Chapter Eighty Six: Christmas Day in Stalingrad
A heavy blizzard all morning…aircraft unable to fly…there were no Christmas supplies dropped in Stalingrad this day. In the encircled city, The Germans slaughtered the last four thousand horses for food for the troops, there were now little reserves left. On December the twenty sixth, the bread ration would be halved…again.
During the night, loudspeakers were moved up to the front line by Russian propaganda units. The broadcast synchronised to commence at the same time. As the undernourished German sentries stared out into the frosted landscape, their sullen eyes bloodshot from the cold, a Russian voice filtered across the steppe and smashed city buildings, ‘Every seven seconds a German soldier dies in Russia…Stalingrad is a mass grave…’ Ticking then sounded across the front…seven ticks, then the message was repeated. The Germans shook their heads in frustration…most were now beginning to believe the message.
Tatu sniffed the cold breeze filtering through the dugout door, the tarpaulin cover inadequate against the bitter temperature. Petru sat slumped next to him, wrapped heavily in blankets, his breathing deep as he slept soundly. With the only light from the door and no fire in the dugout, the soldiers slept most of the time, their rest only broken for individual sentry duty or to eat the minimal rations supplied.
Udet and Meino slept at the other side of the bunker, their bodies shuffled together to protect any warmth. The young Berliner had suffered from a deep fever, the extreme temperature in the walk to Gumrak airfield taxing his body to its limits. Sweating profusely, the other had donated some of their meagre rations to supplement his diet, one soldier tasked with looking after the youngest unit member at all times.
Tatu shook his head in frustration, nodding to Hase as he whispered, ‘When will these Germans learn? We eat more before the winter comes, it prepares us for the cold…they have sent slim soldiers here. All very well and smart marching in Berlin, but their bodies are too weak against the Russian winter!’
Hase smiled, his greatcoat wrapped up round his ears as the cold breeze circled the inside of the dugout, ‘Perhaps their cooking is not as good as yours?’
Tatu’s eyes widened, rubbing a hand across his half beard, ‘There’s nothing to cook here…unless we start eating each other…’ He grinned, ‘…Still with a nice sauce and some vegetables…’ The Romanian winked deviously, ‘Which one would you eat?’
Hase shook his head, pulling the tarpaulin tighter around him, ‘Not the Germans anyway…they have no fat…too much gristle…it’s their temperament!’
Tatu nodded, smiling further, as he bedded down, resting his helmet against the dugout wall, ‘I don’t think any of us have any meat to spare now…’
The crack of a sniper shot outside made them jump, Meino lifting himself up suddenly in disgust, ‘Damn Russians…won’t they let us starve in peace?’
Udet stirred beside the Croatian, groaning, his head pulsing as he awoke, the aftermath of his fever causing nausea. He sat bolt upright, the others staring at him as he wiped his tired face, his voice groggy, ‘I’m hungry! What is there to eat?’
The dugout erupted in laughter, the young Berliner looking round in bewilderment at the others giggling hysterically.
Alessio pulled the bolt back on his rifle, the shot having ricocheted off the front engine of the broken JU52 in the distance. Staring through his sight again, he gritted his teeth in frustration, the Russian reconnaissance patrol having pushed themselves into the snow for cover.
Shaking his head, he moved the rifle sight slowly across the terrain, trying to spot a careless head movement or mistake from the Russian forward infantry.
Oberleutnant Baumann extended his arm, handing Leutnant Hausser a steaming cup of coffee, ‘Happy Christmas my friend…we ‘liberated’ this coffee from a Russian commander during the advance in July. It’s American, Hill Bros…whatever that means…all the way from Chicago!’
Hausser smiled at the adjutant, grasping the metal cup with both hands and sipping from the dark clear liquid. Feeling the warmth spread through his stomach, he grinned at the taste, ‘It’s better than what we used to receive as rations…’
Baumann grinned back, sipping from his own metal mug, ‘Don’t let the major hear you say that…he has a fondness for our rations…even more so since we stopped receiving most of them!’
