Trucks that do not start right away in this deadly cold are simply left behind. Nobody takes on the transportation of the enormous food supplies that are stored here in large warehouses. Too bad that guards are still posted in front of them; otherwise we would know what to do.
With the evening comes food and good news. Now that our stomachs are filled we are looking confidently toward the next hours. Everything will be fine. In the morning there will be an attack, and a police regiment is moving in for reinforcement. A large battery close to the big mountain of Zapkowo will go into position during the night in order to play the accompanying music to the attack.
It’s an icy, clear and moonlit night. It is barbarically cold, about 35° below; without gloves our skin would stick to the metal of the weapons. In the direction of Orobinsky, the sky becomes a trembling firewall for a few minutes from the impacts of Stalin’s Organs; her thunderous drumming reminds me of the best times. Through the thunder and crashing we were unable hear the soft singing and familiar chugging of the Ivans. All of a sudden a gurgling rustle… we have just enough time to kick ourselves in the butt before there is an enormous explosion on the ground. A hundred meters away a second bomb hits, bits fly in the air like fireworks. My neighbor, who is a metal worker in his civilian life, is reminded of the shower of sparks from a welding torch. This guy is not altogether wrong!
From this point on the thunder of the explosions is constant. The bombers aren’t paying any attention to us anymore; instead they are dropping bombs in clusters at the entrance of the town where the road becomes very steep. Damn, that must be just the spot where one of us saw the heavy battery a little while ago. We are in deep shit!
A little before midnight, a high ranking officer comes to me in my bunker. He is the commander of the heavy battery; desperately he tells me that for the last two hours he has tried to move up the mountain unsuccessfully. The road is completely iced over and the guns are sliding sideways. For two hours the Ivans have been dropping bombs there; half of the battery is blown to pieces, a mush of blood and metal is lying in the street. It must be terrible. The man is so angry he has tears in his eyes. We are supposed to help and move in with our traction engines. It is very difficult to explain to him that we have just enough gasoline for an emergency, in case we have to evacuate the most valuable parts. No Italian position gave us any gas. The German soldiers can bleed; the Italian gentlemen need the gas to flee.
Bitter and disappointed, he goes back to the rest of his battery, which is still being bombarded by the Russians. We are feeling terrible. We couldn’t help our good comrades from the artillery, and tomorrow we can’t expect any help from them. It will be a pitiful attack without their heavy fire. And all of that because of a few liters of gasoline, because of the stinking Italians!
Things are looking bad. We attacked this morning; the police regiment is bleeding to death under the overwhelming pressure of the Russians. Even us Germans can’t hold on any longer. Large sections are already surrounded; others have been blown to smithereens by Stalin’s Organs and by tanks.
Before midday Russian tanks unexpectedly break through into the town. Systematically they shoot at all vehicles, setting them on fire; we ourselves are then hunted down like rabbits. We can’t advance through the deep snow; someone falls, is grabbed by the tracks of the T-60, and crushed to a pulp. One can only talk about this with a few weak words—what remains hidden is the terror and the horror of it all.
At noon we have to evacuate the town, we can’t hold it any longer! Shrapnel is flying all over the streets from the constant impacts, and the biting smoke obscures our vision. Reception camp Zwanowka! Everyone who is able to escape destruction gathers here.
Good god—what must we all look like! I wouldn’t bet a dime on my life. In an hour at the latest the enemy tanks will be here. We have nothing to put up against them. Nothing!!
Ahead at the road junction a mounted messenger is approaching—they still have these in this war?! There is no time to admire him—vroom!! Bull’s-eye! Man and horse burst into atoms. My stomach turns sour. Damn it! Even we don’t see things like that every day!
