The officer indicated for them to step forward, walking onto the dark red carpet, their boots sinking into the deep pile. General Zeitzler noticed one of the paintings to the left as they walked slowly, Frederick the Great staring down at him…his expression thoughtful.
Reaching the section between the desks, the small assembled group looked up from their easy chairs, the general’s nervousness rising as he saw the figures present. The officer stepped to the side, coughing slightly as he announced them in a clear voice, ‘Mein Fuhrer! General Zeitzler and his staff officer as expected.’
Both men raised their right arms sharply in salute, their hands stretched out before them as their heels clicked together, their voices in unison, ‘Heil Hitler!’
The dark haired man with the short moustache waved his hand for them to relax, ‘That’s fine Zeitzler…what can I do for you today?’ He glanced at the large uniformed men on either side of him, their stout frames seeming too large for the chairs they were sitting in. The larger of the two men was sweating.
General Zeitzler cleared his throat, forcing his voice to be firm, ‘Mein Fuhrer…I have come to request the release of units from Stalingrad. For them to break out towards Von Manstein’s forces and to smash the Russians encircling the city.’
The black haired man adjusted his parting carefully, leaning back in his chair and indicating to the general to continue.
General Zeitzler looked away, cautious of staring the man in the eyes, ‘We have prepared detailed reports for the operation and believe it still can be achieved. In short, we mean to save the army at Stalingrad and withdraw to the Don Bend to prepare for another offensive next year.’
The black haired man raised his hand for him to stop, smiling comfortingly as he spoke softly, ‘My dear General, I am happy to see that you have begun to put on weight again.’ He indicated to the smaller of the men seated next to him, ‘Bormann was concerned for your health when he told me you had started your diet. We cannot have one of the most senior commanders of our men making life or death decisions on an empty stomach…it may cloud his judgement.’
The general nodded, glancing at Martin Bormann and concealing his hatred for the man.
The black haired man indicated to the other individual with him, smiling warmly, the overweight man sweating profusely in his light blue uniform, ‘Reichsmarschall Goring has informed me that the supplies to the city are improving and increasing daily, so there should be little to be alarmed about. We have fresh divisions moving towards the city from other theatres and I am confident this will resolve the situation.’ He stared at General Zeitzler, the man beginning to become more uncomfortable.
The general’s voice became more subdued, ‘Mein Fuhrer, the situation in the city is desperate. Soldiers are now starving and are on less than half rations. Ammunition is rationed and every day their plight becomes more precarious. It is of Von Manstein’s opinion…and mine…that the army should be permitted or ordered to break out before it is too late. We have designed…’
The black haired man leant forward and waved his hand, dismissing the general’s conversation. His voice rising slightly as he stared defiantly towards his subordinate, ‘I have considered the situation at length and it is imperative that we maintain our front on the Volga River. It is tying down immense Russian forces whilst we move Army Group A from the Caucasus area and the forthcoming offensive will reverse the situation in that sector. The city just has to hold on a little longer for our divisions to break through to them, then we will re-establish our front along the banks of the River Volga.’ Sitting back in the plush armchair, he continued, his eyes brightening as he stared at the general, ‘I have organised the release of significant divisions to that sector and we shall see a reversal of fortunes very soon.’ A smile flickered across his lips once more, ‘This was a setback, but now an opportunity has presented itself for us to destroy the Russians in the south once and for all…’ He leant forward, licking his lips, pointing his finger towards the general, ‘…New tanks are on their way, large powerful artillery…a new SS Panzer Corps and Panzer Army are moving as we speak towards the southern sector…the Russians are now overexposed and we will crush them.’ He sat back smiling confidently, the two men either side of him nodding their approval.
General Zeitzler swallowed hard, his staff officer beside him gritting his teeth as his commander spoke, ‘Mein Fuhrer, can we at least allow just a small breakout to assist Von Manstein’s forces to get to the city? The relief effort has not moved in days…several of the units allocated to the attack have not been released or arrived, the Luftwaffe Divisions are not fi…’ He glanced uncomfortably at the large man next to the Fuhrer, ‘…unable to advance in the conditions…they are struggling to break through…the Sixth Army can then be moved further west….’
