In the Fire of the Eastern Front

by Hendrick C. Verton

  It was on the contours of those huge steel objects that the Soviets concentrated their fire and it was hell. A hell of fire in a storm of steel scared us to death. We no longer felt the bitter cold, on the contrary, we sweated so much that we wanted to strip off our ‘cammo’ jackets. After every fire pause, we automatically moved forwards a few yards, as we had learned a hundred times before, in our drilling. The grips of the hand-grenades, stuck into our boots and belts, hindered us when running and hitting the ground. No sooner had that ground been gained than volleys of fire forced us down again, so that we were only able to crawl where deep snow was to be found.

  We already had wounded, some not so badly that they could not cry for help and their cries could be heard above the noise of battle. The dead in comparison lay still and cramped in the snow. Then a small hole, a bullet hole was added to the now not so snow-white ‘cammo’ that covered them like a shroud. Without the protection offered by the tanks, our frontal attack had definitely floundered. The tank crews had their hands full. They turned their 7.5cm gun-barrels to the left and then to the right, their shells hitting the birch-wood in dazzling flashes. Black smoke mixed with clouds of snow, like storm clouds in the darkness. The glow from the burning houses, added to the ghostly light of that inferno.

  It appeared that the Soviets did not possess any anti-tank weapons. From what we could see, only one Panzer IV had been hit, for it suddenly started to circle on its axle having been hit in the track. Its crew of five climbed out of the turret, springing into the snow, to crawl to the rear.

  The enemy fire did not stop. The Soviets added their secret weapon, about which we had heard but we had never experienced. The Russians overestimated its worth. Alexander Werth mentioned this devastating piece of artillery in one of his books, with a quote from Marshal Yeremenko. “We tested this new weapon for the first time in Rudnya, on 1 July 1941, in the afternoon. An unusual roar shook the air with the launch of the missiles, as they shot into the heavens with red tails like comets. The deafening racket of the successive detonations and the blinding flashes impressed both ears and eyes, with the launching of 320 missiles in 26 seconds. It really surpassed all our expectations and the Germans fled in panic. Our own soldiers in the foremost front-lines also retreated with speed when in the close proximity of the striking shells”.

  Definitely, the ‘Stalin Organ’ of the Red Army, or Katyusha as it was also called, strongly demoralised us at first. But then we realised that the psychological effect on us was greater than the accuracy of the weapon. There was little chance of it hitting its target and strewing its shell-splinters. The enormous racket of the detonations, and its flames, although considerable, were out of proportion to the damage caused by one 132mm calibre shell. It made a hole to a depth of no more than 30—40 centimetres. The performance was ‘short and sweet’, which was probably due to either a shortage of ammunition, or that the Reds wanted to spare their own men. In the meantime, we had surrounded the village. A bitter house-to-house fight then began. With bayonets and weapons in our frost-encased fingers, we sprang and tripped over burnt wooden beams in the ruins of nearly every house.

  They were not always empty. We coaxed the Red Army men hiding here and there, with cries of Tovarisch, idi syuda! i.e. “Come out comrade!” When they didn’t, we threw a grenade through the small windows. In its thin metal casing it caused more dust with its detonation and air-pressure, than damage. If lucky, the ‘Ivan’ came out, deathly pale, with raised hands and only a splinter or two in his wadded jacket, or some slight wound.

  We left the houses, to the noise of MG fire and of mortars. The wounded, the numbers of whom were extensive, were transported away to the first-aid stations. The dead lay on the road, melting into the landscape just as the empty ammunition boxes, destroyed weapons and the black craters left by bursting shells. It was a picture of macabre madness, the reality of which we no longer assessed because we had seen such death and doom so often.

  Despite everything we had reached our objective. The village was now in our hands, but the enemy did not fully retreat. We were still under fire from the furthest corners of the wood and from outlying houses. Then it was my turn. I was only slightly wounded and did not notice at first. I only noticed when my left glove, green in colour, turned red with blood. Very quickly my ‘cammo’ jacket was fully smeared as well. A bullet or a splinter, I do not know which, had grazed my thumb, cutting it open. The pity of it was that it was not grave enough for me to have ‘home rehabilitation’! It was none the less very painful, and pained me for years after, especially when being pressed, probably because a nerve had been severed.

