Eastern Inferno

by Christine Alexander

  To the north and the west, as far as you can see, is an ocean of bombed out houses—nothing but a gigantic field of ruins. Smoke is rising from it in all shades of grey. There are also the white and yellow clouds from the new fires, which mix with the violet and grey fog of the smoldering and dying fires. Towering, threatening over them are the monumental stone and concrete fortresses of the Party, the Soviet castles. They had been fortified, and every single one of these buildings has seen bitter fighting; each one has its own bloody history. Whoever fought in Woronesh will forever remember one particular bloody battle for a block of houses, the “Operation Hospital.”

  There is “Red Square,” with the ostentatious Soviet government building; on its façade you could still see a row of small torn-up red flags. Then there is the prison, a huge building with walls more than a meter thick, which even our heaviest guns could only slightly scratch. One side of the building was blown up at the last minute by the Bolsheviks prior to their retreat. Judging by the smell, there must be buried under the ruins a whole mountain of corpses. To the north and northwest is the industrial sector of the town. All the way to the horizon one sees factory after factory, blast furnaces, and steel mills. The engineering works “Komintern,” which used to have 10,000 workers, is now nothing but a pile of iron and bricks. Then there is the “Elektrosignal” factory, which employed 15,000 workers, and the “Dershinsky” factory, where each month 100 to 120 locomotives were built. Further to the west stand the sad, black skeletons of the huge burned out airplane hangars. Next to them are the airplane factories, which as you can imagine were gigantic, particularly when you read that 40,000 people used to work there. I could go on and on….

  To the south are the straight, square blocks of barracks, which can’t be seen at the moment because the smoke from the drumfire is hanging over these cement quarters. Again there is the “Red Tower,” partially covered by the dirty yellow plumes of smoke from the gun powder. Everywhere, for as far as the eye can see are ruins and more ruins! The once booming city, with its 450,000 inhabitants, is now a dead city, reigned by terror and death. And yet, it was still worth taking this city, despite the great sacrifices, and to defend it despite the even higher number of casualties. This was the cardinal point and pillar of the front, which had to cover the deployment and attack of the southern armies. Here in particular lies the prerequisite for the success of the operations against Stalingrad and the Caucasus. Stalin, who is well aware of this, is deploying rifle division after rifle division and tank brigade after tank brigade. His goal is to break down this diversionary front. Up until now, we have been able to withstand his enormous pressure, and will continue to do so no matter what happens!

  Mangled cables are hanging from the telegraph posts. Swarms of flies buzz over the cadavers of dead horses, which are lying everywhere. One could write volumes about this plague of flies, these shimmering blue-green pests. The penetrating stench of the cadavers attacks one’s senses relentlessly, but our nose and eyes are already used to this symphony coming from the ghostly city. The one thing that we are unable to get used to though, is the nasty flies. They are drawn to all the dying corpses under the rubble, and have multiplied to form large swarms too countless to grasp. Birds are also circling over the battlefield; thousands of crows screech above the ruins and fields of death. Again and again, they dive into the depths of the rubble when they see the horrific harvest of death.

  Our tired and sweating unit stumbles along the pockmarked asphalt of Revolution Prospkt Boulevard, one of the most splendid in Woronesh. Here stand the palatial buildings from the time of the czars alongside the concrete buildings of the Judeo-Bolshevik period—or perhaps better said, used to stand. Through the burned out windows escapes the terror of senseless destruction.

  On the inside, we are burned out; on the outside, beaten. There used to be a time when hours of fighting were followed by hours of quiet. That time is over. Sun, moon, and blazing fire all share in illuminating this work of destruction and the slaughtering of people. At times you eat whatever you have, carry your ammunition, or rest for a moment on the ground in the cover of a crater. Our faces have become black and haggard. These days, they are never plump and round, allowing the drudgery of the 24-hour days to be seen in them. Our eyes are red from the smoke and the nightly watches, but our teeth are white from the hard bread. I can’t imagine that you could earn your daily bread in a way any more difficult than this.

