Eastern Inferno: The Journals of a German Panzerjäger on the Eastern Front, 1941-43 (31 page)

The noise of infantry fighting: the clacking of machine gun fire, the discharges of the carbines, the dry popping of the light infantry guns—all of this sounds like the twitter of small piccolo flutes in this thundering war concert. But nevertheless these light weapons and the men who guide them will decide the battle.

After an hour of bloody close combat the attack is beaten back. The Red storm troopers are finished, at the limits of their strength. Prisoners are stumbling towards us with terrified faces. But with undiminished force, the heavy weapons thunder on, enemy artillery is trying to tear holes for a second or third attack.

For days it has been bitter cold. Today the mercury shows 25° below zero; a thick white snow cover wipes out the sharp contours of the vast ruins. But there are always new impacts from all size of caliber tearing through the beautiful whiteness of the cover, leaving terrible black and red stains. A difficult period is now starting up again; God only knows what lies ahead in the next weeks. This gentle calm is abruptly torn apart by all the flares from the Soviet bombers. From this moment forward, the sky is not for a single second without these artificial stars.

It is strangely quiet along the entire Woronesh sector. People are saying that the Soviets have withdrawn large troop contingents in order to deploy them further south for larger offensives. Let’s just wait and see! Our
Landser
are great at spreading rumors. It is highly unlikely that we would have indeed had a few quiet days! Up to now we have always been in the thick of it. I believe that it will continue just like this after fresh reinforcements arrive.

Marching orders are here! How many have we already received during this God-forsaken campaign? We’re back on our feet and then loaded onto cargo trains, headed up north again for a change. For 48 hours we haven’t looked over the edge of the trench or even across the lightly snow-covered marsh of the front, where underneath its dirty skin hundreds of mines lie. Neither have we looked through the binoculars to watch the Bolsheviks, in their bunkers and deep sap trenches with their machine guns.

For 48 hours we didn’t need to duck and huddle in the dirt whenever the enemy would extend his long arm of heavy weaponry over the German positions, as if trying to erase everything that sticks out of the plowed earth. We didn’t have to listen to the sound of Stalin’s Organs at night, when the darkness is illuminated by the ghostly light of bright flares and the silence is abruptly pierced by the hissing of grenades and the barking of machine guns, which can bring death a hundredfold just seconds later.

The following order: “Company to transfer north,” has taken us away from deprivation and the desire to just survive, as well as the constant stress on our nerves, senses and muscles, to the comforting safety of this heated cargo train. We are moving along nice and slowly, kilometer by kilometer to the north. Where to? Nobody knows. It doesn’t matter anyway! Warmly packed into straw, we start to doze off until we finally fall into a calm, restful sleep.

The following five days and nights are worry-free, sleep-filled travel across the wide and deadly white Russian plain. Then we are unloaded. Forgotten is the gigantic field of rubble of Woronesh, the city of death. We are again in the flatlands and as protection against the cold and the enemy we have to rely on the dirty, stinking Panje huts. Soldiers, soldiers‖! During the icy day we endure snowstorms; during the night short, restless sleep in filthy
Ruski
sacks. Not that we haven’t rested our occasionally clean bodies in hundreds of European beds. We have dreamed nice dreams in the fancy baroque beds of French Châteaux that had nothing to do with war; we have lain on straw sacks in English bunkers, and with our hearts thumping we have listened to the impacts of fire salvos and caught bedbugs on Moroccan reed mats. We have had inappropriate dreams on the clean, cool sheets of Belgian boarding school beds of innocent girls whose more or less virgin bodies used to lie there. We have wiped off the dust and sweat of the battlefield on down comforters. We have experienced the most stubborn bedbug attacks from the leather sofas of Polish Jews. In the clean pillow mountains, fresh smelling embroidered covers of the western Ukraine we have dreamed of home. And lately we have gotten to know the terrible Russian sacks in the Soviet paradise.

We have become experts in the hospitality business, and in the future, even the dirtiest and slimiest host will not phase us. We have experienced all degrees of physical humiliation with our own bug-infested bodies. You should see our solemn faces when we find a Panje hut at night before the frighteningly fast approach of darkness which doesn’t yet have a pencil note on its door that reads, “Occupied by unit number, whatever.”

