Several times during the day the soldiers had fought off attacks by German tanks and infantry. Their eyes were bloodshot and their ears deafened.
To the senior officers cut off from their troops the day seemed interminable. Chuykov, Krylov and Gurov had tried everything under the sun to fill in the time: they had invented work for themselves, written letters, argued about what the enemy might do next, drunk vodka with and without something to eat, and had listened in silence to the roar of the guns. An iron whirlwind howled over the bunker, slicing through anything living that raised its head above the earth’s surface. The Army Headquarters was paralysed.
‘Let’s have a game of fool!’ said Chuykov, pushing aside a large ashtray full of cigarette-ends.
Even Krylov, the chief of staff, had lost his composure. Drumming his fingers on the table, he said: ‘I can’t imagine anything worse. We’re just sitting here – waiting to be eaten!’
Chuykov dealt, announced, ‘Hearts are trumps,’ and then suddenly scattered the cards. ‘I can’t bear it!’ he exclaimed. ‘We’re just sitting in our holes like rabbits.’ He sat there in silence. His face was agonized and full of hatred.
As though predicting his own end, Gurov murmured thoughtfully: ‘Another day like this and I’ll have a heart attack!’
He suddenly burst out laughing and said: ‘At the divisional command-post it’s impossible even to go to the bog during the day. I heard that Lyudnikov’s chief of staff once jumped down into the bunker and shouted out: “Hurrah! I’ve been for a shi . . . !” He looked round and there was the lady-doctor he was in love with.’
The German air-raids stopped at dusk. A man arriving in Stalingrad at night, deafened by the guns, might well imagine that some cruel fate had brought him there just as a major offensive was being launched. For the veterans, however, this was the time to shave, to wash clothes and write letters; for the turners, mechanics, solderers and watchmakers this was the time to repair clocks, cigarette-lighters, cigarette-holders, and the oil-lamps made from old shellcases with strips of greatcoat as wicks.
In the flickering light from the shell-bursts you could see the banks of the river, the oil-tanks and factory-chimneys, the ruins of the city itself. The view was sullen and sinister.
In the dark the signals centre came to life again. Typewriters clattered away as they copied dispatches, motors hummed, orders were tapped out in Morse code, telephonists exchanged messages as the command-posts of divisions, regiments, batteries and companies were once again connected up . . . Signals officers who had just arrived gave measured coughs as they waited to give their reports to the duty-officer.
Pozharsky, the elderly artillery commander; General Tkachenko, the sapper in charge of the dangerous river-crossing; Guryev, the newly-arrived commander of the Siberian division; and Lieutenant-Colonel Batyuk, the Stalingrad veteran whose division was disposed below Mamayev Kurgan, all hurried to report to Chuykov and Krylov. At the front line itself, letters folded into triangles were handed to postmen . . . And the dead were buried – to spend the first night of their eternal rest beside the dug-outs and trenches where their comrades were writing letters, shaving, eating bread, drinking tea and washing in improvised baths.
Footnotes
fn1 The Russian Army on the right, or west, bank of the Volga, in the city of Stalingrad itself.
8
This was the beginning of the most difficult period for the defenders of Stalingrad. In the confusion of the street-fighting, of the different attacks and counter-attacks, of the struggle for the ‘House of Specialists’, for the mill, for the State Bank – and for each square, courtyard and cellar – the superiority of the German forces was indisputable.
The wedge the Germans had driven into the southern part of Stalingrad was widening every day. From positions beside the water, German machine-gunners were able to cover the left bank to the south of Krasnaya Sloboda. The staff officers responsible for plotting the position of the front line on the map saw how inexorably the blue markers moved forward from day to day, how the band separating the red line of the Soviet defences from the light blue of the Volga grew steadily thinner.
The initiative at this time belonged to the Germans. For all their fury, the Russian counter-attacks could do nothing to halt their remorseless advance. From dawn to dusk the sky was filled with the whine of German dive-bombers, pounding the earth with their high-explosive bombs. And hundreds of men lived day after day with the same terrible question: what will happen tomorrow – or next week – when the thin band of the Soviet defences is reduced to a thread, when this thread is snapped by the iron teeth of the German offensive?
