by Tom Zola
East of Kamenka, Soviet Union, June 10th, 1943
The Soviet offensives in the Oryol and Kharkov areas were repelled for the time being, but the peace was deceptive. Now Ivan dug himself in wherever he had been able to achieve small gains in terrain. While the German military leadership could rejoice at such defensive successes, the Russians were already horrified by the scenario of a positional war, like the Western Front of the Great War, for now what von Manstein had been preaching since the beginning of the year had happened: Because of intelligent use of his backhand blow tactics to strike against the enemy wherever and whenever they didn't expect it, because of well-thought-out retreats to advantageous terrain, and because of fighting from defensive positions, the Russian forces had been bled to death on the German defenses-in-depth. The losses, the Wehrmacht estimated, after two weeks of fierce fighting, were at the staggering ratio of eight to one in favor of the Germans. While the Soviet Union remained far superior to the Reich in terms of numbers and materials, still, the Red Army was unable to absorb such losses just like that. Von Manstein was optimistic that he had robbed the enemy of his ability to go on the offensive for at least three-quarters of a year. The possible threat of a positional war would also give the Wehrmacht time to refresh its units and finally create reserves, which von Manstein had tried to do for a long time now without results so far. One just cannot create reserves when every regiment and every single soldier is desperately needed to close all the holes in the front line.
At Stalino Ivan had, however, been able to achieve his biggest gain in terrain. Here the Red Army had even kicked the troops of the Wehrmacht out of the city and now were setting up new front lines from Mariupol on the Sea of Azov via Stalino to the banks of the Donets. At Izium these days there was still fighting; but after the Soviets had temporarily been able to build some bridgeheads over the river, they did not manage to fortify them and had to retreat again behind the northeast bank of the river.
The situation at Kharkov remained tense. Kampfgruppe Sieckenius, and other reserve units thrown into battle, had been able to avert the worst, but the city was still encircled by Russian forces from the north, east and south. A narrow land corridor in the west of the city formed the last remaining link to the Wehrmacht units in the rear area. The Russian breaches between Kharkov and Belgorod now protruded into the Wehrmacht front like pimples.
The mobile reconnaissance battalion of Special Regiment 2, Combat Formation Becker, took position east of Kamenka in a dense and hilly forest area. The Russians had been quiet here for days. Bomb craters, downed trees, and shiny brass casings lying around in the sunshine shimmering through the canopy proved that this forest had already been fought over ferociously. But now, in a volatile phase of peace, the digging had begun.
Berning's squad was situated in improvised, defensible positions to secure the platoon's camp for the next few hours, while the rest of the aforementioned platoon was busy digging trench systems, earth bunkers, and MG nests several hundred meters farther west. Once the forward defense line would be sufficiently fortified, the improvised positions Berning's men sat in could be surrendered. Of course, the trench system was not ready yet. Master Sergeant Pappendorf acted according to the motto, "An emplacement is never finished," so he had his countrymen digging at every opportunity. Once they had dug trenches that could be crossed crouching, Pappendorf demanded that they be deep enough to walk upright in. If the trenches were deep enough for that at some point, Pappendorf wanted to see them sheltered. So the game went on forever. Berning was sure; if they stayed here long enough in defense, Pappendorf would let them dig connecting tunnels through the earth's core directly to Japan.
Pappendorf! Berning boiled inside. FELDWEBEL Pappendorf! A few days ago, the master sergeant had even received the Tank Destruction Badge from the battalion commander. Berning could have puked.
That's the way it is in this fucking army! Ugly thoughts overwhelmed him. The little guys are holding their heads, and the superiors are getting the tinsel!
It was a quiet and sunny day. Birds were singing their songs, and the forest was shining in green. Sunbeams fought their way through the dense canopy of leaves and shone their way to earth like silk veils.
