Bloody Stalingrad

by Andrew McGregor

  Hausser raised his left hand, his right extending the submachine gun upwards as his strained voice echoed across the room, ‘Now! Everyone back against the walls!’

  The rifles bucked, as several of the soldiers fired into the ceiling, the plaster shattering and cascading down upon them. Two Germans stepped back, cracking their entrenching tools against the exposed brick as the gunfire intensified, the sounds deafening in the confines of the rooms. Two others kicked out, their boots clumping against the brick as it shook. They kicked again, the cement bricks shaking as the entrenching tools cracked and splintered the surfaces, fragments cracking and flying from the wall.

  In the other rooms, the Germans fired continuously into the ceiling, muffled yelps and screams as the Russian soldiers ran to the sides of the room, the bullets cracking through the floorboards or embedding into the beams. The Russians fired back, the projectiles smashing through into the rooms below.

  The soldiers kicked and hacked desperately at the bricks, the exposed walls slowly beginning to give way as they worked feverishly, wary a grenade dropping into the room would end their attack quickly. Above, a couple of Russian soldiers began clawing at the floorboards, trying to create enough space to drop Molotov cocktails onto the assembled attacked below. One grunted, his body jerking as the German bullet lodged in his shoulder. He scrambled back towards the door, his teeth clenched against the pain as his countryman smashed at the floorboard with the butt of his rifle.

  Udet held the Stielhandgranate nervously in his hand, his body jumping at each volley of shots. Having unscrewed the base of the stick grenade, he was ready to pull the fuse, the Germans next to him frantically kicking at the bricks as he waited.

  Tatu lunged forward, skirting the room as the German infantry around him fired into the ceiling above. Grunting as he reached the wall, he turned his gun, smacking the butt against the brickwork in an attempt to break through. Explosions outside sent dust and into the rooms, the shattered plaster dust swirling around the soldiers as they fired upwards. One of the Germans dropped forward, a bullet from above entering his lower neck, blood spurting across the room as he rolled through the broken plaster in the centre of the room screaming.

  Hase and Petru were firing upwards, the splintering of wood realising their worst fears, the Russians tearing with bloodied hands at the floorboards. Petru glanced at the soldiers next to the wall, their thin bodies sweating as they crashed their boots against the woodwork. Then two bricks gave way, the Romanian’s heart jumping as the German next to the small opening pulled the fuse on the base of his grenade and tossed it sideways through the broken wall. Shouts of alarm swept through the opening, the three Russian soldiers rising to run as the steel grenade clattered across the floor.

  Hase moved forward towards the splintering noise above, his rifle butt kicking back into his shoulder as he fired upwards. The scream of pain from above, the Russian soldier’s face contorting in agony as the bullet passed through his thigh, severing an artery. The explosion blew dust and debris through the wall opening, Petru thrusting his PPSH through the gap and firing blindly into the next room as the soldiers either side of him clawed their hands against the damaged wall, pulling bricks and cement inwards.

  One of the German soldiers stepped behind the Romanian, pushing his shoulder as he jabbed his own PPSH 41 barrel into the room next door, pulling the trigger. The muzzle flashed, small calibre bullets pouring into the room and killing the two wounded Russians as more bricks crashed onto the floor at their feet.

  Hausser lunged towards the opening, thrusting his MP40 barrel through as more bricks crashed to the floor. Firing a burst into the room, he kicked the broken bricks aside, the opening getting bigger as the soldiers either side hacked away at the masonry. The buildings shuddered as more shells hit the floors above, the machine gun fire racking the shattered windows where the Russian soldiers cowered.

  The young commander, thrust his upper body through the enlarged gap, twisting and turning to force himself through. Two dead Russian soldiers lay in the room beyond, their faces contorted in death, a third mortally wounded crawling towards the door. Hausser crashed to the floor, spitting dust from his mouth as he struggled upwards, his MP40 raised to waist height as debris fell from his filthy uniform.

