Eastern Inferno: The Journals of a German Panzerjäger on the Eastern Front, 1941-43 (19 page)

None of the buildings is older than five or six years. One thing strikes me here again: nowhere in this workers’ paradise have we encountered an electrical line under the stucco ceilings! The wiring is always done in the form of a twisted extension cord along the wall and the ceiling. They are not even familiar with insulated lead pipes, which are mandatory in our country. It is always the same; even in the cities we find shocking primitivism and poverty.

But what about the wages in this workers’ paradise, how high are the prices for life’s essentials? Here are a few examples—but it must first be mentioned though, that the Ruble, prior to the war breaking out, was set at the exchange rate of 1:.82 RM [Reichs Mark].

Average wages (monthly):

The amount of rent is determined by income, on average, 80 Rubles.

Immediately within the first few days, a militia was formed of trustworthy Ukrainians who have proven themselves to be faithful and brave comrades during these crucial hours over the upcoming weeks.

A partisan group of 2,000 men has been reported. We deploy our men and encounter initial exchanges with these well-armed gangs. They possess machine guns, mortars, PaKs, and even infantry weapons. As these
schweine
are beginning to seriously threaten Lebedyn, we acquire reinforcements from Achtyrka. At one point, we even have to flee, leaving our dead and injured men behind, whom we later find mutilated like animals. In the town itself, insecurity is mounting. A petty officer is mugged; the culprit is hanged from the gallows on the very same day. The next evening I was attacked by two thugs. It was pitch dark out, and they were both able to escape into the labyrinth of housing nearby. One of them must have been badly injured, for during our sweep of the area the next morning we notice traces of blood all over the place. Nevertheless, we have not been able to apprehend the perpetrators.

During the afternoon, ten hostages were shot dead. We are now acting with an iron fist; the gallows in the town square is always busy. Executions are the daily norm. It has to be this way.

We receive bad news from the front: on November 21, the part of the division that had a chance to recuperate has left in a rush in order to meet up with Petersdorf Group, which is in charge of the extremely dangerous Obojan sector of the front.

Meanwhile, it has become terribly cold, rarely above -25° to -30° C. The majority of us are still lacking winter clothes and we encounter our first cases of frostbite.

12 December:
The largest part of the division leaves Lebedyn. In a “sleeper car,” i.e. mainly by railroad tracks, we reach Obojan on the 19th.

22 December:
The division is divided into individual security groups which are now under the command of different units. The front here is very thin, and not at all without breaks. Near Rshawa, the demarkation line to the neighboring army, there is a 40km length of the front line that is unoccupied. What we encounter here at the front is not at all encouraging. This is supposed to be our winter position. Are we not supposed to halt the onslaught of the Reds here?

You just want to cry; a few holes have been blasted into the frozen solid ground, a little bit of barbed wire, that’s all! The men who we relieve have boney, pale faces; there is a strange glimmer in their eyes. They shake our hands in silence and slowly make their way to the rear. An hour later, a direct hit brings us two deaths and several wounded.

Tonight is the first mass attack from the Bolsheviks. With the support of tanks, fast ski battalions come over us like a tornado. An icy eastern wind forces snow into our faces; our eyes are swollen shut, our weapons refuse to operate. We have a visibility of no more than ten steps in front of us. Here and there, a Red tank appears out of the snow, like a ghost, often only meters away. The muffled roars of hand grenades, wild screams, horrific hand-to-hand combat is happening all around us. Two cannons are overrun.

There is no more holding on—everyone for himself!

In Kolchos, two kilometers behind the front line, our group gathers back together. We wait and wait, for half of our unit is still missing—no one else appears…. The drama has begun ….

23 December:
We receive reinforcements during the night, but the men are so exhausted they’re on the verge of collapsing. They have done the unimaginable, marching 30 kilometers in knee-deep snow during an ice storm, even bringing with them two cannons. Under these circumstances, a counterattack is senseless, yet tomorrow it will be too late.

We do not understand why the Reds have not followed through.