The black haired man smiled comfortingly, raising his hand again, ‘As I said before Zeitzler, I am happy for the gallant defenders of Stalingrad to assist the relief effort by attacking…but only on the condition that they continue holding the city. It is imperative to the war that the Volga is cut…think of the erosion of Russian morale knowing we have the city named after their leader…let alone the disruption to their supplies?’ He shook his head, smiling and nodding to the two men either side of him, ‘Sometimes my generals miss the overall picture due to loyalty to their men…a valuable emotion and character trait…but emotions do not win wars!’ He grinned, Goring and Bormann following suit.
General Zeitzler closed his eyes briefly, realising his efforts were futile. He stiffened, raising his right arm again, ‘Thank you, Mein Fuhrer! I will advise Von Manstein and Von Paulus of your conditions.’
The black haired man nodded approvingly, staring into the general’s eyes, ‘Good…shall we discuss any possible plan tomorrow at the late briefing?’
General Zeitzler nodded, his hand still outstretched, his staff officer clicking his heels and raising his own arm, ‘Yes Mein Fuhrer. We will discuss tomorrow then. Thank you.’
The two men turned uniformly, Zeitzler stealing a final glance at the painting of Frederick the Great as they marched from the room. The leader that saved the Prussians looked down upon him, his stare unflinching…an expression void of sympathy.
As the two men walked through the ornate halls once more, retracing their steps, the staff officer whispered to his general, ‘We could authorise a breakout without him knowing…it would be ongoing before he could stop it?’
General Zeitzler spun round, the emotions in the stare at his subordinate high, as he shook his head for the man to be quiet. Only when they were sat in the staff car outside did the general speak in a whisper, the driver told to wait in the cold, ‘I have considered that…lord knows it may save the army.’ He turned to stare at his staff officer, ‘But what if he is right? He should know! What if the Sixth Army can hold on…the new reserves break through…that this is the final chapter before the Russians collapse?’ He shook his head, ‘No…I cannot do it. I cannot risk losing every chance of success and commit a treasonable act.’
The staff officer sighed despondently, leaning to tap on the glass for the driver to return, ‘We will both know soon enough…’
Chapter Eighty Three: Defensive Positions
Hase stared out into the bleak terrain, the bitter breeze sweeping across the landscape before him. In the distance, a freezing fog swept round the destroyed JU52, the aircraft’s frame now virtually damaged beyond recognition, a Russian artillery shell having shattered the hull further as German soldiers desperately attempted to retrieve more supplies. His sentry duty had twenty minutes still to go.
His mind drifted back, the journey from Gumrak airfield in an armoured personnel carrier. The minimal supplies packed into the transports had provided adequate room for the five of them, their uncomfortable journey transporting the small group back to the clutches of Major Schenk. Hausser had been concerned for Udet, the young Berliner still shivering from his exposure as he lay covered in the back of the Sdkfz 25
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They had slowed as they reached the small village, his heart wrenching as he now saw the miserable state of the residents, begging for food by the side of the freezing track, the two armoured personnel carriers lumbering onwards without slowing. Their bodies shivering, they had turned away dejected, perhaps unaware that the German army was also starving…a last glance from himself catching a glimpse of the boy, his body now thinner as he stared after them through sullen and dejected eyes. Finally, the small bedraggled figure in the distance had turned, his feet dragging back through the snow towards his village as the carrier began to climb a slope towards the checkpoint. Petru had placed a comforting arm on Hase’s shoulder, nodding in understanding for his grief as they slowly sat back onto the seat opposite the shivering Udet.
He sniffed beneath his scarf, looking round as he sensed a figure approach. Leutnant Hausser strode towards him, his tarpaulin and great-coated figure adopting a stance next to him as he lit two cigarettes, offering one to him. The smoke blew across the snow covered trench as they stood in silence, Hase still sniffing beneath his scarf, emotion clear in his eyes.
