Eastern Inferno: The Journals of a German Panzerjäger on the Eastern Front, 1941-43 (20 page)

The situation is becoming more and more desperate. We wire to Obojan: “Group Petersdorf is trapped, send support!” At 1910 hours, we receive the answer: “Break through the encirclement, rush to Obojan!”

A 22cm bull’s eye could not have been any more devastating than this cable—for heaven’s sake, is it really that bad? Is Obojan already being threatened? Are the neighboring battalions in retreat? These are the questions buzzing from one person to the next among us.

The shooting has decreased. It appears as if they are boozing it up on the other side; a victory celebration, the storm carries their yelling and wailing. Their drunkenness brings us luck. Their cannons are blown up; vehicles and provisions burned.

Shortly after midnight the breakthrough succeeds amidst terrible losses; at 0600 hours, the remainder of Group Petersdorf reaches Obojan.

The details of what happened on this march could never be described in words—fleeing in 35° freezing temperatures and 75cm of snow from a superior force that is ten times larger! Only the healthy are able to make it with their last bit of strength; the injured, heavily or lightly, are lost in the snow, lying down and freezing to death or butchered by the Reds. We now know that most of them spared themselves this fate by a final bullet.

29 December:
Obojan is put on defensive alert. In the morning, a rare spectacle of nature: the sun rises three times. It looks quite bizarre; this strange phenomenon is most likely caused by light deflection in the icy air, which is over saturated with snow crystals. We do not have the time to stand for long and witness this; it is difficult to explode trenches into the ground which is frozen solid.

The Russian population has a different experience. They are standing together in hordes and staring open-mouthed into the winter sky. Many throw themselves onto the hard ground, crying and screaming; the
babushkas
are on their knees—a sign from heaven! Death and destruction is going to come over the city! We already know this, even without an omen from the sky; within two days, life and death will be decided here, a few thousand Russians with strong tank forces are closing in on the city with only minimal resistance.

The God damned 40km gap in the front line. It had to happen this way!

30 December:
Heinz Stichel has returned from Germany. He tells lots of beautiful stories from back home, but also brings news of the horrible famine in the Ukraine. They had a two-day layover in Kiev. Here it is the worst. Hundreds are starving to death each day. PaKs have been put into position on the streets and squares in order to extinguish right away any possible uprisings. One single, small, frozen potato now costs .45RM, a loaf of bread 25RM! The city’s population treks in masses far outside the town, often 30 kilometers away, to fields frozen solid in order to dig for potatoes with iron crowbars and axes.

On both sides of the supply roads are figures clothed in rags, waiting for one of the small Panje horse to keel over from exhaustion. Like vultures, they scramble over the dying animal. Its body still warm and twitching, they cut into it and greedily take large chunks of meat, which never happens without any thrashing. Dear homeland, be content with the few meat coupons you have!

At noon, Russian bombers appear out of the blue, circling for an hour over the city. One after another unloads its explosive cargo. Many houses burst into flames. At the end, pamphlets are dropped in huge quantities. They are directed at the civilian population. The contents: “Comrades! Leave Obojan, we are going to raze the city to the ground!”

Hey, not so fast, what about us, we are still here after all!

Nevertheless, a large portion of the population leaves the city with all of their belongings in hand, which is not a mistake—this way we at least have some space.

In the evening we receive the bad news that a large supply and medical echelon was attacked and destroyed 25km from here, near Jakoblewo. This comes as a heavy blow. The railway to BjelgorodCharkow is the lifeline for 300km of the fighting front line; its destruction by the enemy means the following: no ammunition, no reinforcements, no provisions. During the night we receive orders to form two reconnaissance units, which are to be deployed in the direction of Jakoblewo.

31 December:
After heavy bombardment during the night, we leave the city at dawn. At around 0900 hours, we reach the location of the attack. The wreckage of a large truck is still smoking. In the streets and ditches lie the horribly mutilated bodies of our comrades. The chest of a lieutenant has been ripped open; intestines are lying in blood-soaked snow, only the heart is missing. We know from the events of the last few days that these savages, this Asian tundra scum, have eaten the hearts of the brutally slaughtered officers. Think of Karl May’s
Indian Wars
.

