We sit down and start to split some old newspapers. Some pull the schweisslappen [strips of newspaper used inside boots] out of their boots. Soon the entire first platoon is steaming like a train station. This “Mahorka” is really bad stuff, though since all we’ve been smoking these past few days is grass, leaves, and all kinds of herbs, it tastes like the best Italian tobacco.
We set up camp on a meadow on the outskirts of the village. We pitch our tents and dig foxholes for cover. The “wandering plumber store,” guys who are responsible for all of the pots, pans, and cooking equipment, are relieved of their precious load; frying and cooking takes place soon thereafter. After eating, we just sit around, staring into the evening sky not worrying about the front line at all.
No one will ever know how it all started: out of the blue, someone starts singing a song in a clear tenor voice; all of a sudden it gets so quiet that “Min Bohn’s” cigarette slips out of his mouth (now that I think about it, his mouth was actually quite wide open). Others start singing along and soon the whole bunch is singing. Some just sit with their arms around their knees; others lie on their backs using their arms under their heads as pillows. The singing becomes louder and louder: “Brave little soldier’s wife, we will come home soon!”
The town of Zhitomyr under German occupation. Panje wagons can be seen passing through in the background. (Photograph courtesy of Håkan Henriksson.)
The song “My home stands in the most beautiful meadow…” starts up after a short pause, and everyone is singing. Workers, farmers, teachers, and businessmen are all singing together. They have all become comrades in their gray uniforms. With their steel helmets, and in the face of death, they sing this melancholy song line by line, and with devotion. They fill each line with their longing for peace, tranquility, their wives and kids.
They do not have their own words for the emotions that dominate their spirits. It is awkward for them to express their emotions, which is why they sing a song about the house or valley where they were born. There is a gorgeous sky full of stars above me. Those same stars are also right now above my house in Westhausen. Are you thinking of me, my dear Rosel!?
After about ten hours of quality sleep, I get up to take a close look around the village. Groups of refugees, mostly women and children, arrive from all directions; they had been hiding out in the surrounding woods. The men of the village were forced to fight for the Reds and have fallen dead in their houses and on the streets. There are shocking scenes everywhere we turn. Women are looking for their dead husbands and brothers. Children are finding the torn apart bodies of their fathers. Horrible images. A woman with an infant in her arms tries to pull the dead body of her husband into an old foxhole in order to bury him.
An elderly couple is seated at the corner of a house. The old man is hunched over—dead. The babuschka [Russian for grandmother] leans against her husband, her eyes fixated on the horror surrounding them. Their sons and grandsons lie inside the house in large, black pools of blood. She has lost her voice, and her soul is forever dead.
A little further away, a group of about twenty comrades lie mowed down from machine gun fire. Two dead fighters gripped in a deadly man-against-man fight lie dead in the neighboring garden. The Red is still grasping onto his bayonet in his rigid hand. Gauging from the wound, he had stabbed the German in the neck. The Red’s head is swollen; the German’s hands are still clinched around the neck of the Russian like iron clamps. I know all too well the horror of man fighting against man. We are unable to separate all the bodies, so both friend and foe are buried together. In hole after hole we bury twenty-one of our best comrades. Fifty-eight Russians are buried in a mass grave.
The heat is unbearable. The stench of decay is disgusting. We hold handkerchiefs in front of our faces to protect ourselves from it. We have to use force to pull the women and children away from their dead relatives. The risk of infection is also very high.
My knees are weak on our way back home. Is it because of the brutal heat, or the horrific images?
24 July: Alternating periods of sun and rain showers. It is like a greenhouse in the swamps, and we must take quinine tablets to prevent the spread of malaria. After weeks of continuous exhaustion, many symptoms start to take effect during this time of rest. One comrade has nerve fever [febris nervosa]. During the attacks, he jumps up, shoots about, and tries to attack the Reds; but there aren’t any. The poor devil is going to be transported further to the rear this afternoon. Most, however, are suffering from serious intestinal diseases (also known as shitting uncontrollably). I am one of them. But this is nothing in comparison to the bloody battles fought during this past week. We are so deeply thankful for having this chance to rest!
