The twenty plus soldiers scrambled out over the trench walls, the snow propelled back down into the defences from their boots. Baumann slipped his MP40 strap over his shoulder and pushed his hands down into the frozen bank, lunging upwards as he did so and propelling himself out into the ground before their defensive positions.
Hausser fired a burst from his MP40 into the gloom, then froze, his body stiffening. The squeal and a burbling engine revving cut through the mist towards them ominously, a shock of adrenalin shooting up his spine as his voice rose, ‘Alarm! Enemy tanks!’ He glimpsed the shifting mist some hundred metres away, the Russian T34 tank driver disorientated in the gloom and afraid to drive into his own soldiers.
Alessio, Meino and the two others stumbled to the door, Tatu could be heard firing from the other side of the plane, their eyes widening as they heard the tank rumbling in the mist, the metal tracks whining as the armoured monster struggled through the deep snow. Hausser dropped down into the ice, slipping back over the wing and turning to use it as cover, his voice rising as Meino fired into the distance, ‘Grab a box and make your way back to the trench. Move!’
The men struggled forward, Alessio jumping into the downed craft and rummaging inside, his voice frantic, ‘Which boxes?’
Hausser clenched his teeth in frustration, bullets whipping around them, ‘Any boxes, just move!’
Meino reached the door, moving beyond it and firing into the mist. The Romanian and German military policeman heaved a box from the doorway and struggled back over the wing, their hands grasping the frozen rope handles at either end of the heavy supply crate.
Rifle cracks behind them flew past, the approaching German Infantry sections firing wildly into the mist from fifty metres away. Meino heaved the smaller box near the door upwards and onto his shoulder, his large Croatian frame straining under the weight. He shouted into the open doorway, ‘Drag another with you, I can manage this one!’ He began struggling over the wing, his knees bent with the weight, plumes of exhaled air swirling around him.
The patter of PPSH bullets hitting the plane and an explosion near the rear indicated to Hausser that time was getting short. He raised his head, shouting, ‘Tatu, to me!’ Rifle shots crashed into the wings and fuselage as Hausser ducked back instinctively, seeing more figures move ahead of him in the mist.
The muffled reply came from the other side of the fuselage, ‘On my way, Herr Leutnant!’ Tatu pushed himself away from the cracked wing on the other side of the plane, scrambling over the iced snow as an explosion behind him urged him on. Bullets whipped across the side of the plane, the Romanian quartermaster grimacing in frustration, ‘Damn Russians have no sense of humour!’
The German squads dropped on their fronts, Baumann urging them to take cover as the downed plane loomed ahead of them. The Oberleutnant dropped to his knees, raising his MP40, ‘Fire into the mist, watch our men! Buy them time!’ He indicated to three startled soldiers next to him, ‘Get up there and reinforce!’ The soldiers scrambled forward on their hands and knees across the snow as Meino passed them, gritting his teeth in pain as a nearby soldier rose from his position to help him with the supply box. Baumann’s voice ringing in his ears as he pointed at another two infantrymen, ‘You two…get up there and grab a box!’
Alessio slipped the rifle strap over his shoulder, dragging the heavy box behind him, his chest heaving as he nearly collided with Tatu moving round the plane. Pushing forward, the Italian felt his heart beating loudly in his chest, the cold air seeming to grip at his breathing. The two German infantrymen pushed through the snow towards him, grasping the box as the Italian turned to go back to the aircraft.
Tatu threw himself down next to Hausser, his eyes widening in horror as he saw the mist part ahead of them, the shadowed outline of the first T34 emerging slowly from the gloom, further diesel engines roaring behind.
The turret on the tank turned slowly, the gunner studying the terrain through his small targeting sight. The main body of the tank jolted as the tank stopped, the front machine gunner swivelling in his seat to look through his cupola. The tank bucked as the 76mm gun fired, the split-second flash causing Hausser and Tatu to instinctively duck down, their hands over their helmets.
