Eastern Inferno: The Journals of a German Panzerjäger on the Eastern Front, 1941-43 (13 page)

Two PaKs and half a dozen of our machine guns spread fire across the opposing riverbank. It is crazy to try and break through here. Heaps of fallen soldiers are piling up in front of the bridge. Two Russian soldiers, the remainder of the last wave, run back to the houses crazed with horror. Ten meters to the houses, their own machine guns rattle and hack them into mounds of flesh. This drama is repeated several times before the Russians are able to pull back the entire line. Can anyone understand these people? Can anyone understand that they are so much under the control of their commissars that they will not quarter these bloodthirsty hyenas? A bullet would be too precious for them. Is there anyone who understands this?

24 August:
The heat is brutal and beats down on our heads. Now we get the chance to experience the other side of the coin for yesterday’s target practice. Several hundred are lying dead down there in the depression and are putting out such a stench that many of us start to puke like butchers’ dogs. Keeping a wet handkerchief over my face brings only little relief. I have a raging headache. I am not at all up to par.

27 August:
I remember little of the past few days. A fierce fever has gotten a hold of me. I am back in Barachty. Today is the first day that I don’t have a temperature. It went away as fast as it had started. The only thing remaining is the miserable weakness and my rubber knees. Yet it’s not so bad; they have butter, eggs, and milk here. Everything will be
karascho
[good in Russian] within 24 hours.

After quite some time, I received mail from Rosel and my mother today. All will be better soon, and with so much joy. It must be.

Everyone is urgently needed. There are fierce battles and I need to be with my men.

The Moscow radio station has its “German hour” tonight. We, 299th Infantry Regiment, are once again their topic. It’s amazing how the guy can rant: “299th Division is a division of murderers. (He rolls his t’s like an expert.) Orders have been issued to no longer take prisoners.” What an honor for our division to be addressed by name from the gentlemen in Moscow. Their anger is a measure of our success. Otherwise, they would not be so angered. According to broadcasts from the very same station, we had been annihilated near Zwiahel. Yet somehow, we are now causing them huge losses. Whatever, we know what to expect!

28 August:
It is my birthday. When will I be able to celebrate it in the circle of my dear folk once again? The sky shows its sunny face again after yesterday’s rain. I feel a boundless yearning for Rosel and Erika and the peacefulness of my little apartment. When will I be able to sleep in a real bed again, not in a wet hole in the ground? When will I be able to cross the street again without listening for gunshots, approaching shells, or aircraft? Dreams! Dreams! When will they become reality?

As a special surprise, the long arm of the Russian railroad cannon reaches Barachty for the first time. Huge projectiles slam roaring into the ground. What a birthday salute! A third of the village lies in ruins after two hours of fire.

I hear the messages on the radio tonight: the speaker was just beginning to announce the first message when someone yelled out antifascist slurs. The German speaker’s words are rebutted and denied. According to the loud yelling, the Russian station must be close by—in Kiev? What crazy ideas these guys have!

I am going back to the front tonight. I do not care what the doctor has to say!

29 August:
I am back with my men. A few things have changed here. The barbed wire barriers were doubled in depth after the Russians managed to make it to the first trench and wreak havoc with their hand grenades.

There are many craters between the trenches. There are four crosses made out of birch with helmets placed on top. One of the helmets has a large hole in it. Schumacher also fell.

Our position is no longer being hit with stray fire. Walls of well positioned fire rolls over the position day after day.

30 August:
Heavy nightly attacks from the Russians. They used those damn rifle grenades for the first time. No longer are they causing just small injuries. The first firewall tosses shrapnel around our heads early in the morning. Two dead, six wounded. Our morale has reached a low point. Someone has brought news from the rear that there is a 1,000man replacement column marching toward us. We do not like that at all. We had hoped that after the fall of Kiev, we would be sent back to Germany to regroup. According to rumors, that has been the common practice in the past.
Scheisse
! The
milk beards
[
milchbarten
] are coming!

