Bloody Stalingrad

by Andrew McGregor

  Hausser pursed his lips, realising the building had thick walls for more than one reason, pushing his submachine gun round onto his back, the strap slipping from his shoulder. Readjusting it, he lifted one of the files from the cabinet carefully, opening the card cover and inspecting the contents. A picture stared up at him from the front page, the man’s face badly bruised and cut. Dropping it back into the cabinet with disgust, he turned to Petru, ‘How are you holding up my friend?’

  Petru looked at the floor, his face solemn, ‘I will be alright, Herr Leutnant. Nicu’s death was a shock, but we must carry on. It’s best to concentrate on survival now, perhaps we can think about the fallen once we are out of this city.’ He eyes drifted upwards, looking directly at the young commander.

  Hausser placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, ‘Good, let’s do that. He was a brave young man, self-sacrificing for the benefit of the unit. One day we will have a proper funeral for him, but he will not be forgotten.’

  Petru smiled grimly, ‘Thank you, Herr Leutnant that means a lot to me.’ He averted his moistening eyes, looking towards the flickering candle behind the young commander.

  Hausser patted his shoulder, then indicated for the two men to follow him into the hallway. Stepping out of the room, he turned to face them, ‘There is apparently a basement in this building with some additional supplies.’ He smiled briefly as he saw the two Romanians’ eyes widen, smiles forming on their faces, ‘I don’t imagine there will be much, but go and check these supplies and see if you can muster up a good meal for the men for tomorrow…that should cheer them up.’

  Petru smiled broadly, ‘I think it must be my turn to cook.’ He indicated to Tatu, ‘He puts too much spice in everything…ruins it for everyone!’ He grinned, seeing Tatu’s face fall.

  Hausser winked at Tatu, ‘Bet you didn’t know that until now.’

  Tatu shrugged, looking at Petru with mock disdain, ‘Why did you not tell me before?’

  Petru grinned, ‘I have a feeling this may be our last chance of a good meal for some time, I don’t want you ruining it with too much spice.’ He stepped past Hausser, ‘I will go and find these supplies, and plan the meal.’ Turning to look at Tatu, ‘You can come once you finish sulking.’ He walked off grinning, heading for the corridor on the other side of the building.

  Tatu looked at Hausser incredulously, ‘He is becoming very outspoken…not sure I like this new Petru as much.’

  Hausser grinned, running his hand across the stubble on his chin, a half beard now adorning his face, ‘He is still your friend, don’t be so sensitive…he is only joking with you.’ He leant forward, lowering his voice, ‘Find where their interrogation room is in the building, I presume they must have had a couple of prison cells as well. They are all probably in the basement to reduce the noise from the beatings, have a look and give me a shout…we may have use for the cells if we get any prisoners.’

  Tatu nodded grimly, ‘I will have a look, then help Petru.’ He grimaced, ‘Too much spice indeed…cheeky chef!’ He strode past the chuckling young commander, heading after Petru.

  Hausser checked back into the room they had just left, seeing the two Romanians standing by their assigned windows. Continuing along the outskirts of the ground floor, he walked down the corridor on the opposite side of the building, noticing a staircase leading down into the basement on his right in the centre of the building. Hearing a muffled argument below, he smiled to himself, listening to Tatu question Petru about how much spice and herbs he would use for each of their country’s dishes.

  As he reached the end of the corridor, emerging back into the entrance hall, he nodded to the two soldiers by the closed doors, then heard a ringing from upstairs. Realising it was the field telephone, he climbed the steps of the central staircase two at a time, slowing as he heard the ringing stop, a familiar voice answering the telephone.

  Climbing the last couple of steps to the left of the central staircase, he heard the conversation to his left, ‘Yes sir, I will go and get him if you like…I understand, sir…yes sir, I will tell him.’

  Hausser turned onto the first floor landing, seeing Meino looking towards him nodding, the telephone held to his ear, then he lowered the handset, placing it back into its cradle.

  Hausser walked towards the Croatian, ‘Did they not want to talk to me?’

  Meino shook his head, ‘Just giving information, Herr Leutnant…it was the major’s adjutant. He wanted to see that we had arrived in one piece.’

