Back on the banks of the River Don to the west, shells rained down on the Italian positions, the soldiers pressing themselves desperately into the floor of their trenches. The heat blasts and shock waves engulfed them as they cowered beneath the frozen earth walls. Russian artillery pounded the positions for nearly an hour, the roar and whistling of shells almost as deafening as the continuous explosions. Bunkers and emplacements were shattered under the explosions, several of the few Italian field guns being obliterated under the fire, their crew’s bodies disintegrating or torn apart in the blast waves.
Sergeant Moretti pressed his body against Donatello, shielding the younger soldier’s body with his own. The ground shook under the ferocity of the explosions, dirt and debris falling on top of the troops as they pushed their faces into the frozen snow. Shrapnel whizzed above them as the high explosive shells impacted around their forward positions. Distant screaming and shouting could be faintly heard as the wounded and shell shocked reacted to the intense barrage, attempting to protect themselves.
Then there was sudden silence, the ringing in the defenders ears as their heads slowly rose, their faces covered in dirt. The shouts of ‘Hurrah’ echoed across the snow as the Russian infantry scrambled to their feet on the southern bank of the Don River, hundreds of infantry swarming towards the Italian positions.
Sergeant Moretti pushed himself upwards on the walls of the trench, spitting dirt and snow from his mouth, his voice croaking as he tried to shout, ‘Enemy Infantry! Open Fire!’ The Italian infantry forced themselves from their shock, grabbing their rifles and raising them over the trench wall.
Moretti caught the eye of the German officer, his face covered in dirt, the man shaking with shock as he scrambled to his feet. The rifle cracks filled their ears as the Italian soldiers opened fire, first sporadically, then more concentrated as more men forced themselves upwards in their scorched emplacements.
Volleys of rounds from the Carcano rifles flew towards the advancing Russians as Moretti glanced out, his eyes widening in horror as he saw the hundreds of Russian infantry charging towards them, the line extending in either direction as far as the eye could see.
He spun round, shouting at the German, ‘Artillery, where is the German artillery?
The German stared back at him, a field telephone in his hand, his voice breaking, ‘The lines are cut!’
Moretti swore under his breath, his fear rising, spinning round as his men fired continuously, ‘Cut them down! If they reach us we will be overwhelmed!’
He ran along the trench, shouting desperate encouragement as he moved, stumbling over ammunition cases and discarded supplies. Grasping his Beretta 38 submachine gun tightly, he checked the magazine, pulling the bolt of the weapon back to ready the submachine gun. Reaching a gap in the line, the shattered and bloody bodies of his countrymen lying around it, he lunged against the trench wall and raised the weapon, firing a burst out towards the advancing infantry.
Donatello pushed in next to him, his Carcano rifle kicking back as the younger infantryman fired out towards the river. The Russians swarmed towards them, the distance narrowing to one hundred metres as the Italians fired frantically out from their defences.
Reloading his submachine gun, Sergeant Moretti ducked down in the trench, bullets splattering across the top of the walls. Machine guns began chattering on either side, the slow firing Italian Breda 30 and 37 weapons heaved into place after the barrage.
The Russian infantry poured on towards them, a sea of brown clad uniforms surging towards the Italian positions. Many fell, their bodies hit by rifle fire or the machine guns, but there were far too many to stop as they fired and ran, bullets flying in either direction.
The twenty bullet clips of the Italian machine guns were exhausted quickly, the loaders desperately trying to attach new magazines as the Russians got nearer. Then the few German MG34’s and MG42’s opened fire across the line, scything into the advancing troops, the molten lead pouring into the Russian line. Hundreds fell, their bodies virtually torn apart under the high rate of fire from the German guns manned by Italians.
Moretti fired a full clip again at the advancing brown clad troops, seeing Donatello reload his weapon beside him, the younger soldier panicking as the rifle jammed, its breach covered in dirt. The remaining Italian artillery opened fire, high explosive shells flying over the trenches and impacting on the ground before the Russian infantry. Bodies were shattered or torn apart, thrown into the air by the impacts and explosions.
