First the maps, then a cigarette, then Coca. He wrote her another of his rare letters, saying: At the moment I’ve got a really difficult problem on my hands, but I hope to solve it soon.
Just then he heard a melody. On the icy street, a soldier was playing Beethoven on a grand piano which someone had trundled out of a destroyed house. He played quite well; it was the Fifth Piano Concerto, the dear old “Emperor.” A hundred soldiers stood around the pianist listening, with blankets wrapped around their heads against the cold. They were his young girl-faced boys whose belts of creaking leather had frozen to their uniforms. Some were smiling. The chords echoed like a fusillade, then flew away into the snow-choked ravines of Stalingrad, and as they flew they became even lovelier than the multicolored fireworks of the enemy rockets. Paulus could hear them three blocks away. He longed to come and stand in the crowd with the others, but feared to destroy their pleasure. The field telephone was already whispering like Ukrainian cornfields; there’d been an incursion on his southeast perimeter.
Nowadays he counted a great deal on Field-Marshal von Manstein, who’d installed himself at the emergency headquarters at Novocherkask. Under his command, General Hoth and the surviving Romanian formations were partitioning off some of the Russian attacks. He’d heard it said that von Manstein was one of the few who could still keep the Führer’s mind on course. Like Paulus, he’d faced difficulties, but in the end he’d won out; he’d penetrated Fort Stalin, which was why the Führer had made him Field-Marshal. As for his whispered words in the shower at Wolf’s Lair, well, we all have our bad days. In Gehlen’s assessment, he was one of the finest soldiers of this century. That was why Operation Thunderclap would surely succeed. In the meantime, one did what one could.
His officers unanimously (if we exclude the pointed abstention of Schmidt) begged him to request a withdrawal, so he did; it would have to be to the southwest, which meant weakening his northern perimeter in preparation. If they did get out, vastly superior enemy forces would be waiting to engage them on the snowy plains. Not minimizing these disadvantages, he presented the proposal to our Führer, who of course withheld permission for any breakout. Paulus felt married to Stalingrad now.
He extracted Fourth Corps of Fourth Panzer Army from its now untenable position and regrouped it along the southern line in preparation for Operation Thunderclap. First defense, then counterattack, just as soon the Luftwaffe could supply us. He had also begun waiting for the convoy troops of the Rollbahn to send us sheepskins, portable heaters and above all gasoline; first reinforce the perimeter, with tanks or else the snow-covered wreckage of tanks; then . . .
The signals intelligence report said that the Reds no longer troubled to use even their two-digit cipher, so contemptuously sure were they of the outcome. No fewer than twenty-four formations had closed in. By the end of November, Army Group Don warned him that one hundred and forty-three formations were now in the zone. Field-Marshal von Manstein scolded him by teleprinter: The best chance for an independent breakout has already been missed. But Paulus, now promoted to Colonel-General, improved his strongpoints to perfection. Wherever they could, the soldiers of Sixth Army built ring-mounds around themselves, even if only of rubble; thus they emulated the fashion of the Russian peasant houses. Upon learning of each incursion (and he was kept very well informed; he retained visual command of his front), he dispatched reserves pulled from other sectors, and off they went to die, gripping the stanchions of their open lorries, guns beside them and pointing upward. The enemy, leaping through snowy gaps in ruined walls, kept getting likewise annihilated. Soon all that would be left of them were snapshots of young men in summer, inanely waving from atop their planes or tanks. In the small hours of those December nights the teleprinter at Gumrak chattered SECRET and, for instance, No.421026/42, and PERSONAL & IMMEDIATE; often it was our Führer himself, commanding: will be held and kept in operation at all costs and to the last man.
Generals must obey orders just like any other soldier, our Führer had said.