Even I believed the rumors! I could slap myself for this! Any hopes of getting out of this witch’s cauldron are put to rest. It is becoming increasingly difficult for me to sound optimistic and positive in my letters to Rosel, but it has to be this way; I know how important my letters are to keep her dear soul in balance. She will be happy and joyful, and will not know about our dejected spirits.

31 August:
Nothing new on the Weta! Artillery and shell firing, attacks, and crashing detonations. The dull droning of the bombs; the “Hurrahs” roaring from the Red devils.

1 September:
[XXIX Corps commander Hans von] Obstfelder received the Knight’s Cross. [He received the award on 27 July.]

2 September:
Extensive manuevers apparently are closing in toward Kiev similar to those at Sedan in the west. Once again we serve as the pincer of the encircling arms. We are called out to shed some blood during the weeklong trench battles.

3 September:
Always waiting, waiting! We are not allowed to attack, but have to hold the line against increasing pressure from the Russians.

4 September:
The Red artillery has been hammering our positions with calibers of all sizes for hours now. I hope we make it. Pressed flat on the floors of our holes, we await attack orders or the end to all this suffering—a nice direct hit.
Scheisse
, it’s all
scheisse
!

5 September:
Today is again a big day for the Soviet air force, which comes somewhat as a change. Budenny’s swallows arrive in flocks from Kiev. Out of politeness, they initially hand us their business cards in the form of thousands of pamphlets. Eventually, dozens of large, long, tin drums drop from the sky.

My first thought is, “Firebombs!” But since they released their bombs right over our heads, there is no immediate threat for us. We look curiously above the hedges and down into the valley, where these damned things crash down. Strange, there are no detonations. The tin drums just burst open. Hundreds of small bearings fly through the air; they are shimmering like tin cans. About ten minutes later, the valley is in flames. Small yellowish violet flames are everywhere. An observer from B-position comes to us shortly after. His group witnessed the whole spectacle in close proximity. The 6- to 8-meter-long cylinders were filled with small cans. After the cylinders exploded, the cans inside swirled about and burst open. Flames were everywhere a few minutes later. Phosphorus bombs—another evil trick!

Despite this, we should be thankful to the Red devils. They have transformed the valley and its heaps of dead bodies into a crematorium. No stench of decay will turn our stomachs upside down tomorrow. What would have happened if Budenny’s swallows had aimed better? “Ribs, Kassel style” [Kassel, a city in Germany], well smoked as someone has remarked.

6 September:
Changing guard at B-position at 0300 hours. Six men move into the lonely position. It is quiet despite our expectations. Well, at least what we call quiet: sporadic shell fire and the rattling of a single machine gun. Wet fog hangs over our positions, it is abysmally cold. At least it provides good cover; the enemy is unable to see us walking through the barbed wire barriers as we carefully and slowly crawl through the minefield. Thirty minutes later we reach the forward trenches of B-position. The fog lies in thick banks in the valley. The enemy might attempt to breach our position’s front line under the cover of this fog. We are the eyes of our division and as such, we see the first waves of enemy fighters approach within half an hour.

Our protective artillery fire lands well and eliminates the first two waves, but more masses are clashing against our section of the front. If it continues like this, we may have to retreat to the primary position. No one says this aloud, however; German soldiers do not retreat that quickly. Our observation post is quickly altered into a defensive position. The camouflage tarp is removed and a step is dug into the wall in order to bring the machine gun into place. Hand grenades are lined up, ready to be used. The bayonet is attached to the rifle to prepare for one-on-one battle.

The Reds have managed to break through to the right of our position. Quite a few are torn apart by the mines, but the Red devils don’t mind a few hundred casualties. The Bolsheviks have understood the importance of our defensive position and bring more and more reinforcement troops. Their masses attack non-stop. Their artillery fires without a break, and from a great distance, directly into our trenches.

The fog is long gone. The sun is beating down on us and driving us crazy. Terrible one-on-one fights have erupted in several sections around us. It means nothing to ask for heroic individual actions. Everyone is a hero here; everyone simply fulfills his duty to the best of his ability.

