Eastern Inferno

by Christine Alexander

  There is an unusually loud rumbling and cracking around 1900 hours toward the front. A little bit later a messenger from our regiment arrives and alerts us that the Reds have broken through the front line and are now at a distance of 1000 meters from the village.

  The fight for the village endures two days and nights. We have a tough time of it until we succeed in pushing the Soviets back. On the third day the HKL [Hauptkampflinie—main front line] has been reestablished. And at the same time, the civilians return, friendly and innocently smiling like children as if nothing had happened.

  The bullet-riddled windows have been repaired, the damaged walls have been covered and the shredded roofs have been resealed. Babushka, Matka, and the children work from dawn to dusk. In the evening the large family sits around the stove or lies on the floor. At the edge of the village is our ammunition depot. While this is not the best, it isn’t a problem since Ivan has not paid us a visit for long time and it is very well camouflaged. The snow is already very soft, but the wind is still icy. At night we sink into our straw beds totally exhausted. Again, like the other nights, we yearn for our Russian hosts to retire so that we can get a good night’s sleep on our straw mats. But nobody moves. We try to hide our heads in the pillows. During the afternoon our hosts stayed in the sticky but warm huts. Later on they disappeared with their wives and kids into the potato storage. When we found them, they were grinning sheepishly, but did not talk to us.

  We finally get our rest and swear that we will shoot anybody who disturbs our sleep. Suddenly we wake up. Fragments from the window are lying on my body; glass shards and debris is everywhere, and near the stove a palm-sized splinter is sticking out of the clay wall. And now it is rumbling and cracking everywhere. Ivan’s airplanes fly until two in the morning. I count 53 bomb explosions. One-third of the village is destroyed by the time they left. But at least they did not succeed in hitting our ammunition depot, which would have flattened the entire village.

  In the morning the entire clan appears again and repairs their houses yet again as good as possible. For three more nights they continue to sleep on the oven, only to disappear later again in the potato storage. Meanwhile, we catch on to what they are doing. We pack our belongings and also seek cover in the sticky potato holes.

  Tonight the Russian bombers return once again and destroy half the remaining village. The rest is smashed to smithereens from the exploding ammunition depot. Once again the Russian civilians were better informed. They have their own underground communication network with the Russian front. Our GFP [secret field police] tried very hard to crack their communications system. But it was futile!

  I have been standing on the road to the front for hours, waiting to guide the trucks into their positions. Platoons are pushing forward, the artillery rumbles by; the ground vibrating from the grinding wheels. To my rear I can see the flickering glow of cigarettes. My spade bangs against my gas mask at every step. A horseback rider gallops forward. Somebody asks what time it is: it’s two in the morning. A canteen nearby is brewing fresh tea. The smell of tea with rum wafts over the road. Cooking utensils are rattling. Ahead of us is a thundering noise, sheet lightning illuminates the sky—the muzzle flash of the heavy artillery. In between is the tak-tak-tak hammering of machine guns, just like the second hand of a pocket watch. Finally at three in the morning our platoon trucks arrive, which had been delayed due to attacks by Ivan.

  After a peaceful cigarette we advance. The road gets worse and worse, strewn with potholes.

  In Mattuoje we come upon the firing zone. The impacts are now close to our road. Vehicles are rushing back. Somebody shouts from the last vehicle: “The ammunition truck has been hit!” At the edge of the village is a bright, darting flame which illuminates the trajectory of the enemy artillery. Now it is getting serious. Somebody shouts: “Stop! More fire! Take cover!” The ground trembles from the multiple dull thuds. We cling to the ground as if it could provide us with protection. Splinters are buzzing and whirring by, only to be interrupted by the dull thuds in the distance, the shots from the next round. But we have to advance. Our platoon has to be in position by morning.

  The German front in the East on May 10, 1943.

  We reach the corduroy road, the worst stretch of all. There are countless bomb craters on both sides, and we are attacked again and again on the ground; Russian fighter planes are strafing us.