  We are again in position at the “Southern Settlement,” the solid part of the bridgehead. The sky is grey and heavy with rain clouds. The earth has been so churned-up that she is bleeding from thousands of circular wounds. Chaotic positional systems trail up the hill. Rifleman holes, bomb craters, and barbed wire tear the landscape into an ugly grimace.

  Our bloody “settlement” is bolted up against the breakthrough point! For a month it has been lying beneath the gigantic hammer of destruction. Suffering countless numbers of casualties, the Soviets have worked their way into shouting distance of us. Many elite battalions were allowed to bleed to death just to gain a few meters. Whole Bolshevik tank squadrons are burned out. In the short time from July 10 to August 24 alone, 978 enemy tanks were destroyed. The Soviets’ goal to take the last 50 meters to reach the cover of the ruins of the settlement’s higher elevation has been left unattainable.

  I met up with the troops in Sossua. Since winter, I have been continually traveling between Charkow and Rshew—always right where it’s the worst. Meanwhile, our “gypsy unit” has been deployed near Woronesh, intrepidly holding its own, and is now awaiting new orders. A few are missing but overall everything is still holding together. What an incredible miracle!

  Orders came today stating that we should settle here in Sossua. The pitiful quarters are supposed to be made suitable for spending winter here. It is unbelievable—shouldn’t us poor, relentlessly chased dogs at least get some peace and quiet once in a while?! But who has mentioned anything about an “umbrella-theory” [Regenschirm-Theorie—i.e. conspiracy]? With a lot of diligence and patience we went to work on our quarters. Here and there, there are few things that could still be improved, but overall we are finished with our winter burrows.

  Now is of course when we will get our marching orders. And indeed, as usual, they arrive timely as ever. One beautiful afternoon, an excited messenger comes running: “Everybody get ready, in two hours the division will be marching!” Adieu “Jaizis” and “Moloka”! It would have been so nice, but it wasn’t meant to be. On time, and as ordered, the engines hum their goodbye song and off we go in the direction of Woronesh.

  We are rolling! Sweltering heat is upon us like molten lead. Our forced march has been ordered right when it seems to be foul again in Woronesh; though when has it ever been different there. We are prepared to ignore all the problems along the way, all the heat and dust. A few hundred kilometers lie before us and we are needed near Woronesh, urgently needed. We are surrounded by a sad barren landscape; a flat, singularly desolate and unchanging plain from horizon to horizon. There is also dust, hot dust; the hottest dust! And as we march alongside the road, we become covered in the never-ending white-yellow clouds, which at times make it impossible to see for hundreds of meters; so much so that one just stumbles, the infantry marches blindly forward, tenaciously and courageously as usual, with the sun glowing over a shadowless landscape, while temperatures climb to 110° every day.

  German barricade during the battle for Woronesh (Voronezh).

  (Photo courtesy of www.wwii-photos-maps.com)

  Soviet tank in flames. (Photo courtesy of www.wwii-photos-maps.com)

  Typical scene of trench warfare in the vicinity of Woronesh with German soldier using a scissor telescope to survey enemy movement.

  (Photo courtesy of www.wwii-photos-maps.com)

  On the Woronesh front. (Photo courtesy of www.wwii-photos-maps.com)

  The closer we get to Woronesh, the more desolate the land becomes. It hasn’t been long since a bitter, bloody battle w
as fought here. The barren fields and plains extend for as far as the eye can reach. The roads are nothing more than wide paths of dust on a treeless wasteland. They have an eastern feel to them. The caravan roads of Mongolia must be similar. They meander any which way just like rivers, these are dust streams, which flow wide, split into many tributaries, and run wide apart, split again into more tributaries, while others rejoin the main flow, just like a stream.

  What remains of Woronesh after Germany’s struggle to seize the city from Russian hands. (Photo courtesy of www.wwii-photos-maps.com)

  Then all of a sudden, the road narrows; a bridge, some swampy water covered in grass which we had to drive through, which compresses all the tributaries to a narrow one lane road. As soon as we pass through this obstacle the road flows wide again and with ease into its many tributaries. Its surface has been compacted by countless trucks, its bumps and holes and its greyish-white with a bit of dark grey color resembles the skin of an elephant.