The officers laughed, Hausser raising his mug in salute to his friend as they sipped again, the richness of the aroma and liquid dancing on their senses and taste buds after the severe deprivations of the previous weeks.
Major Schenk stepped through the opening to the bunker, the tarpaulin sheet falling back into place behind him, his eyes widening at the laughter, ‘Gentlemen, Happy Christmas to you both…I see you are in high spirits!’
Both officers stood upright, clicking their heels, the major’s smile widening as they stood with the cups in their hand, their reluctance to put the drinks down apparent. He walked forward, heading for his chair, ‘I see Baumann has opened our special Christmas treat, Leutnant…do you like the coffee?’
Hausser winked at Baumann, ‘Not as good as the coffee we had as rations, Sir.’
Schenk slumped into his chair, his leather greatcoat spilling open as he looked up, grinning further, ‘Rubbish! That acorn coffee our rations provided was awful!’
Oberleutnant Baumann giggled, covering his mouth with his hand as he raised his mug towards the officer in front of him, ‘Leutnant Hausser, I do believe you are regaining your sense of humour!’
Hausser smiled as the major raised a steaming cup to his lips, nodding his approval at his officer, ‘Perhaps this Christmas is the ideal time for us to laugh…to cheer up the men…after all, we have nothing else!’
Major Schenk glanced down at the table, ‘We have additional supplies and food for that today…but a little humour will not go amiss I suppose.’ He reached forward, moving some of the papers on the surface before him, ‘We have extra bread and ‘meat’ for the soldiers and I hid one of the supply crates from the downed aircraft. That should be sufficient to add some Christmas cheer gentlemen.’
He raised his hand, his eyes straining as he heard the muffled rumble outside. Rising to his feet, a frown spreading across his face, he indicated for the two officers to come with him.
They emerged into the cold air, the breeze sweeping across from the west. The major turned, staring to the north east, his ears straining as the rumbling continued in the distance, ‘Russian artillery! They are shelling near the river I think.’
He turned to look at Baumann, ‘Double the sentries…it may be Christmas Day for us…but the communists seem to have other ideas!’
Chapter Eighty Seven: New Year’s Eve 1942, Stalingrad
Major Schenk raised his metal mug, smiling, ‘A toast gentlemen…to the 76th Infantry Division and its brave men. We have marched from the gates of Berlin to the farthest point deep in freezing Russia.’ He leant forward, leaning on the table, ‘Let us hope our salvation is upon us in the coming year!’ He indicated to Oberleutnant Baumann as the officer’s metal mugs clunked together, ‘I would also like you to toast my adjutant, Herr Baumann…without whom our casualties in Russia may have been considerably higher! Gentlemen, Prost!’
The seven collected officers raised their mugs, swigging from the strong liquid contents, some of the last vodka and schnapps available to the division.
Leutnant Hausser raised his mug again towards Oberleutnant Baumann, nodding his personal approval, a wide smile on his face as he leaned towards his friend whispering, ‘At least with our current rations, we don’t have to drink too much to feel tipsy!’
Baumann glanced back at Leutnant Hausser, his eyes seeming distant. Looking back at the major, the oberleutnant indicated to the bunker entrance, the major nodding as he noticed the emotion in Baumann’s eyes, realising he wished to be excused.
The major continued unabated, ‘We have faced a determined Russian enemy and have overcome them at every opportun
ity.’ He glanced at Hausser for a second, smiling warmly, ‘Some of our soldiers have served across Russia, detached to other units and others have remained with the division. All have performed with professionalism and honour and I am very proud to be one of your commanders.’ The major sipped from his drink, a warm glow spreading across his cheeks.
Leutnant Hausser looked round, realising Baumann had left the bunker. He stepped sideways and slipped between the assembled officers, heading for the entrance as the major continued, ‘We face adversity here in Stalingrad, perhaps the greatest challenge we have ever experienced gentlemen, but I am sure we can overcome our enemy and continue….’