  German soldiers squeezed through behind him, their bodies caked in dirt as they struggled to their feet. Hausser kicked the weapons away from the wounded man, the Russian rolling over onto his back in despair and defeat. The commander pointed to the soldier, blood covering the man’s tunic, ‘Pull him to the side…take the weapons away and look after him once we have cleared the building. Leave him a water bottle...he hasn’t got long.’ The commander nodded to the soldier beneath him and turned to the door, the woodwork splintered and worn.

  Adrenalin fuelled shouts in Russian came from the corridor outside, the soldiers from the floor below running up the stairs to escape. Hausser pulled the door inwards, his MP40 raised as bullets crashed against the frame, splinters of wood showering him. An explosion at the end to his right, Tatu’s weapon emerging into the hallway, the flashes from his PPSH 41 cutting down the crouched Russian defenders at the stairs to the next level.

  The young commander looked stole a glance out, looking to either side, and seeing Tatu advance towards the stairs leading upwards, his submachine gun pointed menacingly into the darkness. Thrusting his body out, Hausser moved up the hallway, German soldiers emerging from the doors on his right. Russian infantry on the steps behind fired, the soldier behind the commander twisting as two bullets hit him mid chest. As the wounded man’s hands grasped towards the Leutnant’s back, his crippled body slipping to the floorboards below, Hausser spun round, his MP40 rising in response.

  Udet fired from the doorway at the Russian infantry, a scream as one fell backwards. More Germans forced their way into the hall, several advancing determinedly towards the Russians as they ducked, shouts of panic as the brown clad infantry jumped back down the stairs, a Stielhandgranate bouncing down the wooden staircase after them.

  The flash below was followed by billowing dust swirling up the wooden stairs. Screams from the wounded echoing around the filthy uniformed infantry as they advanced forward. Bullets splattered off the plaster, the remaining defenders on the ground floor trying to deter the advancing soldiers. Two more grenades bounced into the ground floor stairwell, spinning along the floorboards into the corridor as the Germans descended, the wooden stairs creaking as two blasts cleared the hallway.

  One Russian ran out into the street in fear, the machine guns from one of the carriers some forty metres away cutting him down, his body twisting and shuddering as the high velocity rounds cut through him. The frantic shouts of the remaining three Russian infantry on the ground floor broke through the machine gun fire outside, two dropping to their knees in a side room, the clatter of their weapons on the floor as their hands rose to their heads with desperately distorted and accented screams, ‘Bitte! Bitte!’

  The last Russian soldier retreated to the final room before the open main doors, dropping to his knees as he raised his rifle. The first German infantryman fell as he fired, the over eager youngster stepping out of the gloom at the end. The Russian soldier clawed at the bolt on his Mosin Nagrant, the desperation rising within him as he glanced up. The two flashes from rifles at the end killed him instantly, his body crashing against the doorframe behind as he was propelled backwards, blood splattering across the walls as his ribcage imploded.

  Floorboards creaked above as the Russians ran, Tatu mounting the wooden stairs two at a time, his submachine gun rising above the stairs to fire before he emerged. Dust flew from the ceiling, the shells from the Panzers at the crossroads exploding against the side of the building once more. Bullets splattered against the wall above the Romanian quartermaster, the plaster fragments cracking against his steel helmet and back as he ducked down.

  Reaching into his jacket pocket, he grasped his only grenade, pulling the pin with his teeth before lobbi
ng it down the corridor above. Shouts of alarm preceded the blast, two Russians thrown heavily against the walls on either side as their bodies were peppered with shrapnel, the force of the explosion at their feet breaking their retreat.

  Smoke and dust billowed in the hallway, Tatu mounting the last few steps as Hase and Petru raised their rifles above the floor level, the muzzles flashing as they glimpsed movement at the end in the gloom. Dust fell from the ceiling, the Panzer shells hitting the building again as screams emanated from the end of the corridor. Tatu strode forward, firing from his hip as Russian soldiers appeared in the doorways, their bodies slumping back as the bullets tore through them.

  Hase and Petru scrambled after the Romanian quartermaster, boots echoing on the wooden steps behind them as they emerged into the corridor. A Russian infantryman emerged suddenly on the left, the butt of Petru’s weapon knocking him back as his nose exploded, the soldier crashing onto the floorboards back in the room. Splattered with blood, the countryman next to him dropped his rifle, his arms quickly rising to his sides.