Further back, German heavy artillery had hastily manoeuvred to face the new threat, the officers re-checking their targeted coordinates, fearful of hitting their allies. As the arms of the artillery officers fell and their gunners pulled back on their firing mechanisms, the guns rocked backwards on their mounts, the flashes as the guns fired filling the area. The crumps from behind Moretti went unheard as he fired out again, the Russian infantry still advancing. The German support mortars fired at maximum range, their commanders desperate to support the troops they had been advancing towards.
Grenades bounced into the trenches as the Russians moved forward, struggling in the broken snow. Moretti stared out, his panic rising at the screams from either side of him as the grenade explosions claimed their victims, shrapnel flying through the trenches. Bullets poured towards them, felling several of the defenders as they were hit in the face or upper bodies, the wounded survivors’ bitter cries of pain chilling the remaining upright defenders.
The Russian infantry in front of him were shattered as the shells and mortar rounds landed amongst them, the high explosive shells obliterating the first advancing line. Moretti watched mesmerised as broken bodies and rifles were tossed into the air, the Russian first and second lines disintegrating under the sheer force of the explosions.
The Russian advance faltered, the following soldiers terrified at the sight before them. Moretti bit his lip as bloody body parts landed amongst the Italian defenders in the trench, his mouth dry. He turned abruptly, shouting, his voice hoarse, ‘Keep firing! Drive them back!’
The cracks of rifles continued, the remaining Italians firing at the Russians as the advancing line hesitated, then began to fall back, the enemy infantry turning and running back towards the Don River.
Donatello raised his head over the trench, glancing out cautiously, ‘Sergeant, are they retreating? Is it over?’
Sergeant Moretti looked into the younger soldier’s eyes, his expression grim, ‘That was just the start…they will be back after they regroup.’ As the rifle and submachine gun fire gradually died away, he turned and marched towards the German Officer along the trench, lighting a cigarette with his shaking hands. His concern and confusion rising as he stepped over the broken and still bodies, ‘Where were the Russian tanks?’ He stiffened in horror as he heard the distant crumps from the north again, ‘Enemy artillery firing! Take cover!’
Chapter Sixty Six: Sledges
Tatu swore under his breath, his back muscles aching. He glanced round, seeing Hausser several metres behind him, ‘Herr Leutnant, can we swap now?’ The low sun was glinting off the snow’s surface, the snow clouds having now passed overhead. The temperature remained low, the soldiers’ greatcoats fastened up to their necks, scarves across their mouths.
Hausser increased his pace, grinning, approaching the stationary Romanian quartermaster past the makeshift sledge, ‘The weight too much for you?’ His exhaled breath forming in condensed clouds before them.
Tatu grimaced, straightening his back, ‘When you said we were to transport the wounded, I did not realise we were the new Panje horses!’
The officer smiled, indicating back towards Udet, ‘Can you relieve the old Romanian…he needs a rest!’
Udet smiled, pushing forward in the snow, ‘Yes, Herr Leutnant!’ he waited whilst Tatu lifted the straps from around his torso and handed them to him, the older man clearly relieved to be free.
Hausser looked down at the injured pilot, seeing the man strain a smile,
‘How are you? Are you warm enough?’
The pilot offered a strained nod, his body tied to the sledge and covered with blankets, ‘Yesterday I flew a plane…now I am being dragged through the snow…not my idea of a day out!’
Tatu grinned down at him, ‘Stop complaining or we will make you pull us!’
Udet coughed, ‘The Geneva Convention will prevent that!’
Tatu cuffed the back of the young German’s helmet in jest, ‘Do you even know where Geneva is, you thick-skulled Berliner?’ He looked round as Udet pushed his tongue out at him, his scarf lowered, seeing Petru dragging the next sledge behind them, the casualty an infantryman with a stomach wound. Looking at Hausser in mock exasperation, ‘I have just realised you Germans have got the Romanians doing all the work for your Reich again!’
Hausser shook his head, smiling and indicating to Hase, ‘Can you take over Petru’s sledge.’
Tatu grinned, enjoying the game, ‘That’s it…get the Russian who thinks he is a German to do it now!’ He threw his head back laughing, ‘Still…what punishment will I get for insubordination?’