Leutnant Hausser pushed the tarpaulin across the bunker entrance back, the cold night air sweeping across his features and causing him to catch his breath. The sky was clear, the stars brighter than he remembered seeing for some time in the extreme cold. Pulling the collar of his great coat up around his neck, he stepped forward, feeling the frost nip at his fingers and toes, the cold spreading across his body as the warmth from the dugout dissipated from his clothing. He could hear the distant loud speakers, the message and ticking continuing. Rolling his eyes in exasperation, he stepped forward into the frozen snow.
Trudging along the trench, he passed two sentries, their scarves pulled high over their faces, blank expressions staring out over the white steppe towards the Russian lines. The cold seemed to have even possessed their minds, depriving them of thought, their conscious state seeming empty, a longing hunger gnawing continuously at their stomachs.
Approaching the forward machine gun nest, he saw Oberleutnant Baumann staring through his binoculars into the white expanse before their lines. The destroyed JU52 transport plane now a shell in the distance, the hulk consumed by the cold and several explosions. Its roof now gone, the remains of the aircraft seemed to be sinking into the drifting snow around it, wisps of a thick mist grasping at the remaining wood and metal.
Baumann sensed him approach, lowering the field glasses momentarily before staring back through them again, his coat pulled up round his features in protection against the elements. Slowly he spoke, his voice low, ‘Nothing much happening tonight it seems, the enemy is quiet…apart from those damn propaganda speakers.’
Hausser sniffed, his mood darkening with the concern for his friend’s silent behaviour, ‘How are you holding up? You seem to have lost your normal determination this evening.’
Bauman seemed to grin beneath his scarf, lowering the binoculars, his eyes sparkling in the cold as he turned to look at the Leutnant, ‘There is no escape now my friend…I think it finally broke my resolve yesterday. The relief effort is finished and our men continue to suffer in this frozen hell.’
Hausser grimaced, sighing as he cleared his throat, the cold nipping at his voice, ‘There is only survival and hope left perhaps, but we must keep going…keep trying to look after our troops.’
Baumann nodded solemnly, his expression darkening, ‘But we are not even doing that. A couple of days ago, the Russkies captured our last relay station…we can only now communicate with the outside world with a few short wave radios…the tele printers will now send our signals to the Russians.’ He sighed, ‘This has become the most inconceivable evil and hardship for our troops…the men under our command, the men we tried to protect and limit their suffering and casualties. The men who trust in us…’ He looked round, staring at the young officer, ‘I read a report today…the casualties for Christmas Day. I now question my loyalty…’
Leutnant Hausser broke eye contact, looking out over the snow, ‘Yes, but the situation is serious…enemy fire and shelling will cause casualties…especially here.’
Baumann interrupted, startling the young officer, his voice shaking, ‘Yes, but this report was different. The attack we heard to the east the other day was against the 16th Panzer Division, they lost two miles of territory as their troops just ran or surrendered…they hardly had the strength to fight…one of our crack units!’ He wiped his forehead in frustration, his voice lowering so that no one could overhear, ‘On Christmas Day, fifteen hundred men in this city of Stalingrad died of starvation, frostbite or simply froze to death…none of them died fighting the enemy…none of them died from Russian bullets.’
In contrast to the German New Year’s Eve celebrations in Stalingrad, the Russian celebration included meats and cheeses from France, French wines, bacon from Denmark and tinned jams and fish from Norway. The extravagant supplies that had been destined for Stalingrad and an envisaged victorious Sixth Army…arrogantly marked ‘For Germans only’…were now the feast for Russian commanders, their appetites enhanced by the prospects of victory.
Authors Note: January 1st to January 9th, 1943
The front was relatively quiet for the next ten days. The surrounded Sixth Army weakening daily, the supplies and meagre rations unable to sustain the soldiers’ basic sustenance. On 1000 calories per day, the rations were 1500 calories short of the requirement of the average soldier, not taking into account the extreme cold and already weakened state of the troops. Soldiers were beginning to die of starvation in some of the most miserable conditions known to man.