25 July: One could wallow in self-glorification after all the laudatory speeches we’ve heard: “Your admirable accomplishments will find their place in history. Your bravery is unprecedented!” and so on…. It goes like this the entire day. The commander of the division, the commander of the corps, and Field Marshal Reichenau—all of them have suddenly taken us into their hearts. We have been promised French wine, champagne, chocolate, cigarettes, and sardines. Poor old stomach, how will you cope with all of these delicacies? Well, at least we are happy; however, we have done nothing more than our duty.
26 July: We receive good news from the front: the Russians are retreating to Korosten [Ukraine], all while desperately trying to fight.
27 July: Our days of rest are over. We are advancing to Kiev.
28 July: Zhitomir fell after severe street battles. Occasionally Russian tanks advance in order to give cover to the retreating Bolsheviks. Russian fighters and bombers are making our lives miserable. Our convoys are repeatedly rewarding their targets. The Red masses pull back to Kiev, which is apparently heavily fortified.
Once again, there’s going to be difficult urban combat.
29-30 July: We advance kilometer after kilometer under light artillery fire and minor infantry fights.
31 July: We take a short break 40 kilometers past Zhitomir. The same subject dominates our conversations: when will this campaign be over? Someone spread a rumor that we will be dismissed after this mess. What an immature religious belief! First, I think that the Russian campaign will last much longer. (I even voice this opinion in contrast to those officers who believe that it will be over within two months). Second, does anyone believe that glorious, veteran fighters like us will be sent home to search for fishing worms in their gardens? We shall see if I am not right on at least one of these points.
1 August: We stop in a small pine forest with a tiny lake. As we will be here for a few hours, we peal our sweaty uniforms from our bodies and jump into the pee-warm, dirty water. But this joy is short-lived—Ratas suddenly appear and hammer quite a few rounds over our heads. Right at the beginning of the attack a hand grenade kills one of our own. What a damn mess! Wet as dogs, we quickly put our clothes back on and take cover under the trees. Just in time—ten Martin bombers appear soon after. All of a sudden there are smoke trails soon followed by detonations. Goddamn it!
We are very lucky. When the yellow smoke clears we can see that exactly where our camp would have been is now covered with craters from the shelling.
The Russian fighters are unpleasantly active these days. We had a bad surprise yesterday afternoon. Three heavy aircraft flew over us at an extremely low altitude. Since they did not fire, we didn’t pay much attention. Shortly after, we hear wild machine gun fire to our rear. A team of scouts, including myself, is assembled to go back and see what is going on. As we reach the edge of the forest, we see a group of about fifteen civilians running like mad onto a bridge. Suddenly, something whistles above our heads; we throw ourselves to the ground and simultaneously five or six hand grenades explode with a deafening bang just a few meters away from us. In short bursts we sprint from cover to cover in order to approach the group. With great effort we manage to cut off access to the bridge for this ferocious firing group.
We find the big s
urprise in the meadow—parachutes. Russian soldiers in civilian clothes had jumped from the aircraft with order to destroy this important bridge. What a lucky coincidence that we caught them and prevented the bridge assault at the last minute. Their boxes full of dynamite would have been enough to destroy an entire city neighborhood. One of the paratroopers has unfortunately managed to escape; a burst from his machine gun killed one of our comrades and seriously wounded another.
2 August: It is not much further to Kiev. We see it on the map and are able to feel it from the desperate resistance we encounter. We are only able to make slow progress. The first line of bunkers lies in front of us. Apparently, there are a dozen or more lines of various fortifications past that. Bunkers, minefields, swamps, automatic flamethrower traps, and who knows what else.
Difficult hours and days are ahead of us, but we have become so stubborn that nothing is able to shock us anymore. We no longer care about the crashing blows, the low hum of bombs dropping from aircraft, and the chirping of machine gun bursts.
