The Last Battle: The Classic History of the Battle for Berlin

by Cornelius Ryan

  “Why, even now,” he fumed, “there are eighteen divisions sitting in Courland—tied down, doing nothing. They are needed here—not in the Baltic States! If we’re going to survive, everything has got to be on the Oder front.”

  Guderian paused and, with an effort, calmed himself. Then he said: “The Russians are looking down our throats. They’ve halted their offensive to reorganize and regroup. We estimate that you’ll have three to four weeks—until the floods go down—to prepare. In that time the Russians will try to establish new bridgeheads on the western bank and broaden those they already have. These have to be thrown back. No matter what happens elsewhere, the Russians must be stopped on the Oder. It’s our only hope.”

  *Zossen was, in fact, heavily bombed by the Americans just seven days before, on March 15, at the request of the Russians. The message from Marshal Sergei V. Khudyakov of the Red Army staff, to General John R. Deane, chief of the U.S. Military Mission in Moscow, now on file in Washington and Moscow, and appearing here for the first time, is an astonishing document for the insight it offers into the extent of Russian intelligence in Germany: “Dear General Deane: According to information we have, the General Staff of the German Army is situated 38 kms. south of Berlin, in a specially fortified underground shelter called by the Germans ‘The Citadel.’ It is located … 5½ to 6 kms. south-southeast of Zossen and from 1 to 1½ kms. east of a wide highway … [Reichsstrasse 96] which runs parallel to the railroad from Berlin to Dresden. The area occupied by the underground fortifications … covers about 5 to 6 square kilometers. The whole territory is surrounded by wired entanglements several rows in depth, and is very strongly guarded by an SS regiment. According to the same source the construction of the underground fortification was started in 1936. In 1938 and 1939 the strength of the fortifications was tested by the Germans against bombing from the air and against artillery fire. I ask you, dear General, not to refuse the kindness as soon as possible to give directions to the Allies’ air forces to bomb ‘The Citadel’ with heavy bombs. I am sure that as a result … the German General Staff, if still located there, will receive damage and losses which will stop its normal work … and [may] have to be moved elsewhere. Thus the Germans will lose a well-organized communications center and headquarters. Enclosed is a map with the exact location of the German General Staff [headquarters].”

  3

  NOW GUDERIAN CALLED FOR MAPS. In the anteroom outside, one of the aides peeled several from the top of the prepared pile, brought them into the office and spread them on the map table before the two Generals.

  This was Heinrici’s first look at the overall situation. More than one third of Germany was gone—swallowed by the advancing Allies from the west and east. All that remained lay between two great water barriers: on the west, the Rhine; on the east, the Oder and its linking river, the Neisse. And Heinrici knew the great industrial areas of the Reich that had not yet been captured were being bombed night and day.

  In the west, Eisenhower’s armies, as Heinrici had heard, were indeed on the Rhine, Germany’s great natural defense line. The Anglo-American forces stretched for nearly five hundred miles along the western bank—roughly from the North Sea to the Swiss border. At one point the Rhine had even been breached. On March 7, the Americans had seized a bridge at Remagen, south of Bonn, before it could be completely destroyed. Now a bridgehead twenty miles wide and five miles deep sprawled along the eastern bank. Other crossings were expected momentarily.

  In the east the Soviets had swarmed across eastern Europe and held a front of more than eight hundred miles—from the Baltic to the Adriatic. In Germany itself they stood along the Oder-Neisse river lines all the way to the Czechoslovakian border. Now, Guderian told Heinrici, they were feverishly preparing to resume their offensive. Reconnaissance planes had spotted reinforcements pouring toward the front. Every railhead was disgorging guns and equipment. Every road was clogged with tanks, motor- and horse-drawn convoys, and marching troops. What the Red Army’s strength might be at the time of attack nobody could even estimate, but three army groups had been identified in Germany—concentrated for the most part directly opposite Army Group Vistula’s positions.

  Looking at the front he had inherited, Heinrici saw for the first time what he would later describe as “the whole shocking truth.”

