Eastern Inferno

by Christine Alexander

  26 January: There is an incident during the afternoon, unimportant as such, but one that nevertheless leaves us in a state of unrest. An enemy patrol has succeeded in approaching very near to our position; we observe them unknowingly for a while until they throw a few hand grenades, fleeing before we are able to recognize them and fire. Far in the distance we notice a few figures in snow coats disappear and vanish. Nothing can be done to them anymore. The dry sputtering of a machine gun is much too late; the snow splashes up high from the impact of the bullets and dissolves into the sunlight, but the patrol has long since disappeared behind a depression in the ground.

  Us Frontschweine indeed possess a sixth sense by now, and it is telling us that very soon all hell is going to break loose, and this mess is going to start all over. In the neighboring area close to the Sturmpionieren, who are holding the position up to the road, the anxiety is obvious. And when the food service arrives with the evening soup, the machine guns next door are wildly sputtering again. We are in the middle of filling our plates, but are still keeping our ears alert.

  Anti-aircraft fire now enters the developing battle. And shortly after, when the infantry rifles come alive and the first listening post returns with the news that something is happening over there, everybody drops their spoons, grabs their weapons and helmets, and goes over to the post, where the men there eye sharply the encroaching darkness of night. In the meantime, the artillery too, has heard that something is happening up on the front.

  Heavy shells are shuffling through the air and crashing down among the enemy’s trenches. There is a hellish uproar when, to the left of the road, anti-aircraft artillery, which has taken position there, starts sending their lightning missiles hammering and roaring toward the enemy.

  Now everybody knows. And because a breakthrough with heavy tanks, even to a small extent, concerns us all, there is a sudden widespread and silent abandonment of the evening soup.

  The company does not need to wait much longer for the hard work to begin. It must begin!

  How is it that our fingers become stiff at the trigger and will not curve through at the decisive moment? Yes, so much so that some even lower their weapon or machine gun, confused, only to stare ahead, not knowing what is happening to them! Damn! Is this possible? These troops are feldgrau groups, companies who flood through the enemy ditches, waving and calling in their German helmets.

  Is this possible? Are we being fooled by a nightly spook?! But we are all fully alert. A lieutenant colonel, the leader of the infantry, jumps out of the trench. “Stop! What is the password, which regiment!” In the meantime, we have to adjust our scopes with trembling fingers: 200– 150–100. But nobody from the other side gives an answer, which results in a rush of men who are storming, waving, and calling! It’s at that moment that the leader of the company jumps back into the trench and gives orders to fire with thin lips.

  We are shooting with clammy fingers, shooting faster and faster with the fixed sight—in a second, the mirage is over: the calls and orders from over there sound blurry and strange all of a sudden. These aren’t German men, or German commandos; no German infantryman jumps like that! Finally a united, defensive fire hammers into the advancing masses, despite the feldgrau uniform and helmets. We shoot into them with intense and rabid bitterness.

  If only no more new masses, who are no longer in German uniforms would swell over the wide field of snow. Hundreds of Soviets scurry at us, clumped together, and then break apart, to be shot down. With new ones continually breaking away from their positions, these are no longer companies, these are battalions and regiments. How long will we be able to hold out? Is there enough ammunition; how is our supply of hand grenades should it come to the bitter end? But don’t dwell on unnecessary thoughts, stay calm and hold out.

  All through the night the fighting continues. Their reserves seem to be invincible. Only this morning brings some calm along with reinforcements. A rifle company arrives and, despite their exhausting march, immediately takes position on our thin line.

  27 January: Strong patrol activity on both sides. The Reds are preparing for new attacks. Heavy losses from the low altitude attacks of the Bolshevik fighteres and bombers.

  Late in the afternoon more reinforcements arrive: infantry and 2cm anti-aircraft artillery.

  28 January: After the attacks during the night, which were quite strong indeed, it is now calm. The Reds must have suffered tremendous losses; corpses are lying in heaps in front of our positions. Our 8.8 anti-tank cannons destroyed three tanks; one of them was an extra heavy one.

