Eastern Inferno: The Journals of a German Panzerjäger on the Eastern Front, 1941-43 (10 page)

Please God, let me return home safely, so that I can make up for my mistake and still have time to catch up on everything!

Despite fierce resistance, we manage to break through enemy lines in the evening. We are making good progress.

4 August:
We are now about 15 kilometers from Kiev. The Weta Line is before us, and is fortified with all the bells and whistles. Three well performed attacks are knocked off by the Russians. Indeed, that is not the way to do it!

It appears that there are problems at HQ, as things are not going as planned. There are changes in the command structure, and a few generals are exchanged. The number of casualties is just not in balance with our success. I really do not like this shit.

5 August:
We are digging in. There is heavy artillery fire all day long. Under the cover of night we are able to get closer to the line of bunkers. Thank goodness everything goes well and without much notice by the enemy.

We take position without much fighting in the Glewacha Forest at about midnight. Everything must be dug into the ground by morning. The bunker cannons and the Caucasian snipers snub out anyone who can be seen in the daylight.

6 August:
Heavy fire starts as expected around 0500 hours. I am sitting in B-position [
beobachter
, or observer] and am able to see our impending doom as no one else can. The sap [short trench dug from the front-trench] is right at the edge of the forest. From here, the terrain slopes gently down to the Weta River. That damn river looks like it will drink a lot of blood (perhaps mine too). Behind the river is an enormous anti-tank trench filled with barbed wire.

Well camouflaged bunkers line the trench. The firing is coming from them. Death is rolling toward us. A crushing wall of fire crawls slowly, very slowly, up the hill. These
schweine
shoot with a precision that could have only been learned through intensive training. Halfway up the hill, the firewall now reaches a tree-covered farmhouse. Cracking and splintering is heard when tree branches, wooden beams, and bricks go swirling through the air. The stinking firewall moves on.

Do not lose your nerves now, Hannes! I estimate that death will be arriving any minute now. Everybody has been warned. We claw our fingers into the dirt. We have sweat on our forehead out of fear. God, if we were at least able to defend ourselves! And then all hell breaks loose. There is a howling, an enormous roar, thundering, cracking, and the humming of thousands of splinters.

Foul-smelling smoke floods into our trenches. Did this last seconds or minutes? I cannot say. I pull my nose carefully out of the dirt to see that the firewall has moved on. I remain deaf for minutes. There is something wet on my face—blood! Thank goodness it is just a scratch. Our position is in chaos. The tree trunks we used for cover have been torn to shreds. Portions of the trenches have been filled back up with dirt. One position received a direct hit. Two comrades were killed and three were wounded. Overall, we are lucky; it could have gone worse.

This afternoon, artillery is brought into position in the forest to our rear. There are many cannons in addition to some mammoth calibers, which are probably mortars that will be used here for the very first time. The new cannons are hidden from view of us soldiers. Night falls and single shells are fired toward the enemy positions. One could call it a trial run. It is nice that our barbarians are letting us hear something from them.

We receive orders to attack tomorrow at around 2300 hours. My God, that is going to be tough. And to be honest, I am sick of it.

7 August:
Officers are standing next to the long-barrel cannons, howitzers, mortars, and grenade launchers. They pressure the crews by staring at their wristwatches. The short hand is going in circles… The final minute has just started; it seems to have no end! Hundreds of barrels spit their deadly loads into the sky. Howitzers, mortars, and large caliber long-barrel cannons begin their work. There is thundering and howling as death races toward the saps, bunkers, cannon positions, machine gun nests, and trenches. Our artillery hammers down on the Weta fortifications for thirty minutes.

We switch to the attack at exactly 0510 hours. Like many times before, we work hand-in-hand with the
Sturmpioneren
and the
Flammenwerfer
[flamethrowers]. Against our expectations, everything went excellently. The entire attack unfolded as if it were on the training field in Ohrdruf. Within an hour we are under the cover of the anti-tank trench on the banks of the Weta down from the wildly flaming bunkers. Our grenades fly through the bunker openings. Loads of explosives and flamethrowers polish them off.

Surprise! Three bunkers have been cleaned out and a nice breach has been opened after just two hours. Now how does that sound? My dear gentlemen, we shit a great deal in our pants during this nice scene from
Wochenschau
[German weekly newsreel]. Quite a few have thrown their arms into the air, did an about-face—such an awkward movement—and fallen down stiff on the banks of the Weta River. And by the way—we attacked the bunkers dressed as Adam [i.e. naked]. I wonder if these Red officer whores were decent enough to cover their eyes with their hands! Either way, it was necessary because of the mud in the river. What did the sergeant used to say: “I can determine a soldier’s character from the state of his uniform.” Yes, dear Fips, come to us and tell us about your “states.” Maybe you could fetch the clothes of the brave soldiers from the other side of the river. You see, we honored your wishes and spared our clothes. We miss your groveling speeches.

We roll up Russian positions one after another. The hill across the Weta is firmly in our hands by the afternoon. Only the village of Potschtowaja and the bridge are still occupied by the enemy. It has been planned to take the bridge in a swift action, since it is crucial for our motorized units. This time it is someone else’s job to attempt this risky undertaking. We’ll provide the fire protection. These guys go in forcefully. By nightfall the bridge and village are cleansed of enemies. We are in charge of guarding the bridge after midnight. This is not without danger, since the Russians are placing well targeted fire onto the bridge and village. Finally, after a few hours we are relieved and take positions to guard the northern exit.