Berning was lying in a crater looking at his watch. Another hour and a half and they'd finally be relieved. Insects buzzed around his head, surrounding him. They chased past his ears again and again. Everywhere along his hairline, the pests had already stung him. It was terribly itchy, but Berning was completely at the mercy of the parasites who, to top it all off, often transmitted typhoid fever. He was also plagued by lice. No matter how often he cooked his clothes, and no matter how often the kameraden searched each other and crushed the black bloodsuckers under their thumbs, after one day at the most new ones settled in. Berning's body was littered with scabby hives. In addition, he had to struggle with a deep exhaustion that had been paralyzing his limbs for weeks and was weighing on his shoulders like a huge rock. Several times his eyes had closed; his prone position, of course, encouraged the tiredness further.
Rudi Bongartz, a comrade whom Berning had even been allowed to call a friend at times, manifested himself in the NCO's mental eye. Rudi stared at him with a blue face and a reproachful look. Berning was not able to avoid the gaze, could only bear it with trouble, as it were. The guilt that the non-commissioned officer had brought upon himself weighed heavily on him; he could not deny that – and Pappendorf also used this to blackmail him!
Berning's fingers cramped when he thought of his platoon commander. Pure hate flooded his thoughts and also flooded the face of Bongartz, washing away the lance corporal. The irrepressible hatred that blazed in Berning's chest, that heated his body and made him tremble, suppressed the feelings of guilt – for the moment.
Suddenly, shots were fired to his front. Berning was startled. He looked to the left and to the right, where soldiers of his platoon had taken position in other bomb craters and behind fallen trees. Again, small arms were barking somewhere ahead of them. The sounds came from far away, but they were getting closer. Then a machine gun stuttered. Berning recognized, by the dull sound and the slow firing sequence, that this had to be a Russian Maxim, sending its deadly messengers on their journey towards them.
Minutes went by. With his rifle firmly clasped and a look of concentration on his face, Berning stared into the outer perimeter. But the trees there remained completely still. Leaves rustled quietly in the wind. Shots echoed abruptly, then an explosion. This time, it was very close! Berning pressed himself against the ground as he pushed his abdomen down into the bomb crater as far as possible. He was about to reach for his binoculars when one of his soldiers to the right drew attention to himself: "Psst! Herr Unteroffizier!"
Berning looked up, "Yes?"
"Movement right before us." The soldier, a private first class, pointed with an inconspicuous hand motion into the forest. Berning's look followed the index of his finger, then he just saw it as a person in uniform disappeared behind a tree.
"Prepare to fire!" Berning ordered, whispering to the right and left. His comrades there passed the command on to their respective neighbors, and they brought their weapons into position. The carbines clacked and clattered quietly.
"Fire at will!" In the distance, the Maxim began to speak again. Small arms joined in the concert.
All of a sudden, the person spurted from cover in front of the positions of Berning's squad. The sergeant raised his rifle.
Not that easy, my dear! he swore to himself, then aimed and fired. Rifle shots also rang out from the positions of his men on the right. The person had the presence of mind to throw itself into cover behind a tree. The projectiles pelted against the trunk and shredded the bark.
Berning focused all his attention on that tree trunk. Seconds passed. Nothing happened. The sergeant looked around at his men, but they just shook their heads. Berning could not see Hege from his position, but he could now hear the jingling of the ammunition belts and the sliding of
the cocking handle as it shot forward. Hege’s light machine gun was combat ready.
"MG fire on enemy position at my command." Berning had the order passed to Hege, then he looked over to the other side of his squad. Senior Lance Corporal Weiss was in position there with some others, for Hege was experienced enough that he no longer needed a leader at his side.
"Weiss, take two men, grab some stick grenades, and advance at throwing range," Berning ordered them, then: "MG and grenades only on my command." His orders were passed in whispers from foxhole to foxhole. Suddenly something unexpected happened. From where the stranger had jumped into cover, a call carried over to Berning's squad – in German: "I'm on your side, you morons!"
Tension lay like a blanket over Berning and his men. Everyone stared spellbound into the forefield, their hands on their rifles, their fingers hovering near the trigger. Berning's eyes searched the area. Still firearms were knocking in the distance like a fist on a wooden door. Slowly the racket came closer.