Hausser grinned, pushing the large Romanian with his gloved hand, the man falling back into the snow, still laughing. Tatu raised himself onto one arm, grinning as Udet pulled the sledge forward, ‘Certainly an interesting holiday with the German Sixth Army. March to the end of the world…then fall off!’
He fell back laughing again as Petru approached, his fellow Romanian’s expression concerned, indicating to Tatu, ‘Don’t be put off by my ignorant friend’s behaviour, Herr Leutnant. He is nothing without his cooking pot and personal orderlies running around after him.’
The young officer laughed, watching Hase approach, dragging the sledge behind him, ‘We will all take turns to show the fat Romanian carpenter we are all equal!’
Tatu pushed himself to his feet, his large jacket covered in snow, ‘Not so fat any more…compliments of the horse meat and soup diet!’ He grinned ironically, ‘Even I couldn’t come up with much of a recipe with those ingredients…snow, horse meat, bread…oh, and some more snow for seasoning!’
Meino struggled unamused towards them pulling another sledge, the wounded occupant having lost a leg below the knee, ‘Shall we keep going gentlemen?’
Hausser nodded, waving the two other sledges forward, the middle aged military policeman and a youthful Hungarian pulling them with Alessio trudging behind, ‘Yes, let’s keep the pace up. The crossroads where we meet the transport lorries are still some distance away.’
The group trudged on, forcing their lower legs through the snow, the air crisp and clear. In the distance, they watched as the German fighter planes circled over the airfield, the black dots like bees over honey Hase thought.
Petru drew alongside him, patting his shoulder, ‘So young Hase, how are you holding up?’
Hase smiled forcefully, the ropes digging into his shoulders as he pulled, ‘We seem to be spending a lot of time at this city. I never came here before the war. Never ventured much further than the outskirts of Kiev.’
Petru nodded thoughtfully, smiling as he heard Tatu and Hausser arguing behind them, ‘Do you miss your family and home city much?’
Hase looked up at him, his blue eyes sparkling with the light reflected off the snow, ‘Yes. I miss their news too. I have not seen my family for nearly fourteen months now. I hope they are still well.’
The Romanian smiled, ‘I miss my wife and children. I have not seen them for…’ He thought for a second, ‘Nearly a year. It was January when I last went home.’ He became thoughtful, his eyes saddening, ‘The children will be more grown up now…’ He turned to look at Hase seeing the soldier’s eyes were filled with emotion, ‘Do you wonder what they would think of you now…in this uniform?’
Hase nodded, sniffing and forcing his mind from his family, ‘I made a choice to save my men when Hausser’s unit approached the village we were in. That is what led me to wear his uniform.’
Petru’s eyes narrowed in curiosity, realising they knew little of the Russian ‘Hiwi’s’ past. He nodded, lowering his voice, ‘So what happened back then young Hase?’
Hase’s face became darker, his mind thinking back, ‘The Russian commander, Dimitri, deserted us on the southern coast of the Crimea…left us to die against the German attacks earlier this year, whilst he saved himself and some of his other units.’ He sniffed, the emotion rising again, ‘It was May this year. We were only a small unit of stragglers, twenty four men…pushed back and isolated on the southern coast on the Black Sea when the Germans swept through our defences. That morning I had been told on the radio to hold the town, to await the sea rescue. We radioed the unit in the next village, seeing smoke on the horizon. The commander there told me that the Russians were bombing the town, then the lines were cut. I went up the hill to a small group of houses to see what was happening, moving my men to a defensive line along the ridge. I saw the dust in the distance through my binoculars, then a Panzer tank. We had no anti-tank guns when the German reconnaissance unit approached.’