The shell whooshed about a metre above them, firing towards the flashing machine guns in the trenches as the turret gunner struggled to see the enemy infantry in the faded light. Hausser winced, ‘We need to get away…he has us pinned!’ Bullets splattered across the upper frame of the plane above them, the machine gun fire wild in the mist.
Tatu grunted, glancing up quickly and seeing the Russian infantry beginning to rise from their positions, the familiar ‘Hurrah!’ uttering loudly from their lips collectively. Then the muffled crumps behind them startled him, an anti-tank pak 40 gun of the 76th Infantry Division opening fire from the north. The shell zipped past the plane, the explosion in the mist blowing snow and debris into the air. Further deeper crumps occurred as an artillery battery in the Stalingrad pocket opened fire, the ammunition now rationed to only one salvo.
Tatu glanced up again, seeing the Russian infantry drop into the snow, the T34’s engine revving as it tried to reverse back into the cover of the frozen mist. He slapped the shoulder of the man next to him, ‘Now Herr Leutnant! We move now!’ The two pushed themselves back, scrambling across the iced snow as the rifle cracks from the three infantrymen behind rang out, their squad firing around them. Alessio was crouched for cover in the snow before them under the nose of the plane, Tatu indicating for him to run back, ‘Not now ‘Italiano’! Time to leave!’
The explosions in the mist were muffled by the snow, the shells landing behind most of the Russian infantry in the darkness.
Reaching the broken front of the plane, Hausser and Tatu rose up, wading along the path created by Meino and indicating for the three forward infantry to accompany them. Bullets whipped above them, one man stumbling, his countrymen grabbing his arms as his wounded leg gave way. The Russians firing blindly as the 76th Infantry Divisions mortars fired from their trenches.
The six men ran from the plane, their chests heaving as they began to approach the infantry lying prone in the snow. Behind them, the Russians slowly slipped back into the darkness…their position vulnerable to further artillery fire…the skirmish was over. The JU52 would sit alone in the snow for the time being.
Chapter Sixty Two: Towards the Frozen Banks of the River Alksay
Forty four miles to the south west of Stalingrad, the Panzer IV tank lurched into a rut in the verge, the black uniformed crew members being thrown forward inside the metal man-made monster. The tank commander pushed himself back in the turret, his hands grazed from roughly grabbing the inside of the turret. Siegfried Schmidt shook his head, the pain from the glancing blow against the inside of the turret ring sweeping through his temple, ‘Scheisse, keep on the road, stupid!’ He shouted at the young driver, his hand rubbing the side of his head furiously.
The young driver shook his head, glancing round in apologetic frustration, ‘Herr Leutnant…it is dark and snowing heavily…I can’t see the damn road!’ He squinted, leaning forward to stare out of the narrow viewing slit into the darkness. A blanket of thick snowflakes swirled across his vision, the distance he could see reduced to two or three metres. The engine roared as he thrust his boots onto the pedals below, the tank lurching forward again.
Schmidt bit his lip, his voice softening, ‘Just keep going and be careful, we can’t afford to lose a track here. We need to get to the river.’ At thirty three and an experienced and decorated tank commander, he was exasperated at the order to advance in such weather, but understood the urgency. His unit, a panzer company in the 6th Panzer Division was urgently needed to reinvigorate the desperate drive of the relief effort towards Stalingrad, the current relief effort beginning to struggle in the area of the frozen River Alksay, having advanced nearly thirty miles in the first twenty four hours. Behind them, the tanks of the division were strung out over several miles, some
stuck in snow, others attempting to simply follow the tank or tracked vehicle in front. The division comprised of a number of Panzer III’s and the majority, Panzer IV’s, the main battle tanks used in Russia to date. The unit had just been equipped with the latest long barrelled models.
The tank lurched forward again, slipping and sliding through the deep snow along the narrow track. Behind the Panzer IV, other engines revved, the Panzer III’s and IV’s following their leader through the heavy snow storm. Schmidt blew on his gloves, the cloud of air reacting to the cold temperature. The tanks rumbled on through the night, covering minimal distance in the conditions. They were now only twenty four miles from their destination, the forward units of Field Marshall von Manstein’s Winter Storm relief effort attacking towards the beleaguered Stalingrad.