"This must be a trick," Berning heard one of his soldiers say. The sergeant clutched the wooden stock of his rifle tighter. He stared over the iron sights at the bullet-spoilt tree trunk, behind which the mysterious person still lay hidden. Berning held his breath. In front of the tree slowly – very slowly – a steel helmet made its way into his field of vision. With raised hands and a submachine gun dangling from a carrying strap, the stranger finally stepped out behind the trunk. He moved very carefully towards the German positions. Berning did not lower his rifle when the person advanced; not even when he realized that that person was wearing a Wehrmacht uniform. Judging by the epaulets, he was a master sergeant.
Finally, after moments of inner struggle over whether the man was a spy or really a comrade, Berning ordered his men to lower their weapons and rose from his crater to reveal himself. He simply wanted to believe that he had a friend there in front of him instead of an enemy seeking to kill him.
The strange master sergeant approached quickly and joined Berning. He immediately pulled a pack of JUNO cigarettes out of his field blouse and offered Berning a smoke. The Austrian sergeant waved his arms in disgust. The stranger shrugged his shoulders and supplied himself with a cigarette. While small arms fire was still blustering in a shrinking distance, Berning drew sharp tobacco-breath into his nose. He subjected his opposite to a brief inspection: a head of black, curly hair that was actually much too long for a German soldier, growing higgledy-piggledy; a friendly, oval face hiding under his mop of hair. The master sergeant blew out smoke with relish, then turned to Berning and asked: "You the ringmaster of this circus here?"
Berning stared at the master sergeant and didn't know what to say. Somehow this guy seemed strange to him.
"Sergeant Berning. Reconnaissance squadron, Special … " he began to report properly, but the black-haired comrade contorted his face and waved it off: "Good for you. Listen, brother. My men will be here in three minutes, and they could use some fire support. Careful, some of them are wearing half camouflage, meaning Russian uniforms. Can we do that?"
Berning stared at the master sergeant in astonishment and blinked his eyes. What the hell is he talking about?
"What unit are you with?" he asked. The sergeant rolled his eyes. He replied, "Special assignment. That's all you need to know. Just let my people through and stop the Ruskies. Comprendez?"
"Compren ... what?"
"We've got two rifle companies on our heels, so hurry up giving your orders to your men and prepare for a fight." The noise of battle came closer and closer.
"TWO COMPANIES?" With his eyes widened, Berning looked at the master sergeant. "We're just a platoon!" he complained. Now the stranger grinned and put a hand on Berning's shoulder. "But you are a German platoon. And those guys coming up are just peasants who had rifles put in their hands by the Red Army. Here goes nothing!"
"Aren't you going to help us?"
The master sergeant shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, I would if I could. I’d really like to. But we can’t fight side by side with you, kameraden. Commander's orders. Besides, it's not our job. But as I said, here goes nothing."
Berning stared at the master sergeant as if someone had slapped him with a plank. He scratched his chin with a questioning expression and absolutely did not know what to do now. Then suddenly Hege shouted from the right: "Friendlies! 200 in front of us!"
"Well, then, happy hunting!" the master sergeant proclaimed, and set off for the rear echelon. Berning threw himself back into his bomb crater. Already the beforementioned persons appeared right before his position. The sergeant counted ten men. Shots whistled after them. Some of the men wore German uniforms, while others wore Russian ones, as Berning clearly recognized. Roaring, the sergeant explained the situation to his men in short sentences and instructed everyone to be extremely careful not to shoot their own comrades. The orders were confirmed back to him from everyone, then the motley-uniformed men reached the positions of Berning's squad. This was an eye-catching bunch running through the improvised front line of 2nd Platoon just now. Some of the men had unusually long hair and looked strangely lax for German soldiers. The helmet straps of some were open, dangling loosely down. One soldier was very small and slender, carrying a Russian rifle with a telescope. Another seemed wounded. He held his right arm where the uniform was ripped open and saturated with blood. These men almost looked like the soldiers of the Wehrmacht generally imagined American GIs to be: Slovenly and not caring about it at all.