  What remains of the village of Blashkatowo consists of no more than smoldering beams, broken household goods, and lonely chimneys in the center of destroyed houses, blazing huts, and the disgusting smell of burning flesh. We are close to our target. At 0520 hours our platoon is in position, but two good comrades are missing.

  The muddy season! Bright sunshine follows snow and hailstorms which have swept across the steppe. The thaw starts to settle in after three sunny days. On the fourth day it is so warm that the water mixes with the soil and dissolves everything into layers of mud and dirt. Last weekend the melt water reached up to our knees and filled up the creeks and gardens. The surrounding landscape is a giant lake. Our vehicles are stuck. It takes us three to four days to move a single vehicle which before took only an hour.

  We are lucky that our boots arrived on time, which has at least provided us with minimum protection against the icy water. Everybody is preparing to live like an amphibian. Proven medicines against common illnesses are dispensed, just like the previous year. The weather is horrible; in addition we are under severe attacks day and night.

  Something wonderful happens during these days. A battalion of young soldiers with fresh faces and new equipment arrives. Their boots are shining and their pots and pans have never been used on a Russian stove, though we noticed this much later. The wonderful thing is that they were marching in rows of three and were singing! We step out of the heavily shelled huts and bunkers which have been our home and are unable to comprehend such a miracle. We stand there silently in our camouflage, caked with dirt, and we touch our stubbly faces in disbelief. They march along a series of small grave mounds with crosses on top and I get the impression that their voices tremble for a moment. We lower our heads in silence and look down on our wet, clay encrusted boots. Somebody cracks a joke, a cruel joke under these circumstances: “They will stop singing pretty soon.” But nobody laughs, nobody agrees with the joker. We all know that these young comrades from the homeland will march the final two or three kilometers to their positions in rows or single file. Each will hold his rifle in his hands to avoid banging it against their cooking utensils. For a moment they will be astonished when they get instructions to empty their pants and coat pockets and place everything in their breast pockets. And they will shiver to the bone when they understand the purpose of this order. The same happened to us when we jumped into the trenches. The icy water reached up to our waist and flooded our boots; our pants clung to our thighs. But they will endure it, just like we did. They will enjoy the blessing of the bunker stove; its heat expels the water in our pants and socks into milky rivulets. And when their uniform has the proper clay crust, nobody will be able to distinguish them from us anymore.

  Mother’s Day 1943: “You will know what I am saying by this little drawing. To my darling, hugs and kisses, from Hansel, 4 May, 1943.”

  (Photo courtesy Christine Alexander and Mason Kunze)

  They think a lot about us and we almost feel tenderness toward our young comrades. We envy their singing which refreshes our old memories.

  This winter has been very harsh to us. It could have frozen our hearts, banned the laughter from us and caused us to forget our songs. The bitter cold, the howling snowstorms, the days without food, and the nights without sleep have imprinted deep wrinkles on our stubbly faces.

  Occasionally we receive these overly clever letters from home asking us about the mood on the front. We shake our heads in disbelief over such stupid questions. Silly civilians! We are soldiers fighting on the front!

  A storm is brewing over the steppe to the east, the second st
orm from Mongolia. We have to lean our bodies against the storm. Step by step we dig into the ground and thus succeed in holding our position. Don’t ask us how we are able to survive this winter. Never ask us at home to talk about this. When one grinds his teeth during the long winter months, he has difficulties opening his mouth later on. Don’t ask us in the future. We stand our ground silently and fight—and we will continue to fight. We never want to think about it, we want to forget everything. And now our comrades are passing us with a song on their lips. We hold the belief that our heart is armored with ice and steel. And now that we feel it beating again we are aware how the long winter has been ravishing us. Our young comrades should continue singing. We should stand side by side: we, out of the purgatory of the long winter, and our comrades with their young hearts and innocent confidence.

