Each night, Wilhelm stared up at the stars and watched everything around him fade away. He took a deep breath and, for a moment, believed Hannah was beside him, staring up at the same awe-inspiring view. But there was always distant artillery and gunfire to snap the mirage and bring him back to Ukraine and the war.
By late August 1941, Wilhelm and the Germans had made it to the Dnieper River and the city of Kiev situated on both sides of it. It was the largest battle Wilhelm had been a part of. Shells and artillery exploded everywhere. Tanks launched a storm of shells that rained down like hail, and blasts ripped through the sky like meteors. The Germans had brought the 1st and 2nd Panzer Armies and the 2nd, 6th, and 17th Infantry Armies. It seemed a million men were fighting for the Soviet Union with a thousand tanks. But the Germans had the air superiority outright.
By 1 September, the Northern German forces had pushed the Soviets south. Wilhelm and the Sixth Army were to push into the city of Kiev. Kiev was the heart, brain, and throat of Ukraine, but to get to those vital organs, Germany had to go through its fists and fangs first.
Wilhelm’s nerves scurried through his veins like a scared animal looking for an escape. He hated the anticipation of the first bullet. It always scared the hell out of him and momentarily paralyzed him. But it was not a single bullet ripping through the air but a million. German soldiers were struck down. Bits of flesh and blood blasted into the air. Mortar rounds exploded. The Germans returned fire. Wilhelm had been separated from Höring and Jonas as they sprinted for cover behind a building. Clouds of concrete dust covered them as buildings were blasted apart by artillery. Any soldier daring enough to peak their head around the corner was met with a bullet. Wilhelm unloaded his Gewehr 41 at brave Soviets charging forward.
“Move!” an officer yelled.
Wilhelm and the others sprinted from behind their cover and dashed forward. Pieces of rock and dirt flew as shots fired by snipers on rooftops narrowly missed them. Two men fell dead beside Wilhelm before the shooter on the roof was struck with a bullet. His body slid off and splattered on the ground. German planes flew overhead, riddling the ground with bullets. German Wehrmacht soldiers used flamethrowers to engulf both buildings and soldiers in flame. Wilhelm stood with his back pressed against one of the buildings. The stone vibrated from the tremendous explosions. At least a dozen soldiers did the same, waiting for a moment to advance further.
The roof and top floors were decimated when a German plane, smoking and leaving a trail of black, crashed into it. The impact knocked Wilhelm and the other Germans to the ground. The pebbles and rocks cut into his hands as he pressed himself to his knees. The man next to him rose to his feet, but a massive chunk of the roof and wall crushed him and splattered blood onto Wilhelm’s face and chest.
“It’s coming down!” a soldier yelled. He pulled Wilhelm to his feet and dashed out of the cover the building had provided. A bullet dinged and knocked the soldier’s helmet off, and before he could reclaim it or even react, a second bullet ripped in and pierced through his forehead. He dropped face-first, and Wilhelm tripped over his body. It was a moment of luck because bullets whistled past where he had stood. He ran on hands and feet as the building collapsed.
Panzer tanks barreled through the rubble, and the machine gunners laid waste to any Soviet soldiers within sight. Wilhelm’s nerves caused his hands to shake, and he took deep breaths to try to counter it. Even if the enemy was less than two meters away, his hands shook too much to guarantee his aim would be accurate enough to take him down.
The fighting was fierce, but Germany continued its dominance and created a wall that encircled the 37th, 5th, 21st, 40th, 38th, and 26th armies of the Soviet Union and divided and conquered them. After nearly a month of fighting, the city of Kiev was taken by the Germans, and a week later, the remaining Soviet armies surrendered. Over 600,000 Soviet soldiers marched out of the city in surrender.
“Well, Wilhelm. What is your verdict? Does burned fields and concrete rubble beat Rome in historical beauty?” Höring asked as the captured soldiers left the battlefield.
“We still could be on our way,” Wilhelm said.
“War will be over soon,” Jonas stated a bit too confidently.
It was easy to think the Soviets were like ants fleeing an anthill. Did the Soviet Union have enough men to replace the over half-million who were now prisoners of the German army? The Soviet Union had been dealt a serious blow, and it was easy to fall for such optimism. But each time Wilhelm had fallen for it, his hopes were crushed.