  The first-aid station I found to be a small wooden church. It had however not been used as such in a very long time. From the outside one could see it had been spared any battle damage. The damage was to be seen inside, for without respect for religion, the Communists had used it as a warehouse for their local Co-operative. It gave a very neglected appearance and once again deepened our opinions of the blunt and soulless Stalin regime. There was no longer a belfry, wooden slats hung on a nail, and the windows had been knocked out. Where any colour could be seen, it was now faded, or dry and peeling. In that ignominious house of faith, the wounded had been brought to the lap of God and they now prayed for help. One could almost believe that, for some, God was a delusion, a figment of the imagination, produced out of the very human fear of dying.

  In taking the village, we now had to make ourselves comfort able in keeping it defended. We used any remaining houses with a roof and four walls that might offer protection from the bitter cold. With our losses we could not and did not think of following the enemy. We were happy to have fulfilled our mission and hoped to hold our positions for as long as possible. But sleep we could not. The enemy was not so considerate and had obviously sent for reserves, as the infantry fire had increased. Only at night did it subside a little.

  Reserves we had none, either to give us support or to relieve us. Our base was too far away and they needed every ‘man-jack’ that they had. When we were out on our own the expectations were no less than the opposite extreme. As a close-knit unit we still gave our all. We were happy for the roof over our head, and the four walls to keep out the biting cold.

  We were very happy therefore, when after a few days, we received orders from the regiment to with draw. From information from interrogated prisoners and from our scouting patrols, they knew that the enemy was drawing nearer to us, with reserve troops followed by tanks. Not even we, with our battalion in its present condition, could hold out against those numbers. They were too overwhelming. Our decimated units would have inevitably been destroyed. It was at daybreak that we secretly prepared for our retreat. Silently we left the village that had been so important to capture. We hoped that we would not be followed by the ‘Ivans’. Our fears were unfounded. The Red Army suffered with the bitter cold just as we did. They would be happy to exchange their wooded posit ions in the open, for our warm quarters that we had left behind.

  Instead of them, large flocks of black crows accompanied our retreat, in an en tourage of worrying and rowdy numbers. Their cries mocked and laughed at us, as they flew and dived over our heads. When a birch wood appeared along the way then they would sit in the snow-laden trees, their cries ringing in the air. We, in this section of the centre of the Eastern Front, could not stop the marching Red Army now with a counter-attack. Back at our base, we let ourselves be snowed in and waited.

  Christmas was nearly over and only now did we wish one another, with a lot of irony, “Merry Christmas!” Christmas Eve had come and gone and we had not noticed. In the heat of the moment, or rather the heat of the battle, it was simply forgotten. That night of Christmas Eve, that night of ‘peace on earth and goodwill to all men’, was spent in positions, under siege from the enemy, in night hours that seemed unending. The night was full, with nothing else but death for some, pain for others and for all, hunger and barbaric cold. At home, we could imagine with certainty that
all sat under the Christmas tree. We did not. As the end of the year came, we sank deeper into that inhuman war. The fight however must go on. Was there any other choice? Could we leave Stat in to march into the heart of Europe as he intended? Not at any price!

  Our quarters were right at the front of the main front-line. It was a large man-sized bunker to house twelve men. It had an exit to the trenches and was safe enough when not receiving a direct hit. Two layers of thick birch trunks lay crossways to form the roof, and thin stems held the walls together. We had an iron stove and that, together with a thick wall of snow, held a comfortable, containing warmth. The stove was not lit during the day, its smoke giving our positions away to the enemy, but straw gave enough body warmth for those not having guard duty. We heated this stove at nights and used our coats as blankets, sometimes having two, the second being from a fallen comrade.