  The young commander grinned, raising his eyebrows, ‘A social call?’

  Meino smiled briefly, ‘No, he told me to tell you that he wants to know of any Russian movements in this sector, no matter how unimportant they seem to be.’ He paused, mentally recalling the conversation, ‘He seemed quite concerned, also stating we should keep alert and not become too comfortable…that the major will visit us over the next couple of days.’

  Hausser nodded, stroking his half-beard again, ‘I see, anything else?’

  Meino’s eyes widened, ‘Yes, apparently there are a number of Russian snipers in the area. He wanted us to know that the major has sent one of our snipers to eliminate them and provide further support for the line here and that we should not send out any patrols until this has been achieved.’

  Hausser looked at Meino thoughtfully, ‘Good, let’s hope he is successful, this sniper. Though he may be very cold out here.’ He thought further, ‘Let the men at the front door know in case this sniper comes calling for food or supplies.’

  Meino picked up his MP40 from the desk next to the field telephone, glancing round the office it was situated in, ‘I think this must have been the office for the local commander.’ He smiled, looking at the higher quality desk and chairs in the room, the well painted walls, ‘I will go and tell the men on the door now.’ The Croatian walked round the desk, the nails on the soles of his boots clicking on the polished floorboards.

  As Meino drew level with Hausser, there was a muffled explosion outside, the two men stiffening. Looking at each other, their eyes widened as the machine guns at the end of the corridor burst into life. Hausser moved first, ‘Get along the corridor and see what is going on, I will go downstairs and see if the Russians are attacking.’

  Meino nodded, lunging forward and beginning to run along the first floor corridor, passing a Romanian soldier squinting through the gap in the window in an attempt to see out into the darkness. Hausser grasped the wooden handrail on the stairs, descending the steps quickly. Reaching the bend, he saw the two soldiers at the front door cautiously peering out into the small square. Muffled rifle cracks could be heard to the north, the unit next door opening fire on any movement before the building.

  Shadows moved across the terrain outside, the soldiers of the Russian penal unit launching their assault across the broken ground. Moving from broken walls and doorways the soldiers desperately attempting to find cover from the machine gun fire as they advanced. One unlucky soldier felt the pull of the tripwire across his shin, the explosion almost instant, the concealed twine and grenade removing any element of surprise as his scream was cut short.

  In the large basement, Tatu had been inspecting the three cells that ran along the wall below the front door leaving Petru in the room opposite, inspecting the meagre stock of supplies by candlelight, considering what to prepare in his head. The Romanian quartermaster had been considering what misery had occurred in the medium sized room before the cells, a lone chair sitting in the middle of the sparsely furnished cement room. He was thinking that perhaps other prisoners had witnessed interrogations, a sinister motivation for their own confessions when Petru hissed at him abruptly, ‘Tatu, come here!’

  Tatu turned from the miserable rooms, ‘What is it?’ Moving towards the doorway, the staircase just beyond it, between the two rooms.

  ‘Shhhh!’ Petru replied cautiously, slowly grasping the rifle from his shoulder.

  Tatu stepped forward curiously, the candle he was holding flickering in
the draft, lowering his voice, a puzzled look on his face, ‘What is it?’

  Petru was stepping quietly and deliberately away from the back wall of the room, slowly turning his rifle in his hands to point at the rack of supplies. He indicated with a nod to the wall, his voice a whisper, ‘Listen!’

  Tatu strained his ears, hearing the muffled explosion outside as a soldier walked through a tripwire, then the machine guns firing above, the sound distant through the building. He whispered, ‘I can’t hear anything.’

  Petru turned his head quickly, glaring at him in the candlelight, ‘There is someone on the other side of the wall.’

  Tatu’s eyes widened, stepping forward, cursing under his breath as he realised he had left his submachine gun on top of the filing cabinets upstairs.

  As they watched, the shelves moved forward slightly, the tins and packages shaking on the shelves, shelves they were not intended to be placed on. The wooden backed unit scraped slightly across the floor, the weight of the supplies preventing the unit from swinging open completely, the Russian soldier behind the obstacle straining to push the barrier aside.