Under strong tank attacks new holes are blasted, and the Panje huts and potato bins are transformed into bunkers.

24 December:
There is increased reconnaissance activity on both sides during the day. It has gotten even colder, -30° C, someone says. As we are already lacking ammunition, along with two men, I take a small Panje sleigh and we start to move toward the battalion command post. The small, emaciated Russian horse trots with small steps. In front of its mouth is a cloud of steam; its matted hair is crusted over with ice.

It’s so cold our breath wants to freeze. All of us have pulled up the collars of our coats; ice hangs from our caps and our beards, even though we are hiding our heads down around our shoulders. Our legs are wrapped with sheepskin. Without mercy, the storm blows the snow like sand over the small path, which has been frozen over by glass-like ice.

Our horse stumbles along. The cold reigns relentlessly over this vast landscape which we try, in vain, to shut out. No one says a word, for it seems as if each word, once uttered, will freeze. The miserable huts stand frozen solid like glass in the snow. Beneath our hard steps, the snow crunches loudly as we hurriedly try to shorten the distance, for the cold aches like an open wound.

Finally, after two hours of exhausting stomping in the snow, a small hill appears. Alongside the hill you can see the exposed, tall birch trees, but as you approach, you are able to recognize that there are caves within the earth, in front of which are squeaking lids intended as doors. This is the entrance to the battalion command post, which is under fire every day.

The interior of the room is dominated by a stove made of clay and dirt, with the chimney being nothing more than tin cans stacked on top of each other. A meager light provides just enough illumination to study maps and write orders. Four officers are sitting inside with their legs crossed; all non-essential items have been stacked outside. Above the stove there is bread and meat on a wooden plank; it was frozen and had to be thawed. Just like all the other food items, it freezes during the short distance it takes to get from the field kitchen to the bunker and has to once again be thawed.

Suddenly a heavy fire attack races over the hill. We seek protection in the soldiers’ dugouts, which are of course the same as ours, meaning nothing but a hole in the ground, 1.7 meters wide and 50cm high, with out any light or warmth, and intended to accommodate two men. These days, quite a few holes have lost their owners, and so we find refuge easily.

Thirty minutes later and the firestorm has passed. With stiff bones, we crawl into the daylight only to see that our good little “Kunny,” along with our most valuable sleigh, has been beaten to pieces, lying in a pool of red broth. I am so angry that the curses I try to shout are stuck in my throat. How are we supposed to bring the precious ammunition up to the front, to our frontline brothers?

A short while later, a group of ten men with heavy sacks and ammunition on their backs, leaves the battalion. In silence and frostbitten hands, each of them steps grimly into the footprints of the man in front of him.

Oh how our thoughts are so different. Today is Christmas Eve, and at this time everyone will be lighting the Christmas tree at home; little Erika’s eyes beaming, Rosel standing there next to her smiling quietly. Her mother’s heart will be heavy; all her thoughts will be far away, here with me. One burning wish will be with all: God, let him return safely to us! Just don’t think, don’t become soft, wipe away the ice from under your eyes!

Our comrades are waiting desperately for the grenades, because today the Reds, who hold nothing sacred in this world, will begin their storm! Someone is moaning, his feet frozen, he can hardly walk anymore. His load is distributed among us and we march on. Just hurry up, hurry!

It is already dark when we arrive half-dead from exhaustion at our group. We receive official orders to get some sleep in one of the holes. Ridiculous! Who is able to sleep when upstairs there is thundering and howling, and every man is needed? So out of these ditches we go!

Our shells tear into the rows of storming Reds, shredding large holes into the Asian pack. These guys fear shells like the plague, since there are no tanks to back them up as they retreat shortly thereafter.

Oh holy night!

Twice they return tonight, and twice we herd them back with their heads bloodied.

Oh holy night!

The candle burns all night long in the earthen bunker of the medical orderly; moans and screams can be heard from there. Near the morning hours it quiets down; our battalion does not have to suffer anymore.