  The German soldier was subjected to a ‘plague’ in Russia. It was an invisible and secret weapon of the ‘Ivans’! Our bunker could protect us from enemy fire, and a house from the cold, but there was nothing that could protect us from the overpowering effects of this ‘plague’. Lice! This revolting little beast had attacked every soldier on the Eastern Front and didn’t like the cold any more than we did. It took ground cover during the day, for we hardly felt it, but in the warmth of the bunker at night, they went on scouting patrol. The itching was literally unbearable, but it was not only that which plagued us. It was the pus oozing from bite wounds that we had scratched, and which froze skin to parts of our uniform. Sleep was impossible and so we became hunters at night. We went on a lice-hunt, for they marched cross-country over breast, spine and legs. We bagged as many as eighty of the little beasts on each man, squashing them with our thumb nails. We were always covered in minute and bloody puncture marks, evidence that they had reached their target in their battle for blood, our blood, from which they fed. Their favourite targets were body parts rich with blood and covered in hair.

  It had been very noticeable, upon first sight of the Russian soldier, that his hair was not only cut short, but it was shorn. Now we knew why. For the German soldier this ‘lousy’ chapter of the East Front overshadowed any other experiences. They were far worse than the bugs and cockroaches. Those little beasts were rife not only in Russian houses but in the open air too. Nor did they differ en tiate when it came to rank, they were not fussy. No one was spared, neither a grenadier nor the General himself!

  Our only treatment for this on the front line, was the ‘delousing station’, which was an old Russian Banja, i.e. a sauna. When pauses in battle allowed, we used it as often as we could. For us it was a civilised ‘island’ of only a few square yards, but in another world. We felt that we were in paradise. We used the opportunity to free our uniforms of our sub-tenants. Before the Russian revolution, such saunas belonged in every farmhouse and were now the remnants of an old-fashioned method of hygiene. Afterwards there was only a co-operative Banja, a public sauna.

  Apart from physical exhaustion and deprivation, and of course not being hit by a bullet, one could be surprised at the condition of the German soldier, with our reduced rations. All could be described as ‘thin’, or as ‘lean’ when being diplomatic, even our commanders. This also applied to the civilians. Despite the war and the minimum of calories, the population were then much healthier. Much healthier than they are today. We also learned to live far more sparingly. We were thankful for the basics, even the smallest of comforts. The simplest of wishes for something to eat, to drink, and a roof over our heads, once fulfilled, we were ‘whole’ after every battle. It all activated our determination to live once more. A simple sauna, and the arrival of a special rat ion, brought about high spirits such as one cannot imagine, especially in the younger men.

  When the soldiers were asked in letters from home, “Are you in good spirits?” we did not know how to answer. We would just love to have said “no”! However, so as not to cause misunderstanding and worry, we considerately used a minimum of words in answer, withholding the reality of the situation, and always said “yes”! It was not simply the fact that ‘only’ 2,000 kilometres lay between us, but also many months of horrendous experiences. Those were engraved on our souls, and had and did change us, the longer we survived.

  Soviet propaganda for the partisan war against Germany

  Our appearance, which was mirrored in each other, did nothing to impress any longer. Our uniforms were patched, were no longer the strong dark ‘field-grey’, but from the dust, rain, mud and snow, a sorrowful pale tone. It no longer mattered how we looked, we didn’t mind how we looked, for a campaign was not a parade.

  When the post-courier managed to get through, the post from home always raised our spirits very quickly. We were so thankful for post from our parents, girlfriends and friends, all having been written many weeks before. A single letter, or a small parcel, bound your home together with the Front and was a bond that could not be severed. There was so much love and human feeling in the sack full of post that was then distributed over the war-torn countryside. When one of our comrades from the country received a food parcel from home, it was shared, in a brotherly fashion, with the comrades from the city. Their families were restricted to food supplies provided by ration books. Those in the countryside were not so confined and the food parcels provided many a tasty morsel that was not to be had with coupons. In between times, anything coming from home was covered in printed bureaucratic stamps, giving information and warnings, including “Caution! flammable, especially in heath and forest areas”! This tickled our sense of humour and produced many a grin, for were we not in the middle of an inflammable area? Thereafter, in a sticky situation, one of us always warned the others, “Caution! flammable, especially in heath and forest areas”, when mortars exploded around us and the bombs fell!

