by Eric Meyer
Erwin Rommel
The tracks had hardened as the rainy season completely ended and the warmer weather dried out both the armies and the terrain. We had spent the past weeks alternately patrolling the railway line and in fruitless chases around Kharkov for the supposed traitor, the ‘Lucy’ spy ring that was like a festering sore to our intelligence people. It was already the twenty ninth of June and many of us doubted that the offensive would ever begin. Soon we would be into July. Even so, the preparations continued, more and more equipment was offloaded day after day and even the much-vaunted Panzer Vs arrived to everyone’s relief. Except that when their crews took them out on local manoeuvres they repeatedly broke down and had to be towed back or repaired on the spot. The worst problem was engine fires, probably in the depths of winter it wouldn’t have been a problem but as the temperature increased the engines overheated and fires broke out, immobilising the vehicle and threatening to explode the fuel tanks. Von Meusebach spent little time with his regiment, seeming always to find that he was needed elsewhere, usually somewhere cleaner and smarter where there was the chance of a good dinner and high-ranking company. It was almost a relief when I got a message from von Betternich and went into the city to meet him.
“We’re going to Vinnitsa, to Army Group South, I need your men to escort me and Wiedel there to talk to the local SD and Gestapo people. Obviously we can’t do this on the communications network, we have no idea who is listening in, but we think we’ve narrowed the leak down to certain Abwehr officers both in Berlin and here in the Ukraine. I want you back here at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, you’ll need a half-track and six of your troopers, that should be enough.”
“Sir, what if the offensive starts, surely it must come soon? My men will be needed here, we’re Panzer-Grenadiers, not bodyguards.”
He smiled gently. “I can assure you my friend that Zitadelle will not start for at least a week and we shall be back in three days. It is essential that we catch these treacherous scum before we start the attack, otherwise the Russians will know our every move.”
As I drove back to Podvirky I reflected on what he’d said, ‘At least a week’. That meant that the pincer attack on the salient would begin within days, after the weeks and months of waiting. At least the long period of idleness would be over, except that I was confident that the Russians had not been idle at all. It was not going to be an easy fight by any means. Most of us were convinced that all of our Eastern Front operations were hanging on the outcome of Kursk.
Von Meusebach was as scathing as usual as he looked at my documents, including a telex from Himmler’s RSHA in Berlin.
“So while we’re working day and night you’ll be swanning off with the Gestapo to von Manstein’s HQ, is that correct?”
“Essentially, yes, Sir.” I hadn’t actually ever seen our CO working very much at all, but it would hardly be tactful to remind him of that fact.
“Make sure you get back as fast as possible, don’t waste any time on the local night life, we have a war to fight here.”
I saluted and left, it would be interesting to see how he coped with the smoke and horror of a major battle, what I’d seen so far was not very encouraging. I doubt I was the only one hoping a Soviet tank gunner would range in on von Meusebach’s vehicle. We packed ammunition and supplies for five days, just in case, then spent the evening drinking the local vodka and speculating about what we would face in the salient.
“It’s not just the tanks,” Mundt said. “I remember the drive on Moscow, when they counter attacked in that first winter. Wave after wave of the bastards, it was like the First War in the trenches. They came at us, lines of them, tens of thousands, we machine-gunned them, shelled them, we used mortars, hand grenades when they got near and still they kept coming. I can even remember their officer mounted on a horse, charging towards us in the middle of his men.”
He paused to take a heavy draught of vodka. We were listening enthralled to the veteran of those first heady weeks and months when it seemed as if we were unstoppable.
“We shot him, of course, he was one of the first to go, but they kept coming. A vast army in those long brown coats, I remember the fur hats most, though. Whenever we could we would strip them off the bodies and wear them to keep out the cold, I remember going home on leave and some civilians mistook me for a Soviet.”
“Did you beat them back?” Bauer prompted him.
“Eventually, yes, but they were like rabid animals. We afterwards found out that half of them weren’t carrying rifles. Their orders were to pick up weapons from those who fell. We couldn’t believe it, but their capacity to obey the most murderous orders was amazing. When we’d killed most of the first wave the second one came in, then the third and the fourth. We killed them all,” he finished soberly. There was sadness in his voice as he recalled so much death.