  Overnight a fresh wind started blowing off the clouds which had been covering the sun. Within a week the water and mud, against which we had been fighting a losing battle, has disappeared. But nobody is quite yet ready to believe in the miracle of springtime. The first dust clouds which are blown along the dry roads still generate suspicious looks. Maybe nature is playing a cruel joke with us. But we are happy that spring has arrived in such a pleasant way.

  It is now quiet in our sector. Occasional assaults by enemy artillery; a few attacks by Red aircraft. Our bunkers are secure and are withstanding the bombs. They have been fortified with planks and railroad ties. Until a short while ago we didn’t trust such peace on the front, just like the unusually mild weather. But now it looks like Ivan has finally surrendered. From time to time we are even able to relax for one or two hours. We reminisce often about the tough weeks of the “winter battle at Orel.”

  The main focus of the battle during the second half of February has been on the west side of Orel, to be followed a few days later on with an unprecedented ferocity on the southeast side of the city. The enemy concentrated strong battalions, tanks, and heavy artillery at both locations. It was therefore not surprising when the thunder of the artillery started on an icy February morning.

  What has occurred so far at this undefeated section has been pure hell. Even experienced fighters in the trenches have never encountered such a ferocious attack. The Russians launched a massive attack with infantry consisting of 120,000 to 200,000 troops, 400 tanks and 120 to 150 batteries, which was an extraordinary number on the Eastern Front. It is almost unbelievable that the German divisions could withstand such an overwhelming onslaught, but it is the enemy who was fully aware of this. Last but not least, the high loss of troops and materiel, caused by futile attempts to break through in the same sector, has taught the Bolsheviks a lesson that the defenders will hold their ground despite their own vastly superior forces. The Bolsheviks’ goal to cut off Orel in a pincer operation from the north to the south at the same location has motivated them to deploy these gigantic resources. We realized from the first hours of the massacre that it was essential to defend the prominent bastion of Orel, the most eastern point of the entire front. We were also aware of the fact that we could meet the same fate as our brave comrades in Stalingrad.

  Besides the north-south pincer with attack points at Bolchow and Ponyri, the Soviets have deployed two more spearheads west of Shisdra, in the direction of Brjzusk, and at Ligoff. Furthermore, the forest area of Karatschew at Gomel is a giant area of marshes 500km wide, which is completely impenetrable during the winter time. It is also occupied by thousands of partisans and regular airborne troops. Every other deployment of replenishments has been robbed by bandits. All that we can do is hold our position to the bitter end. There cannot be any deliberation about our methods. Our position was very clear. Our only chance at survival is to defend ourselves. It is a tough battle for men who have nothing to lose. It was this horrible realization that made everything so easy at the time. Many soldiers marched to their death with a smile on their pale faces.

  23 February: The barrage of shells and heavy artillery has commenced, covering the German positions and fortifications. Bombers drop their loads in rows along the trenches and, in addition, armored fighter airplanes nosedive over the battleground and target us with their machine guns.

  And then the first wave of the Bolshevik infantry and tanks starts rolling in. It is both horrifying and unique. But we are not supposed to talk about this. We defend ourselves with a courage reinforced with desperation, and handle our weapons like skilled craftsmen.

  It looks like everything is to no avail. Too fierce are the recurring attacks on our positions and everything that moves or sticks out of the icy cold winter landscape. Too vicious are the ever-present fighters which fly in groups like white lumbering birds of death with their rattling machine guns close above the main HKL. There are too many tanks and much too much infantry: seven infantry divisions and four tank brigades just in the first days of the attack! The enemy succeeds in breaking through, deploying infantry and later on new tank brigades. In the first five days, 121 tanks are destroyed, only to have 80 new ones deployed the very next day! The poor weather conditions render the deployment of our Luftwaffe difficult. The losses are very high. Every day brings with it a new crisis which we can only overcome with efforts that are beyond our human strength and our own blood.

  1–6 March: During these first days of March we move to the southern sector where a new focal point is forming. The enemy has deployed four armies and an air force command into the area between Kursk and Orel. Again and again they attempt to break through the gaps in the decimated divisions of our right wing and to move around our entire southern wing. The battle has now reached its climax. Since the beginning of the offensive at the end of February, the enemy has suffered 35,000 troops dead, 280 destroyed tanks, and 140 downed aircraft.