  Tatu reached down slowly, carefully retrieving his knife from inside his boot, stepping closer to the shelving unit and silently placing the underside of his foot against the edge of the shelving unit, preventing it from moving further. He indicated for Petru to move to the other side of the shelves, extinguishing the candles. Machine gun fire echoed through the building as the gunners on the upper floors fired out into the destroyed landscape before the NKVD headquarters, the tentacles of a thin mist creeping across the devastated workshops and factories from the river.

  The shelving unit shook as the Russian soldier pushed against the wood again, the narrowness of the passageway preventing more than two men from gaining access to the barrier. Another Russian soldier handed his lantern to the man behind and stepped forward to add to the first, the eagerness of the soldiers in the tunnel beginning to subside and transform into frustration.

  The unit scraped across the floor again, Tatu placing his shoulder against the corner to resist the movement. The Russian soldiers pushed harder, the unit moving inwards again, the gap widening slightly. One Russian soldier slipped sideways, trying to use his body to lever the shelving unit open, a third Russian soldier now stepping up to the barrier, pushing with his hands above his countryman, the shelves moving slightly again, Tatu slipping backwards, his boots unable to grip the cement floor.

  A hand appeared on the side of the shelves as the first Russian managed to get his shoulder into the gap, the unit moving again. Then Private Medvedev stepped forward, turning his rifle and bringing the butt across onto the hinges with a crash…he raised it again, the rusted metal hinges resisting the first hit.

  Tatu turned, indicating to Petru to run for the stairs, his countryman stepping across the room quickly, stopping at the doorway and dropping to his knees, his rifle raised. Tatu raised his knife, slipping forward and bringing it down into the shoulder of the Russian soldier pushing between the wall and the shelving unit, the scream as the blade tip entered next to the man’s collar bone echoing across the cellar. The wounded soldier pulled back in panic, colliding with the other soldiers pushing, disrupting their momentum. His screams as the blood spurted across the walls and wooden unit startling the other Russian infantry in the tunnel.

  Tatu sprung back from the shelves, turning and running to the stairs as the wooden unit toppled forward, the tins and packages falling to the floor, the hinges breaking. As the Romanian quartermaster ran past Petru, the rifle cracked, the bullet flying through the shelved and wooden backing, hitting the middle Russian in the chest. The body bucked and fell backwards as the ribcage shattered, the fragments piercing his heart and killing him instantly. The wounded Russian, grasping his bleeding shoulder turned into the tunnel, pushing his countrymen to the side in his desperation to escape to safety.

  The shelves crashed to the floor, the contents of some of the tins and packages exploding across the cement as the wood crashed on top of them. Petru pulled the bolt back on his rifle, firing into the mist of flour and dust that had exploded into the air, hitting another Russian soldier in the face, the man’s head bucking backwards with the impact, his body falling forwards onto the broken shelves.

  Tatu grabbed Petru’s shoulder, dragging him from the corner at a crouch as rifle bullets splattered against the wall opposite the tunnel opening. Scrambling towards the top of the stairs, Petru half crouched, his rifle pointing downwards, Tatu pulling on his shoulder. The two Romanians saw the muzzles of two Russian rifles appear at the foot of the stairs, the weapons slowly turning to aim at them as the Russian infantry advanced to the corner. Petru fumbled with the bolt on his rifle in panic, his hands slipping across the steel, a sickly feeling surging through his stomach. Tatu’s eyes widened in panic as he realised they would not reach the top of the staircase in time, his spare hand dropping the knife and grasping at the wooden steps.

  Bullets splattered across the walls of the cellar at the foot of the stairs, the Russian infantry ducking back in panic. Tatu spun round, seeing Hausser standing at the doorway, his raised submachine gun pointing down above them, the muzzle flashing. A startled Romanian appeared next to him in the opening, Tatu’s PPSH submachine gun in his hand, he fired a burst down into the basement.

  Panicked shouts could be heard in the basement, the Russian soldiers realising their rifles were no match against the two submachine guns in the confined space. Private Medvedev shouted across the men, ‘Retreat into the tunnel…get out now before they use grenades.’

  The six Russian soldiers needed no prompting. Heeding the shout, they turned and lunged into the tunnel, scrambling over the supplies and broken shelves. Private Medvedev backed towards the open tunnel, his rifle raised, covering the men’s retreat, his aim at the corner of the wall, the foot of the staircase.

