Central Belgorod
The man rubbed his overgrown moustache, glancing up and down the narrow dimly lit corridor, the four soldiers sat on a scratched wooden bench, the fifth in the large room next door, a general with two more junior officers hearing the charges against them. Muffled voices filtered through the walls, the corridor in the basement of the military command building, several individual rooms at the back of the building for condemned prisoners. The older captive stared along the hallway, shadowed stairs at the end, the two guards stood at either end of the bench glancing down at him, the other prisoners’ heads bowed.
The lean man turned slowly as the young soldier sniffled next to him, the youth no older than eighteen years of age, his shoulders shaking as the youth wept silently. Slowly, the man’s arm reached comfortingly round the youngster’s shoulders, his voice low and firm as the two military policemen on either side of the group glanced at them furtively before staring back ahead, ‘There is no need to cry…what is done is done…you cannot change that now. Now share with me, what was your crime?’
The young matted black haired head rose slightly, bloodshot eyes turning to stare at the haggard and bedraggled taller prisoner, the young man’s face reddened and smeared from the tears, his hands shaking, ‘I-I fell asleep on sentry duty sir…I had been awake for nearly thirty six hours, working in the field kitchen and told to bring up supplies, the rest of my squad were resting the entire time…’ He drew a sharp breath, tears rolling down his young face, the droplets collecting on his chin and falling onto grime and dirt smeared combat trousers.
The older man smiled grimly, nodding, ‘Did you not tell them? I mean, did your officer not know you had been awake that long? He could have put someone else on sentry duty.’
The young soldier shrugged, gritting his teeth in frustration, ‘He knew…he had put me with the mess kitchen and then ordered me to drive to pick up our rations from the rear. I then had to deliver the food to the men in forward positions…’ The soldier spluttered in rising anger, ‘There were three of us that did all the work…the others just sat with our officer most of the time, smoking and drinking. He ran the unit like his own little kingdom…they had the best rations and we slept the least. Some mornings they would eat most of the food whilst we were on duty, they used to think it was funny we had less to eat and were tired all the time.’
The tall soldier rubbed his bushy moustache once more, his eyes straining in irritation and annoyance as he shook his head pursing his lips, his upper frame moving back and forth as his anger mounted, ‘Too many evil men are taking advantage of this war for their own gains…games and cruelty to justify their own weak existences and perverted little minds…’
The door opposite abruptly opened, the three seated prisoners jolting in surprise as the sentries stiffened, a grim faced military policeman stepping out into the corridor, the hunched and despondent captive behind, his head lowered as a voice came from within the room, ‘Bring in the next prisoner…’
The older man stood up sharply, nodding in determination to the guards on either side, ‘I will go next…I wish to speak for this soldier also…’ One of the sentry’s eyes widened as the taller prisoner stretched, his back cracking, the military policemen moving past with the first shuffling prisoner, his fate now decided…a room near the gallows awaiting him.
Rubbing his moustache once more, the tall prisoner glanced down at the young soldier seated beside him, a faint smile on his lips, ‘What is your name and where are you from?’
The youth rubbed his matted hair, the bench creaking beneath him, his brown eyes staring up at the older man, ‘I am Peter from Frankfurt an der Oder…you sir?’
The tall prisoner stepped forward, turning in the doorway and grinning, his jaw tightening in determination, ‘I am Tatu of the Romanian Fourth Army from Stalingrad…’
The BMW engine burbled as the muddied tyres screeched across the moist cement, the motorbike and sidecar combination jolting to a halt by the kerb, the rider in a thick dust coated leather overcoat with helmet and goggles. The engine coughing and dying, he hastily dismounted the motorbike, jogging round the vehicle and approaching the entrance as another single motorcycle courier roared past, the two military policemen either side of the door eying him warily, the rider’s gloved hands reaching into a despatch case strapped to his chest as he coughed, ‘Urgent message for the military justice in sitting…’ The three men glanced round as another Opel Blitz lorry turned into the street, the engine roaring as more prisoners approached the military administration building, this weekly court would be sitting all day.
