Eastern Inferno: The Journals of a German Panzerjäger on the Eastern Front, 1941-43 (12 page)

We finally reach Potschtowaja. This place was also badly hit. Some in the group are wounded. I was just about to lie down in a hole to sleep when a comrade approached me. “You are ordered to go to the commandant.” Two other group leaders are also there. The old guy salutes us and asks us, “Who will volunteer to return to the front to take our dear Lieutenant Liebetran his cross?” I step forward. The other two leave. I almost think they were running. The commandant takes me aside and tells me something that I have already known for a long time: Terempki is probably no man’s land, if not already in Russian hands. I decline to take anyone with me on this death ride.

11 August:
After the cross is finished, I place it over my shoulder, insert a pistol under my belt, a hand grenade in the shaft of my boots, and off I go. I take the shortest distance directly across the minefield. Damn it, the most direct path is right at the barn on the field. I don’t need to mention that the other soldiers thought they were dealing with a maniac, and that the men in the observation posts thought I was crazy. And yet, my mind has become sharper over the past few days. My intuition tells me that the Russians have not yet grasped our latest directional maneuver. They are still laying their fire stubbornly onto our positions that have long since been abandoned. This time, there is no fire curtain between the village and me (rather I should say the pile of dirt where houses once stood).

Everything is going well. The closer I get to the village, the weaker the enemy fire, which eventually completely dies out. There is no one around as far as I can see. The silence is eating at my nerves. Is the Russian infantry going to begin its advance? Damn it—for the first time I am really afraid, really scared. The last thing that I need is for “Hans to push a wild boar into his pants” [
wildsau in die hose scheibt
, i.e. soiling his pants]. No, I am not going to do that.

With my hands trembling, I push the cross into the ground. I then pay him my respects, my one and only comrade, our lieutenant, at his final place of rest, and then start to cry like a child. What would you say to me now, my little lieutenant? “Sobbing is for women. Pull your shit together Hannes!”

These past few minutes of reflection have really refreshed me. No, little one, you will not see me act like a weeping boy, I am sorry. It has been a bit too much over these past few days. I then start to head back.

Unbelievable, Terempki without artillery fire. I didn’t think it was possible! It is getting light out; I still have approximately two kilometers to cover. Who knows if the Russians saw me, or it was just out of coincidence, but all at once five or six shells land near me. I throw myself into the dirt and clutch the ground. To the left and right, in front and behind me, trees stand burning from the impact. The howling and crashing in the air is like yesterday, though yesterday I was not alone! Small brisang shells buzz closer. These damn things approach without much warning; they’re right here—
ratsch-bumm
[German slang term used by soldiers for the Soviet SiS-3 field gun]. They explode, causing shallow craters in the ground. They explode and release thousands of shards that slice anything close by.

And then, there is a terrible hit. When I try to get up again I notice that I cannot. My right leg isn’t responding.
Scheisse
, there is a large hole in my pants and blood is running out of it. My hands are also bloody. There is a strange pulling in my face and blood has just started dripping from it. Those must only be scratches, but my leg, damn leg! Man [
mensch
], you cannot lie here and fall victim to those Red bastards! There must be a way! And there is. I get a move on under tremendous pain.

Who’s there at the barn (or where the barn used to be)? It is my dear Sepp, and thankfully his sidecar motorcycle. This is when I black out. When I start to wake up, he has only one word for me:
Rindviech
! [ox] This makes me really happy. I know that he said it to conceal his emotions; what a loyal soul! He places me into the sidecar and races back. He finally stops at Petschtowaja. In between the cursing and laughter, he tells me that our troop has taken leave to rest for a few days to the rear of Wassilkow. He has suggested that as a result, I will be able to recover while being with the troops. What a fool, as if we even needed to talk about that! He then digs out his last bottle of vodka from down in his sidecar. It’s a real small party this morning. As an extra bonus, we get to enjoy witnessing the downing of 24 aircraft by our invincible Messerschmitts. “Sorry that we shot at you yesterday.” Oh well, after that my Sepp calls me an ox and I know that we have become inseparable comrades. I am indescribably happy. For a few hours I am able to forget the fear and distress of the past few days.