Major Slusser sat slumped in his chair in the makeshift office of the warehouse. Looking at the maps and casualty reports in front of him, he swigged from a tumbler, the strong potato vodka making him grimace in reaction. Reaching for a cigarette, he placed it between his teeth and flicked a match against the side of the desk, sucking greedily on the smoke. He stared at the red line on the map, his improvised marker for the advance of Operation Winter Storm, the line drawn along the banks of the River Alksay had not moved. His mind wandered, wondering how long the relief effort would take to get to the outskirts of the beleaguered city with the weather worsening.
In the northern sector of the pocket, his maps showed the positions in the factory district, the home of his 389th Infantry Division. Further to the east, near the River Volga, the soldiers of his units sat in their freezing foxholes and trenches, the temperature miserably low. The major knew that for rations, they were now eating horse meat and a minimal daily amount of bread, some 1000 calories in total, and fifteen hundred calories short of the minimum each individual soldier required. It was beginning to snow heavily…again.
The knock at the door startled him from his depression, he looked up, swigging from the glass, ‘Kommen Sie!’
The door creaked opened and his adjutant stepped into the small office, the candlelight flickering across the walls from the disturbance of air. Standing to attention, the weary officer saluted, ‘Good Evening Sir, I have some despatches from Sixth Army Headquarters and reports from the units to the north and west of the factory district.’
Major Slusser rubbed his eyes, drawing on his cigarette again and glancing at the dirty uniform of the officer before him, ‘Take a seat and read them to me please.’ He slowly lowered himself back in his chair, grasping the half full bottle as he did so and raising one of his boots wearily onto the corner of the table.
The officer stepped forward again, sitting on the edge of the chair opposite. He placed the papers he held on the desk and started to sort them in order of priority, the candles flickering off his unshaven features.
The major stared wearily at him, taking another sip from the glass, his eyes bloodshot, ‘Tell me Gebhard, do you think we will actually ever get out of this mess?’
His adjutant looked up sharply, caught off guard by his superior’s line of thought, the man usually quite positive. He cleared his throat, dropping the reports onto the surface of the desk, ‘I-I am not sure, Sir. Herr Field Marshall Manstein is a good soldier, his men will be fighting as hard as they can…’ He noticed the major slowly reach for another cigarette, ‘…they will break through to us I am sure, Sir. You should not be too concerned, the rations and setbacks are only for a short period and the men know that!’
Major Slusser nodded slowly, his thoughts elsewhere, voice distant, ‘It can’t be good for them physically…let alone their morale.’ He glanced back at his adjutant, his eyes sparkling in the candlelight, ‘Very well, please read the reports from the north first…then let’s get to the bedtime story section from Sixth Army Headquarters.’
The adjutant leant forward, peering at the hand written reports, ‘Heavy Russian movement north of the pocket reported, believed to be artillery and new units moving across us and into the gap between the Sixth Army and the front lines to the west. Fighting limited over the last couple of days in the north.’ He sighed, the major sipping from his drink again, ‘Fighting to the west of the pocket around the 44th Infantry Division some days ago, reports of five hundred German casualties before the Russians withdrew.’ He lifted the page to view the one below, ‘Requests for additional supplies and ammunition received from most of the northern units…especially requests for warmer clothing. In our sector, artillery units report limited ammunition and offensive ability, adopting defensive fire tactics in line with Sixth Army instructions.’
The adjutant looked up again, ‘Shall I move onto the Sixth Army despatches now, Sir?’
Major Slusser sighed, his eyes seeming distant, ‘Yes Gebhard…continue please.’
The adjutant looked down, ‘Sixth Army headquarters advises the southern sector of the pocket can see artillery flashes on the horizon, considered to be Von Manstein’s forces driving towards us. Rationing has been set at 1000 calories per man for the short term to enable food provisions to last until the relief effort breaks through. There are still several thousand horses in the pocket as additional food and the Luftwaffe’s airlift is also bringing in supplies of ammunition and food to Gumrak and Pitomik airfields. Distribution will remain under the existing structure.’