The captain looked up from his desk inside, reaching for his officer’s cap, his voice disgruntled as he looked down over the latest list of prisoners in his other hand, ‘What is it? Get ready for the latest prisoners…we have a murderer amongst them…he will be shackled.’ The walls of the reception were a dull grey, a modest chandelier providing light above, the building containing mostly administrative offices upstairs, the ground floor for deliveries and a small unit tasked with distributing the latest specialist equipment for trial across the units of Army Group Centre and South.
The officer rose from his seat, staring at the despatch rider as the soldier approached him and snapped to attention, a gloved hand abruptly extending with the sealed despatch, ‘This paperwork is for the General in sitting, important despatch from the front, Sir!’
The officer hesitated, briefly torn between meeting the newly arrived prisoners and delivery of the message. Then he sighed, indicating across the small reception area and through some glassed doors, ‘Follow the corridor to the stairs at the end…there will be a sentry there, give the despatches to him for delivery, then wait for any reply.’
The rider clicked his heels, nodding, the light glinting on his goggles as he saluted, the boots squealing on the polished linoleum as he strode towards the double doors, the captain behind glancing back down at his notes before moving round the desk, placing his cap meticulously onto his head before stepping out into the dull grey light, a hand reaching for the cigarette packet in his tunic pocket.
Raising the lighter from his trouser pocket, he drew deeply on the cigarette, blowing the smoke skywards as the Opel Blitz lorry lumbered to a halt, the brakes squealing. The rear tailgate crashed downwards, two young soldiers jumping out, one stiffening to attention before the captain, ‘Herr Hauptmann…seven prisoners for the military court of justice.’
Quartermaster sergeant Tatu stood to attention before the general’s desk, his creased and oversized dirty uniform matching a heavily unshaven face and unkempt hair. His appearance was in complete contrast with the immaculate attire of the men seated before him, the two officers on either side of the general eying him with suspicion.
The square room was relatively spacious, a large oak desk of sturdy construction with three senior officers seated behind, the top housing two neatly stacked piles of folders…one for incoming soldiers to be tried and the other smaller pile for completed verdicts. In addition, three officer caps sat atop the table, one black, another grey and one blue. Two smaller writing desks were on either side of the main table, both with middle aged uniformed female typists, glowing lamps sited in alcoves along the walls for illumination.
With crème walls extending from dark wooden surrounds, a line of thick misted glass square panes along one side just below the ceiling providing the only light from outside. Behind Tatu, three lines of four chairs filled the rest of the room, the seats used for more complicated hearings…on this morning all remained empty.
The general looked up from the newly delivered notes before him, his shaved grey hair neatly greased back, grey eyes staring at the soldier stood in front of the desk, Tatu glancing at the red and gold collar around the man’s neck, his uniform a dark grey. The major to his right was a serving Luftwaffe officer, his tunic dark blue with yellow collar markings and on the general’s left, an SS major, his collar black with white runes, the tunic light grey. The senior
officer cleared his throat, staring up into Tatu’s face as a smile formed across his lips, ‘Well sergeant…this is very interesting and rather unusual.’ The general lowered the despatches onto the desktop, then passed them to the Luftwaffe officer for his perusal, the keys of the typists clicking feverishly, ‘We have a charge of potential desertion from a commander that you surrendered to of your own accord, yet your own officer apparently reported you as missing in action…’ The Luftwaffe officer chortled as he read the paperwork below, the general glancing round disapprovingly before continuing, ‘…I have a despatch here from Grossdeutschland Divisions headquarters, arguing that the failure of your commander to report your supposed desertion from a unit that no longer exists therefore absolves you of the later charge, which the despatch insinuates was perpetrated by an officer you simply embarrassed by slipping through his lines without detection. There is also information in this paperwork that points to an individual rebel and harassing actions behind enemy lines…that this man may have been or was probably you?’ He leant back slightly to study Tatu intently for a reaction as the Romanian stared blankly at the wall behind them, the general finally shaking his head and grinning at the soldier’s stubbornness.