  In spite of such huge losses, the fighting spirit of our enemy remains undiminished. Their push is directed to the west. We continue to fend off their forces to the southwest and north of Orel. In between, the enemy attacks our flanks with their motorized divisions and tanks. At the same time they deploy strong forces on three more positions: to the southeast of Orel, at a location closest to the city, to the north of the Schisdra section, and to our west. All attacks are supported by heavy artillery, not to mention the countless tanks.

  7 March: We destroy 77 out of 90 heavy tanks. The fights continue with an incredible ferociousness until March 10, with heavy losses on both sides. The situation continues to teeter on the edge of a knife. Our ammunition and food supply are being exhausted—the most important supply lines are threatened or are under heavy attack by the enemy. We come to the bitter conclusion that this might be the end. Two days more and everything will be over.

  12 March: The miracle happens. The usual massive attack in the morning doesn’t occur. There is still a lot of metal flying around, a mere pittance though compared with the previous days. Yet we stopped believing in miracles a long time ago, and have the suspicion that some kind of deviltry is behind this absence of heavy attacks. Our senses are sharpened for the next assault. But there is no change, not during the night nor during the next day. We receive a message that our troops launched a counterattack in Charkow, which is most likely the reason behind the mystery of the sudden diminishing number of combat operations. There are still a lot enemy units in the area which are now facing new realities. Their operational purpose is now in jeopardy and they are apprehensive. The battle at Orel is over.

  An early springtime with bright sunshine follows the second terrible eastern winter. With gratitude we look up from our trenches which are filled with the runoff from the melting snow, to a bright and blue sky. The shining sun in the center is like a symbol for the confidence in our victory. We are going to make it!

  Springtime has arrived faster than we expected. The last snow melted weeks ago. Due to the summer heat and drought, the mud which covered the entire landscape vanishes within days. On the front we are again masters of our destiny. Platoon after platoon rolls over the roads covered with thick dust clouds from th
e panzers, Sturmgeschütze, mortars and long-barreled guns. This smells again like a major offensive. In a few weeks we are going to attack. We? I don’t believe it. I guess we will be rounded up later on and then deployed to fight on the front. But let’s wait and see.

  The first comrades have left already on leave, and it will be my turn in a few weeks. And now I am overpowered again by an eerie feeling that, so close to reaching my goal of a thousand happy dreams, something could happen to me. A persistent toothache, headaches or diarrhea—suddenly everything assumes major significance. The recurring question is: I hope I am not going to get sick. I am in a bad mood these days!

  Our Luftwaffe and the enemy air force have been very active during these past few days. Day and night dozens of bombers or fighter aircraft fly through the sky. And this is always a telltale sign: when the “Totenvögel” [birds of death] dart about, either we or the enemy are planning major events. It is like a movie theater for the frontline soldiers. But this show is not without dangers.

  6 May: There is a lot of activity today. At the light of dawn a squadron of Soviet bombers flies over our front line. Suddenly they make a sharp turn; they dive down and approach our position at high speed. Gauging from experience, they should now open their bomb bays and death should start to rain upon us. But nothing happens. Instead we are now hearing the familiar howling sound of our fighters. We brace ourselves against the walls of the trench and watch the events unfold in the clear morning sky where they are fighting for life and death. The tight, evasive maneuvering and shooting have started. Our fighter aircraft dive down on the slower bombers, whose gunners are attempting to shoot them down. The muzzle fires from the machine guns and the onboard cannons sparkle in the sky. Our fighters make their attack and then steeply pull up again with their engines howling to get on top of the enemy bombers. A Soviet bomber in the sky starts to tumble, dips his right wing, and then spins to the ground to explode in bright flames. Within the next three minutes four more Soviet bombers meet the same fate. On this day 74 Soviet aircraft were shot down in our sector.