He turned over to the next page, ‘Sixth Army instructs that seriously wounded soldiers and officers should be transported to Gumrak and Pitomik airfields for transport out of the pocket with immediate effect. Assessment centres have been set up at these locations. To maintain order, self-inflicted wounds or soldiers presenting themselves to these centres with insufficient wounds will either face court-martial or immediate return to their units. Additional military police units have been deployed to ensure morale is sustained and that the front lines are fully manned continuously.’ The adjutant looked up again, ‘Shall I continue sir? The orders are as before, to hold the Russians and break up any incursions until the relief effort arrives…’
Major Slusser shook his head despondently, ‘No, that’s fine Gebhard…I have heard enough.’ He glanced back down at the map and took another swig from his drink, ‘It’s interesting, the Russkies just seem to be probing us and not launching all out attacks.’ He seemed to think for a moment, then drew on his cigarette, the smoke drifting upwards in the small office. Smiling fleetingly, he continued, ‘They seem to be letting us freeze and starve whilst they try and stabilise their defences, letting time weaken us.’ He leant across and stubbed the cigarette out, glancing meaningfully into his adjutant’s eyes, ‘I feel unless we break out or the relief effort gets here, the Russians will probably attack towards Rostov on Don if they have the forces, then we will really be in a much bigger mess. We may lose the southern sector of the front all together!’
He dropped his leg from the table abruptly, turning in his chair to face the expressionless officer, his blood shot eyes twinkling, ‘Still, that is enough of the depression…let’s find something to smile about!’ He pushed a glass towards his adjutant, smiling grimly, indicating to the tumbler, ‘Have a drink Gebhard. Tell me how my favourite Austrian sniper is doing…’
The snowflakes drifted to earth all across the factory district, the air still as the darkness descended further. The soldier lay wrapped in blankets and covered by tarpaulin, his breath held. His sighted Kar 98 rifle resting against some broken brick in the remains of the factory roof, the barrel wrapped in cloth to prevent damage and limit any muzzle flash. Occasional distant flashes in the dark sky cast limited light across the broken terrain, the sporadic cracks of rifles and occasional short burst of submachine gun fire difficult to locate in the falling snow.
Silently, he strained his eyes through the falling snow into the distance, the heavy snow clouds preventing the light from the moon and stars assisting him in his search for targets. Slowly he raised his binoculars, scanning the area before the German front line for any sign of movement, conside
ring the average Russian soldier may feel secure in the thickening snow fall and perhaps make a mistake. He stiffened as he saw some movement, the tops of two Russian helmets perhaps.
The Russians were moving slowly along a trench behind the front line, dragging a wounded comrade away under the cover of darkness. Carefully, the Austrian reached for his weapon, raising the sight to his right eye. Panning the rifle sight slowly along the dark line in the snow that indicated the trench route, he hesitated as he saw a small gap, the emplacement wall not as high due to a slight dip in the terrain.
Moving the sight back to check, he estimated the Russian soldiers would reach the gap in a number of seconds, his excitement and anticipation rising. He positioned the sight at the gap and slowed his breathing, awaiting a soldier to walk into his line of fire.
The two Russian infantrymen were struggling with their comrade, the wounded man’s shoulder shattered. Having been hit around mid-afternoon, they had waited until darkness to attempt to bring him from the front line. Issuing considerable extra vodka for his injury and bandaging him tightly, the fear of snipers had reduced movement in daylight. They had assured him he would soon be back safely on the eastern side of the Volga and had commented on the pretty nurses and medical care he would receive, this had alleviated his initial shock and concerns, the man’s pain still intense.
The first Russian, a stout man in his mid-thirties heaved his comrade along on a makeshift stretcher, the strain on his back from being half-bent whilst moving causing him to swear under his breath. His countryman, at the opposite end of the stretcher was much younger at twenty two, this thin soldier straining against the weight of the wounded man.
Bloody Stalingrad Page 57