“Didn’t they have commissars driving them on, Willy?” I asked him.
“They did, yes, but it wasn’t just that. These people seem to have an infinite capacity to take orders, even when it means marching onto our machine guns and minefields. I tell you they’re not like ordinary human beings. You’ve seen the way they live in the Soviet Union. They’re treated worse than dogs, yet they’ll defend their crappy patch of beaten mud as if it was a royal palace. It beats any normal understanding, and their wounded, we’d never seen anything like it.”
He paused again and drank more vodka, as if the disturbing recollections were painful enough to need a drink to talk about them.
“The wounded, too, you wouldn’t believe it, they never made a sound. They just lay there, suffering in silence. You could see it in their eyes, the pain of men who lay there with limbs blown off, guts hanging out through wounds in the stomach, just lying on the ground as if they’d lost the capacity for making any kind of noise. It’s uncanny, I tell you. These people are not like us.”
“You make them sound like supermen, Willy,” I joked. “Brave, tough and capable of taking infinite punishment and yet still attacking when they know everything is lost, what are they, rabid dogs?”
They laughed nervously. I wished I hadn’t spoken as Willy looked at me and said quietly, “Yes, that’s a fair description.”
I finished off the last of my vodka and lay down to try and sleep. In my nightmares I was surrounded by hordes of savage Russian soldiers, I was on my own and they attacked with rifles fitted with bayonets, all aimed at my belly. When they got near, they had faces covered in fur like wild animals and I woke up abruptly drenched in sweat. Damn those old soldier’s tales. I’d have to take Willy to one side and ask him to desist, even if they were true.
At dawn we loaded the half-track and set out for Kharkov, von Betternich and Wiedel were waiting and we gave them the safest and most comfortable seats in the centre of the vehicle. The journey to Vinnitsa was long, hard and tiring. The track that took us there was well beaten and we were able to make good time, although it was bumpy and uneven, like most roads in the Soviet Union it was unpaved. But the flies and mosquitoes attacked us all the way through the thick forest that we had to cross, it was nerve wracking enough being constantly alert for partisan attacks and we kept both MG34s constantly manned. When we came out of the forest we were bitten all over and exhausted from watching every second for the partisan attacks. Fortunately the rest of the track to Vinnitsa was through open ground and we were able to relax. Until we drove into the city and realised that we’d come across a hornet’s nest, something was clearly up. Every street was guarded with troops, tanks patrolled up and down and above us the Luftwaffe kept up constant over flights. There were checkpoints too, as we got nearer to headquarters of Army Group South they were manned by grim faced SS Leibstandarte and Feldgendarmerie, accompanied by Gestapo officers in long leather coats. I itched to ask them what was going on, were they expecting an imminent attack, but I resisted the impulse. The two security officers sat calmly in the middle of the vehicle ignoring everything, giving me the impression that they kne
w in advance that the city would be heavily guarded. Finally we reached von Manstein’s HQ, established in a former barracks in a lightly wooded area on the outskirts of the city. We showed our documents to the final guard post, drove into the vehicle park and helped our passengers down from the half-track.
Von Betternich was smiling contentedly. “You know what all this is for, don’t you?”
I shook my head.
“The Fuhrer is visiting Vinnitsa, Hoffman. His aircraft is due to land shortly. Perhaps you will meet him, who knows.”
At least that explained it. We weren’t about to be attacked by the armoured legions of the Red Army. He limped into the building and we waited outside, enjoying the chance of relaxing after the long, jolting journey. We still had to beat off the flies, but their numbers were thankfully less than in the depths of the dark forests that we’d crossed.
“He must be coming to finalise plans for the salient,” Mundt said. “At least we’ll know where we stand.”
“If we don’t find this traitor, Willy, the Russians will know too, which would be a disaster.”
We managed to find a signals unit making coffee and we shared out some black bread and cheese and washed it down with the hot brew. Wiedel came out and found us.
