Stalingrad

by Vasily Grossman

  The following morning, as the men who hadn’t been sent anywhere during the night were washing, cleaning their boots or darning their collars, an orderly came in. Somewhat out of breath, he looked around, quickly identified the most senior commander present, and rattled out, “Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, may I ask which of you is comrade Lieutenant Colonel Darensky? You’re to go forthwith to the cadres section. The colonel wants to see you before breakfast. May I be dismissed, comrade Lieutenant Colonel?”

  The cadres-section colonel immediately told Darensky that he was being posted to the Artillery HQ. It was an important and responsible position—the kind of work Darensky had never even dared hope for.

  “Colonel Ageyev orders you to report to Artillery HQ at fourteen hundred tomorrow,” the colonel said sternly.

  “Report to Artillery HQ at fourteen hundred—understood!” replied Darensky.

  Correctly guessing Darensky’s thoughts, the colonel went on, “And there you were, thinking that those wretched bureaucrats would keep you hanging on forever. Well, we didn’t do so badly after all. We may be bureaucrats, but we do understand that time’s precious during a war.”

  That evening, Darensky talked heart-to-heart for the first time with the young signals officers and felt astonished that he’d taken so long to realize what splendid fellows they were: modest, courageous, straightforward, well read, hard-working, outgoing and friendly.

  They went on talking and playing cards late into the night and Darensky continued to discover more and more virtues in them. There was no end to their merits.

  He could hardly believe how happy he now felt. Here in this peasant hut in the dismal, saline steppe beyond the Volga, amid the sullen rumble of artillery, beneath the constant hum of aircraft, he at last felt he could breathe freely. His dreams were being realized. He had been given an important, responsible job. He had no doubt that his boss would be gifted, intelligent and experienced and that his future colleagues would be clever, conscientious and quick-witted. Every difficulty in the world had melted away.

  So it is when things go well for someone. Darensky’s own life was now unusually successful and full of meaning; the situation at the front no longer so profoundly menacing.

  19

  COLONEL Ageyev’s hair was entirely white, but he was alert and energetic. He saw artillery training as the foundation for an understanding of all things military—and of everything else in life too. His subordinates liked to joke, “If our colonel had the chance, he’d incorporate artillery training into floriculture, dacha construction, and the repertoire of the Moscow Art Theatre.”

  In 1939, he had felt deeply wounded when his son decided to study humanities at university. And a year later, his daughter, whom he had been taking on Sundays to the firing range “to listen to real music,” married a film director. Ageyev said sadly to his wife, “What have you done to the girl? You’ve ruined her.”

  He had his own idiosyncratic theory about artillerymen: “Our Russian gunners are tall, big-boned and robust, with large skulls and large brains.”

  He himself was short, frail and frequently ill. His feet were so small that his wife had to buy his shoes in the children’s department of the army store—a dreadful secret that his adjutant had divulged to everyone at Artillery HQ.

  Ageyev was generally considered a good artillery commander. People respected him both for his knowledge and for his bold, incisive way of thinking.

  Some, however, while not denying his gifts, disliked him for other reasons.

  He could be brusque, sarcastic and often uncontrollably argumentative.

  He particularly detested careerists and people who like to pull strings. Once, during a meeting of the military soviet, he accused a colleague of servility. His language was so abusive that the incident was reported to Moscow.

  Just before Darensky’s appointment, Ageyev had been faced with a difficult and important decision: whether or not to bring the heavy artillery across the river.

  First he had driven up and down the sandy east bank, with its dense willow thickets and copses of young trees, and concluded that this was the perfect site for heavy artillery. It was God’s gift to gunners.

  Then he had crossed to the west bank on a small motorboat, visited divisional and regimental HQs, inspected artillery batteries located in squares and among ruined buildings and concluded, with no less certainty, that it was impossible for heavy artillery to function in these conditions.

  The Germans were close by. Snipers and small groups of sub-machine-gunners were infiltrating the centre of the city at night, slipping between ruined buildings and firing at his gun emplacements and command posts.

  In conditions like these it was impossible to find appropriate targets for heavy artillery. Cumbersome, large-calibre guns were being trained on small, quickly moving targets or isolated machine-gun nests and mortar emplacements.

  The gunners’ hard work was being wasted. Protecting their guns, guarding them against surprise attacks, was taking up too much of their time.

  Communications were being disrupted. With so many streets blocked by rubble, it was often impossible to keep the guns properly supplied with ammunition.

  Ageyev reported all this to Yeromenko with his usual directness. He criticized others for “playing it safe” and for “just parroting orders.” After declaring “I never have been and never will be afraid of responsibility,” he demanded that the heavy artillery be transferred at once to the east bank.

  Ageyev could scarcely have chosen a worse moment to say this. Reports from the front line were more alarming than ever. The Germans had reached the city outskirts and were now launching attacks on the city itself. The regiments defending the city were depleted in number. Rodimtsev’s Guards division was still on the east bank.

  Guards mortar regiments, anti-tank guns, heavy artillery, vast numbers of trucks for the transport of troops and ammunition—huge forces were being brought up from the reserves. Nevertheless, they were still some distance away. And the Germans, aware of their approach, seemed all the more determined not to delay their final assault.