12 August:
We have arrived in Barachty and are joyfully greeted by our comrades. The commander shook my hand in silence, looking deeply into my eyes for a long time. The fact that he did not say anything was the best expression of gratitude for me. Afterward, I am bandaged up, which unfortunately cannot be performed without pain.

And then the moment which I have been dreading all day arrives: the field doctor has ordered my transfer to the military hospital. One of the guys winks at me and says, “Man, be happy! You get a taste of home.…” I punch him in the face. The commander sees it and approaches to ask what is going on. I ask for permission to stay with my comrades. He turns briefly to speak with the doctor and then says, “I am unable to deny your request. You will remain here!” How wonderful this day is!

My stretcher stands in the shade of fruit trees in a meadow covered with flowers. The bees are buzzing and butterflies are playing their games. I am so happy and thankful that I am able to stay with my comrades. Only the hum and thundering from the front, and the pain that has now fully kicked in, reminds me of these past days.

My group has dramatically shrunk in size. We will need each and every one of them for the next campaign. We cannot count on replacements. Was it not my duty to stay with my guys under such circumstances? I think the commander understood this.

13 August:
I am doing well except for the constant pain. The weather is awesome, and then there are these beautiful letters from my dear Rosel, this brave soldier’s wife. The commander looks after me like a father. He gives me eggs, fresh butter, cream, and honey. I have been using this time mostly for sleeping, which helps me forget, and we have so much to forget.

14 August:
Red fighter planes paid us a visit tonight and threw down a dozen or so bombs. This doesn’t upset me as much after what I have lived through during these past days. One can hear the thunder emerging from the front as clearly as it was yesterday. Apparently the Russians have managed to establish a strong bridgehead on the Dnepr River. The front is very thin there, perhaps our break is over? That would be harsh, and mean my transfer to the field hospital. A civilian has informed us that a group of eight Bolsheviks dressed as German soldiers went into the village to ask for German reinforcement troops in Barachty. Because of this the strength of the night watch has been doubled. One cannot be too careful behind the front.

15 August:
The entire division has gone out to battle. The brave regiments march past us on the street. You brave, remarkable lads, where are all the comrades that went shoulder to shoulder with you to the front when you were on the street the last time? One of the men approaches me on my stretcher to shake my hand. Why not? We have both bled in the drumfire of Kiev. Exhausted, he sits down next to me, drinks from my bottle, eats my ration, and has ten draws from my last cigarette. He then told me something about the final hours before they were withdrawn from the front: “Before we retreated, we laid minefields. The Russians somehow found out, at which point they collected the sick and disabled from the mental homes. The infantry then herded them over the minefields in front of them. It was an extraordinary picture: naked as they were when taken from their beds. They ran in lines toward our positions. Hundreds were torn apart by the mines.” Only these losers could think of something so evil. And these guys are our opponent.

The numbers of dead slowly make their way to us. The 530th Infantry Regiment was almost completely annihilated, and will be filled in with the remainder of the 528th and 529th Infantry Regiments.

16 August:
The pain is starting to vanish. Thank goodness things are going better!

17 August:
Three PaK units move out in the morning to secure the village. We receive news that a bunch of troops and partisan fighters were found outside of Kiev. They must have been planning to go through the thin front line to attack our troops from the rear. Other special forces, paratroopers, have landed far to the rear. The village is now encircled in a defensive ring.