In the evening I receive orders to bring all secret documents to safety and to try to break through to Krinitschnaja. I take the regiment assistant along; an enemy tank had rolled over both of his legs. The poor guy screams at every hole in the bumpy road. Everything is so wonderful that you just want to puke! On the road I run into an Italian transport with ten heavy trucks. These Italians are busy throwing the shells that are desperately needed on the front into the ditch so that they can get away faster. All I can see now is red; senseless rage takes hold of me and like the devil himself I drive right into the trembling pack. Supposedly I was even shooting, according to what the driver told me later. It’s possible I’m not aware of what I did. It doesn’t matter, for things were exploding left and right.
Hundreds of Italian trucks are standing around everywhere, left behind by the cowardly pack. Other than a few exceptions, all of them are scooped up by the Russians an hour later. One can’t even think about it. Just like that they left the food supplies for an entire corps behind—that was supposed to last until May '43. The Reds are all over it now, stuffing themselves with all that wonderful food. About 80,000 cans of meat, tons and tons of lard, hard sausage, 500 sacks of coffee, 20,000 liters cognac, etc. Not to mention all the other stuff. Just two days ago we had a glance into the large warehouses and smiled at a few hundred hams with our mouths watering. What a pity, what a pity!
German soldiers defending the line around Rossosch.
(Photo courtesy of www.wwii-photos-maps.com)
Camouflaged Soviet tank under attack in Rossosch. (Photo courtesy of www.wwii-photos-maps.com)
Zwanowka had to be evacuated also. We retreat under heavy fire and O.B. is seriously wounded. Reception camp moves to the east along Golubaja-Kriniza. In Golubaja, close to the sheep farm, is the division post. Since this morning the Reds have been attacking with strong air power. Four fighter planes fly over the sheep farm around noon, apparently not paying any attention to us. Ten minutes later they return. Before we can take cover bombs are raining down on us. But there are no explosions. Duds! The men are just getting up from the dirt in order to discuss the bad Russian ammunition, when the earth explodes around us. It suddenly occurs to me—timed fuses. Black, stinking smoke is all around me. “The gas is burning,” somebody shouts. Out of the smoke a small Russian comes running, the driver of the gasoline truck, like a human torch he stumbles a few steps, then the burning roof of a house slides down and buries him.
Covered in blood, Heinz Stichel breaks down; Eichler is lying next to his vehicle with his legs shattered. Yellow clouds of gas are rising out of the bomb craters; right there lie the completely torn apart bodies of Mueller and Fritz Knoll, poor, good boy! Little Nolte, our excellent head physician, is sitting against the torn up wall of a Panje hut! He looks into the distance, as if he were dreaming; everything around him no longer involves him—he must be thinking of his baby boy who was born eight days ago. A faint, narrow line of blood is running across his boyish face; on top of his head I see something white—his brain. In a very low voice he is saying just one word: “Pity!”
For the past few days we have been in Rossosch, eighteen or twenty kilometers behind the new front; only one company, already diminished by 50%, remains to face the enemy. In a short period of time the young, strong division has been beaten up, and over a hundred men are missing. How many of them might still be alive behind enemy lines?
December 24: Christmas Eve! Across the snow and ice and through the black, stormy night, our thoughts are with our families at home, where at this hour the candles of the Christmas tree are casting a gentle light on the children’s beaming faces—Erika! Where a pretty, young wife with moist eyes is holding the Christmas letter from her beloved in her hands and her thoughts are reaching out far away—across the ice of ancient old rivers, across the tattered Russian forests where the wo
lves are hauling, across the rubble of large cities, which have lost their horror under a sad, drab snow cover; past the pitiful Panje huts, all the way to her loved one. Silent night, holy night….
Silent?! The thumping and roaring of the front is making the windows shake. Holy?! Ahead, the Red murderers brandish their tenfold superior force against the wretched German reception post. The drunken, yelling thugs stick their bayonets into the twitching bodies of our wounded comrades. “Peace on earth!” God in heaven when will that be again?
The candles on our little Tannenbaum have burned down, we have read the many, lovely words from home, it’s warm in our little room and it is warm in our hearts. I am happy and content. Don’t I have all the reason to be? We are not facing the enemy and we have received a hundred good things to eat and drink. A little bit of good wine has chased the bad ghosts of this bloody battle away; what remains are the appreciation and gratefulness to be alive. Who doesn’t dream of the comfort of being with wife and child—at home, Germany!!