  Hausser pushed past the soldiers on the stairs, Udet behind him, struggling to keep up. Reaching the top, the shouting escalating as German soldiers entered the rooms on either side, he glimpsed Hase at the far end beginning to climb towards the last floor.

  The commissar was screaming at his men above, the startled and frightened soldiers seeming stunned at his words as speckle from his shouts splashed across their faces. The Russian political officer fired his pistol into the ceiling, the corridor shuddering as a shell flew through a window in the block next door, the blast throwing soldiers across the rooms as walls collapsed. The roof bowed downwards, crushing a sniper as the ceiling plaster cracked, the supports undermined as the Panzers reloaded. Tiles crashed to the snow covered street below as the building shuddered, the terrified Russian soldiers glancing upwards in fear.

  One soldier bolted, the fear overcoming him as he ran for the hole hacked into the wall to the building next door. The commissar instinctively turned and fired, the infantryman falling on his face onto the floorboards as the pistol bullet ripped through his back. A large Ukrainian rose, smashing his rifle butt into the back of the hated commissar’s head, a sickening crunch as the man’s legs buckled, his skull collapsing inwards. The officer slumped forward, the Ukrainian stepping over him, spitting down at the twitching corpse as he approached his dying school friend, the body twisting on the floor as the soldier fought his oncoming death with all his remaining emotional and physical strength, tears in the eyes of the Ukrainian that crouched over him.

  Hausser strode through the few soldiers lining the corridor with rifles raised, their adrenalin fuelled shouts into the rooms on either side echoing off the walls as the few beaten Russians kneeled, their hands raised. Muffled gunfire rang out from above, shells exploding against the sides of the buildings once more as he walked forward.

  Lifting the strap of his weapon onto his shoulder, he hesitated at the bottom of the steps, his gloved hand grasping the bannister as the exhaled cloud of air swept around him. Clambering up the steps and passing a couple of crouched soldiers, he drew breath, wary of the scene above. Glancing over the floor level, his scratched helmet rising, he grinned as he saw Tatu, Hase, Petru and a couple of other soldiers standing before their Russian captives, the enemy with their hands raised.

  Climbing the last couple of creaking wooden steps, he emerged into the darkened corridor, Tatu glancing over his shoulder and grinning as several German infantrymen followed the young commander. The Romanian pointing to the room on the right at the end with his hand, ‘That is the way to the next building, Herr Leutnant. They are beaten…shall we give them the opportunity to surrender or do we have to fight our way in?’ Tatu grinned widely as he licked his lips, ‘They have American supplies with them…but in the building next door!’

  Hausser strode past him, his expression determined as his stomach seemed to twist inside, the hunger pangs increasing, ‘Let’s get some food for the men then!’ He approached the last doorway, drawing back as bullets splattered against the woodwork from inside.

  Crouching nest to the door, he raised his voice, the tone croaking, ‘Hey Russkie! Give it up…you are surrounded…you have no way out! Surrender and we will…’

  He jumped as bullets smashed against the door again, a Russian accented voice calling out, ‘Never fascist…we are here to kill you…nothing less, your army is surrounded and dying…we will be the victors…surrender to us!’

  Hausser grimaced, biting his lip, his frustration rising as he shouted, ‘We can shell you all day…you have two floors, that’s it. How long can you survive?’

  More bullets slammed against the woodwork, the German officer moving back slightly as the determined and defiant broken voice shouted back again, ‘We are willing to die here for Mother Russia, fascist…but we will take many of you with us! Your mighty Sixth Army is dying here on our frozen Volga…we will be victorious!’

  Hausser glanced round at Tatu stood behind him shaking his head, his hand running across his moustache. The officer’s voice was strained as he wiped his gloved hand across tired eyes, ‘It doesn’t look like we will get those supplies easily…’

  Chapter Seventy Eight: The Frozen Myshkova River

  South West of Stalingrad, the forty four tanks of the 17th Panzer division had just reached the relief effort, Operation Winter Storm, positioning themselves on the left flank of the 6th Panzer Division in the area of the village of Verkhne Kumsky before the Myshkova River ahead. The fighting vehicles joined the ranks of the forward units, now called Army Group Hoth after the charismatic German Panzer commander leading them.