He glanced across at Petru, seeing the man was listening intently, ‘There was shooting as their infantry, armoured cars and tank approached, we had nothing to answer with other than rifles. The tank went round to the left, shooting up our positions. I just stayed there…frozen in fear, hiding on some steps to a basement and looking out, hoping for something good to happen. I only had a pistol and binoculars. My sergeant came to me, terrified they were SS troops and that they would shoot us all. One of their lorries pulled up the hill into the street in front of us, their soldiers jumped out and started shouting, breaking down the doors and forcing my men out. When they were surrendering they knocked them to the ground, shouting for their commander…I was terrified. My sergeant shouted for me to do something…I just stood up slowly and stepped out…I don’t know why…walking towards them, calling for them to leave my men alone. I was terrified inside. I knelt on the ground and put my hands behind my head in front of them and one of the German soldiers hit me with his rifle butt. I remember lying there as they argued…I think they could not decide whether to shoot me or not…if we were even NKVD. Then I heard a jeep approach and an officer got out, he shouted at the German soldiers and helped me up. He spoke Russian.’ He indicated with a shake of his head towards Hausser, ‘I spoke to this officer for the first time then and pleaded for him to save my men. He took us prisoner and ordered his men to move the civilians out of the village before the Russian bombers came. The Russian battleships shelled from the Black Sea also, the village was completely destroyed. He saved many lives. Many others would have made us stay, watch the bombing from afar as the planes and ships blew up the fishing boats and harbour. For that, I owe him my life and loyalty.’
Petru stared at the younger man as they walked, seeing a tear roll down the right side of his face into his scarf, his emotions conflicted, ‘You were an officer?’
Hase nodded, ‘Yes…nearly the equivalent rank as Hausser.’ He grinned ironically, continuing, ‘They took us in a truck for some miles…most of my men were young, frightened and crying. I remember one though, older…swearing at the stupidity and in hatred at Dimitri. They did not even guard us then…a defeated unit, stripped of our weapons…even the drivers were laughing at us. I remember passing lines of German troops marching east by the side of the road…they were so close we could smell their cigarettes.’
He glanced back at Petru before continuing, ‘When we stopped, they placed us near a field kitchen and some tents with an armed guard and we feared the worst. Leutnant Hausser eventually came back and walked over to us. He offered that we work in their kitchens for the Germans. My men were unsure at first until he explained what food was on offer…’ His grin widened as he recalled the situation, ‘Then they readily agreed, greedy swines!’ Hase laughed…his face filling with surprise as he realised it was the first time he had seriously laughed in weeks, ‘He cheekily told me I could be ‘Head Waiter’ if I wanted to retain my rank!’
Petru smiled comfortingly, glancing back at Hausser grinning, then nudged Hase, ‘So how did you end up here with him?’
The younger Russian smiled fondly, recalling his memories, ‘We used to talk a lot when he was free…mostly over the summer. He wanted to improve and perfect his Russian, explaining it may save lives…avoid misunderstandings. I began to understand him…his unwillingness to kill just for the sake of killing. When he was transferred north I asked to go with him. He gave me a German uniform and arranged for me to join him as an interpreter and assistant.’ He grinned widely, lowering his scarf, ‘Leutnant Hausser doesn’t need an interpreter.’
Petru’s eyes had widened as he listened, the soldier usually quiet and reserved, the insight he provided on the German officer and himself very illuminating. Intrigued at the information, he nervously asked, ‘Do you know how he got the Iron Cross?’
Hase grinned widely in response, surprised from his distant memories by the question, ‘Yes I do…he told me once when we were drunk. The next day he apologised and got me to swear I would never tell anyone…that he was the only one that could say. I think it embarrasses him, but he keeps it to gain strength in difficult situations…a reminder perhaps.’ He fell silent, his emotions high and tiring him. His eyes fixing back on the fighter planes in the distance.
Petru sighed as they trudged on in the snow, tears welling in his eyes as he realised the Russian’s emotional state, ‘Yes Hase we are both a long way from home now. I hope we will both see our families again one day soon.’
They trudged up the slope in silence, Romanian and Russian together. Approaching the top of the next hillock, Petru turned round to look towards Hausser, the officer wagging his finger at Tatu at the foot of the slope as a grinning Hungarian and military policeman stepped past. Meino walked with them, shaking his head, a wry smile beneath his scarf. Raising his voice, Petru shouted, ‘Crossroads ahead, Herr Leutnant!’ Hausser waved in response, pushing Tatu’s shoulder again playfully as they turned to climb the slope.
Bloody Stalingrad Page 60