  Reconnaissance units return and bring news that the enemy’s tanks, along with their infantry units, are retreating to the northeast. A counterattack is ordered for tonight. At the same time, we receive orders to march to a different sector. Scheisse! It is always the same: when the danger is over, we are no longer needed! It is always the same fool’s story.

  I am curious which fire we have to put out now.

  “Schisjojedno!!”

  30 January: Never before have I been so aware of the unimaginable vastness of the Russian countryside than now, when the forests and fields are covered by a huge white shroud. For the first time in a long while, the ice cold whistling is quiet today; it isn’t snowing, and thus for the first time we are able to see the incredible vastness of this space. The eye reaches the horizon without being able to stop at one point. A seemingly endless white plain stretches ahead, without interruption—or so it seems—for the deep gorges that cut through the land are hidden by the snow.

  The Reds have secret hiding places. Here, hidden from the naked eye, right in the villages, is the enemy’s line. Here along the upper Donetz is Grjasnoje, a small nondescript village, over which we fought for weeks. The Bolsheviks nearly succeeded in bringing the village into their possession, but at the decisive moment, the sheer will and bravery of the German soldier ensured victory.

  But now, it is all quiet here; this time we have not been called in to be the “fire brigade.” Medium artillery attacks, a few visits from aircraft, every other night a light attack—that is all! And it’s a good thing, because the last few weeks have treated us badly.

  Completely on their own, here as well as in innumerable other places on the Eastern Front, which stretches for thousands of kilometers, the occupying army fights their daily battles. The village, with its sad huts, is our chateau, which we defend together with a company of infantrymen.

  1 February: Last night we had to defend against a particularly vicious attack from the Reds. There was bitter close-range combat, and two good comrades were killed in action.

  The company leader of the infantrymen, a World War I veteran, and an old fighter of the Eastern Front, tells us about the old times. The present war is much more brutal than the Great War 25 years ago, for we are now encountering a fanatical enemy over there on the other side.

  No one surrenders; both sides will fight until the last bullet. More than anything though, is us being overcome right at this moment—due to the vastness of the space—by a feeling of utter abandonment; confidence in our own power is the only thing that gives us hope for victory. We can hardly count on help or support from our neighbors. We only possess the villages, while the fields in between them, where night after night, day after day, tough battles are fought, are a no-man’s land.

  There is no well defined positioning system like there once was during the Great War, because the ground was already hard as stone when the German advance was halted.

  Due to the lack of a contiguous front line, it is possible for the enemy to circumvent individual positions and attack us from the rear or from our flanks. To this, add the difficulty of the terrain, which is traversed by numerous gorges, offering favorable circumstances for the attackers.

  All of this causes our nerves to be strained to their limits, as every night we experience numerous house battles and ambushes. Much too often, just like here in Grasnoje, we have to refrain from using barbed wire barriers because the villag
es are so spread out. Relentless is the battle to seize each individual house, since those pathetic huts are the only protection from the cold. This is also why such dwellings are equipped on their sides with firing ports, so that as soon as the enemy attempts to infiltrate the village, our fierce fire is able to assault them from all sides.

  3 February: Two days and nights of utter peace lie behind us. Only then and now does an egg grenade stumble over into our territory, or we hear the short bellowing of a machine gun or the whistling of a fireball, then all is quiet again. This is a great position to be in; we sure could spend a few weeks in this Grasnoje hamlet.

  It would have been so nice, but it wasn’t meant to be! During the afternoon the guard replacements arrive and with them orders: “Security detachment is to leave Grasnoje, Lieutenant Hegner to report February 5 for orientation in Jakoblewo.”

  Krach! [Bang!] What scheisse! Once again, this is sure looking like another inferno! Oh well, cursing is of no help. The P.299 [299th Panzerjäger Battalion], the good old midwife, has to jump in.

  Our clothes are all packed, we deploy early tomorrow morning.