Even when a full dozen stinking locals already populate the small wooden room, the few of us still fit comfortably inside. A Panje hut eats up people endlessly. We spread out on the floor along with the Russians; whole generations move on top of the wide, expansive stove which takes up almost half of the entire room. Wife and child, man and bugs; eight or ten, or twelve or fifteen are lying up there, but not because we took their space. Even when we are not there they are huddled on top of or behind the stove. For us the archetype of living and comfort is the amount of space. With Russians it’s different: first comes the oven. There are those who have simply thrown a few boards together and a roof on top and have their finished Panje hut. That’s how we live nicely separated, some on top of the oven, and the others in the rest of the hut, while a small lamp on a little shelf below an icon burns all night.

In spite of the filth and the bugs, we are experiencing a few happy carefree days in these pitiful huts. One or the other even dares to think it possible to celebrate Christmas here in relative safety and respite. But only the absolute idealist would be able to think like that. For me, I act like I always have during this damn campaign. You just put dirty laundry in a water bucket and you look forward to putting on a clean shirt for once—never mind that we just received marching orders. This time we have to deploy especially fast. The wet laundry is stuffed into our backpacks, and 30 minutes later we are marching south toward an unknown destination. Judging by the pace of the march something is on fire somewhere.

After a record march we reach Kastoruoje. New combat-ready troops are sent our way, and in a few hours the new battalion of army
Panzerjägers
is ready for action. Despite the great honor—not many units become “Wehrmacht” troops—we are not sure how to feel about this. Things look fishy in the south; the many ambulances we encounter are not exactly elevating the mood.

After a short visit with our Hungarian brothers-in-arms we reach Rossosch, where the Italian A.O.K [
Italienischen Armee-Oberkommando
] is located. There I am met by serious faces. In bad French one asks this or that person where things stand; the short conversations are unclear and nervous.

In the evening, in a biting snow storm, we reach the position of the
Alpini-Corps
. That same night a tank-supported attack by the Soviets is halted and the enemy is beaten back across the river Don. The young division suffered its first losses.

In the following clear, freezing cold and moonlit night the enemy pushes across the ice of the Don once again with their giant steel guns. The battle lasts until the morning hours. One can tell, however, that we haven’t known the Russians since just yesterday, that a lot is feigned over there, for the Red
schweine
are trying to fake large attacks in order to divert us from other positions. This is confirmed by prisoner testimony.

These observations and predictions are forwarded to the Italian commando stations. Everything is done through the German communications staff. For ours the situation is discussed in bad school French. There is no agreement; the German communications officers are judging the situation differently (probably more accurately) than the Italian gentlemen. More things are translated, the German officers would like to pound their fists on the table, but they have to be courteous toward their brothers in arms and smile politely! Valuable time passes! Nothing happens—poor
schweine
in the trenches, they have recognized for a while that a catastrophe is approaching. Dark premonitions are blackening the heart. Once again the well-worn photos of sweethearts, wives, and mothers are wandering through the hands of the infantrymen. Not a good sign!

In the night we are withdrawn from the Alpini position. This happens head over heels this time. At first light we scoot across the frozen swamps of the Kalitwa toward the south while staying close to the front. Here things are volatile! What a bad beginning! In Orobinsky we are meeting up with the first German infantrymen. Run down and bloody, they look at us with grey faces and without saying anything. A real frontline pig knows what’s going on. Even without words we know that a big disaster is looming ahead, as the smell of dead bodies is hanging in the air. Things are looking foul.

The front rolls and swells, creating a wall of mud behind which I seek shelter from the icy wind drizzling down into the shallow dirty yellow creeks. A wild confusion reigns on the bumpy, frozen village streets. Dangerous nerves have taken over.