“We are invited to the airfield to watch the Fuhrer’s aircraft land, Hoffman, it’s quite an honour. Von Betternich will be with us in a few moments.”
I didn’t reply, I had my own view of the honour our Fuhrer was doing us. My opinion of him had deteriorated massively since we’d sat outside the Kursk salient allowing the Russians to build up their massive defences. The SD man came out five minutes later and we drove to the airfield. It was under even heavier guard and above us Messerschmitt 109s flew constant patrols, on the ground at least a hundred soldiers of the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler waited patiently.
We all turned and looked as a long, black Mercedes staff car came through the checkpoint and into the airfield. When it stopped an adjutant leapt out and opened the door. Feldmarschal Erich von Manstein climbed wearily out, followed by the more nimble figure of Feldmarschal Walter Model, commander of the Ninth Army, part of Army Group Centre. We watched the sky avidly, waiting for the first sign of the Fuhrer’s aircraft. Then a tension seemed to set into all of us, a slight noise in the distance that grew and grew until in the distance we were able to make out a small group of aircraft. As they came nearer they resolved into a Focke Wulf Fw200 Condor, the Fuhrer’s personal aircraft codenamed Immelmann III, surrounded by a squadron of Me109s. The Focke Wulf dropped lower and lower until it swept over the runway and dropped gently to a feather touch landing. As it taxied to a stop troopers rushed up pushing a stairway and they locked it into position. A squad of the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler rushed forward and took up their positions either side of the foot of the stairs and von Manstein and Model walked over to stand nearby. The aircraft door opened cautiously, first a few centimetres and then it was pulled fully aside and the Fuhrer stepped out to stand motionless at the head of the stairs as we all saluted. He waited a few moments more and delivered his familiar casual salute, then carefully climbed down the stairs. Behind him was another man in uniform that I didn’t recognise, which was strange. The Nazi bigwigs were always in the news, and well known to every German citizen.
Reichsleiter Martin Bormann,” whispered von Betternich, “he’s the Fuhrer’s private secretary.”
Unlike Hitler, Bormann was quite pudgy and overweight. I guessed that as a secretary his work would largely be sedentary, with little opportunity for exercise. Then they descended the stairs and the Feldmarschals shook hands with their Supreme Leader, ushered him into the black Mercedes and they drove off. In front and behind the car were half-tracks laden with heavily armed Leibstandarte troopers. Finally we relaxed, he had landed and nothing had gone wrong.
“We can follow them back to HQ now,” von Betternich said. “I need to speak to our people there and see if we can’t track this ‘Lucy’ traitor. Just think, if we could uncover them while the Fuhrer is here, that would be something.”
I climbed into the half-track and ignored him. I knew what he meant, praise from Hitler, pats on the back, promotions, medals, sometimes it seemed as if the whole of the Reich was dedicated to pleasing one man, hardly a healthy way to run such a huge empire. We drove back to Headquarters and left the security men to meet their counterparts while we found the army kitchen and got on with the more important business of getting something to eat. We were enjoying the early evening sunshine when a corporal came up to me and saluted.
“Compliments of Obersturmbannfuhrer von Betternich, Sir, you are invited to an informal reception for the Fuhrer this evening, it is due to start at ten o’clock in the main hall.”
He turned about and left, I was stunned. I looked down at my stained, ragged uniform and automatically tried to brush off some of the dust. The men were grinning, probably thinking of their ragged scarecrow of a platoon leader rubbing shoulders with the high and mighty of the Third Reich. As usual, Willy took matters in hand.
“Don’t worry, we’ll help you get cleaned up, Sir. We may even be able to sew up the rip in the shoulder of your tunic, it happened when you went after those Russians in the foxhole.”
I hadn’t even noticed, I took off my tunic and my God, there was indeed a rent about fifteen centimetres long at the back of the shoulder. Willy took a needle and thread out of his pack and patiently sewed it up, another man had a sharpened razor and I did my best to scrape off my stubble. I finished off with a wash in a sink of cold water, wet down my hair and smoothed it back, put on my tunic and cap and stood in front of my men for ‘inspection’.
“Those boots will never do, one moment,” Willy said.