  4 February: Strenuous march amidst a strong blizzard. On the road, partisan fire. Because we are Frontschweine, and not the young nobility of the supply lines, we make short work of the situation. The closest village bursts into flames—the fireworks feel warm in this damned cold.

  5 February: By midday we arrive in Jakoblewo. A few hours earlier, strong Red aircraft carpeted the place with bombs. Every corner of the place is still on fire. Thank God they did not hit our ammunition or supply facilities. Lieutenant Hegner brings new orders: we are to immediately march on and take up position tonight near Leski. You notice anything, soldier? Take up positions at night? Boys, that stinks!

  I am carrying a few worn out, dirty guys to Leski. Their faces turn serious. “Listen to this.” A low rumbling and thundering drifts over from the east. That is the drumfire from Leski.

  6 February: Everything went well, without any losses, and we move into the trenches and holes. Together with my group, we squat inside a potato cellar. Upstairs, we can hear the thundering crashes; sometimes close, sometimes far away, hissing shells of all calibers are driving into the ground, plowing into the hard, frozen ground, as chunks of earth the size of a table are catapulted meters away. The old Leski vererans know all too well what this hellish concert means.

  A little later, the Red masses will advance again, and as so often is the case these days, will get stuck in our defensive fire. Day after day, and night after night, the Reds keep storming us. The strongest artillery fire is between Charkow and Kursk, potentially the most favorable breakthrough point to our supply line; only here is it possible to start deploying the planned grip against Charkow.

  Taking this hill along with the ruins of Leski is a decisive action for capturing the thruway, the road to Bjelgorod-Charkow, as well as Kursk. The amount of blood that has been shed for this dirt heap is incredible, and there will be more!

  7 February: For hours now, the earth has been splitting open under terrible drumfire from the Reds. Chains of Russian Martin bombers crash their loads into the heap of ruins that is Leski. After two storming attacks during the night, and three during the morning, we are now expecting a fourth wave.

  By 1300 hours, B-position in the west is able to count 1,600 impacts from the heaviest calibers on the hill. Battle headquarters suffers a direct hit; the whole crew has been buried under the rubble. The Wessendorf artillery suffers a direct blow; Klemmer’s dead body is recovered from the rubble.

  In the evening, the fourth attack of the day has been withstood. Meanwhile, the mortars have destroyed our foxhole. The fuel stored there for the close-range fighting of the tanks has ignited; all our belongings have been burnt. The poor pig who has no more blanket in –35° C temperatures, is now also lacking his water bottle and cooking utensils. “Hold out, boys! We cannot falter!”

  Goddamn this hell!

  8–14 February: There is not a single day or night without three or four vicious storm attacks from the Reds. Four hours on end, their racing drumfire battles our meager covers. We fear this relentless hammering from the Bolshevik armies; the mass attacks of the Red infantry do not scare us as much. These are mostly poorly and hastily trained men, who walk upright and stoically into our defensive fire.

  The extremely heavy tanks that accompany the attack are much more dangerous. Our defense, including artillery as well as tank fire, is virtually powerless against these rolling monsters. Tank shells in addition to special ammunition are deflected without effect from the heavy armor. Without obstruction, the Red fighting vehicles crisscross over rubble and our positions. On deck at the very top are eleven to twelve boys, who have in their pockets tins of our “Schoko-Ka-Kola” [chocolate provided to German soldiers], and in their fists hand grenades which they are throwing into our defensive lines. At first we did not take them seriously, these hoodlums, but soon we come to know better. Tough and agile like cats, they make us suffer considerable losses. They have a whole company of these dangerous children, the “Proletariat Young Guard,” over there.

  I struggle to describe in detail the horror of the hand-to-hand fighting with these children. Anyone who has not been here will never be able to understand what unfolds here. Grown men, many of whom have sons who are the same age, have had to engage in brutal, bloody fights with the children! I will not be able to forget these horrible scenes for a long time.