The officer indicated to the plane in the distance, ‘It seems so long ago now…like a strange dream.’
Hase nodded, lowering his scarf to draw on his cigarette, ‘Did they get any more supplies out?’
Hausser shrugged, ‘A couple of boxes…Russian snipers are now targeting any movement around the area.’
Hase grimaced beneath his scarf, his mood darkening, ‘What will happen to us here, Hausser?’
The young commander glanced at him, ‘Whatever fate has in store for us…I am not sure it will be pleasant. This position is worsening by the day…the supplies are running out and we are short of ammunition.’ The officer stared back into the snow, then back at the soldier briefly, his expression sombre, ‘If the worst happens, you should throw off the uniform and run…run to your countrymen. If they find you in a German uniform…well, there are stories of torture and hangings.’ Hausser glanced back at him, ‘I never meant for you to be put in this position…when I found you, we were winning!’
Hase nodded slowly, his fondness for his friend glowing within him, ‘I know…you saved the village…who could have known it would lead here…this frozen hell.’
Hausser smiled ironically, drawing on his cigarette again thoughtfully. He glanced around, ensuring no one could overhear, ‘When the end comes…and it will come I think…choose your moment to escape. Do not say goodbye, or feel any guilt…just run.’
Hase turned to stare at the officer, his eyes narrowing in defiance, ‘I have come too far to leave your side now Herr Leutnant. I am a soldier in your unit and resent such a request. I will not obey it.’ He saw the surprise in the Leutnant’s eyes, the officer attempting to conceal his emotions, shrugging, Hase adjusted his tone, ‘Very well…if you wish for me to leave at any time…I will expect you to order it.’ He stiffened, standing to attention as Hausser blew smoke across the trench, the commander turning to look at him and smiling fondly.
The officer’s smile widened to a grin, ‘We have come a long way together…so I will indeed order you to leave when the time comes my friend…to save your Ukrainian hide from the hatred of your countrymen and perhaps even save your soul…we will never know.’ He laughed, the soldier before him staring determinedly out towards the plane. Then his mood softened, realising he had upset his friend, ‘I apologise young Hase, but I will order you to leave if this all falls apart and the Russkies have us cornered.’
Leutnant Hausser turned, slowly trudging away along the trench. Then he hesitated, shuffling round to stare at the soldier before walking back towards him. Clearing his throat, he spoke again, ‘I was thinking after the incident before Gumrak, the German soldiers thinking you were a deserter…they nearly shot you. You saved us…for that, I thank you.’
Hase nodded slowly, glancing at the officer, their eyes meeting, his voice croaking, ‘This is my unit Sir...it was my duty.’
Hausser smiled warmly, resting his hand on Hase’s shoulder, ‘I have a gift for you…wear it for me for a time…it could help you in this uncertain time…’ He slipped his hand beneath his greatcoat, producing a small tarpaulin wrapped object, ‘In fact I insist you wear it…’
Hausser dropped the item into Hase’s gloved hand and patted his shoulder. The officer spun round, striding swiftly away from the sentry point, the cigarette smoke billowing over his shoulder.
Hase looked down, tears filling his eyes as he slowly lowered his rifle from his shoulder, resting it against the trench wall as he looked down on the small tarpaulin package. Struggling with his gloves to open it, he stared downwards as the waxed cloth fell aside, the breath catching in his throat.
In the centre of his gloved hand was Leutnant Hausser’s Iron Cross.
Chapter Eighty Four: December 24th 1942: Tatsinskaya Airfield, the Don Bend
Leutnant Knapp grinned at his co-pilot, increasing the throttle to the JU52’s three engines as they taxied towards the runway. The man next to him had been by his side throughout the Russian campaign, both pilots learning and understanding each other’s flying styles and reactions…a comfortable relationship. Snowflakes fell and fluttered around the heavily laden aircraft, the early morning seeing the last of the night’s heavy snowfall.