  On the map the thin wavering red line marking the Vistula’s positions ran for 175 miles—from the Baltic coast to the juncture of the Oder and Neisse in Silesia, where it linked with the forces of Colonel General Schörner. Most of the front lay on the western bank of the Oder, but there were three major bridgeheads still on the eastern bank: in the north, Stettin, the 13th-century capital of Pomerania; in the south, the town of Küstrin and the old university city of Frankfurt-on-Oder—both in the vital sector directly opposite Berlin.

  To prevent the Russians from capturing the capital and driving into the very heart of Germany, he had only two armies, Heinrici discovered. Holding the front’s northern wing was the Third Panzer Army under the command of the diminutive General Hasso von Manteuffel—after Guderian and Rommel probably the greatest panzer tactician in the Wehrmacht. He held positions extending about 95 miles—from north of Stettin to the juncture of the Hohenzollern Canal and the Oder, roughly 28 miles northeast of Berlin. Below that, to the confluence of the Neisse 80 miles away, the defense was in the hands of the bespectacled 47-year-old General Theodor Busse and his Ninth Army.

  Depressed as he was by the overall picture, Heinrici was not unduly surprised by the huge forces arrayed against him. On the eastern front it was customary to fight without air cover, with a minimum of tanks, and while outnumbered by at least nine or ten to one. But everything, Heinrici knew, depended on the caliber of the troops. What alarmed him now was the makeup of these two armies.

  To the experienced Heinrici the name of a division and its commander usually served as an indication of its history and fighting abilities. Now, examining the map, he found that there were few regular divisions in the east that he even recognized. Instead of the usual identifying numbers, most of them had odd names such as “Gruppe Kassen,” “Döberitz,” “Nederland,” “Kurmark,” “Berlin” and “Müncheberg.” Heinrici wondered about the composition of these units. Were they splinter troops—the remnants of divisions simply thrown together? Guderian’s map did not give him a very clear picture. He would have to see for himself, but he had a dawning suspicion that these were divisions in name only. Heinrici did not comment on his suspicions, for Guderian had other, more immediate problems to discuss—in particular, Küstrin.

  Heinrici’s biggest army was Busse’s Ninth, the defense shield directly before Berlin. From the rash of red marks on the map it was clear that Busse faced pressing problems. The Russians, Guderian said, were concentrating opposite the Ninth Army. They were making a mighty effort to wipe out the two German-held bridgeheads on the eastern banks at Küstrin and in the area of Frankfurt. The situation at Küstrin was the more dangerous.

  In that sector during the preceding weeks, the Red Army had succeeded in crossing the Oder several times and gaining footholds on the western bank. Most of these attempts had been thrown back, but despite every defense effort the Russians still held on around Küstrin. They had secured sizable bridgeheads on either side of the town. Between these pincer-like lodgments, a single corridor remained, linking the defenders of Küstrin with the Ninth Army. Once these pincers snapped shut, Küstrin would fall and the linking of the two bridgeheads would provide the Russians with a major springboard on the western bank for their drive on Berlin.

  And now Guderian tossed Heinrici another bombshell. “Hitler,” he said, “has decided to launch an attack to wipe out the bridgehead south of Küstrin, and General Busse has been preparing. I believe it’s to take place within forty-eight hours.”

  The plan, as Guderian outlined it, called for the attack to be launched from Frankfurt, thirteen miles below Küstrin. Five Panzer Grenadier divisions were to cross the river into the Germa
n bridgehead and from there attack along the eastern bank and hit the Russian bridgehead south of Küstrin from the rear.

  Heinrici studied the map. Frankfurt-on-Oder straddles the river, with its greatest bulk on the western bank. A single bridge connects the two sections of the city. To the new commander of the Army Group Vistula two facts were starkly clear: the hilly terrain on the eastern bank offered ideal conditions for Russian artillery—from the heights they could stop the Germans dead in their tracks. But worse, the bridgehead across the river was too small for the assembly of five motorized divisions.

  For a long moment Heinrici pored over the map. There was no doubt in his mind that the assembling German divisions would be instantly detected, and first pulverized by artillery, then hit by planes. Looking at Guderian, he said simply, “It’s quite impossible.”

  Guderian agreed. Angrily he told Heinrici that the only way the divisions could assemble was “to roll over the bridge, one after the other—making a column of men and tanks about fifteen miles long.” But Hitler had insisted on the attack. “It will succeed,” he had told Guderian, “because the Russians won’t expect such a daring and unorthodox operation.”