Potschtowaja is in flames. We hear the crackling of the fires. Cows are bellowing somewhere out in the distance. They must be trapped in their barn and are burning alive. The wind drives thick clouds of smoke toward us. A trail of smoke is over the entire village. The fire glows red; the heat takes our breath away. Every other house is on fire. The cracking of rounds left behind by the Russians can be heard among the sizzling and crackling. We climb over hot debris. The wall of a house collapses nearby. Wounded soldiers are being carried past us. The fires light up a Red Cross flag. The singing of an airplane is above our heads.

Rosel and Hans in the Black Forsest.

Hans and Rosel with other German soldiers in the Black Forest.
(Photo courtesy Christine Alexander and Mason Kunze)

8 August:
It is raining. The trenches that were dug so quickly are full of water. One lies in his dirt hole like a sack. Our uniforms are saturated with dirty yellow water. We lie trembling from the cold and fear in our “bathtubs” or “water caskets.” Volley after volley is fired to the other side. There are explosions all around us. They look like the arborvitae found around the Frankfurt central train station—“trees of life”!

That is ironic… death is walking through our lines here! We have twelve dead within half an hour. Goddamn it! If only at least the rain would stop. I cannot stand much longer looking at the red soup in the holes of our fallen soldiers. I don’t like tomatoes, but I do love tomato soup.

Disgusting. One could puke his guts out! The same comrades who attacked the bunkers on the Weta yesterday, full of bravery, are now lying ripped apart in their holes. When a comrade receives that final blow ripping his guts out, one should no longer look at him. Whatever follows, does that not belong to him and his heroic efforts? It is ugly, plain awful. I am tired, tired of all that is around me.

The regiment led an attack north of the cobblestone road this morning. These brave guys have made good progress, although under great casualties. They took Gatnoje and are near Schuljany at the gates of Kiev. It is too bad that they have left us here. The Russians have adjusted their fire excellently, aiming at both our positions and the road.

It is noon and relatively quiet at the moment. They have stopped bothering us with the damn small calibers. They are probably out of ammunition. However, three huge ones arrive regularly every five minutes. Judging from the size of the craters, they must be coming from railroad cannon, which have demolished this fine road.

Our mood is much better. The rain has stopped and even the sun has come out, which makes everything much better. At least we can leave our holes. Someone makes a joke and we laugh. Life does go on!

Russian tanks have been announced. I take B-position under a burned-out roof, crouched there with a scissor telescope. For five minutes everything is forgotten, the artillery fire and the danger. What a few minutes!

The battle of Kiev has reached its climax. A plain stretches all the way to the outskirts of the city. There are only a few outcroppings of trees and small rolling hills in the landscape. The radio towers are clearly visible behind the forest. To the left there are the suburbs of Schuljany and Mikoiska, and the big city with its 850,000 inhabitants, its beautiful churches, and the citadel behind a few trails of smoke along the horizon.

Down there is the battle. I see Russian artillery fire around every small forest on the plain. A cloud of shrapnel hangs over a crack in the ground like a ball of cotton.
Waffentruppen
are attacking a bunker over there. The drama comes to an end when the fire from a flamethrower appear. It is strange to sit up here so far away from the man-to-man battle—so far away and yet so close through this telescope. It is odd to see the death struggle of comrades without my own life being threatened.

A scissor telescope is a great device! A little twist of the knob and another individual scene of the brewing battle comes into focus. The Red dogs attack a howitzer position. Friend and foe are butchering each other. I can see the infantry lines near Gatnoje. They are installing a machine gun position on the road out of the village. The firewall then rolls alongside the cobblestone road. Gray clouds hover over the Terempki Forest. The humming of fighter planes is in the air.

The sum of all the individually observed scenes, with their stirring images, truly deserves the name “battle”… tramping horses, rattling engines, mud-covered motorcycle messengers, the burning torches that were once houses, the angry barking of machine guns, the wounded who turn their eyes up to the heavens, the recoiling of the cannons’ hot muzzles, dark fountains of soil and smoke, the hissing of shrapnel, the humming of shells.… Bawling, roaring, crackling, moaning, whistling, heaving—it’s the 8th of August—day two of the battle of Kiev!

9 August:
The morning begins with a mass attack from Russian bombers. I haven’t seen anything like this before. At times, there are 40 to 50 planes in the sky at once. I am automatically driven to think about the futuristic drawings in War of the Future [
der Krieg der Zukunft
], a magazine that I read years ago. “Dominik in the battle of Kiev”—one could laugh if the situation wasn’t so serious. [Soviet Field Marshal] Budenny has released his swallows for the Kiev air show. There is a droning and buzzing so loud that one cannot hear oneself think. The Ratas, those agile bi-planes, and the Martin bombers, attack German positions with bombs and their on-board cannons. For the first time, they are also releasing shells and catapult bombs, which hit the ground before the plane is even over head.
Scheisse
, comrades! We must rethink our entire cover strategy. We must learn.