The Red flood has come to a standstill, as a small dam, a thin front of brave, German men does not budge; they are holding their position! It’s another story in the south, where the enemy has advanced to the west and the southwest, having taken over Millerowo and now standing threateningly close to Rostow.
Despite our pride about the recent successes we can’t get any enjoyment due to the thunderstorm that is breaking loose in the south. Our recurrent question is whether the Hungarians will hold their positions in the north?
Our days in Rossosch are carefree; the daily attacks by the Russian bombers can’t disturb our peace of mind. We enjoyed a quiet and contemplative New Years Eve with a bottle of champagne, reminiscing about the turmoil of the year 1942. What is going to happen in the coming new year? It is fortunate that we don’t know. After all that we hear and see, I believe it will come to a decision in 1943. We have used up a lot of our energy in the east and the west, and it is only the Russians who are mobilizing their best resources.
15 January, 1943: The sky is clear this morning; the temperature is around –30° C. White layers of fog are covering the Kalitwa swamps. Our comrade Herbert has a weak bladder and leaves the room at 0500 hours, slamming the door. He reenters the room, white as chalk, screaming: Russian tanks! I am immediately wide awake and go out onto the street. I can clearly hear the rumbling of tanks, and shortly afterwards an explosion. Damned, these bastards must be very close. Now they appear on the other side pushing one after the other through the gardens; they stop, fire, and lumber toward the center of the city. Ten, fifteen, eighteen, twenty heavy blocks of steel—T-34 and KWI—reach the bridge. The infantry dismounts and fans out. Six heavy tanks drive by in close distance without noticing us, continuing on to the railroad station. These bastards want to cut our troops off. It is time for us to get ready.
We don’t have heavy weapons or explosives; we have almost no troops left in the city. We throw some of our belongings onto the carts and slowly move to the main street along the buildings for protection. Black clouds of fire hover above the city. Stukas are dive bombing on the Russian tanks like hawks, thus distracting the Red bastards from us. We broke through the ring after one hour. Burning Rossosch now lies behind us, the last tanks fire shells into our convoy. Escape!
Every soldier on the Eastern Front is familiar with the harshness of the Russian winter: chaos and terror is everywhere; tanks have been abandoned, disabled or burning vehicles lie along the roads; there is constant bombing by the Russians; food supplies are burning; there are long waits in snow banks, and we are frostbitten. The slightest injury can cause major problems, for medical service is non-existent. Nobody helps you anymore; everyone is on his own. The weak ones die in the gutter or in the blizzard.
Ten or twenty fear-stricken men are hanging on the sides of a truck and are being crushed to death in the convoy. Some have lost their gloves, their fingers are frozen stiff; they are weak and fall down, only to be killed by the trucks that follow along in the convoy. Begging, whimpering, cursing and shooting…. Whoever has been subjugated to this wretched experience will never forget it for the rest of his life.
The terrible has now happened: the Hungarians in the north are retreating, or you could say that the entire army is fleeing in panic.
Nikolajewka! The night is illuminated by hundreds of fires. Bombs are falling constantly. The air is filled from the noise of the explosions, the rumbling from collapsing buildings, the fiery explosions of vehicles filled with gasoline, and the screaming of injured people. Panic-stricken horses are galloping across the burning streets trampling everything in their path.
Where should we go? Should we follow the stream of refugees to Walniki or should we turn to Budjennij which is closer to the front? I am using all my influence to convince my comrades to go to Budjennij as the next destination.
Russian tanks have broken through everywhere. After Budjennij, I am totally familiar with the terrain, which is of utmost importance for all unforeseen events. On the next morning I receive a message that close to Walniki Russian tanks have attacked and destroyed our entire convoy. God help us!
Budjennij has been abandoned! Walniki has been abandoned! Retreat to Wolokonowo. Wolonokowo too has been conquered after a bitter fight with Russian tanks! Escape—retreat—desperation.