25 December:
We are huddled outside in the firing hole with our machine guns. We handle our weapons carefully and cautiously; we cannot repeat what happened on December 22. Not a drop of oil can touch the steel, for it will freeze immediately.

We look over to where the enemy is lying, he who would love to form an alliance with winter and who tries again and again to break through our positions. We have learned quite a few things from him already: we wear our shirts over our coats now, and as we have no white paint, each morning we quickly piss on the steel door, then spread snow over it, and there is your camouflage.

Soviet fighters approach, howling, in low altitude flights. The whole mess is now starting up again. We grab our ammunition clips. The enemy’s artillery is revving up; we are lucky to have such deep snow, for on the rock-hard frozen ground, the effects of the detonations are so much stronger. We hear the tanks rattling closer, and we know that there will be no rest for many hours.

Over on the other side, the enemy’s snowshoe units are emerging silently from the forest in their white coats. Our machine guns are barking, our hand grenades are ready; our comrades inside the bunkers have been alerted and are firing while standing behind the trees, as the icy and crusty earth offers no cover. And as so often has been the case within the last few days, the hard fight begins, man against man, with their own weapons becoming a dangerous liability, because their hands freeze to them if they touch the metal with bare fingers.

Machine gun bursts shred the white bark off the trees. The air is humming with them. We can hear the heavy ones way ahead of time, and everyone breathes a sigh of relief once they pass by us. All of a sudden, flames jump out of the forest; an enemy tank has been destroyed. The fighting dies down, artillery and guns are quiet. We look at the fire and think that over there, there is warmth, lots of warmth…. The fighting has moved to a neighboring area. We are mesmerized by the fire and are compelled against our will to fantasize about a large stove, a deep chair, or a soft bed in which one could sleep for an entire night without wearing these clothes that are stiff from dirt, or without being tortured by pests, or without having to have our weapons within arm’s reach.

26 December:
The front is thin. At night, we receive orders to distance ourselves from the enemy. To the south, the Bolsheviks have succeeded at breaking deep into the front; our right flank has been seriously threatened. Overnight, the Reds took Dmitrijeskoje.

Our group is supposed to retreat to Troizkoje. One squad—our squad—remains behind for protection. The enemy tries to push after us. All day long, the rattling of machine guns does not stop; all day long, the squad huddles in their holes and defends themselves against the enemy.

Only on the following night is our squad able to meet up with the battalion, find our way through the snow desert with the help of a compass, and take a new position near Troizkoje, which the
Sturmpionieren
have blasted into the icy ground.

27 December:
Gray clouds cover the skies; mighty untamed storms drive icy needles into our faces. Up in the black trees crows are cawing. This time, though, we fare better, taking turns so that we can warm ourselves inside the dilapidated huts. There, we sit and stare into the open fire. Each of us is occupied in his own thoughts. There is great unrest inside me; I feel that some sort of enormous atrocity is brewing against us. As my comrades all of a sudden cling blindly to my predictions, good or bad, I must not show my feelings. The crackling wood also allows our thoughts to wander down pleasant paths. We are thinking of home.

“The devil knows what kind of winter it would have been…,” someone says, not having to finish his sentence—we all know what he means: if this barrel would have started rolling, which was hit so hard near Bialystok and Minsk, near Gomel and Kiev, and near Bryansk or Vyazma—what kind of winter would it have been back in Germany. These days, we think about this often.

28 December:
After intensive preparation work by the artillery, the Russians attack in the early morning hours, and what an attack it is! The fight is hopeless! New and more masses flood toward us; within a short time, and backed up by tanks, they succeed at driving deep wedges into the line on both sides of Troizkoje. By noon we are already encircled. Unit I/JR 214, which is rushing to our aid, is completely decimated by the Reds, save fourteen men, who push their way through to us. (Later, we found the horribly mutilated corpses lying in heaps.) Poor boys! They had come fresh from the west, from Biawitz. What were they to know about these Caucasian monsters and their methods of fighting!