One of the strange men running in the middle of the group also carried someone slung over his shoulders. Berning took a closer look and suddenly got frightened. The strange soldier carrying the other man was dark-skinned, but not like an Italian or Spaniard; the man's skin was pitch-black! Berning had never seen anyone like him in a Wehrmacht uniform. He even thought he'd never seen anyone like him before. The dark-skinned guy, however, was huge, a true giant. He carried the man on his shoulders as casually as others would carry a briefcase and sprinted almost faster than his comrades despite the load. Only then did Berning realize that the man on his shoulders was a Russian officer – a senior Russian officer! Meanwhile the rearguard of that special assignment squad passed through the improvised German defensive positions.
"Bonjour, Mademoiselles!" one of them yelled at a stunned-looking Berning. The strange group of men were heading for the hinterland.
Dazzled, the sergeant from Austria forced himself to observe the forefield. Shots still rang out loudly there. Raised voices in Russian pervaded the forest. Suddenly, however, the sergeant was overcome by a sinking feeling in his stomach like a bad bout of flu. Shocked, he stuck his head up and gave one last serious scrutiny to those odd-looking strangers, who were almost out of sight.
What if they are enemy commandos? This thought had taken hold of Berning's mind and wouldn’t let go of it. Had he just let an enemy special ops unit through his lines, just like that? But then he was no longer able to take counsel of his fears. On the right, one of his men yelled, "Enemy ahead, 300!" Hege’s machine gun started rattling.
Berning saw dozens of soldiers in earth-brown uniforms running towards his position. Skillfully they were leaping from cover to cover, but Hege nailed some of them behind trees with targeted bursts of fire. The other German soldiers also joined in the concert of death. Gunshots rang out, and bullets hissed through the woods. But the Russians attacked in huge numbers. The red infantry worked its way up, unstoppably, under the German fire. Somewhere in the woods, a Maxim started chattering. Fire fountains sprang up in front of the bomb craters where Berning's men had entrenched themselves. Then the sergeant came up with an idea that just shot through his head like a bullet: Concentrate fire on the enemy and pin them down until reinforcements could arrive!
He yelled his commands at Hege, but the hard-of-hearing senior lance corporal did not react. So Berning jumped up and stormed forward towards the MG nest, which was located about 100 meters farther to the right on a slight elevation. Meanwhile the firefight became m
ore intense. Berning gasped and snorted, his gaze narrowed. He had only one goal in mind: Hege’s position. He would then send a messenger to the rear, if Pappendorf hadn't already thought to come up with the rest of the platoon to reinforce his squad anyway.
Pah! Pappendorf! I'm sure he's too busy polishing his epaulettes, Berning assumed. The hatred inspired by this line of thought gave him wings and made him sprint a little faster. And he had a plan. He would grab Hege, flank the enemy, and pin him down until the reserve would arrive.
Berning knew what to do! He kept running. Suddenly his legs were knocked out from under him, and he landed hard in the dirt. He screamed, then the pain struck. It felt like a shiv stabbing him in the back of his shoulder and neck. Berning blinked his eyes. His right arm was suddenly limp. He grabbed his neck with his left hand. In claret shimmered the lifeblood that suddenly stuck to his fingers. His sight lost color, and his field of vision got smaller and smaller. Seconds seemed to stretch to eternity. Then he could see the senior lance corporal, Weiss, bending over him, shouting, but there was no sound, and Berning began to drag himself across the foliage that covered the forest ground. Then everything went dark. Had he got his million-dollar wound? With this question in his head, he lost consciousness.
Bryansk, Soviet Union, June 12th, 1943
Von Manstein and his chief of staff, Hermann Hoth, looked at each other for a moment. The Commander-in-Chief East tried to read the face of his opposite, and he realized that Hoth was doing the same thing. The two field marshals, who were alone in the railcar that von Manstein used as his mobile command post, had just put a heated debate behind them. The argument had been a loud one throughout, but conducted without either of the two attacking the other ad hominem. Now all the arguments had been made; everything had been said. And Hoth, the sly one, had actually made von Manstein ponder if his original position was the best way forward.