We reached Bjelgorod in almost total exhaustion. If somebody had told me a quarter of a year ago that I would see Bjelgorod again I would have declared him insane. In case somebody had predicted in my presence that the front line would be here again, I would have broken every bone in his body.
And yet everything is now the same again as it was a year ago. The bloody sacrifices of the entire summer have been in vain. God give us the strength to endure and keep us from being weak.
Kursk
Arrival in Kursk. The military command of the army ordered us to get the last heavy artillery and transport vehicles ready as quickly as possible. Two companies were established with the remaining troops and the soldiers on vacation who were waiting at the railroad station. Woronesh has been abandoned, Kastornoje has fallen, Sektikry is being threatened. The flood of the Reds is rolling toward the west like an avalanche, crushing everything in its path. Kursk will be overrun very soon.
Occasionally I meet old comrades who have struggled through to our position. Their pale faces are contorted with terror and deep despair. They tell us about their horrible experiences. Heinz Scheele from Latuaja arrives and talks about the attack of Russian tanks on a hospital train: partisans blew up a railroad bridge near Kastornoje. Two trains filled with helpless, injured soldiers were stuck on the tracks. In that moment Russian tanks arrived and launched shells at the train cars. This was an easy target for them. After half an hour only smoldering remains are left on the railroad tracks. The last scream and the last whimpering have since died off. One of the thousand of catastrophes in these days has come to an end.
The Reds have reached Ponyri, the important railroad line to Orel; Schtygri has to be abandoned. Kursk is now also in jeopardy. The military command orders the defense of the city, but the rank and file soldiers feel that this is useless, that it is too late. The motivation of the armies, divisions, and the hundred thousand soldiers is at its lowest point. This is the consequence suffered by most soldiers who fought on the murderous front for 41 days and nights without any break, while their comrades were having a good time in France. You can only endure this up to a point. And, God help us in case an unforeseen emergency arrives.
Damn we are tired, our hearts are broken! God knows, we are totally committed soldiers on the front line! We trust our leaders and accept heavy burdens without complaint and with an open heart—but let the spoiled soldiers in the west act as soldiers. Don’t talk to me about the English invasion. Let the Tommies come. They will never return when we fighters on the Eastern Front pull off their “roast beef legs.”
The enemy is now at Kursk’s gate. Food supply, equipment, and spare parts depots have been cleared
out, and the last medical corps has evacuated the city. Bombs are raining down on the buildings day and night. The railroad station is burned out and totally destroyed. No train is under steam anymore for its many expectant happy vacationers.
Railroad Station Kursk—this was the dream of a hundred thousand German soldiers! This is where the bliss of four weeks of indescribable vacation began; it is here where I climbed onto the train with a pounding heart yearning for my home, Germany! The terrain is now covered with deep bomb craters; the barracks where we received our food supply is burned out; the sign advertising “vacation trains to Germany” has been torn to shreds by the bombs. Isn’t this like a symbol, or maybe an admonishment to wipe away all sweet thoughts about vacation, homeland, wife and children, to open the heart for the horrible fight for our very existence? There will be no victors or losers in this fight, only survivors and permanently marred human beings!
The situation is now serious. Once more I receive orders to secure any remaining sensitive documents and records. The rest of the important communication equipment is transported in a second truck. During the night we arrive in Sudsah via Lijgoff.
7 February: The next morning we continue marching in the direction of Sumy. The streets are covered everywhere with snow and crowded by the retreating Hungarians. There is an endless convoy of sleds and tanks. What a miserable bunch! They lumber through the snow apathetic and somber, their feet covered with rags, heavy hiking poles in their fists, and some are carrying only their rifle case—they discarded or sold their rifle a long time ago. Yes, they sold their own rifle! The sleds are loaded with loot or goods for which they have traded. These are no longer soldiers but riffraff. Their own downfall was caused by themselves.
Eastern Inferno Page 22