  Heinrici, still examining the map, saw that the sector between Küstrin and Frankfurt was jammed with Russian troops. Even if the attack could be launched from the bridgehead, the Russians were so strong that the German divisions would never reach Küstrin. Solemnly Heinrici warned: “Our troops will be pinned with their backs to the Oder. It will be a disaster.”

  Guderian made no comment—there was nothing to say. Suddenly he glanced at his watch, and said irritably, “Oh, God, I’ve got to get back to Berlin for the Führer’s conference at three.” The mere thought of it set off another furious outburst. “It’s impossible to work,” Guderian spluttered. “Twice a day I stand for hours listening to that group around Hitler talking nonsense—discussing nothing! I can’t get anything done! I spend all of my time either on the road or in Berlin listening to drivel!”

  Guderian’s rage was so violent that it alarmed Heinrici. The Chief of Staff’s face had turned beet red, and for a moment Heinrici feared Guderian would drop dead on the spot from a heart attack. There was an anxious silence as Guderian fought for control. Then he said: “Hitler is going to discuss the Küstrin attack. Perhaps you’d better come with me.”

  Heinrici declined. “If I’m supposed to launch this insane attack the day after tomorrow,” he said, “I’d better get to my headquarters as soon as possible.” Then stubbornly he added: “Hitler can wait a few days to see me.”

  In the anteroom, Heinrich von Bila was timing the meeting by the diminishing pile of maps and charts as they were taken into Guderian’s office. There were only one or two left, so the briefing, he thought, must be almost over. He wandered over to the table and looked idly at the top map. It showed the whole of Germany but the lines on it seemed somehow different. Von Bila was about to turn away when something caught his eye. He looked closer. The map was different from all the others. It was the lettering that now caught his attention—it was in English. He bent down and began to study it carefully.

  4

  IT WAS ALMOST SIX when the weary Heinrici reached his headquarters at Birkenhain, near Prenzlau. During the two-and-a-half-hour drive from Zossen, he had remained silent. At one point Von Bila tried to open a conversation by asking the General if he had seen the map. Von Bila assumed that Guderian had shown a separate copy to Heinrici and explained its contents. Heinrici, in fact, knew nothing about it, and Von Bila got no answer. The General simply sat tight-lipped and worried. Von Bila had never seen him so dejected.

  Heinrici’s first glimpse of his new headquarters depressed him even more. The Army Group Vistula command post consisted of a large, imposing mansion flanked on either side by wooden barracks. The main building was an architectural monstrosity—a massive, ornate affair with a row of oversized columns along its front. Years before, Himmler had built the place as his own personal refuge. On a nearby siding stood his luxuriously appointed private train, the “Steiermark.”

  Like Zossen, this headquarters was hidden in the woods, but there the comparison ended. There was none of the military bustle Heinrici had come to expect of an active army group headquarters. Except for an SS corporal in the foyer of the main building, the place seemed deserted. The corporal asked their names, ushered them to a hard bench and disappeared.

  Some minutes passed, then a tall, immaculately dressed SS lieutenant general appeared. He introduced himself as Himmler’s Chief of Staff, Heinz Lammerding, and smoothly explained that the Reichsführer was “engaged in a most important discussion” and “could not be disturbed right now.” Polite but cool, Lammerding did not invite Heinrici to wait in his office, nor did zhe make any of the usual gestures of hospitality. Turning on his heel, he left Heinrici and Von Bila to wait in the foyer. In all his years as a senior officer Heinrici had never been treated in such a cavalier fashion.

  He waited patiently for fifteen minutes, then spoke quietly to Von Bila. “Go tell that Lammerding,” he said, “that I have no intention of sitting out here one minute longer. I demand to see Himmler immediately.” Seconds later Heinrici was escorted down a corridor and into Himmler’s office.

  Himmler was standing by the side of his desk. He was of medium build, his torso longer than his legs—which one of Heinrici’s staff remembers as being like “the hind legs of a bull.” He had a narrow face, a receding chin, squinting eyes behind plain wire spectacles, a small moustache and a thin mouth. His hands were small, soft and effeminate, the fingers long. Heinrici noted the texture of his skin, which was “pale, sagging and somewhat spongy.”