Life on the front has made me a fatalist. Now, everything is up to fate; how else could we carry on! Shells have plowed our lines. The ground was propelled into the air just a few meters in front of me. A shower of glowing hot shrapnel rains down on us. Comrades to the left and right have been torn apart; my uniform is splattered with their blood. The blow throws me on my back, yet I am not hurt. Fate! If I’ve made it alright through the hell of Zwiahel with its 1,000 dead, then things will go well in the future.
3 August: It is our wedding anniversary, dear Rosel! Do you still remember this: One evening, we were sitting outside in the garden at Hausen. It was also August 3, and your stupid husband had completely forgotten that it was our anniversary. I could really tell how upset you were about my mistake.
Here it is again, August 3; a day of non-stop fighting and casualties. Yet, I remember our wedding anniversary. I thank fate for allowing our paths to cross and making you, my darling, my wife and the mother of our beloved Erika.
Please God, let me return home safely, so that I can make up for my mistake and still have time to catch up on everything!
Despite fierce resistance, we manage to break through enemy lines in the evening. We are making good progress.
4 August: We are now about 15 kilometers from Kiev. The Weta Line is before us, and is fortified with all the bells and whistles. Three well performed attacks are knocked off by the Russians. Indeed, that is not the way to do it!
It appears that there are problems at HQ, as things are not going as planned. There are changes in the command structure, and a few generals are exchanged. The number of casualties is just not in balance with our success. I really do not like this shit.
5 August: We are digging in. There is heavy artillery fire all day long. Under the cover of night we are able to get closer to the line of bunkers. Thank goodness everything goes well and without much notice by the enemy.
We take position without much fighting in the Glewacha Forest at about midnight. Everything must be dug into the ground by morning. The bunker cannons and the Caucasian snipers snub out anyone who can be seen in the daylight.
6 August: Heavy fire starts as expected around 0500 hours. I am sitting in B-position [beobachter, or observer] and am able to see our impending doom as no one else can. The sap [short trench dug from the front-trench] is right at the edge of the forest. From here, the terrain slopes gently down to the Weta River. That damn river looks like it will drink a lot of blood (perhaps mine too). Behind the river is an enormous anti-tank trench filled with barbed wire.
Well camouflaged bunkers line the trench. The firing is coming from them. Death is rolling toward us. A crushing wall of fire crawls slowly, very slowly, up the hill. These schweine shoot with a precision that could have only been learned through intensive training. Halfway up the hill, the firewall now reaches a tree-covered farmhouse. Cracking and splintering is heard when tree branches, wooden beams, and bricks go swirling through the air. The stinking firewall moves on.
Do not lose your nerves now, Hannes! I estimate that death will be arriving any minute now. Everybody has been warned. We claw our fingers into the dirt. We have sweat on our forehead out of fear. God, if we were at least able to defend ourselves! And then all hell breaks loose. There is a howling, an enormous roar, thundering, cracking, and the humming of thousands of splinters.
Foul-smelling smoke floods into our trenches. Did this last seconds or minutes? I cannot say. I pull my nose carefully out of the dirt to see that the firewall has moved on. I remain deaf for minutes. There is something wet on my face—blood! Thank goodness it is just a scratch. Our position is in chaos. The tree trunks we used for cover have been torn to shreds. Portions of the trenches have been filled back up with dirt. One position received a direct hit. Two comrades were killed and three were wounded. Overall, we are lucky; it could have gone worse.
This afternoon, artillery is brought into position in the forest to our rear. There are many cannons in addition to some mammoth calibers, which are probably mortars that will be used here for the very first time. The new cannons are hidden from view of us soldiers. Night falls and single shells are fired toward the enemy positions. One could call it a trial run. It is nice that our barbarians are letting us hear something from them.
We receive orders to attack tomorrow at around 2300 hours. My God, that is going to be tough. And to be honest, I am sick of it.