The Sixth Army continued east and, a month later, fought the Soviets in the Battle of Kharkov and again in the spring of 1942. But like the British, the Soviets had a resolve of steel. The nights and days following battles were filled with reflective silence. Bodies had to be collected, and every able man was required to do so.
Wilhelm retreated to his journal and wrote about the sights and sounds of hell—things that never needed to be said aloud.
“There’s no method or reasoning behind it,” Höring said when Wilhelm closed his journal. He had gotten better at understanding when Wilhelm was writing to let him finish before he spoke.
“Behind what?” Wilhelm asked.
“Who lives ... who dies ... it’s just dumb luck,” Höring said.
During by-gone days, a soldier could alter his odds and even the war by improving his swordsmanship. But in this hell, everyone was meat for the grinder. It was putting your life in the hands of fate. Fate was like the old emperors of Rome—either pointing their thumb up or down to decide the fate of the gladiators in the arena.
“Just keep doing what you are doing,” Wilhelm said.
“That’s just it. I don’t know what it is I’m doing. Have I done something every single night before battle? Do I have some mannerism or a lucky omen?” Höring asked.
“You are overthinking it now,” Wilhelm said.
“Goddamn right I am,” Höring said, the fear causing his voice to crack. His fingers shook as he lit another cigarette. He took three therapeutic puffs from it. It calmed his nerves. “Hannah have any friends?”
Wilhelm smiled. Höring too. It was the thousandth time Höring had asked.
“What about your French girlfriend?” Wilhelm asked.
“She is in France. I need a German wife and, preferably, a mistress in every country we conquer,” Höring joked.
Heinrich’s face flashed in Wilhelm’s mind.
“One of my best friends from back home was always lucky with women. Heinrich Hess is his name. I would not doubt if he has a girlfriend in every country,” Wilhelm said.
“He in the same sinking boat as us?” Höring asked.
“Yes, but I don’t know where he is now. I have not seen him in two years.”
“You will have to introduce me to him when we are done here. I could use some lessons.”
Wilhelm smiled. He opened his journal and slid the pencil into the spine.
“What’s with the flower?” Höring asked when he saw the page.
On the page was a drawn rose. It was not as good as one of Hannah’s drawings, but Wilhelm had picked up techniques during Sunday morning drawing sessions.
“It is a blue rose. It is Hannah’s favorite flower,” Wilhelm said.
“I’ll keep an eye out for them. Stalin probably had them all burned though,” Höring said, taking a final drag before flicking the cigarette and rising to his feet. “A bit quiet. How will I ever sleep without the constant bombardment?” Höring asked. He smiled, patted Wilhelm on the back, and left.
Each night, Wilhelm pleaded to the unknown to either let him dream of Hannah or dream the war to be nothing but a nightmare. He wanted nothing more than to wake up beside Hannah. It did not even matter where. It could be in their bed at their apartment. It could be at Lena’s cabin or on one of Lena’s couches in her house, at Josef and Emma’s or his father’s.
Summer had been Wilhelm’s favorite season but, yet again, he could not enjoy it. June, July, and mo
st of August came and went, and the invisible Caesar graced Wilhelm, Jonas, and Höring with a thumbs up. But the stagnant thumb twitched. The soldiers of the Sixth Army scrambled into formation.
“What’s going on?” Wilhelm asked.
“General der Panzertruppe Paulus is about to make an announcement,” Jonas said.
Wilhelm followed the soldiers rushing by and then stood in silence as they waited. Had the Soviet Union capitulated? Or, at the very least, sought a seize fire? Paulus stepped forward. He was a tall man of six foot four inches with a slender frame. He was in his early fifties and had resumed command of the Sixth Army earlier that year of 1942. He held much respect from his troops and had enough medals on his uniform to cause it to hang lower on that side.