9
Late that night, General Krylov lay down to sleep in the bunker. His temples throbbed and his throat burned: he had smoked dozens of cigarettes that day. He licked his dry palate and turned over to face the wall. As he lay there, half-asleep, he remembered the fighting in Odessa and Sebastopol: the shouts of the Rumanian infantry as they attacked; Sebastopol and its naval splendour; Odessa and its cobble-paved courtyards cloaked in ivy.
Once again he was back at the command-post in Sebastopol. General Petrov’s pince-nez was gleaming through the mist. The gleam broke into a thousand splinters and he saw the sea. A grey cloud, the dust raised by shell-bursts on the cliffs, floated above the heads of the soldiers and sailors and stood over Sapun Mountain.
He could hear the waves lapping unconcernedly against the launch. Then a gruff voice from below: ‘Jump!’ He leaped into the deep – and landed on the hull of the submarine . . . He took his last look at Sebastopol, at the stars, at the fires on the shore.
The war kept its hold on him even while he was asleep . . . The submarine was taking him to Novorossiysk. His legs were numb, his chest and back were damp with sweat, the noise of the engines was beating against his temples. Then the engines cut out and the submarine settled quietly onto the sea-bed. The closeness inside was unbearable; the ceiling, criss-crossed by dotted lines of riveting, was crushing him . . .
Then he heard a roar and a splash. A depth-charge had exploded. The submarine lurched and he was thrown out of his bunk. He opened his eyes and found everything in flames. There was a stream of fire running towards the Volga past the open door of the bunker. He could hear shouting and the rattle of tommy-guns.
‘Put this over your head! Quick!’ shouted a soldier he had never seen before. He was thrusting an overcoat towards him.
Krylov pushed him aside. ‘Where’s Chuykov?’ he shouted.
Suddenly he realized what had happened: the oil-tanks were on fire. Flaming oil was streaming past towards the Volga.
It seemed impossible to escape from the liquid fire. It leaped up, humming and crackling, from the streams of oil that were filling the hollows and craters and rushing down the communication trenches. Saturated with oil, even the clay and stone were beginning to smoke. The oil itself was gushing out in black glossy streams from tanks that had been riddled by incendiary bullets; it was as though sheets of flame and smoke had been sealed inside these tanks and were now slowly unrolling.
The life that had reigned hundreds of millions of years before, the terrible life of the primeval monsters, had broken out of its deep tombs; howling and roaring, stamping its huge feet, it was devouring everything round about. The fire rose thousands of feet, carrying with it clouds of vaporized oil that exploded into flame only high in the sky. The mass of flame was so vast that the surrounding whirlwind was unable to bring enough oxygen to the burning molecules of hydrocarbon; a black, swaying vault separated the starry sky of autumn from the burning earth. It was terrible to look up and see a black firmament streaming with oil.
The columns of flame and smoke looked at one moment like living beings seized by horror and fury, at another moment like quivering poplars and aspens. Like women with long, streaming hair, the black clouds and red flames joined together in a wild dance.
The blazing oil formed a thin film over the water, hissing, smoking and twisting as
it was caught by the current.
It was surprising how quickly the soldiers managed to find a path to the bank. Some of them then made two or three journeys back to the flaming bunkers, helping the staff officers to the promontory where, between two streams of fire flowing into the Volga, a small group of men were standing in safety. They had already rescued Chuykov himself. They had carried Krylov – who had been considered lost – out of the flames. Blinking their scorched eyelashes, they forced their way back to the bunkers through the thickets of red dog-rose.
The staff officers of the 62nd Army stood until morning on this small promontory. Between shielding their faces from the scorching air and brushing off the sparks that fell on their clothes, they kept looking round at Chuykov. He had a soldier’s greatcoat thrown over his shoulders and locks of hair were sticking out under his service cap. He looked calm and thoughtful.