He reached under the axle of our half-track and came out with his hand covered in glossy black grease. He smeared it over my jackboots and rubbed them off with a piece of dirty rag, sure enough they looked clean and shiny.
Mundt nodded. “It’ll do, we’re not in Berlin so they can’t expect any more.”
I thanked them and left. The Leibstandarte guards checked my documents carefully, relieved me of my pistol and allowed me to go inside. The hall was packed with about a hundred officers, the Fuhrer was at the furthest end away from me which suited me fine, the last thing I needed was to be caught up in the machinations of the Nazi hierarchy.
I was quietly drinking a glass of fine Mosel when I heard a familiar voice.
“You’re not enjoying it, are you?”
It was Wiedel, the Gestapo. I nodded to him.
“Not really, no. Politics never did to anything for me and I’ve seen too many blunders on this front to be overly impressed with this gathering.”
He smiled. “Military strategy comes from only one source, Hoffman, it sounds suspiciously like you are criticizing the Fuhrer.”
But he smiled as he spoke. It was some kind of black Gestapo humour.
The buzz of conversation got louder and I looked up to see that Hitler had moved nearer to us, he was standing talking to Feldmarschal Model.
“These troops of yours don’t impress me,” I heard him saying. “The men of 1943 are not of the same calibre as those of 1941.”
He was referring to our massive armies that had invaded the Soviet Union, storming through Poland and the Ukraine to the gates of Moscow. But Model went bright red with anger at his Supreme Leader, formerly a corporal in the Great War.
“Of course they are not, my Fuhrer, the men of 1941 are dead, scattered in graves all over Russia.”
There was a deathly silence, Hitler went pale with anger, then snorted and turned away to speak to von Manstein. Wiedel and I looked at each other. No comment was necessary. To agree with Hitler would be cowardly, to agree with Model could mean arrest. Neither of us had Feldmarschal rank to support us. I wanted to leave and go outside to smoke and chat with the men, smoking in the same room as the Fuhrer was forbidden, but leaving the reception before him was equally impossible. Von Betternich joine
d us and he was smiling.
“You wouldn’t believe the gossip I’ve picked up in this room, Wiedel, I could have half the General Staff arrested tomorrow morning.”
“In that event who would fight the war, Obersturmbannfuhrer?” I asked him.
His smile broadened even more. “That’s a valid point, my friend. Do you have any suggestions for us, or should we ask the Fuhrer?”
“Ask him when we can attack the salient, that would be more useful.”
“Ah, yes, Kursk. Just wait, there is to be an announcement shortly.”
I wondered how he seemed to be so well informed, until I saw him exchange glances with Bormann, the secretary. Of course, it was politics, quite simply the shifting balance of power and allegiance that was so all pervasive inside our Nazi-led administration. Like many SS officers I had never joined the Nazi party, I had little interest in or enthusiasm for politics. The more I saw of it, the more I found it corrosive and damaging to the heady ideals of the Third Reich before the war, when I had made my decision to become a professional soldier.
“Achtung!” Someone shouted across the room and there was instant silence. The Fuhrer stood on a low dais that had been placed in the middle of the hall and look coldly at his assembled officers.
“You have been waiting for many weeks to be given the order to attack the Kursk salient. I can now tell you that I will convene a meeting of my generals at the Wolfschanze on the First of July. At that meeting I will announce the date of the offensive. Decisions have been made that will affect the whole course of this war. Decisions that will see our armies once more sweep victorious to Moscow and beyond. Our new Panzers are now in place and will spearhead the advance. All of your questions will be answered and your fears laid to rest in the next few days. The world will shake to the mighty roar of our armies and our Panzers will once more begin our crusade to the east. You have my word that you are on the eve of a great and resounding victory!”
The room erupted to Nazi salutes and shouts of ‘Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!’. It was heady stuff and I almost got caught up in it until I looked at von Manstein and Model, both wore expressions that were anything but enthusiastic, sour would be a more accurate description. And von Betternich was smiling openly, clearly enjoying the show. I had the uneasy feeling that this whole affair was being stage-managed. Politics!