Before them, another white camouflage painted Junker 52 lumbered slowly onto the runway, the frozen flaked snow billowing behind it as the pilot gunned the engine further, the large cumbersome plane beginning to accelerate down the airfield as Leutnant Knapp manoeuvred his aircraft to the end of the strip. An experienced pilot, the thirty three year old had flown planes for a number of years. Originally obsessed with gliders when Germany had been prevented from having an air force during the inter-war years, he had joined the fledgling Luftwaffe as soon as he was old enough. A fighter pilot during the Spanish Civil War, he had continued with his training accomplishing a variety of ‘kills’ during the invasion of France and the subsequent unsuccessful Battle of Britain.
After a leg injury in the air battle over England, he had reluctantly relinquished the controls of a single engine fighter for the Luftwaffe’s bomber and transport fleet, the JU52 becoming his favoured plane with a view to continuing as a commercial pilot after the war. With considerable experience at the Demyansk and Cholm pockets the winter before, he was a natural choice by his superiors for the Stalingrad relief effort, bringing an expertise of flying supplies in treacherous conditions to the southern sector of the front.
Popular with the aircrews under his command, his carefully trimmed moustached features with piercing blue eyes had gained him somewhat of a reputation with the ladies, a favoured pastime of his and his small crew.
He glanced across at his co-pilot, winking as he increased the throttle further, the large transport plane gathering speed as it lumbered down the runway. As he pulled back on the controls, the wheels seeming to reluctantly leave the tarmac, the early morning mist swirling. He smiled, his natural ability and joy of flying apparent to all of his crew.
He glanced at the co-pilot as the plane rose slowly into the crisp morning air, sensing the weight on the controls, ‘So, you put another couple of crates in again this morning?’
The co-pilot grinned, sweeping his hand across his face as their eyes met briefly, ‘You always know Mr Flying Ace!’ He shrugged, ‘As many as we can carry for the soldiers…’ His grin reducing to a warm smile, ‘When you finally become a commercial pilot for Germany you will know doubt know the weight of the individual passengers!’
Leutnant Knapp grinned again, slowly turning the controls as the heavy aircraft began to bank to the north, turning to fly along the northern most edge of the runway on the flight to Stalingrad. Both pilots were wearing heavy leather jackets as protection against the cold, the fleece collars around their necks. The pilot stared through the cockpit windows as he levelled the plane, the aircraft now flying directly east, towards the stranded city over one hundred miles away.
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The co-pilot glanced at the paperwork in his hands, his voice straining as the cold began to grasp at his vocal cords, ‘The fighter escort should join us nearer the front lines…they are flying from Morozovskaya airfield this morning. Our own fighters from Tatsinskaya will escort the second wave of transports.’
Knapp nodded, straining his eyes against the cold and dismissing the idea of using his goggles until later, his fondness of seeing the terrain as it dropped below the rising aircraft. As the JU52 began to near the eastern end of the field, he strained his eyes further, glancing below onto the white terrain, a curious expression spreading across his face. He slowly raised himself in his seat, his thickly gloved hand jabbing towards the whitened terrain below, ‘Erich…Was ist das?’
The co-pilot lowered his notes in response, lifting himself in his seat and staring onto the snow covered expanse below. His eyes narrowed as he struggled to recognise the numerous black objects far below across the white fields, the vehicles moving like ants towards the nearby airfield. Then his eyes widened further in horror, his hands scrambling desperately for the radio microphone on the controls below him, his voice shaking, ‘Scheisse! Russkie Panzers!’
Major General Badanov stared through his binoculars, his heart beginning to pound faster as he saw the JU52 in the distance rise into the air. Looking down through the hatch on the T34 Russian Tank, he grinned widely at the driver staring up at him, ‘The fascist airfield is ahead!’ Turning round in the hatch he waved his hand round frantically in a circular gesture, then thrust it forward, pointing. The diesel engines roared around him as over one hundred tanks began to nudge forward, their wide tracks gripping the frozen snow beneath. The major lowering the hatch as he disappeared inside the turret, the tank surging forward as blue-grey exhaust fumes billowed into the cold air behind them.
Bloody Stalingrad Page 73