After teleprinter consultations with Field-Marshal von Manstein, he marked the map: First Fourth Panzer Army and Forty-eighth Panzer Corps would rip open the enemy’s siege lines, right here where just today through his field-glasses he’d seen breath-smoke rising from frozen trenches like dreams (dreams of what? of holding hands with an R-girl?); then he’d pull everyone together for the counterstrike; we’d flee toward Donskaya Tsaritsa . . . Dreading the look in Schmidt’s face when he mentioned withdrawal, he interred the map in a black folder whose center was stamped Geheime Kommandosache, military secret, and whose lower right quadrant of it was stamped: Top secret! For officers only!
He summoned his adjutant, Colonel Adam, to take dictation.—Please lock the door, he said.
By your order, Herr Colonel-General!
Where’s that OKW liaison fellow?
He’s in Major-General Schmidt’s office, sir.
Those two are quite friendly, without a doubt, he said, and Colonel Adam made no reply.
Very good. This is for Field-Marshal von Manstein’s eyes only. Are you ready?
Yes, sir.
Dear Field-Marshal, he began, I beg permission to acknowledge your signal of 24.11.42 and to thank you for the help you propose giving. Do you have that down?
Yes, sir.
In the entire zone between Marinovka and the Don there are nothing but flimsy German protective screens. The way to Stalingrad lies open to the Russian tanks and motorized forces.
My God, sir! I—
In this difficult situation I recently sent the Führer a signal asking for freedom of action should it become necessary. I have no means of proving that I should only issue such an order in an extreme emergency and can only ask you to accept my word for this.
Yes, sir.
I have received no direct reply to this signal.
Yes, sir.
As I see it, the main assaults on our northern front have still to come, as the enemy has roads and railroads to . . .
Yes, sir?
To bring up reinforcements. I still believe, however, that the army can hold out for a time.
Heil Hitler! Yes, sir!
As I am being bombarded every day with numerous inquiries about the future, which are more than understandable, I should be grateful if I—
Do you need to rest, sir?
Could be provided with more information than hitherto in order to increase the confidence of my men.
Yes, sir.
Allow me to say, Herr Field-Marshal, that I regard your leadership as a guarantee, and can you finish it, please, Adam? You’ll know how to end it properly . . .
Yes, sir.
Are you finished? Then bring it here for my signature. You know, Adam, sometimes you remind me of my son Friedrich. He’s a very brave and energetic young man. Doubtless we’d better add an apology for its being in long-hand. All right, seal it up. Find a trustworthy officer and have him fly this out to Army Group Don Headquarters.
By your order, Herr Colonel-General! Shall I take it to Major-General Schmidt?
What for?
To be approved, sir.
I believe I told you that this is for Field-Marshal von Manstein’s eyes only.
Yes, sir.
You may go.
He tried to close his eyes, but a quarter of an hour later, Lieutenant-General Jaenecke, who was not only a loyal subordinate but a friend, was already knocking on his door yet again to plead for a breakout, insisting: We’ll go through the Russians like a hot knife through butter!
That is beyond doubt, but we must follow the Führer’s word, he replied.
It was only natural that men such as Jaenecke romanticize what lay ahead. (What actually did? Alimentary dystrophy, also known as starvation.) Field-Marshal von Reichenau’s ghost overhung them all. He’d reminded Paulus somewhat of his own father, who could have done almost anything. Who could forget the way that von Reichenau had literally led our charge at Kiev? Still, charges, splendid as th
ey are, only succeed when one has reserves—not to mention a place to charge to.
Von Reichenau, Rommel, and even von Manstein, of them he now heard it said that they would simply have gone ahead, evacuating Stalingrad before the Führer could have forbidden it. Even Jaenecke had implied this in their little talk. Well, that might be so, but didn’t they care about the charges of disloyalty which had already been directed at the leaders of the German Army? Bormann and the others were just looking for an excuse to abolish the General Staff and Nazify everything. And where did Schmidt fit in with all this? He trusted nobody anymore.