  Another 30 kilometers to Woronesh; it must be from over there where the enormous, black smoke plumes are rising. During a short rest, we hear the rumble of gunfire which the wind has carried toward us; an accompaniment to the bitterest combat the Eastern Front has seen so far. Endless munitions columns pass by us; from the front comes ambulance after ambulance, on the hood, a big, white flag with a red cross whips in the air—they are packed to the limit! Our faces are serious; we know that the following days will be the fulfillment of our destiny for some of us.

  Twenty kilometers left to Woronesh! We are now met by long trains of destitution; the last evacuees of the city—women, children, elderly, the sick and disabled—drag along on both sides of the sandy road to the south. All of them are loaded down with their remaining possessions which have been saved from the rubble. We drive past these sorrowful images for kilometers.

  Suddenly there is a singing in the air; small clouds from anti-aircraft fire are floating in the sky. Quick as lightning, we are take cover under the pine trees. With stoic serenity, columns of wretched refugees continue to pass by. Tired and exhausted, they plod through the hot sand. And then, all of a sudden, a sharp whistle, a terrible howling; six or seven low-flying Russian bombers pass over their heads, release their bombs, and fire their weapons into the helpless crowds.

  There are no words to describe the horrific bloodbath these dogs have inflicted on their own people. We can only administer first-aid to a few, because we have to move on, have to move on to the front, where the black-as-ink smoke plumes are, and we can already see the flickering flames.

  Woronesh

  We are sitting in the rubble of an enormous, four-story barracks. Through the shattered windows, across bent and molten iron beams, across the moon-crater landscape of the yard, we have a view of the front all the way up to the “Red Tower.”

  Only weeks ago, before the big “Casino offensive,” this was our favorite observation post. Today its ruins are unoccupied; nobody dares the dangerous climb. Of the last 8 people who did, each one of them brought down their fallen or wounded comrades who had previously attempted it, until the moment when nobody returned, all of them finding their grave up high.

  To the right of the tower at the end of the barracks lies the “casino,” an expression that anyone who has fought at Woronesh knows. Here and a couple hundred meters to the northeast in the “brickyard” sit the Russians. These two points govern the whole sector. They are defending them tenaciously. Thousands must have already bled to death here. For six long days one bombing followed the next on a scale never before seen. For hours there was smoke and fire. Nothing! They don’t waver.

  After another week of artillery and bombing preparations, we commence the counterattack with our panzers and Sturmgeschütze [assault guns]. We tell ourselves that after this incredible, never-before-seen preparation of all the heavy weapons, not even a mouse will survive in the ruins.

  There is not much to say. By the evening of the attack, with the exception of a few who remain, our division is destroyed. The loss of life, weapons, and tanks is heavy. The entire undertaking was unsuccessful. By the following day, it is a wonder that we are able to hold up against the enormous pressure from the Reds. Nevertheless, they are able to push us back to our October 20 position and diminish our numbers by many. Their units are fully supported by Stalin’s Organs. This night is the beginning of the most critical battle for the bloody city.

  The expected all-out attack by the Russians lasted for five long days and nights, until last night. We held on to every meter of the smoking rubble field with desperate tenacity. The losses were great, but again we were able to withstand the mad assault, if only by using our last inner and outer reserves.

  Now it is quiet, friends and enemies are lying low in the stony ruins. Through a gaping hole in the torn-up wall I have a view of the depot area that had been battered by hand grenades. This has been the focal point of the assault; just yesterday the last forty Soviet tanks were attacking here. And just yesterday, in the early morning glow, five heavy tanks, which had assembled in and emerged from a ravine, were suddenly standing on our own lines, rolling over our holes and trenches. With their gun muzzles on the ground, like burrowing trunks, they would stick their guns into our covers, until we got them right in front of our anti-tank guns and were able to shoot them down.