7 August: Officers are standing next to the long-barrel cannons, howitzers, mortars, and grenade launchers. They pressure the crews by staring at their wristwatches. The short hand is going in circles… The final minute has just started; it seems to have no end! Hundreds of barrels spit their deadly loads into the sky. Howitzers, mortars, and large caliber long-barrel cannons begin their work. There is thundering and howling as death races toward the saps, bunkers, cannon positions, machine gun nests, and trenches. Our artillery hammers down on the Weta fortifications for thirty minutes.
We switch to the attack at exactly 0510 hours. Like many times before, we work hand-in-hand with the Sturmpioneren and the Flammenwerfer [flamethrowers]. Against our expectations, everything went excellently. The entire attack unfolded as if it were on the training field in Ohrdruf. Within an hour we are under the cover of the anti-tank trench on the banks of the Weta down from the wildly flaming bunkers. Our grenades fly through the bunker openings. Loads of explosives and flamethrowers polish them off.
Surprise! Three bunkers have been cleaned out and a nice breach has been opened after just two hours. Now how does that sound? My dear gentlemen, we shit a great deal in our pants during this nice scene from Wochenschau [German weekly newsreel]. Quite a few have thrown their arms into the air, did an about-face—such an awkward movement—and fallen down stiff on the banks of the Weta River. And by the way—we attacked the bunkers dressed as Adam [i.e. naked]. I wonder if these Red officer whores were decent enough to cover their eyes with their hands! Either way, it was necessary because of the mud in the river. What did the sergeant used to say: “I can determine a soldier’s character from the state of his uniform.” Yes, dear Fips, come to us and tell us about your “states.” Maybe you could fetch the clothes of the brave soldiers from the other side of the river. You see, we honored your wishes and spared our clothes. We miss your groveling speeches.
We roll up Russian positions one after another. The hill across the Weta is firmly in our hands by the afternoon. Only the village of Potschtowaja and the bridge are still occupied by the enemy. It has been planned to take the bridge in a swift action, since it is crucial for our motorized units. This time it is someone else’s job to attempt this risky undertaking. We’ll provide the fire protection. These guys go in forcefully. By nightfall the bridge and village are cleansed of enemies. We are in charge of guarding the bridge after midnight. This is not without danger, since the Russians are placing well targeted fire onto the bridge and village. Finally, after a few hours we are relieved and take positions to guard
the northern exit.
Potschtowaja is in flames. We hear the crackling of the fires. Cows are bellowing somewhere out in the distance. They must be trapped in their barn and are burning alive. The wind drives thick clouds of smoke toward us. A trail of smoke is over the entire village. The fire glows red; the heat takes our breath away. Every other house is on fire. The cracking of rounds left behind by the Russians can be heard among the sizzling and crackling. We climb over hot debris. The wall of a house collapses nearby. Wounded soldiers are being carried past us. The fires light up a Red Cross flag. The singing of an airplane is above our heads.
Rosel and Hans in the Black Forsest.
Hans and Rosel with other German soldiers in the Black Forest.
(Photo courtesy Christine Alexander and Mason Kunze)
8 August: It is raining. The trenches that were dug so quickly are full of water. One lies in his dirt hole like a sack. Our uniforms are saturated with dirty yellow water. We lie trembling from the cold and fear in our “bathtubs” or “water caskets.” Volley after volley is fired to the other side. There are explosions all around us. They look like the arborvitae found around the Frankfurt central train station—“trees of life”!
That is ironic… death is walking through our lines here! We have twelve dead within half an hour. Goddamn it! If only at least the rain would stop. I cannot stand much longer looking at the red soup in the holes of our fallen soldiers. I don’t like tomatoes, but I do love tomato soup.
Disgusting. One could puke his guts out! The same comrades who attacked the bunkers on the Weta yesterday, full of bravery, are now lying ripped apart in their holes. When a comrade receives that final blow ripping his guts out, one should no longer look at him. Whatever follows, does that not belong to him and his heroic efforts? It is ugly, plain awful. I am tired, tired of all that is around me.
Eastern Inferno Page 6