Eastern Inferno: The Journals of a German Panzerjäger on the Eastern Front, 1941-43 (29 page)

Our tired and sweating unit stumbles along the pockmarked asphalt of
Revolution Prospkt Boulevard
, one of the most splendid in Woronesh. Here stand the palatial buildings from the time of the czars alongside the concrete buildings of the Judeo-Bolshevik period—or perhaps better said, used to stand. Through the burned out windows escapes the terror of senseless destruction.

On the inside, we are burned out; on the outside, beaten. There used to be a time when hours of fighting were followed by hours of quiet. That time is over. Sun, moon, and blazing fire all share in illuminating this work of destruction and the slaughtering of people. At times you eat whatever you have, carry your ammunition, or rest for a moment on the ground in the cover of a crater. Our faces have become black and haggard. These days, they are never plump and round, allowing the drudgery of the 24-hour days to be seen in them. Our eyes are red from the smoke and the nightly watches, but our teeth are white from the hard bread. I can’t imagine that you could earn your daily bread in a way any more difficult than this.

We are again in position at the “Southern Settlement,” the solid part of the bridgehead. The sky is grey and heavy with rain clouds. The earth has been so churned-up that she is bleeding from thousands of circular wounds. Chaotic positional systems trail up the hill. Rifleman holes, bomb craters, and barbed wire tear the landscape into an ugly grimace.

Our bloody “settlement” is bolted up against the breakthrough point! For a month it has been lying beneath the gigantic hammer of destruction. Suffering countless numbers of casualties, the Soviets have worked their way into shouting distance of us. Many elite battalions were allowed to bleed to death just to gain a few meters. Whole Bolshevik tank squadrons are burned out. In the short time from July 10 to August 24 alone, 978 enemy tanks were destroyed. The Soviets’ goal to take the last 50 meters to reach the cover of the ruins of the settlement’s higher elevation has been left unattainable.

I met up with the troops in Sossua. Since winter, I have been continually traveling between Charkow and Rshew—always right where it’s the worst. Meanwhile, our “gypsy unit” has been deployed near Woronesh, intrepidly holding its own, and is now awaiting new orders. A few are missing but overall everything is still holding together. What an incredible miracle!

Orders came today stating that we should settle here in Sossua. The pitiful quarters are supposed to be made suitable for spending winter here. It is unbelievable—shouldn’t us poor, relentlessly chased dogs at least get some peace and quiet once in a while?! But who has mentioned anything about an “umbrella-theory” [
Regenschirm
-Theorie—i.e. conspiracy]? With a lot of diligence and patience we went to work on our quarters. Here and there, there are few things that could still be improved, but overall we are finished with our winter burrows.

Now is of course when we will get our marching orders. And indeed, as usual, they arrive timely as ever. One beautiful afternoon, an excited messenger comes running: “Everybody get ready, in two hours the division will be marching!” Adieu “Jaizis” and “Moloka”! It would have been so nice, but it wasn’t meant to be. On time, and as ordered, the engines hum their goodbye song and off we go in the direction of Woronesh.

We are rolling! Sweltering heat is upon us like molten lead. Our forced march has been ordered right when it seems to be foul again in Woronesh; though when has it ever been different there. We are prepared to ignore all the problems along the way, all the heat and dust. A few hundred kilometers lie before us and we are needed near Woronesh, urgently needed. We are surrounded by a sad barren landscape; a flat, singularly desolate and unchanging plain from horizon to horizon. There is also dust, hot dust; the hottest dust! And as we march alongside the road, we become covered in the never-ending white-yellow clouds, which at times make it impossible to see for hundreds of meters; so much so that one just stumbles, the infantry marches blindly forward, tenaciously and courageously as usual, with the sun glowing over a shadowless landscape, while temperatures climb to 110° every day.

German barricade during the battle for Woronesh (Voronezh).
(Photo courtesy of
www.wwii-photos-maps.com
)

Soviet tank in flames. (Photo courtesy of
www.wwii-photos-maps.com
)

Typical scene of trench warfare in the vicinity of Woronesh with German soldier using a scissor telescope to survey enemy movement.
(Photo courtesy of
www.wwii-photos-maps.com
)

On the Woronesh front. (Photo courtesy of
www.wwii-photos-maps.com
)

The closer we get to Woronesh, the more desolate the land becomes. It hasn’t been long since a bitter, bloody battle was fought here. The barren fields and plains extend for as far as the eye can reach. The roads are nothing more than wide paths of dust on a treeless wasteland. They have an eastern feel to them. The caravan roads of Mongolia must be similar. They meander any which way just like rivers, these are dust streams, which flow wide, split into many tributaries, and run wide apart, split again into more tributaries, while others rejoin the main flow, just like a stream.

What remains of Woronesh after Germany’s struggle to seize the city from Russian hands. (Photo courtesy of
www.wwii-photos-maps.com
)

Then all of a sudden, the road narrows; a bridge, some swampy water covered in grass which we had to drive through, which compresses all the tributaries to a narrow one lane road. As soon as we pass through this obstacle the road flows wide again and with ease into its many tributaries. Its surface has been compacted by countless trucks, its bumps and holes and its greyish-white with a bit of dark grey color resembles the skin of an elephant.

Another 30 kilometers to Woronesh; it must be from over there where the enormous, black smoke plumes are rising. During a short rest, we hear the rumble of gunfire which the wind has carried toward us; an accompaniment to the bitterest combat the Eastern Front has seen so far. Endless munitions columns pass by us; from the front comes ambulance after ambulance, on the hood, a big, white flag with a red cross whips in the air—they are packed to the limit! Our faces are serious; we know that the following days will be the fulfillment of our destiny for some of us.

Twenty kilometers left to Woronesh! We are now met by long trains of destitution; the last evacuees of the city—women, children, elderly, the sick and disabled—drag along on both sides of the sandy road to the south. All of them are loaded down with their remaining possessions which have been saved from the rubble. We drive past these sorrowful images for kilometers.

Suddenly there is a singing in the air; small clouds from anti-aircraft fire are floating in the sky. Quick as lightning, we are take cover under the pine trees. With stoic serenity, columns of wretched refugees continue to pass by. Tired and exhausted, they plod through the hot sand. And then, all of a sudden, a sharp whistle, a terrible howling; six or seven low-flying Russian bombers pass over their heads, release their bombs, and fire their weapons into the helpless crowds.

There are no words to describe the horrific bloodbath these dogs have inflicted on their own people. We can only administer first-aid to a few, because we have to move on, have to move on to the front, where the black-as-ink smoke plumes are, and we can already see the flickering flames.

Woronesh

We are sitting in the rubble of an enormous, four-story barracks. Through the shattered windows, across bent and molten iron beams, across the moon-crater landscape of the yard, we have a view of the front all the way up to the “Red Tower.”

Only weeks ago, before the big “Casino offensive,” this was our favorite observation post. Today its ruins are unoccupied; nobody dares the dangerous climb. Of the last 8 people who did, each one of them brought down their fallen or wounded comrades who had previously attempted it, until the moment when nobody returned, all of them finding their grave up high.

To the right of the tower at the end of the barracks lies the “casino,” an expression that anyone who has fought at Woronesh knows. Here and a couple hundred meters to the northeast in the “brickyard” sit the Russians. These two points govern the whole sector. They are defending them tenaciously. Thousands must have already bled to death here. For six long days one bombing followed the next on a scale never before seen. For hours there was smoke and fire. Nothing! They don’t waver.