The artilleryman, who is usually an easygoing, animal loving country bumpkin, beats on his poor, skinny horse in a way that is heartbreaking. The tormented animal bucks and the reins get tangled with an oncoming PaK carriage. The usually calm and patient truck driver breaks sharply, and the back of the heavy truck slides sideways and hits an infantry vehicle loaded with small packages. A chaos of vehicles and men, the responsible parties are screaming and swearing and the Italians are barking and yelling in their pitched voices.

Speaking of Italians! All of a sudden I come to a realization and it becomes frighteningly clear what is going on here. I had already been wondering on the way down why we were encountering so many small and large groups of Italian soldiers in loose packs without any leaders. After exchanging a few words with a comrade who has more information about the situation, it becomes clear to me: those guys are taking off; they are running away just like their officers, who have already saved their own valuable lives. A handful of Germans are left behind to bleed to death faced with a force twenty times superior. These oncoming packs are also blocking the roads for those what want to come to the aid of our condemned comrades. Full of hate and disgust, we look into the faces of those running away. Cowards, you have taken way the faith in comradeship-in-arms forever. You have been and will remain traitors!!

The German high command is putting pressure on the Italian A.O.K., trying to get them to stop the oncoming flood. And once again, there is translating and negotiating without results, because the panicinducing rumors of the fleeing—today I know it must have been an entire army—causes even the “courageous” Italians in the hinterland to pack their bags. The great comrades of the neighboring
Alpini-Corps
want to save the honor of their countrymen; feverishly they are trying to establish positions where they can regroup those who are fleeing.

The ground is frozen too deeply. Too late, everything is too late! It is bitter cold and biting icy wind chills you to the bone. We are therefore glad to get orders at noon to move into our positions. The second company with wonderfully equipped vehicles and guns is withdrawn, to go back into position a few kilometers further south. We never saw them again.

Our unit has been deployed to Zapkowo, where we try to settle down and get somewhat comfortable in the primitive bunkers. My special attention is on the Italians. If the situation were not so deadly serious, one would have to laugh wholeheartedly. With downcast eyes, like thieves, one after the other is taking off. Their faces are yellow and it probably doesn’t look much better in their pants.

Trucks that do not start right away in this deadly cold are simply left behind. Nobody takes on the transportation of the enormous food supplies that are stored here in large warehouses. Too bad that guards are still posted in front of them; otherwise we would know what to do.

With the evening comes food and good news. Now that our stomachs are filled we are looking confidently toward the next hours. Everything will be fine. In the morning there will be an attack, and a police regiment is moving in for reinforcement. A large battery close to the big mountain of Zapkowo will go into position during the night in order to play the accompanying music to the attack.

It’s an icy, clear and moonlit night. It is barbarically cold, about 35° below; without gloves our skin would stick to the metal of the weapons. In the direction of Orobinsky, the sky becomes a trembling firewall for a few minutes from the impacts of Stalin’s Organs; her thunderous drumming reminds me of the best times. Through the thunder and crashing we were unable hear the soft singing and familiar chugging of the Ivans. All of a sudden a gurgling rustle… we have just enough time to kick ourselves in the butt before there is an enormous explosion on the ground. A hundred meters away a second bomb hits, bits fly in the air like fireworks. My neighbor, who is a metal worker in his civilian life, is reminded of the shower of sparks from a welding torch. This guy is not altogether wrong!

From this point on the thunder of the explosions is constant. The bombers aren’t paying any attention to us anymore; instead they are dropping bombs in clusters at the entrance of the town where the road becomes very steep. Damn, that must be just the spot where one of us saw the heavy battery a little while ago. We are in deep shit!

A little before midnight, a high ranking officer comes to me in my bunker. He is the commander of the heavy battery; desperately he tells me that for the last two hours he has tried to move up the mountain unsuccessfully. The road is completely iced over and the guns are sliding sideways. For two hours the
Ivans
have been dropping bombs there; half of the battery is blown to pieces, a mush of blood and metal is lying in the street. It must be terrible. The man is so angry he has tears in his eyes. We are supposed to help and move in with our traction engines. It is very difficult to explain to him that we have just enough gasoline for an emergency, in case we have to evacuate the most valuable parts. No Italian position gave us any gas. The German soldiers can bleed; the Italian gentlemen need the gas to flee.