush me.

  Poor Rosel, sweet Erika!… Your husband fell on the field of honor on 3 July… etc., etc.… Don’t think, do not think!

  Meanwhile, the following happened in our section: the accurate fire of our cannons fought off the first attack, and our anti-tank cannons took advantage of the chaos that followed to change their positions. The second wave pushes wild firing toward our previous positions in an attempt to crush us. Suddenly, they receive fire into their flanks from the east. A few heavy tanks are eliminated. They turn immediately to the east and take our current position under fire.

  [Side note:] This saves my life. Apart from myself, there was no one else at our former position. Two men succeeded in making it into the woods to the west. The remaining men were lying in the field either dead or wounded.

  Moments later, the third wave approaches from the hill, and at the same time, our assault guns advance, firing in turn at the second and third waves.

  Photograph taken by an unknown German soldier on 14 September, 1942 in the village of Onufriyvka close to Kremenchuk in present day Kirovohrad Oblast. A group of German soldiers are being awarded the “Eiserne Kreuz”—the Iron Cross. (Photograph courtesy of Håkan Henriksson)