The Bolsheviks are finally pushed back and retreat around noon. The Russian artillery takes its angry revenge. One fire attack after another rains down on us. The wall of enemy shellfire lies approximately 100 meters to our rear by about 1700 hours, and moves slowly toward us. Explosions are coming closer and closer to us. Just now it almost got us. Loud sounds similar to an organ approach above our heads, three times, four times.… At once we throw ourselves onto the floor of the trench. Again, there is a crashing as if the world itself were exploding. Dirt is flying around our ears and rains down on our helmets.

A fist-sized chunk of shell slams into the ground no further than a meter from me. What good luck! Luck is what one needs in a war! Casualties appear small when measured against the successes. Piles of dead Russian soldiers are lying in front of our section and in the most forward trenches. The worst thing is that we will be sick to our stomachs tomorrow from the stench of the decaying bodies. Once again, we will be running around like nurses with our handkerchiefs over our faces. But there is an unexpected change of events: we receive orders to be replaced in the evening. No one can understand what this message does to the emotions of a soldier on the front. There were probably some guys who even cried… it’s an issue of nerves.

The messenger, the bearer of good news, is celebrated like a demigod. He receives our last cigarettes and alcohol. The exchange is done at midnight, without any major incident. We reach the supply troops in Barachty in the early hours of the morning. Now it is about sleeping, sleeping, and more sleeping.

7 September:
The heat is unbearable. The moist, hot air makes every move torturous. Flies, thousands of fat flies, make our lives a living hell. Day and night, they are everywhere. In thick masses, they land on anything edible. I lose my appetite every time I think about where these flies started… on the piles of dead flesh and in the latrines. A part of the occasionally severe consequences of this situation are the gastro-intestinal and stomach illnesses.

There can be no talk of rest or sleep. Since partisan movement has increased behind the front, thus making the area unsafe, the dreaded watch patrols are implemented, which are meant to bring back partisans and defectors captured near the front. This time they are not young and fresh girls, but fanatical Bolsheviks. They look at us with their empty faces and smile. A body search discovers many interesting things: Russian maps, thousands of Rubles, and brand new passports. Since we are already tense and irritable from the brutal heat, their stupid smiles push us over the edge.

The interrogations are appropriately stormy and “effective” [the original
schlagkraeftig
is a play on words.
Schlag
means heating, and
schlagkraeftig
means effective, forceful, or punchy]. One of the partisans has a pistol aimed at his head and just says with a smile “
karasho
!” After this, they leave him to the translator, who beats him black and blue. The boy is now moaning on the ground and confesses everything: he lists the orders and the people who gave them. We learn from this that one can threaten a Russian with taking his life; put a rope around his neck and he will simply smile in your face. However, if you beat them up, you will be able to see the fear in their eyes and they will confess whatever you want to know.

8 September:
It started to rain lightly during the night, and is now raining cats and dogs. The ground turns into black mud within hours. What were once roads and streets yesterday have turned into creeks of mud today. Muddy water shoots through the gulches into the valley. Within hours the bottom of the valley has been transformed into a lake. You can’t get anywhere by vehicle, not even a kilometer. Our boots act like filters, though unfortunately in the opposite direction—mud goes in, water goes out, and the dirt stays inside.

I think of the brave comrades in their trenches and holes on the front. These poor
schweine
! They will not have a single dry thread on their bodies in this weather. Their holes will be half-filled with dirty water. Nevertheless, the artillery is barking today. Damn, when will this terrible trench war be over!

9 September:
Rain and still more rain. I hope it won’t continue like this for the next 14 days; otherwise, the attack on Kiev is down the drain.

10 September:
The same gray soup. We will be going to the front again tomorrow. Everything is even gray and dull inside of me. The past few days have not brought us the rest that we so well deserve. We are even more tired and jaded than before, and we are ordered back to the front, into the dreadful muddy holes and in all this miserable weather.