A deputation of his officers came to plead with him to initiate Operation Thunderclap, which was supposed to be top secret and which was on every soldier’s lips; and when he replied that for the time being no breakout could be authorized, they practically exploded around him, just as ice-boulders come dancing up from frozen Russian rivers when we get them under shell-fire; he explained to them that this topic no longer lay under discussion, because they themselves had resisted withdrawal to the Chir when he’d broached the matter with them last month; he would therefore be obliged to them for not raising it without his prior authorization. General von Hartmann looked the saddest, so Paulus invited him to stay after the others. Clicking his heels and bowing, the guest assured him of the continuing loyalty of everyone concerned.—Of course one must be loyal, Paulus replied. That’s not even a question, Hartmann. A soldier without the justification of obedience is the merest murderer.
Yes, Herr Colonel-General. I keep wondering how all our struggle and grief will appear as viewed from, say, Sirius.
Doubtless the answer will be different depending on whether one puts the question before or after our conquest of the Sirians! Would you like a cigarette, Hartmann?
Thank you, sir. So you believe that obedience justifies this campaign?
It’s incumbent on you to be more careful, Hartmann. I wouldn’t repeat what you just said in front of, say, Major-General Schmidt. You may go.
Lighting a cigarette, he sadly confirmed a death sentence for cowardice. Private Vogel had shot himself in the left hand, hoping to get invalided out of Stalingrad. First Beethoven on the gramophone, then another cigarette, then that letter to Coca: At the moment I’ve got a really difficult problem on my hands, but I hope to solve it soon. She would understand; she was a German officer’s wife; after all these years what she most expected of him was that he do his best. When he thought of her nowadays, he felt as if he were trapped within a multifaceted crystal vessel which blinded him with sunlight. As for Private Vogel, he was lashed to the perimeter wire now, ankles joined, knees joined, wrists joined with leather straps buckled tight, a cardboard sign already hung around his chest, to instruct his former comrades that at the convenience of the officer in charge this boy was destined for death by shooting. First administrative matters of this kind, which one gets through as calmly as one can; then another cigarette. It was not yet time to give Coca any grounds for apprehension; doubtless she appreciated his situation quite well. In fact, life in Fortress Stalingrad had become normalized. (This was Fortress Stalingrad: double walls of dirty snow around the railroad tracks, frozen bloody bandages on the dugout floors.) He kept her photograph on the field-desk, the photograph of her with her hair down like the actress Lisca Malbran.
He received Field-Marshal von Manstein’s Chief of Staff and assured him that Sixth Army could hold out, if we were only adequately supplied as per agreement. He anxiously awaited the order to commence Operation Thunderclap. The two men toasted one another. Then they drank another toast to Sixth Army. The Chief of Staff flew out, and Paulus never saw him again.
On 11.12.42, when the enemy overran the Italian sector, Paulus told the director of the Luftwaffe Air Supply: Your airlift has failed us. We’ve received only one-sixth of the supplies you promised. With this, my army can neither exist nor fight.
Herr Colonel-General, Reich-Marshal Göring himself has promised us—
We could have broken out before, Paulus interrupted. But the Führer believed the Reich-Marshal. What am I supposed to tell my soldiers now?
Major-General Schmidt was loudly humming “Erika, We Love You.”
Enemy pressure was increasing on our Chir front. He issued an order that henceforth we would follow the same security procedures that they did at Wolf’s Lair: A violet flare, for instance, would indicate that we’d come under paratroop attack. He prepared to form alarm units from volunteers among his B-echelon troops; their task would be to lurk outside the perimeter, sacrificing themselves if need be to give warning of surprise incursions. He began to write a letter to Ernst, but couldn’t find the right words. As Field-Marshal von Bock always used to say, the important thing was to keep calm. He completed a letter to Olga advising her to be more careful with money. He sent Friedrich his best hopes.
On 18.12.42 he received Field-Marshal von Manstein’s intelligence officer, a certain Major Eismann, and regaled him with a slice of frozen horse. Major Eismann brought him the latest report from Fremde Heere Ost Gruppe I, Army Group B; and this report suggested that the situation of Stalingrad might well be serious. Major Eismann also brought a case of schnapps. They made a toast to victory. Major Eismann warned him that once Operation Thunderclap commenced, Sixth Army would have to press on considerably beyond Donskaya Tsaritsa in order to link up with our relieving forces. Paulus’s face fell, and he began rolling a pencil between his fingers. He began to speak, but Major-General Schmidt, whose soul was as powerful as one of our Führer’s 7.7-liter cars, interrupted: Sixth Army will still be in position at Easter. All you people need to do is supply us better. Don’t you agree, sir?