The Luftwaffe major raised a hand to his mouth to conceal silent laughter, intrigued by the behaviour and personal despatch from Major Wolff with additions from the unit’s higher officers, the reasoning and requests quite clearly from a man who had worked in the military court system before. Passing the paperwork across the desk to the SS major, the general grimaced to conceal a grin, ‘Furthermore…you have requested leniency for a younger fellow prisoner and explained the reasoning behind his own failures when this is time permitted to you to present your own defence.’ The general stared up into Tatu’s eyes, ‘These despatches also claim you are of Romanian birth and were at Stalingrad with a German unit, is that the case?’
Tatu stiffened, his eyes dropping to the general’s briefly, ‘Jawohl, Herr General.’
The general stifled a smile, clearing his throat officially, ‘I find this behaviour not only commendable, but very selfless and endearing for a soldier with your now clear service record…you have probably already suffered considerable hardship and witnessed the worse of the war here, yet you still consider others.’ He glanced round as the SS major’s eyes widened, the man clearly impressed by Wolff’s comments on the soldier’s fighting history.
The general sat back in his chair, nodding to either side, ‘We will now speak with this Peter and confirm the statement you have made on his behalf…If I am satisfied that what you have told me is the truth, then I do have a solution to this situation in mind…and our decision and the decision of the court will be final.’ The man drew breath, folding his arms, ‘You may wait outside, sergeant.’
Tatu stiffened to attention, staring straight ahead and saluting, ‘Thank you, Herr General.’
The senior officer raised his hand to his forehead as the soldier turned, a wide grin finally forming on his face, ‘Sergeant…I suggest you obtain a better fitting uniform and have a wash and haircut to present yourself more like a frontline soldier and also get something to eat with the courier…one of my staff will assist you with this. You will be returning to Grossdeutschland Division with the motorcyclist outside once this is completed, probably later this afternoon or evening after we have finished the paperwork. The charges against you are completely dismissed.’
Chapter Ten: Opposing Patrols
Captain Medvedev ate ravenously from the stew in his mess tin, the glutinous brown liquid and lumps teasing his taste buds and warming his throat and stomach, a light drizzle pattering against the tarpaulin covering above, the bunker roof as yet incomplete. Three mud splattered uniformed soldiers chewed opposite him, scraping their metal spoons across the bottom of mess tins as they grinned in relish, the food more than they had expected and supplemented with Brazilian tinned corned beef. Candles flickered across the wooden bark of the dugout walls, the lights sparkling in the bleary eyes of the troops, their faces flushed from an extra issue of vodka rations…
The tender potatoes, carrots and onions had been simmering for half of the day in large steaming pans, the new section of chefs assigned to their section of the front keen to make a good first impression, the additional food and rations brought with their amply stocked supply lorries from the rear areas.
The frontline soldiers were fully appreciative of their cooks’ efforts, the hardening of the ground and end of rasputitsa having dramatically increased the quality and quantity of the food, also having a positive effect on morale. With the diminishing rain and warming temperature, the meagre day to day life of the frontline soldier improved...the only concern now was the power of the enemy and that they were also able to move freely. As a result, behind the main Russian frontline, thousands of the local inhabitants and forced labour crews were feverishly digging defences…some continuing late into the night with the assistance of candles and oil lamps, the illuminations promptly extinguished upon any alarming distant drone of aircraft engines.
Swallowing another mouthful, Medvedev leant forward for one of the two jugs of vodka, raising it to his lips as one of the younger soldiers belched, the others chuckling as the grinning youth flushed with embarrassment.