  Alarm was turning into panic. Several commanders had been making repeated requests, under pretexts of every kind, to be withdrawn to the east bank.

  Ageyev’s request—unlike dozens of apparently similar requests—was justified. More than that, it was of crucial importance.

  Colonel General Yeromenko was right to refuse the requests made by other commanders. Unfortunately—since the world is not perfect and even the most senior generals can make mistakes—he suspected Ageyev too of what was then being called “evacuationism.”

  No other member of HQ staff was present when Ageyev made his report. All we know is that Ageyev left Yeromenko’s office after only a few minutes. He returned to his bunker, threw his file down on the table and made a very strange sound through his nose. During the night he took two doses of valerian and, unable to calm himself, went through the whole of his campaign library.

  Yeromenko’s adjutants later told friends from the operations section that not one of the “evacuationists” received so severe a dressing-down as Ageyev.

  In their words, “Ageyev got it where the chicken got the axe.”

  What Ageyev did the next day was proof of a remarkable capacity for self-sacrifice. He showed extraordinary devotion both to his work as a gunner and to the common cause.

  He returned to the west bank and at his own risk and peril ordered the construction of rafts to transport two heavy artillery batteries across the Volga. He gave strict orders to all his commanders to remain in the city. Communications between the commanders and the soldiers manning the guns on the east bank were maintained through a wire taken across the Volga and smeared with pitch, later to be replaced by a proper cable.

  A day was enough to confirm that Ageyev had done the right thing. His guns were able to keep up a steady, uninterrupted fire. There were no difficulties with ammunition supplies and the gunners were never under any threat
themselves.

  Telephone communications were reliable. Instead of worrying about German snipers, the gunners were able to devote all their attention to their work. And the commanders on the west bank, no longer fearing for the safety of their guns, were free to liaise with neighbouring infantry units and then inform their men about major enemy troop movements worthy of their attention.

  Soviet heavy artillery fire had previously been scattered and ineffectual; it was now accurate, concentrated and crushing.

  Withdrawing the remaining heavy artillery batteries to the east bank was a matter of vital importance. It would not be a retreat; on the contrary, it would allow the artillery to play a leading role in the defence of the city.

  Ageyev set off once again to Yeromenko. As he left his bunker, he discreetly crossed himself.

  Aware that all this could end very badly for him, he did his best to be diplomatic. He held back from making his usual criticisms of people who always “play it safe.” He reported that he was transferring all available mortars and light artillery to the city, along with many members of his own HQ staff. After that, he described the excellent work being done by the two heavy artillery batteries now on the east bank, emphasizing that their command posts and commanders all still remained in the city, “on the very foremost front line.”

  Yeromenko put on his glasses and began to reread Ageyev’s draft order—now lying on his desk for a second time—for the transfer of the heavy artillery to the east bank. Yeromenko had, by then, received reports that Rodimtsev’s Guards division was approaching Krasnaya Sloboda.

  “But how come those batteries are already there?” he asked in his thin, almost girlish voice, jabbing at the document with one finger.

  Ageyev coughed and wiped his face with a handkerchief. Because his mother had once taught him to speak only the truth, he replied, “I transferred them myself, comrade General.”

  Yeromenko took off his glasses and looked Ageyev straight in the eye.

  “As an experiment, Andrey Ivanovich,” Ageyev added quickly.

  Yeromenko looked silently at the document lying in front of him. He was frowning, breathing heavily.

  These few lines on a thin sheet of paper counted for a great deal.

  Long-range artillery, concentrated on the east bank of the Volga and subordinate to the Front commander! Large-calibre guns, heavy mortars, Katyusha rocket launchers! All this constituted a force of enormous power, both concentrated and manoeuvrable.

  Ageyev began counting the seconds. Forty-five—and Yeromenko had still not spoken.

  “The old man’s going to have me shot,” Ageyev said to himself, thinking of Yeromenko, eight years his senior, as an old man.

  He took out his handkerchief again, looking sadly at the orange silk with which his wife had embroidered his initials.

  Yeromenko signed the order, saying, “Good thinking!”

  “Comrade Colonel General, this is profoundly important,” Ageyev began, deeply moved. “I give you my word that you have guaranteed our success. We will bring to bear an unprecedented degree of firepower.”

  Yeromenko silently pushed the order aside and reached for a cigarette.

  “May I be dismissed, comrade General?” said Ageyev, in a different tone. He was now wishing he’d said a word or two about one of the staff generals who, in his view, had been shirking responsibility.

  Yeromenko cleared his throat and breathed in noisily. With a slow nod of the head, he said, “Very well, get on with your work now!”

  A moment later he added, “The military soviet’s trying out a new bathhouse tonight. Come along around nine!”

  “Seems things are all right now!” said one of the adjutants. The two of them looked almost disappointed when Ageyev came out from the office with a smile, waved goodbye and began to climb the earthen steps.

  It was at this propitious moment that Darensky joined Ageyev’s staff.

  20

  DURING his first night at Artillery HQ, Darensky was twice summoned by his new boss.