  As he stepped backwards, lifting his legs over the shelves, his eyes on the corner, he did not realise the breathless last man had turned in the tunnel. Remembering the political officer’s speech, he raised his rifle, aiming at the figure stepping over the shelves.

  The rifle in the tunnel swayed with the soldier’s breathing and panic as the figure in the basement slipped on the body lying over the shelves. The rifle cracked and bucked upwards, the figure spinning round as the bullet entered private Medvedev’s right shoulder blade, his own rifle crashing to the cement floor of the cellar as it dropped from his grasp. Then the soldier in the tunnel turned and ran into the darkness, his panic overcoming him.

  The Russian sergeant quickly climbed the stairs to the roofless room at the top, seeing the light of dawn beginning to creep across the sky above, the room the only part of the building left standing. The political officer was stood smoking and listening to the gunfire behind him, an ironic smirk on his face. They could hear the desperate shouts to retreat, the thirty six penal unit soldiers having been unable to overcome the impregnable defence of two machine guns, traps and defensive flanking fire from the adjacent German unit. The fourteen survivors of the shattered attacking unit now fleeing.

  The sergeant stood before the political officer, his breathing heavy, fear in his eyes, ‘The men are retreating sir, there have been casualties. They have machine guns…’

  The political officer turned slightly, looking at the sergeant, his eyebrows raised. He slowly pulled the collar of his overcoat up, a protection against the morning cold, ‘You have a submachine gun, don’t you?’

  The sergeant nodded, his eyes wide, ‘Er, yes sir.’

  The political officer nodded slowly, ‘Shoot them. Shoot all the cowards that retreat.’

  The sergeant’s eyes widened further, his voice shaking, ‘But sir, the enemy has mach…’

  The officer interrupted, his voice determined, ‘Are you questioning my order?’ He looked away from the sergeant, over his shoulder towards the broken high buildings in the distance. Seeing a distant light, he stepped sideways curiously, straini
ng his eyes to look towards the horizon.

  The sergeant shook his head fearfully, ‘N…No, si..’

  The shot was distant, the high powered rifle immediately withdrawn into the tarpaulin, the muzzle flash concealed deliberately amongst the ruins of the destroyed workshop roof, the material wrapped round the barrel reducing the sound and flash further. The Austrian sniper lowered his head, his dirt covered face touching the cold slate and debris on the destroyed floor of the workshop attic. He slowly exhaled, ensuring no dust rose in the close confines of his position.

  The Russian sergeant stood transfixed, his mouth open in mid-word as the political officer slowly dropped to his knees in front of him. The bullet had been fired from one hundred and fifty metres away, through a hole the size of a dinner plate in the exterior building wall, a shell puncture from three months before. The bullet had pierced the officers back and penetrated his heart, exiting the front of his chest, his ribcage collapsing.

  The sergeant gasped as the officer slumped forward, his face smacking against the broken cement from the roof of the workshop, the blood splattering outwards as the dead man’s nose shattered on impact.

  The sergeant looked down in bewilderment, raising his hand to his face to wipe the single splatter of blood from his cheek…the officer still held a burning cigarette in his dead gloved hand.

  Chapter Fifty Four: The Tunnel

  Hausser slowly and cautiously advanced down the wooden staircase, stepping carefully round Tatu and Petru. As he neared the bottom of the steps and the end of the wall, he lowered himself to a crouch, seeing the bullet holes in the plaster above him.

  Hearing scraping and a moan in the room to his right, he gripped his MP40 tightly, leaning outwards from the wall in an attempt to see into the gloom. As he descended the last couple of steps, he felt his stomach seem to twist, the caution rising dramatically within him. Glancing quickly round the wall, he glimpsed the Russian soldier struggling amongst the broken shelves and supplies, his low groans an indication he was badly wounded. Surveying the two other bodies in the cellar for movement and checking the darkened tunnel, he jumped forward as he saw the Russian soldier struggling to reach his rifle. The weapon just out of reach on his wounded side, the soldier desperately stretching across his body with his uninjured arm, his teeth clenched in pain. The discarded flickering candle lay just beyond the weapon, the wick struggling to stay alight.