Gurov looked round and said: ‘It seems that even fire can’t burn us.’ He began fingering the hot buttons on his greatcoat.
‘Hey! You there with a spade!’ shouted the chief sapper, General Tkachenko. ‘Dig a channel through here! Otherwise we’ll have flames coming down on us from that mound!’
He turned to Krylov.
‘Everything’s back to front, comrade General. Fire flows like water and the Volga’s burning. Thank God there’s no wind to speak of. Otherwise we’d be roasted alive!’
Now and then a breeze did blow from the Volga and the great tent of flame swayed towards them.
A few men went right down to the river and splashed water over their boots; it evaporated immediately off the hot leather. Some men stared silently down at the ground. Some were continually looking over their shoulders. Some tried to crack jokes: ‘You don’t even need matches – you can just light up from the wind or the Volga.’ Others kept feeling themselves, shaking their heads as they touched the hot metal clasps on their belts.
A few hand-grenades exploded inside the dug-outs of the headquarters battalion. Then there was a rattle of machine-gun fire. A German mortar bomb whistled through the flames to explode in the Volga. Through the smoke they glimpsed distant figures; they were probably trying to divert the flames. But everything vanished again in flames and smoke.
Peering into the flames, Krylov had room in his head for only one thought: whether or not the Germans would exploit the fire and launch an attack. The Germans didn’t know the location of the Army command-post – a prisoner they’d taken yesterday had refused to believe it was still on the right bank . . . And this seemed to be merely a local operation . . . Yes, there was a chance of surviving till morning. As long as the wind didn’t get up!
He looked at Chuykov who was standing beside him, gazing into the fire. His soot-covered face seemed to be made of incandescent copper. When he took off his cap and drew his hand through his hair, he looked like a village blacksmith; he was covered in sweat, and sparks were leaping over his head. He gazed up at the cupola of fire and then down at the Volga. The few spaces of darkness over the river were clearly outlined against the twisting and coiling flames. Krylov imagined that Chuykov was fretting over the same questions as he was: would the Germans launch a major offensive at night . . . ? Where should they relocate the command-post if they survived till morning . . . ?
Chuykov sensed Krylov’s gaze and smiled. Tracing a wide circle in the air with one hand, he said: ‘Quite a spectacle, isn’t it? Damn it!’
The fire was clearly visible from the Headquarters of the Stalingrad Front on the left bank. The chief of staff, Lieutenant-General Zakharov, went straight to Yeremenko after receiving the first report. Yeremenko ordered him to go to the signals centre in person and get through to Chuykov. Breathing heavily, Zakharov hurried along. An orderly was lighting the way with a flashlight; now and then he would say, ‘Careful, comrade General!’ as he pushed aside the branches of apple trees that were hanging over the path. The distant glow lit up the tree-trunks and lay in rose-coloured stains over the earth. The surrounding silence, broken only by the low calls of the sentries, made this pale, mute fire seem still more threatening.
The duty-signaller, a young girl, told Zakharov that they had lost all contact with Chuykov – telephone, telegraph and radio . . .
‘And with the divisions?’ asked Zakharov quickly.
‘We were in touch with Batyuk only a moment ago, comrade Lieutenant-General.’
‘Get him for me at once!’
Zakharov was notorious for his quick temper; the girl was afraid even to look at him again. Then she suddenly handed him the receiver and said joyfully: ‘Here, comrade General!’
On the other end of the line was Batyuk’s chief of staff. Like the girl, he grew increasingly nervous as he heard Zakharov’s heavy breathing and imperious voice.
‘What’s going on over there? Give me a report! Are you in contact with Chuykov?’
The chief of staff told Zakharov about the burning oil-tanks and the wave of flame that had swept down on the Army command-post. They had been unable to make contact with Chuykov, but it did seem that not everyone there had perished. Through the fire and smoke they could make out a group of people standing on the bank, but the river itself was on fire and there was no way of reaching them. Batyuk had set out with the headquarters company to draw off the fire and rescue the survivors.
When he finished his report, Zakharov said: ‘Tell Chuykov . . . If he’s alive, tell Chuykov . . .’