  German 105mm howitzer on the Woronesh (Voronezh) front.

  (Photo courtesy of www.wwii-photos-maps.com)

  My heart is full of grief when I talk about these morning hours, because one of our best men, along with his entire gun-crew, had to give their lives. Karl Wissendorf, you will live on in all our hearts; giving your life and those of your men saved all of us from being destroyed; we will never forget this!

  The wide field of the terrible combat lies eerily quiet and sad, with its herd of destroyed and broken up tanks. Their burned out hulls lie in the scorching sun like tossed dice in a lost game. Their gun muzzles are turned up in the air, arrested in the moment of their destruction and their torn chains and wheels lying there like the limbs of the dead. One of them has been thrown on its side by the blast of a bomb, like a helpless lump.

  Above this scene which is filled with the scent of smoke and dead bodies, the air glistens in silver waves, until it becomes as thick as a yellow veil by dust blown in by the wind. I am tired, very tired even in my heart!

  What a bad day! It is pouring, and a strong, cold wind is blowing through the dead streets, and in through the gaping windows. We have taken shelter in a half-buried basement. There is at least a stove that has been left behind here, which will give some warmth once it’s burning. But it is not burning yet, instead it’s smoking and stinking in a way that just about tears your lungs apart. The space is way too small for us all, but you couldn’t ask anybody to go out in the pouring rain and the heavy fire, which is rumbling across the ruins! And that’s why we are squatting between the dirty legs of the man behind us, pressed together like a tin of sardines. But it doesn’t matter now; at least we are somewhat safe in this dank hole of a basement for a few long hours until we are relieved in the evening. On top of everything, water is starting to drip into the basement from above! It’s damn filthy weather today. The right weather for the Reds to attack; judging by the heavy fire, the schweine are up to something.

  Every other second a tremble goes through the thick walls from the heavy impacts close by. Now a shell must have torn into the ruins right above. How the rubble resonates! The wooden beams are cracking, dirt and stones are falling from the ceiling, but it’s holding up, that good old Russian ceiling!

  Ever since that unlucky incursion in the “casino” sector, we are now in a dogged fight for every single ruined city block or street section. An ongoing back and forth of close combat from basement to basement and rubble pile to rubble pile….

  There is no use to name the streets, which will forever remain a symbol of unforgettable courage and deep suffering. You may not have maps, but if you ask those who might come home, th
ey will have a lot to talk about; about the minutes of horror among burned out factory complexes, among torn up railroad tracks, and the shredded metal ladders of burned out gas tanks.

  During these dark nights, the Reds pounce on our posts to silently bring them down—I say pounce, but this word is not strong enough to describe the reality. They know they can’t take us over, therefore their actions are desperate. Everybody knows what human beings are capable of in such a situation, especially if they have weapons. They shout their battle cries like animals, but that does not scare us; they did the same last year, it just sounds more atrocious in the ruins of the city.

  These days we are shooting with mortars, anti-tank shells, and multiple-barrel guns. The trajectory of the mortar sometimes becomes near nothing from one house into the yard of another. We take the ruins of five houses and then we give back two just to fight, only to then retake five again. Often enough the numbers are different, I guess you could say there is some variety.

  Nighttime is the only time that has remained the same, with its fireworks, burning houses, sparks flying, and the beautiful starry sky. But it is already very cold, and one tries to be close to a burning building, though one is always aware of the possibility that the walls could come crashing down over his night quarters.

  Then there are the voices of the night: the chirping of the ricochets, the grumbling of heavy mines, the shattering hits of the fire assaults, and the minute-long hellish music of Stalin’s Organs. Over all of this stands the shimmering twinkle of a starry sky, the most beautiful I have ever seen. But its gentle calm is abruptly torn apart by all the flares from the Soviet bombers. From now on, the sky is not for a single second without these artificial stars. These stars are glaring and glistening like cold silver, flickering and unsettled. Their magnesium light is unlike the warm red from the smoldering ruins in which we look for warmth.