Moved by the plight of the stranded troops hundreds of miles to the east, General Zeitzler of the German High Command in Berlin had adopted the rations and calorie intake of the Stalingrad defenders. In a short period he lost 12kg and became so emaciated and weak, Hitler personally ordered him to resume full meals. The general was in the relative warmth of Berlin buildings, with heat and comforts…the Stalingrad defender’s bodies were fighting against more brutal conditions, exposed to the extreme cold and physical exhaustion, burning calories far quicker.
The Red Army surrounding the city waited, knowing the situation moved more and more into their favour as each hour passed…the defenders weakening, their resolve and morale eroding. The Russians utilised the waiting time to move concentrations of artillery and Katyusha rocket batteries around the city edges, preparing for any potential last battle.
Most of the combustible fuel was now gone, taxing cold bodies further. During the initial offensive in August and September 1942, the Luftwaffe had continually bombed most of Stalingrad, creating massive fires amongst the wooden workers housing sectors. Over the subsequent months, all wood and fuel had been used for warmth…there was now little or none left.
The flight of supplies into Stalingrad from outside had become more treacherous for the German air force, the Luftwaffe. The flight distance was increased due to the Russian offensives in the west, capturing the forward airfields. This also reduced the amount of flights that could take place per day due to the distance and turnaround times. Initially from forward airfields, the flight time had been approximately seventy five minutes, allowing the planes to complete two or three journeys per day…now the distance was longer, reducing the amount of flights that could be achieved.
The raid on the German held Tatsinskaya airfield destroyed 72 vital aircraft on the ground and on railcars, reducing the air capability considerably. The Red Army moved heavy concentrations of anti-aircraft guns into the flightpath of the Luftwaffe, covering the routes to the beleaguered city. Roaming Russian fighters patrolled the space between the airfields and the pocket, making it harder and harder for the flight crews to reach their destinations, having to fly higher and in colder conditions.
On the 2nd of January 1943, the Russians captured Morozovskaya, the second most important Luftwaffe airfield supplying Stalingrad. The supplies provided to the city subsequently dropped further as the pilots tried to continue bringing food and ammunition to the defenders from other fields. Some flight crews were horrified as they began to see the deterioration of the ground crews at Gumrak and Pitomnik, some of the men becoming physically unable to unload the planes as they landed as their bodies became thinner and thinner.
The supplies and stores of the defenders in the city were now depleted, with the situation desperate, ammunition for the German artillery pieces rationed to one
shell per gun, per day…to be used only in emergencies.
The last ally of the soldier, hope…had now deserted the defenders. Some wild rumours still circulated, of cunning plots, a surprise German offensive to relieve the city, to free the defenders…but most now knew that the situation was beyond retrieval. Soldiers openly talked of suicide, of standing up in their defensive positions for the Russians to see, to shoot at. Misery and the bitter cold now haunted the defenders…death was perhaps the only escape.
Around the pocket on the 4th of January, Russian field kitchens were moved towards the front lines, the aromas of cooking food drifting across the freezing snow to fill the nostrils of the starving defenders. The propaganda loud speakers continued to play the sounds of a ticking clock, seven ticks…then a voice declaring that ‘For every seven seconds a German soldier dies in Russia.’
Further announcements were made, encouraging individual or groups of defenders to desert, some were made by Russian political officers, others allegedly by German prisoners, captured earlier in the campaign. All promised fair treatment and good food…an end to fighting for those that walked to the Russian lines.
The Red Army made one last appeal for the isolated city to surrender, having been permitted to drive under a white flag to the headquarters of the Sixth Army in a department store in the centre of Stalingrad. The ultimatum declared that a whole day would be assigned to allow the freezing army to surrender, that substantial warm food and medical supplies would be immediately driven into the pocket if the army surrendered, that the soldiers would be treated fairly and repatriated immediately after the war was over.
Bloody Stalingrad Page 75