The driver’s cabin of an ambulance is painted red with blood from the injured that have been massacred. Mail is scattered in the snow. Photographs of wives and children, the nicest Christmas present for loved ones on the front, are now soiled with blood. I read a small card with two small pictures attached to it: “Dear Dad, this is me, your Inge, and dear Mama. I have grown so big, when are you coming home?” Little Inge, he will never come home, your dad. Damn, tears are welling up in my eyes.

We leave this place of horror; one of the reconnaissance units under Lieutenant Simons branches off to the right of the street, I myself, and my ten men and two machine guns, take off to the east.

After a good hour of burdensome marching in high snow, we reach a miserable little village—no trace of the enemy. The locals are interrogated with pistols drawn against them. During the night, the Reds supposedly left this place and are lying in wait with a force of 500 men in the neighboring village. There are approximately 800 meters between them and us, and even more important is the fact that there is a gorge in between. It would be insanity to try and penetrate this with my men. This much I know I must do: very carefully I bring our two machine guns to the ridge of the gorge and place them into position. I am lying with my binoculars on a hill overlooking the ridge. Upon my signal, the machine guns suddenly bark out several rounds of ammunition.

First, there is nothing to be seen—but then, they come running out of their huts, all scrambling; the officers are cursing and screaming, it is total chaos. My boys are shooting well, and considering the great distance, an astonishing number are hit and collapse. But then it whistles back at us from the other side. It is high time to clear out. Two hours later we meet up at the pre-arranged location with the other group which did not have any enemy contact. Tomorrow we will come back and smoke out this gang of
schweined
. We do not know yet, but how will this play out differently?

Half frozen, we reach Obojan in the evening. On our way, we were attacked by Ratas; unfortunately two men were injured. In our quarters, there is lots of partying, for the supply office has given out suspiciously large amounts of liquor, the finest French cognac, “Hennessy.” Someone says, “The Defense Ministry is having a sale, gentlemen, it stinks!” A little later we will all know just how right he was.

Oh
Scheisse
! Today is New Year’s Eve, and we are all buying ourselves one hell of a hangover; maybe it will be the last one we have in this lifetime! In that case, “Cheers, comrades!”

This night is turning out very badly; chains of Red bombers arrive without let-up. By morning, entire streets have been reduced to rubble. The mission to raze the city to the ground has begun.

1 January, 1942, Obojan:
We are getting news that the supply lines have been ambushed. The enemy is now advancing on the streets of Nikolskoje. With my reconnaissance unit, I am also able to determine that there are strong enemy forces near Pselezkoje whom we encounter on the front lines. Krasnikowa is also seriously threatened.

The division gives orders to commence our defense of the city. The only units that we have at our disposal are weak, and only a very small number of them are experienced frontline units. These include the men from the bakery, butcher, and supply units, along with their staffs—all less than 1,000 men.

In mid-afternoon, Russian bombers appear. They release countless bombs in rolling attacks through 0500 hours the next morning. Because most houses have well-constructed basements, there are only a few losses.

2 January:
Near Dmitrijewskoje, Group Bargmann is defending itself desperately against a superior enemy force. Here, just like everywhere else, everyone is giving his all in order to protect Obojan. If the city falls, there will be a gap in the front for hundreds of kilometers, and no longer a connection between Charkow and Kursk; access to the wellbuilt railroad would thus be lost. It is very unfortunate that the Bargmann battalion is missing its supply of shells.

Fourteen trucks have been loaded with ammunition. The protection of the crews is taken over by Neckam and me, along with two groups.

We are attacked near Kriwzowo by strong tank forces. Those 52ton tanks squash our vehicles like they were toy trucks and the ammunition carried inside them explodes. The tracks of the armored vehicles make pulp of the injured.

With a heavy anti-tank rifle we shoot and ignite a medium tank just 10 meters away. Then they roll at us and we are running half crazy with horror for 20 meters. The bullets are whistling behind us. Damn! I throw myself into the deep snow, hitting my head on a tree stump, bleeding like a pig. My God! The lungs are rattling, the eyes are caked with blood, I am at the end of my strength! Still, up again, running, only running. If I could just reach the forest over there! Where on earth are the others? Again, bullets are scraping my ears, from the right side there are ten or more Red Army soldiers running at me. This is the end! Then suddenly there comes the thought. It is the last shot at saving this little life, this straw of consciousness: I run some few steps more, again the bullets are coming at me—then I throw my arms into the air, turn around on my own axis, and then I let myself fall down!