18 August:
I am without pain for the first time, and leave my stretcher for a first attempt at walking. I witness the interrogation of partisans in the meadow. A reconnaissance unit arrested a group whom they are now questioning. There are three young girls ranging in age from 18 to 20, and one boy around 17. They say they were laborers at a textile factory who were let go due to the lack of work. Their passports are too new and the amount of money they are carrying is too great for laborers. They cave in after two hours of interrogation and confess to being partisans. Their mission is from the infamous Major Friedmann. They have the following orders: join a second group of partisans near Wassilkow during the night of August 19. The second group will bring highly sensitive explosives. The girls will find out the location of HQ here in Barachty and in Wassilkow, which are supposed to be blown up on August 20.

Wow—we are all really surprised. We were going to be attacked. We also learn something about the organization of their group. They work in mixed groups of boys and girls, mostly students, no larger than five per group. Their tasks include the destruction of fuel and ammunition depots, bridges, and roads. They also lay out aerial signals [
fliegerzeichen
]. They kill (this means butcher, since even the girls are trained to use a knife) men stationed at outposts and motorcycle messengers.

To ensure success, they have a well established and expansive communication network. When the German troops moved in, competent Red soldiers, mostly commissars, stayed behind disguised as everyday farmers in order to coordinate the work of partisan units. They are now working hand-in-hand with these terror groups. The mess that has been created behind the front will give us headaches for a long time to come.

The translator finally asks the girls how they became partisans. What I heard deeply moved me: the murderer Friedmann summoned them one day and gave them a choice to either go with these orders across German lines, or witness their parents and siblings lined up along a wall and shot. Also, if they do not return, their relatives will be killed. Nevertheless, the commander decides that the four must be executed immediately. I can see how difficult it is for him to give this order. But this is how it has to be!

The four are led away. Three young and fresh girls will die for these bloodthirsty hyenas in Kiev. A group of soldiers with rifles lines up, the girls are blindfolded. This is nothing for us old guys who are used to fighting with the devil and death. But these are three girls of great beauty for whom we feel compassion. Regardless, they are ordered to shoot iron bullets into these young bodies. I cannot witness this. I retreat to the most remote corner. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, I hear the rifle salvo.

The war against civilians is not for us “
frontschweine
” [frontline pigs]. Everybody is very quiet for the rest of the afternoon.

19 August:
Russian bombers are attacking. We have dead and wounded. A group of partisans are arrested and shot after a short interrogation.

20 August:
I am doing much better. My wounds have healed almost completely. It’s about time, because there are rumors about our next mission.

21 August:
Orders have arrived. We advance into position tonight. What am I saying, we? I have been ordered to stay behind. Does he have to give me orders? After a short back-and-forth, the commander, understanding the front line soldier, agrees to let me move forward with my guys.

“Doctor, this boy is dying of boredom here! He belongs with his men on the front!”

What a joy. Why shouldn’t this be possible? The positions on the front are now fortified; the mobile attack came to a halt weeks ago.

22 August:
We made the rotation to the front without any enemy fire worth mentioning. The trenches are awesome. A system of trenches and saps has been built. The line of fire is perfect. Our position holds the bridge and village of Potschtowaja. The Reds will get their heads bloodied if they tried to break through here.

The rest of the day is used to deepen the trenches and repair the barbed wire blockades. After nightfall, small troops lay out minefields. Shells are only finding their way to us sporadically. For the most part, they fall short of the target and explode in the Weta marshes.

23 August:
After prepping us with heavy artillery fire during the early morning hours, the Russians attempt to storm our position. Wave after wave approaches and breaks down under our fire. Man oh man, it’s like target practice! It is incredible what reserves these guys possess! It is sheer insanity to attack our fortified position. Regardless, new masses of soldiers are still coming forward. At present, they are huddled down in the depressions in the same line formations as they started. Our shells tear them apart and our machine guns mow them down. And then, I see something that as a soldier moves me deeply: for hours now, enemy soldiers have been trying to approach the bridge with great bravery. The Russians installed heavy machine guns in the houses just a few hundred meters to the rear in order to give them fire protection. Again, 18 to 20 men jump up and run toward the bridge, just to be shot to bits and pieces.