  Restless and anxious as he always was, Ageyev felt upset when his staff slept at night, ate lunch during their lunch break or rested after finishing work.

  He ordered Darensky to go at dawn to the right flank to confirm that the guns had been safely transferred and were adequately camouflaged in their new fire positions. He was to visit the supply points and check that ammunition delivery was proceeding smoothly. He was also to telephone the regimental and battery commanders in Stalingrad and check that there was good communication both by radio and by wire.

  As Darensky left, Ageyev said, “Stay in contact. Report every three or four hours. You can reach me through 62nd Army support services. If you find any senior commanders at the fire positions, send them straight back to Stalingrad. Bear in mind that intelligence has informed us of a major enemy troop concentration to the south, opposite the Kuporosnoye gully. Tomorrow will be our first serious test—the Front commander has requested a massive artillery barrage.”

  It was two hours until dawn, but Darensky did not feel like sleeping. He walked only slowly back to his bunker.

  There was a dim glow over the Volga from the buildings still burning in Stalingrad. Searchlights lit up the sky and there was a constant hum of aircraft. Darensky could also hear the sound of artillery fire in the city, and intermittent bursts from machine guns. Sentries emerged now and then out of the dark and asked, as a formality rather than with any sense of urgency, “Who goes there?”

  Darensky had been longing for danger, responsibility, exhausting work and nights without sleep. Now his dream was being realized.

  Back in his bunker, he lit a candle, put his watch down on the table, took from his knapsack some paper and an envelope he had already addressed and began writing a letter to his mother. Every now and then he glanced at his watch, wondering when he would hear his jeep draw up.

  “This may be the first letter in which I don’t tell you about my hopes and dreams, simply because these have all been realized. I won’t go into detail about my journey. It was much the same as any other wartime journey. A great deal of dust, bedbugs and other insects. All too many night-time alerts. Filthy station platforms. Cramped, airless spaces of every description. And very little in the way of soup, drinking water and room in the carriages. There was one occasion, needless to say, when my stomach ulcer played up, but it really wasn’t anything serious—I only mention it because I gave my word not to keep anything back from you. I reached my destination without difficulties, but my first few days went badly. I fell into despair—I was convinced I’d either be left hanging about in the reserves or else given some dead-end job in support services. But things are different here. Instead of worrying about awkward details in my documents, they appointed me to an important, responsible post at Artillery HQ. And now I’m working day and night, drunk on the joy of it. I’m writing to you just before dawn. I haven’t had any sleep at all, and soon a jeep will be coming for me. I truly don’t know how to describe my present state. My colleagues are wonderful—friendly, cultured and intelligent. My boss gave me a warm welcome. Recently he did something truly remarkable—you don’t have to be under fire to prove you’re a hero.

  “So, I feel fully alive. I feel happy and I know that my work is important. We’re doing well. The men are fighting like lions. Morale couldn’t be better. Everyone is confident of victory.

  “I recently heard, by the way, that shoulder boards are being reintroduced—gold for combat officers and silver for quartermasters. They’re already being sewn in factories in the rear.14

  “And yesterday I drank some vodka. With it I had some fatty pork and black bread—and my ulcer didn’t make the least murmur of protest. I seem to have completely recovered my health.

  “I could carry on writing forever, which in the end would bore you. I beg you to take good care of yourself and not to upset yourself by worrying about me. Be sure to write—my field post office is on the envelope. Let me know about everything. Have y
ou got enough firewood to see you through the winter? Once again, don’t worry about me. Remember that I’ve never felt so well and happy as I do now.”

  He sealed the envelope, took another sheet of paper and wondered whether to write to Angelina Tarasovna, the senior typist now at Don Front HQ, or to Natalya Nikolaevna, the young hospital doctor who had accompanied him to the station two weeks before.

  But then he heard the sound of his jeep. He got up and put on his overcoat.

  21

  THE STAFF at Front HQ were awaiting the arrival of Major General Rodimtsev’s Guards division with desperate anxiety.

  Their anxiety, however, was nothing in comparison with that felt by the commanders and soldiers in Stalingrad itself, on the west bank of the Volga.

  On 10 September, the Germans launched a massive assault. Supported by bombers, the 6th Army and the 4th Panzer Army attacked from north, west and south.

  More than 100,000 men, 500 tanks, 1,500 artillery pieces, and 1,000 aeroplanes took part in this attack.

  To the north, the German advance was covered by the 8th Italian Army; to the south—by other divisions of the 6th Army.

  The main thrust came from the south, from Zelyonaya Polyana, Peschanka and Verkhnyaya Yelshanka, and from the west, from Gorodische and Gumrak. At the same time, the German forces to the north increased the pressure on the Tractor Factory and the workers’ settlements around Red October.

  Ever more powerful blows forced Chuikov’s 62nd Army slowly back, towards the Volga. The strip of land Chuikov still held was growing thinner.

  The attacks from the south were repelled, but on the afternoon of 13 September, the forces advancing from the west broke through into central Stalingrad.

  Street after street passed into German hands.

  The space between the German front line and the Volga was melting away. Then a fierce counter-attack halted the German advance for several hours.