“We have been bestowed a great honor,” Paulus started, “a great honor that will require sacrifice and perseverance. Our Führer has entrusted us, the Sixth Army and the 4th Panzer Army, for this mission. Joining us are the 3rd and 4th Romanian Armies, the 8th Italian Army, and the 2nd Army of Hungary. But make no mistake, this mission, this grievous task, is our responsibility. We are to attack the city of Stalingrad. Our Führer will accept nothing but absolute victory! We will fight down to the last man! There will be no retreat, no surrender! A thousand-year Reich!”
“A thousand-year Reich!” the entire army yelled.
“Fuck,” Wilhelm muttered as the soldiers moved out.
“It will not be any different than any other battle,” Jonas said.
“Wilhelm’s right,” Höring said.
Jonas paused and waited for one of the two to elaborate further. Höring nodded for Wilhelm to explain.
“It is Stalin’s namesake city. They will not retreat like they have so far. They will defend it fiercely,” Wilhelm explained.
“Russians are inferior to Germans,” Jonas said, shaking off the fear that had temporarily taken hold of him.
“So are monkeys. But I’d be afraid of them too if they were holding a gun,” Höring said.
Höring compared attacking Stalingrad as knocking on Stalin’s own front door and throwing a pile of cow shit at his face when he opened it.
Wilhelm found little rest that night, and as they moved east, the nervousness in his stomach felt like a caged creature desperate to break free. He was not the only one, for all over the camp, men squatted and released an onslaught of diarrhea or vomit onto the ground, bringing new meaning to Scorched Earth. It took over a week until they were close to the Volga River, the longest river in Europe and where the great city of Stalingrad sat. The Luftwaffe’s bombers soared toward the great Soviet city to its supply lines across the river and dropped hell that engulfed the earth in flames and, from the distance, seemed to rise into space.
The next morning, with the rising sun, the Luftwaffe unleashed a number of bombs impossible to count. Höring said it had looked like Armageddon crashing through the atmosphere and plummeting toward Earth. In a matter of seconds, the industrial city had been knocked back to the Stone Age. The Luftwaffe had done its job. It was now the duty of the foot soldiers to take the city.
“Good luck, Wilhelm,” Höring said.
“You too,” Wilhelm said, giving his friend a hug.
Jonas was hunched over and vomiting.
“Bet you wish you had a banana for the monkeys now, don’t you?” Höring teased.
Jonas held up a middle finger as he heaved onto the ground.
Every soldier ensured their firearms were clean and in good standing. Nobody wanted to charge an enemy with a questionable firearm. As the Germans advanced, tank and soldier, the wind died. Buildings were half destroyed and the city’s civilians, caked in concrete dust, wandered about like zombies. Soviet tanks bulldozed over the rubble, their barrels sending boulder-sized shells at the Germans. Soviet troops came from every corner and, in an instant, chaos and pandemonium broke out. Soldiers fired from the windows and fell to the ground when shot. It was a fight for every street and every building. Soldiers were thrown out of the top floor. Portions of buildings collapsed and fell all around.
Wilhelm and the soldiers near him fired a frenzy at the charging Soviets, but they were like bees swarming to defend its hive. A German stepped forward and ignited his flamethrower. There was no more terrifying sound. It was a dragon that opened its mouth, roared, and belched fire. The Soviets were consumed by fire, and no matter how much they squirmed or screamed, the flames did not die. Some shot themselves to end the pain, and others thrashed about until death took them. The fire took no chances at being duped and kept burning until the bodies were charred black.
“Keep moving!” the soldier with the flamethrower yelled. But by turning, he had exposed the tank, and a bullet punctured through, and the tank exploded. Even from twenty feet away, the heat burned Wilhelm’s eyes, and he dropped his weapon to rub them. The tanks were merciless and ran over the injured. Mortar rounds exploded everywhere, and grenades were thrown back and forth.
It was too painful for Wilhelm to open his eyes. He patted the rubble for his gun, grabbed it, and tried using his forearm to rub his eyes and end the pain. When his eyes finally did open, they were filled with moisture, and his excellent vision was now that of someone who needed three-inch thick eyeglasses. Bits of rock landed on his boots where bullets narrowly missed him. Nearly blind, he had no idea how much of a sitting duck he was. Somebody grabbed him and threw him to the ground.
“Jesus Christ! What the fuck is the matter with you!” the voice yelled.