  My post did not seem to come as regularly, for want of a better word, as the others. In fact, mine was very sporadic, although the German field-post functioned quite well. It was well after the war that it became known that Dutch postmen deliberately destroyed post that was destined for the Eastern Front, out of opposition. Perhaps they were thinking that their ‘acts of heroism’ helped Stalin to victory?

  The extreme temperatures lamed us into being almost unfit for battle, and things did not improve with the New Year. So our two-hour sentry duty was shortened. We were relieved after every half an hour. Although the sentry point was covered in thick straw, one could suffer very easily from frostbite by standing for any length of time. It often happened. If I remember correctly, one poor chap was found dead, leaning in sleep, at the edge of the trenches. It was not allowed for you to leave your post. ‘Spirits’, as an alcoholic immunisation were strongly forbidden. However, the Reds froze just like we did. But they thought that their vodka made them fit to fight, not only in winter. Modest in this habit they were not. Their craving was no ‘happy hour’ any more, but an uninhibited drunkenness. There was no wondering about it. A whole tumbler of vodka was drunk each time, i.e. 100% pure alcohol. In the wide open spaces of Russia and Siberia, 40 kilometres is no distance, 40° is no temperature, and 40% unmentionable as a spirit.

  When there was a shortage of vodka, the ‘Ivans’ knew how to compensate. They suctioned alcohol from the exhausts of planes, and filtered it through the filter of their gas-masks, which cleansed the liquid to a good degree. Then they mixed the rest with a syrup, thus making it a more than acceptable liqueur, which they didn’t sip, but just tipped down their throats.

  Over a very scratchy ‘tannoy’ we were subjected to Russian propaganda, as well as with leaflets, which we used as toilet-paper and to roll our cigarettes. It was a weapon used by the Soviets and part of their psychological war fare designed by their Military Directive. We heard top of the chart ‘hits’ of that time, I’ve seen you dancing, Oh Donna Clara. They were changed to propaganda slogans, aimed at our souls, and to coax us over to their side, such as “surrender to the victorious Red Army, and you’ll return home, straight afte
r the war.” Another message was “here are girls waiting for you, and lots to eat”, at which we aimed a short volley in the direction of the loudspeaker, or until it was silenced. The next day however, the scratchy tones were to be heard on another section of the front.

  The reaction to such rather attractive promises was somewhat varied, especially from the hot-blooded and gullible Spanish volunteers from the ‘Blue Division’. They believed what they heard. It was not to be wondered at, when remembering that they came to the Russian front and its merciless ice, from a land under the hot Iberian sun.

  Not only the Russians, but the German Wehrmacht knew the power of printed words and promises, as a tactical and strategic means of war. The Waffen SS had three war-correspondent platoons, whose members were trained firstly as infantry. Then, upon reaching the strength of a battalion, they were posted to the Eastern Front. Later, as the Waffen SS Standarte ‘Kurt Eggers’, messages of the PK, i.e. Propaganda Company, were sent over the tannoys in perfect Russian. They produced very good results at first. The Russian soldiers deserted in hoards, and when their situation seemed hopeless, and success meant an expected high loss of men, the PK provided a bloodless alternative.

  The mercilessness of this war, which attacked both sides, was something that we took as a matter of course, for we had not learned anything else. We learned that the fear that we all had at the beginning could be conquered. At some time it was, in all of us, unconsciously moulded into courage. Then we accepted a basic rule. When you were too slow to shoot and you didn’t hit your target, you died. You survived when you didn’t hesitate, and shot to kill. It was that simple. Gruesome, but simple. This bravery disappeared sometimes, especially when you were surprised. Unexpected surprises robbed you of assessment, particularly when masses of Russians, with screams of “Urra!” jumped out of their hiding places and surrounded you. Worse still, a pack of T34s could suddenly roll steadfastly at you from a birch wood with whirring 500PS motors, along with their indestructible confidence. Often those deadly surprises dampened even the strongest of the unshakeable.