  Parallel to the northern position, there runs a gorge into which our guns are only able to fire with difficulty. This is a most favorable deployment area for the Red Army. When the wind is favorable, we can hear from the frontline trenches the screaming and cursing of the commissars, and shortly thereafter, two, three gun shots, then the screams of the victims, and finally the silence of the grave.

  A few minutes later, they rise in white masses out of the gorge and run by the hundreds, driven by the mad force of their politniks, right into our deadly machine gun fire. Prisoners and deserters tell us about the terrible losses suffered over there. The commissars’ pistols, the fear of a bullet to the neck, drives this herd forward again and again. When the enemy attack collapses on February 11, their own grenades are thrown into the masses who are flooding back.

  We are not afraid of such a crowd, which is forced, out of its own fear, to attack us. If only the murderous artillery fire, which rips just about everything on our side to shreds, would come to an end. If only we had weapons that could crush the tanks playing this murderous game with us.

  On February 12, our last two cannons are run over by 52-ton tanks. Supported by a number of aircraft, the Reds attempt a large-scale offensive around noon. For a day and a night, there is bitter fighting over the higher elevation positions. Our losses are exceptionally high; the average company size is now only about 30 men!

  Slowly, very slowly, despair creeps into the hearts of our men. We group leaders have to use all our power to keep the men alert and ready to fight and defend. A difficult task indeed! Our words sound utterly unconvincing, as we ourselves no longer believe that we will make it out of here alive. Mass grave Leski!

  15 February: At the same time that the Reds commenced their large scale offensive on February 12, a 40km wide, 70km deep breach into the front line was achieved by three Bolshevik tank divisions to the south of Charkow. At this time, we know that over there Guderian [sic] is at the counterattack. But we also know that both breakthrough operations, here and over there near Charkow, were directly connected, which was part of the large-scale Bolshevik plan to encircle Charkow, thus isolating the northern part of 6th Army. Only through our brave and tough resistance was this undertaking successful.

  16 February: We can hardly believe it: reinforcements have arrived. The boys bring good news with them: tanks are expected to roll in soon, and even today assault guns will be deployed and used right here. My mood barometer climbs back to “nice weather.” We will hold onto our coffin, come what may!


  17 February: In the early morning hours, thirty German attack planes suddenly arrive. Like sparrow hawks, they dive into the damned battery positions near Schochowo. All over the place, dirt and metal spew upward in high fountains. For today, though, all is quiet; at night everybody gets a few hours sleep for the first time in a long while.

  18 February: Yesterday’s air raid not only destroyed several of the enemy’s guns and cannons, it also squashed the Red’s preparations for the attack that was to follow. Today, too, our air comrades appear around noon; in three waves of ten, they plunge, howling into the enemy position. Thick yellow-black smoke stands for minutes above the gorge on the other side.

  19 February: At dawn, completely to our surprise, heavy tank forces suddenly attack. Accompanied by two battalions of Caucasian sharpshooters, they succeed in breaking through on the right and left flanks of the “coffin”; by 1300 hours, Leski has been hopelessly encircled. The Morse code from our signals unit is never silent. SOS calls go out to the north and the south, to the division and the corps. We receive the same answer from both sides: “Reinforcements have left 3576 (Jakoblewo) on 2-18 in the direction of L.”

  Damn it, they should have been here long ago! What are we to know about the fact that somewhere between Jakoblewo and here, a decorated soldier has fought his first and last fight? Why we are not informed about such events will forever be a mystery to us. Men marching in their battalion, 180 comrades bound for Leski, who have never encountered active battle, were massacred like animals by the Reds last night! But what do we know about that! The night turns awful! With out pause, the Asians run up our hill. Again and again, we encounter murderous close-range fighting. For how long will we be able to hold out? Where are our replacements? We have very little ammunition left. Well then, shoot slowly and don’t forget to save the very last bullet! At dawn, Oles dies, the fifth and last man of my group, from bayonet wounds to the chest. We are all slowly facing the end. Too bad, living has been so beautiful!