“My eyes…” Wilhelm mumbled. His vision was clear enough to see a red cross on the uniform of the man who knelt beside him.
“What happened?” the medic asked.
It was a different voice than the man’s who had just yelled at him.
“Flames. I can’t see well,” Wilhelm said.
If the sights were half as cruel as the sounds, he was thankful he couldn’t.
“Fall back! It will fade! Rejoin when your vision…” the medic’s words were cut short as a bullet hit his neck.
Blood poured from the wound onto Wilhelm’s face. He struggled to his feet, now faced with the dual task of trying to wipe blood from his face and rub his eyes while trying to see where he ran to and locate the enemy.
When he reached the German line, it was filled with hundreds of injured, and each begged and screamed for help. His vision improved minute by minute. Soldiers around him pressed down on bullet wounds, applied tourniquets, and treated burns. How some were still alive was impossible to understand. Men who were burned all over their bodies, missing arms and legs, some nothing more than a torso, reached or screamed for help.
When his vision fully returned, Wilhelm searched for Jonas and Höring briefly before having to move back into the city. It was, on a much smaller scale, the feeling of jumping into cold water. It was best to jump in than dip your toes. But this water had sharks lurking beneath the surface, and there was blood in the water. The Germans pushed further and further into the city, but at the cost of thousands of lives. Wilhelm fired from behind a pile of concrete rubble, covering for two other Germans as they charged forward. He waited for them to provide cover before he climbed over and sprinted forward.
“Shit!” one of the two yelled. Six Soviets sprinted out of the building to the Germans’ right. They wielded spades, chair legs, and axes. Their ammunition had run out, and they fought with whatever Stalingrad had to offer. Wilhelm was tackled to the ground. A Soviet pressed a chair leg against his throat. Wilhelm grabbed a piece of concrete debris and smashed it across the Soviet’s head. He drove it down again and again. Bits of blood and brain covered the concrete and Wilhelm’s face. He removed his Sauer 38h pistol and fired two rounds into each of the two remaining Soviet attackers and pulled another German to his feet, but the moment he was standing, he was shot in the throat.
He collapsed on top of Wilhelm. A grenade bounced and rolled toward him. He mustered his strength and turned the dead German over and dove head-first over the pile of debris. The
grenade exploded and showered him with rocks. He lost his rifle, and he had only a few shots left in his Sauer 38h pistol. He fired at any Soviet close by, but he was the only German in the vicinity. In a city of millions, he was alone.
He searched the dozens of bodies nearby for a weapon and grabbed a pistol from a dead German. A shot rang out louder than any other and, less than a second later, a sharp pain ripped through his chest, the force of which sent him onto a pile of rubble. He pressed his hand against his chest, and the white concrete dust covering his hand now turned crimson.
Fleeing
When Hannah landed on the rock-hard ground, her elbows and knees taking most of the impact, it hit back. The train carried on, but the screeching and flashes of bright oranges and yellows was a grave warning. The train was coming to a stop. Every fiber appeared to have quit on Hannah. The cold ground that surely had bruised seventy percent of her body now, somehow, soothed her. It was rest. Her bruised, swollen feet pulsated, and she would have as much success attempting to stand as pushing the train. But the train gave one last shriek, one last warning. Hannah’s brain processed the danger and sent a surge of power to her body. The train let out a high-pitched whistle and a cloud of smoke. When the doors of the cattle car were opened and there were no Jews, the Nazis would search every barn, house, cellar, and closet to find them.
Hannah forced herself to her feet with a groan. It had been months, maybe even years, since she had run. Her clogs slid back and forth, nearly causing her to face plant. She took them off and tossed them aside. The branches and leaves she ran on could cause her no further pain, but her feet threatened anarchy as she scurried toward the cover of the forest. Shouts followed by whistles and boots hitting the ground released an adrenaline response in Hannah. Fate had taken a kind turn. Many of the officers had German Shepherds—but none of the officers aboard the train. Had they, there would have been a zero-percent chance of escape. She raced between the trees in a serpentine pattern, chancing glances behind her to see how close the Nazis were. Each snapping twig betrayed her location.
Forever Fleeting Page 25