Footsteps outside, a brief cough and rustling as the sheeting across the entrance of the simple structure was pulled back, a young infantryman’s dirt smeared face pushing through the overhanging branches and wet ferns placed over the entrance roof, the rim of his helmet dripping from the light rain. His eyes widened, a grin sweeping across his face at the warmly relaxed group and with excitement, ‘Comrade Captain...there are reports of a possible fascist patrol nearby to the south, the local commissar wants you and your men to find and engage them, capture some if possible.’
Medvedev glanced across at the three men, his eyes sparkling in the candlelight and from a rush of adrenalin, his tone rising, ‘Gather soldiers from two rear platoons...the fascists will not escape this night...we will get our prisoners, bag the whole patrol.’ Two of the young men scrambled to their feet, grasping their rifles and pushing towards the entrance, the messenger outside eagerly slipping into the warmth and shelter. The captain spun round to the new arrival as the soldier shook and dusted the raindrops from his greatcoat, shivering uncomfortably near the doorway as water ran down the back of his neck, the officer’s hand grasping for a map and pushing the mess tin away in eagerness. The other seated soldier reached for his captain’s PPSH submachine gun to the side as the officer’s voice lowered in grim determination, ‘Show me where they are...’
Leutnant Hausser grasped his MP40 tightly, glancing round at the figures in the darkness around him, their darkened silhouettes still and lowered in the undergrowth, the flare curling above them and pulsing in the night air drizzle as the soldiers ducked back into the wet bushes and ferns. They had made slow and wary progress up a gradual incline, the nervous soldiers silent and staring onto the darkness around them, stopping abruptly at any sound.
Turning slowly, the young commander hissed at the sergeant nearby in confusion, ‘I am not sure…do they know we are here?’
Hausser bit his lower lip nervously, the older sergeant replying briefly, ‘Probably just standard, Herr Leutnant. The Russkies are scared at night…we have raided them several times…their soldiers do not like being opposite Grossdeutschland!’
The young commander nodded, a nervous uneasiness spreading through his stomach, his eyes squinting forward into the darkness, ‘Very well…we wait for the mortars to fire…they are near here somewhere.’
His body shuddered, knowing the group of soldiers were now probably nearly one kilometre from their lines, having passed a couple of forward Russian observation positions in the darkness, the suspected 120mm mortars predicted to be nearby due to the sharp angle of shell fall, the maximum range of the weapons (6km) far more. He swallowed nervously, considering the small enemy unit may have moved further along the front, beyond
their grasp.
Major Wolff had explained that the enemy antics were demoralising the soldiers, snipers picking off observers and then probably advising the mortar crews of the range, the enemy crews proving to be very accurate before falling silent and seemingly taunting the German line in anticipation of another unpredictably timed salvo…Grossdeutschland seeming to provide the main intrigue for their targeting before they moved position.
Hase lowered carefully next to the officer, nudging his commander, his voice a whisper as he stared up into the darkened sky, the mottled clouds drifting overhead as they deposited the light drizzle, bright stars just visible above the grey covering, ‘Hausser, this Russian sky will clear soon, the rain is passing…then it will become lighter with the moon…we need to be careful.’ He stifled a cough as water droplets fell from the rim of his helmet, ‘Nearby to the south east, there is a machine gun position and another to the south west…they will have a good line of fire if we have to retreat in a hurry.’ He drew breath nervously, ‘I have heard hushed voices…there must be a couple of slit trenches or foxholes with riflemen hidden in the undergrowth…we will need to move quickly to escape if they are alerted. This is dangerous.’
Leutnant Hausser nodded in grim understanding, ‘Good that we left Udet and Petru behind I think…they need more time to recover, they would just slow us down and be a worry.’ He grimaced, glancing upwards, ‘We need to sweep to the north for another five hundred metres, then return if we find nothing…and get back across to our lines…’ He glanced at his friend, adjusting the two stielhandgranate tucked into his belt at the side, ‘…I agree this is a difficult position, but we are here now, so let’s get it done.’
Bloody Citadel Page 15