  Himmler came forward, exchanged greetings, and immediately launched into a long explanation. “You must understand,” he said, taking Heinrici’s arm, “that it is a most difficult decision for me to leave the Army Group Vistula.” Still talking, he showed Heinrici to a chair. “But as you must know, I have so many posts, so much work to do—and also, I’m not in very good health.”

  Seating himself behind the desk, Himmler leaned back and said: “Now, I’m going to tell you all that has happened. I’ve asked for all the maps, all the reports.” Two SS men came into the room; one was a stenographer, the other carried a large stack of maps. Behind them came two staff officers. Heinrici was happy to see that the officers wore Wehrmacht, not SS, uniforms. One of them was Lieutenant General Eberhard Kinzel, the Deputy Chief of Staff; the other, Colonel Hans Georg Eismann, the Chief of Operations. Heinrici was particularly glad to see Eismann, whom he knew as an exceptionally efficient staff officer. Lammerding was not present.

  Himmler waited until all had taken seats. Then he launched into a dramatic speech of personal justification. It seemed afterward to Heinrici that “he began with Adam and Eve,” and then went into such laborious explanatory details that “nothing he said made sense.”

  Both Kinzel and Eismann knew that Himmler could talk like this for hours. Kinzel after a few minutes took his leave because of “pressing business.” Eismann sat watching Himmler and Heinrici, mentally comparing them. He saw Heinrici, a “persevering, graying old soldier—a serious, silent, taut little man for whom courtesy was a thing taken for granted,” being subjected to the flamboyant ranting of an unsoldierly upstart “who could not read the scale on a map.” Looking at the wildly gesturing Himmler “repeating over and over the most unimportant facts in a theatrical tirade,” he knew that Heinrici must be both shocked and disgusted.

  Eismann waited as long as he could, then he, too, asked to be excused because “there was much to do.” A few minutes later, Heinrici noticed that the stenographer, unable to keep abreast of Himmler’s verbal torrent, had put down his pencil. Heinrici, bored beyond belief, sat silently, letting the words flow over him.

  Suddenly the phone on Himmler’s desk rang. Himmler picked it up and listened for a moment. He looked startled. He handed the phone to Heinrici. “You’re the new commander,” he said. “You’d bett
er take this call.”

  Heinrici picked up the phone. He said: “Heinrici here, who is this?”

  It was General Busse, commander of the Ninth Army. Heinrici froze as he listened. Disaster had already befallen his new command. The Russians had spotted Busse’s preparations for the Küstrin attack. The 25th Panzer Division, one of Busse’s best, which for months had held the corridor open between the Russian bridgeheads on either side of Küstrin, had been quietly pulling out of its positions in preparation for the offensive. Another division, the 20th Panzer, had been moving into the 25th’s positions. The Russians had seen the exchange and attacked from the north and south. The pincers had snapped shut, just as Guderian had feared. The 20th Panzer Division was cut off, Küstrin was isolated—and the Russians now had a major bridgehead for the assault on Berlin.

  Heinrici cupped the phone and grimly told Himmler the news. The Reichsführer looked nervous and shrugged his shoulders. “Well,” he said, “you are commander of Army Group Vistula.”

  Heinrici stared. “Now look here,” he said sharply. “I don’t know a damn thing about the army group. I don’t even know what soldiers I have, or who’s supposed to be where.”

  Himmler looked blankly at Heinrici and Heinrici saw that he could expect no help. He turned back to the phone and immediately authorized Busse to counterattack, at the same time promising the Ninth Army commander that he would get to the front as soon as possible. As he replaced the receiver, Himmler began his rambling discourse again as though nothing had happened.

  But Heinrici was now thoroughly exasperated. Bluntly he interrupted. It was necessary, he told Himmler, that he get the Reichsführer’s considered opinion of the overall situation as far as Germany and her future were concerned. The question, he later remembered, “was visibly disagreeable” to Himmler. The Reichsführer rose from his chair, came around the desk and, taking Heinrici’s arm, ushered him across to a sofa on the far side of the room, out of earshot of the stenographer. Then in a quiet voice Himmler dropped a bombshell. “Through a neutral country,” he confided, “I have taken the necessary steps to start negotiations with the West.” He paused, and added: “I’m telling you this in absolute confidence, you understand.”