Surprised by the long pause, the young girl glanced timidly at Zakharov. He was wiping the tears from his eyes with a handkerchief.
That night, forty officers from Army HQ were burned to death in collapsed bunkers.
10
Krymov arrived in Stalingrad soon after the burning of the oil-tanks.
Chuykov had located his new command-post on the sloping banks of the river, in the area where one of Batyuk’s infantry regiments was disposed. He visited the officer in command, Captain Mikhailov, and nodded with satisfaction as he inspected his spacious bunker with its many layers of beams. Seeing the dismay on the captain’s freckled face, Chuykov said brightly: ‘You’ve built yourself a bunker above your station, comrade Captain.’
The regimental staff collected their impedimenta, moved thirty or forty yards downstream and evicted the battalion commander from his quarters. The now homeless battalion commander decided to leave his company commanders in peace – their quarters were in any case extremely cramped – and ordered a new bunker to be constructed on the high plateau.
Engineering works were already in full swing when Krymov arrived at the command-post. The sappers were digging a whole network of communication trenches between the different sections – Political, Operations and Artillery. His conversation with Chuykov was twice interrupted as the latter went out to inspect the progress of this work.
There was probably nowhere in the world where the construction of living-quarters was taken more seriously than in Stalingrad. These bunkers were built neither for warmth, nor in order to impress posterity. It was the likelihood of greeting the next dawn and eating the next meal that depended on the solidity of the beams, the depth of the communication trenches, the nearness of the latrine and the effectiveness of the camouflage.
When you were talking about someone, you always mentioned the quality of his bunker: ‘Batyuk’s done some fine work on Mamayev Kurgan with his mortars. He’s got a fine bunker by the way. A huge oak door just like the Senate. Yes, he’s certainly got a head on his shoulders.’ While of another man it might be said: ‘Well, what do you know, he was forced to retreat during the night. He had no liaison with his units and he lost a key position . . . As for his command-post, it was visible from the air. And he had a cape by way of a door – to keep out the flies, I suppose. An empty-headed fellow – I heard his wife left him before the war.’
There were any number of stories in circulation that had to do with dug-outs and bunkers . . . The story of the conduit that housed Rodimtsev’s command-post: water had suddenly gushed throug
h and swept away all his files; wits had subsequently marked the confluence of Rodimtsev and the Volga on maps. The story of the destruction of Batyuk’s famous door. And the story of how Zholudyev and his staff had been buried alive in their bunker at the Tractor Factory.
The river bank, packed tightly with bunkers, reminded Krymov of a vast warship. To port lay the Volga, to starboard a wall of enemy fire.
Krymov had been instructed by the Political Administration to sort out a quarrel between the commanding officer and the commissarfn1 of an infantry regiment in Rodimtsev’s division. He intended first to give a short lecture to the staff officers and then to sort out the quarrel.
An orderly from the Army Political Section led him to the mouth of the vast conduit that housed Rodimtsev’s command-post. A sentry announced his arrival, and a gruff voice replied: ‘Bring him in! The poor man’s probably shitting in his pants by now.’
Krymov walked in under the low ceiling. Conscious that everyone was watching, he introduced himself to Vavilov, the divisional commissar. He was a stout man in a soldier’s jacket, sitting on top of an empty crate.
‘Splendid!’ said Vavilov. ‘A lecture’s just what we need. People have heard that Manuilsky and a few others have arrived on the left bank and aren’t even coming over to Stalingrad.’
‘I’ve also been instructed to sort out a quarrel between the commander of one of your infantry regiments and his commissar.’
‘Yes, we did have some difficulties there,’ said Vavilov. ‘But yesterday they were settled: a one-ton bomb fell on the command-post. Eighteen men were killed, the commander and his commissar among them.
‘They couldn’t have been more different,’ he went on confidingly, ‘even in appearance. They were like chalk and cheese. The commander was a straightforward man, the son of a peasant, while the commissar had a ring on one finger and always wore gloves. And now they are lying side by side.’
Life and Fate Page 7