Paulus nodded. Then he said: At any rate, under current conditions a breakout would be impossible . . .
With all due respect, Herr Colonel-General, a breakout is your army’s sole chance.
That’s treason-talk! said Major-General Schmidt.
My dear Major Eismann, said Paulus, perhaps you don’t have a full appreciation of our position. Only a hundred tanks remain operational, and the petrol situation will only allow them to go thirty kilometers at best.
Yes, Herr Colonel-General, but once Thunderclap is in progress, air supply should become increasingly more practical.
That is without a doubt, said Paulus graciously, nodding and nodding his head.
Herr Major-General, may I please have a word with Colonel-General Paulus alone?
Impossible, explained Major-General Schmidt.
As you wish. Herr Colonel-General, we understand your moral position. Technically speaking you are the subordinate of Army Group Don, but the Führer has given you a direct order to hold Stalingrad, and so you may feel that Operation Thunderclap would contravene this. Under the circumstances, Field-Marshal von Manstein is prepared to absolve you of your responsibility—
To whom?
To OKW.
To the Führer, you mean.
Smilingly flicking something from his silver assault badge, Major-General Schmidt remarked: Major, I’ve met quite a few men like you.
Well, well, said Paulus into the silence. The Field-Marshal’s suggestion is, to say the least, unexpected. And just how would he go about absolving me?
He would issue a direct order that you initiate Thunderclap. As your superior officer, he would then take the consequences upon himself.
I see, said Paulus. Major, this conversation has been extremely interesting.
On 19.12.42 he dispatched a warning to Army Headquarters that the maximum range of his Panzer tanks had now dwindled to twenty kilometers. The Bolshevists were pressing him hard at the Myshkova River. Field-Marshal von Manstein had just issued a top-secret order to launch Operations Winter Storm and Thunderclap at the first possible instant. On 23.12.42 the teleprinter chattered: Good evening, Paulus. It was Field-Marshal von Manstein. The day before yesterday, you reported that you had sufficient fuel for a 20-km sortie. Zeitzler asks, would you please re-check and confirm this?
&
nbsp; Dread began to pulse in Paulus’s guts.
Now, if during the next few days we could fly in a limited amount of fuel and supplies, do you think that if worst came to worst you could launch Operation Thunderclap? I don’t want an immediate answer. Think it over and get in touch with me again, please, at 2100 hours.
Staring at the wall above the head of the military typist, who in turn stared nowhere, his bluish white fingers obediently convulsive against the teleprinter keys, Paulus paced and dictated: Thunderclap has become more difficult than before, because during the last few days the enemy has been digging in on the south and southwestern front, and according to wireless intercepts, appears to have concentrated six armored brigades behind these new positions.
Now, shockingly, the typist was gazing full into his face, and the gaze was pleading.
Preparations, he continued, would take—let’s see—six days. It will be a very difficult operation, unless Hoth manages to tie down really strong enemy forces outside. Am I to take it that I am now authorized to initiate Operation Thunderclap? Once it’s launched, there’ll be no turning back. Over.
The typist was praying.
I can’t give you full authority today, replied the teleprinter, and a single tear began its progress down the typist’s white, white face. Paulus pretended not to see; that would be kindest. He himself felt nothing but relief. Whenever he thought about breaking out, a horror which seemed somehow dirty burst out like sweat; he knew to his bones that the thing was impossible; as long as he could hang on here, there’d be no further shame. And he felt that our Führer far away at Wolf’s Lair understood him. If he only continued to do his best here at Stalingrad for as long as he could, our Führer would forgive and preserve him. Certainly, nobody who stayed here could be called a coward . . .
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