The Reds arrive, step on my chest and stomach, they see the blood on the face and on the uniform. I can discern the words “krowj” (blood), “mjortwuj” (dead) and “soldatmushij” (simple soldier). They are just about to empty my pockets or undress me when there is loud screaming and cursing from the tanks; it must be orders directed at these guys. Dusk is falling and they probably want to get lost. They let go of me, a kick with the foot for a farewell and they are gone.

I am saved, damn it, indeed saved! These pigs took with them my machine gun and my field hat,

Luck must be with the simple soldier! I have been saved by my missing braids and EK band and the blood on my face. Carefully I move into a shallow fold in the ground, which stretches all the way to the forest. Under the protection of the first trees it is over and it grips me, the crying of the nerves. Chest and stomach are hurting from the kicks of the Reds.

Nevertheless, further on, just move on! It is terribly cold and I cannot stay put here, hypothermia comes quickly. I take my socks off and wrap them around my head in order to protect it against the cutting ice air. The night is moonlit, and by detour I reach Krasnikowa. Toward the direction of Obojan the sky is blood red; the low thunder of the detonating bombs can be heard clearly.

Where are the others; how many could escape the slaughter? These are the thoughts that keep going through my head and will not allow me any rest.

January 3:
The marching group has been cut to pieces. Neckam and myself are in Obojan, supposedly there are still three men on their way here; we are the only survivors. Now I have been admitted into the club of the “corpses.” Eight men who were yesterday in the same situation as I was carry the honorary title of “corpse.” Now I am the ninth one. These are men who I will gladly take along on reconnaissance and front-line missions.

Again the chains of enemy bombers arrive; it is the beginning of events to come.

The daily order of the general who is with us and remains here with his staff is read: “Obojan will hold out until the last man has died; a general joins the defense line with his weapon in his hand….” A “hail” to the Führer and the men take up their positions.

The main access roads are secured against tanks by mines; we form veils of shooters as well as advanced posts, which are now all occupied. Every available man has to lend a hand.

The first alarming news arrives, only 4km southeast of the city the Reds are advancing with strong troops and tanks. Group Bargmann retreats, bitterly fighting back to Obojan. Also in the north, near field watch 2, strong tank noises. From a different position comes the news of Russians advancing by trucks.

With senses and nerves on high alert, the defenders of the city await the attack in an area of 2 square km. Heavy tanks put their feelers out here and there, but remain outside shooting range. Towards the evening we have been completely surrounded.

Shortly before 22.00, in complete darkness, there is the first attack in the south and east. In the south it is met and rejected with bloody close combat. In the east, however, the enemy is successful in making deep progress. Ear-shattering explosions are ringing through the streets, the Reds fire into the city from all sides, the noise of the exploding and detonating bullets is amplified a thousand-fold, and from all sides tracer fire is crossing. Tank grenades shred into the houses; burning roof timbers and rafters smash into the street. The air is full of singing and chirping, nobody knows where the shots are coming from. Across the street the Bolsheviks are sitting in the gardens. The “corpses” go on another spying mission. The quarter is barricaded and the Reds are thrown out in a counterattack.

But again and again they are running at us from the south and the east.

January 4:
In the south the attack of the Reds stops immediately in front of our lines. Field watch west reports that the enemy is moving closer and closer to the city. Here a deep valley traverses the terrain from west to northwest, which separates the city from the suburban villages. In this valley lies our most important water source. All day long there is heavy field fire right here. Fetching water alone is paid by numerous losses. A brave raiding party finally gets us some air. Late in the afternoon enemy tanks are closing in on the city. Equipped with “Molotov cocktails” and gasoline canisters we man our defensive position; sufficient hand grenades are kept ready and close by, and the flame-throwers are put on alert. The colossal beasts are nearing, firing wildly, until they are in reach of our outmost position which has the order to let them pass through. But angrily we have to recognize that they dare not enter.