  Leutnant Siegfried Schmidt sat in the turret of his Panzer IV, staring through his binoculars. Across the snow blanketed terrain surrounding the village, smouldering hulks of destroyed tanks littered the landscape. The destroyed Panzers and Russian T34s lay broken, their shattered hulls a testimony to the battle that had continued relentlessly over the last few days. Destroyed gun positions and the bodies of the fallen lay amongst the shattered metal monsters, the German advance stalled at the banks of the River Myshkova. His unit was positioned to the north east of the small town, nearer the river, their objective to break through the Russian positions and drive forward.

  Around him, crews were busy repairing damaged tanks under the frozen trees, the aroma of coffee and food circling the tankers as they worked, the field kitchens preparing breakfast. Leutnant Schmidt strained his eyes to stare at the forward positions, the German infantry and pak guns sitting in abandoned Russian defences, surrounded by the bodies of their previous occupants.

  The radio burbled in his headphones, the Panzer commander listening intently as he received the orders for the day, complimenting his earlier morning briefing. He gritted his teeth as the time for a coordinated advance was announced, wondering if the tanks around him would be ready in time.

  He glanced down, into the interior of the tank. The gunner was loading shells through the side hatch, the driver tinkering at the rear in the engine compartment. The sounds emanating across the landscape startled him, the crew looking round in response as FW190 fighters and fighter bombers swept across the sky from behind, their targets the Russian defences beyond the river. Following in their wake, Stuka dive bombers flew far above, their protection designated to the ME109 fighters escorting…the Red Air force was now beginning to appear to challenge their previous air superiority.

  The young driver grinned, looking up as the planes swept overhead, ‘How long before we go, Herr Leutnant?’

  Siegfried glanced round, smiling in the cold air, ‘Perhaps an hour…you just concentrate on that engine for now…I don’t want any breakdowns today.’

  The driver grinned widely, leaning forward and peering back into the open engine hatch, ‘There should be no problems today…perhaps this is the day we break through, eh?’

  Leutnant Siegfried Schmidt raised his binoculars again, his concern rising as he watched th
e fighter planes begin to become smaller in the grey sky to the north east. The minutes passed as he stared ahead, the time for movement getting ever closer as he waited, his nervousness rising. Today would be the day they would have to break through.

  The radio traffic burbled in his earphones again, his body stiffening as he heard the urgent tone of the operators voice, the radio message to all front line units. The static cleared, the voice booming through the headphones, ‘Fighters report heavy concentrations of enemy armour and infantry approaching. Russian fighter aircraft highly active in rear areas…’

  As if to announce the event, several FW190s swept overhead towards the river, the roar of their engines drowning out the radio traffic. Siegfried Schmidt raised his microphone, ‘Repeat please!’ He raised his binoculars again, the distant lines in the sky over the horizon indicating an ongoing air battle. The radio burbled once more, the message distinct, ‘Russian armour approaching Myshkova River…engage and destroy!’

  A schwarm of three Messerschmitt ME109s roared overhead, vapour trails streaking behind them, their V12 engines screaming as the pilots urgently increased their throttles.

  Leutnant Siegfried Schmidt snatched the earphones from his head, raising his hand sharply to his neck to touch the medal beneath his scarf nervously. He spun round, pulling his cap down, the driver staring at him in anticipation, his voice rising with excitement, ‘Mount up! The Russkies are coming!’ He waved frantically to the other tankers under the trees, jabbing his hand towards their Panzer IVs.

  As the black uniformed crews started to run across the snow towards their tanks, Siegfried raised the binoculars again, his heart beginning to pound in his chest. Rising smoke filled the horizon, the distant black silhouetted figures of the German defensive positions running between their foxholes and emplacements. As he watched, the small dark outline of a fighter swept through the smoke, the clouds billowing behind the aircraft as the pilot desperately tried to control it. A black line of smoke trailed behind, the Luftwaffe FW190’s engine coughing as the pilot fought with the controls, desperate to keep the plane airborne.