Early Sunday morning, April 15, the Ninth Army commander, General Simpson, got a call from General Bradley. Simpson was to fly immediately to the Twelfth Army Group headquarters at Wiesbaden. “I’ve something very important to tell you,” Bradley said, “and I don’t want to say it on the phone.”
Bradley was waiting for his commander at the airfield. “We shook hands,” Simpson recalled, “and there and then he told me the news. Brad said, ‘You must stop on the Elbe. You are not to advance any farther in the direction of Berlin. I’m sorry, Simp, but there it is.’”
“Where in the hell did you get this?” Simpson demanded.
“From Ike,” Bradley said.
Simpson was so stunned he could not “even remember half of the things Brad said from then on. All I remember is that I was heartbroken and I got back on the plane in a kind of a daze. All I could think of was, How am I going to tell my staff, my corps commanders and my troops? Above all, how am I going to tell my troops?”
From his headquarters Simpson passed the word along to his corps commanders; then he left immediately for the Elbe. General Hinds encountered Simpson at the 2nd’s headquarters and seeing him became worried. “I thought,” Hinds recalled, “that maybe the old man didn’t like the way we were crossing the river. He asked how I was getting along.” Hinds answered, “I guess we’re all right now, General. We had two good withdrawals. There was no excitement and no panic and our Barby crossings are going good.”
“Fine,” said Simpson. “Keep some of your men on the east bank if you want to. But they’re not to go any farther.” He looked at Hinds. “Sid,” he said, “this is as far as we’re going.” Hinds was shocked into insubordination. “No, sir,” he said promptly. “That’s not right. We’re going to Berlin.” Simpson seemed to struggle to control his emotions. There was a moment of uneasy silence. Then Simpson said in a flat, dead voice, “We’re not going to Berlin, Sid. This is the end of the war for us.”
Between Barleben and Magdeburg where elements of the 30th Division troops were still advancing toward the river, the news spread quickly. Men gathered in groups, gesturing and talking both angrily and excitedly. P.F.C. Alexander Korolevich of the 120th Regiment, Company D, took no part in the conversation. He wasn’t sure if he was sad or happy, but he simply sat down and cried.
Heinrici recognized all the signs. At one part of the front the Russians had laid down a short artillery barrage; in another section they had launched a small attack. These were feints and Heinrici knew it. He had learned all the Russian ruses years before. These small actions were the prelude to the main attack. Now, his main concern was how soon he should order his men back to the second line of defense.
While he was pondering the question, Reichsminister Albert Speer, the Armament and Production Chief, arrived. This was one day Heinrici did not want visitors—especially someone as nervous and obviously harassed as Speer. In the confines of Heinrici’s office, Speer explained the nature of his visit. He wanted the General’s support. Heinrici must not follow Hitler’s “scorched-earth” orders to destroy German industry, power plants, bridges and the like. “Why,” Speer asked, “should everything be destroyed with Germany even now defeated? The German people must survive.”
Heinrici heard him out. He agreed that the Hitler order was “vicious,” he told Speer, and he would do everything in his power to help. “But,” cautioned Heinrici, “all I can do right now is to try and fight this battle as well as I can.”
Suddenly Speer pulled a pistol out of his pocket. “The only way to stop Hitler,” he said suddenly, “is with something like this.”
Heinrici looked at the gun, his eyebrows raised.
“Well,” he said coldly, “I must tell you that I was not born to murder.”
Speer paced the office. He seemed not even to have heard Heinrici. “It is absolutely impossible to make it clear to Hitler that he should give up,” he said. “I have tried three times, in October, 1944, in January and in March of this year. Hitler’s reply to me on the last occasion was this: ‘If a soldier had talked to me this way I would consider he had lost his nerve and I would order him shot.’ Then he said, ‘In this serious crisis leaders must not lose their nerves. If they do they should be done away with.’ It is impossible to persuade him that everything is lost. Impossible.”
Speer put the pistol back in his pocket. “It would be impossible to kill him anyway,” he said in a calmer voice. He did not tell Heinrici that for months he had been thinking of assassinating Hitler and his entire court. He had even thought up a scheme to introduce gas into the ventilating system of the Führerbunker, but it had proved impossible: a twelve-foot-high chimney had been built around the air intake pipe. Now Speer said: “I could kill him if I thought I could help the German people, but I can’t.” He looked at Heinrici. “Hitler has always believed in me,” he said. Then he added, “Anyway it would somehow be indecent.”
Heinrici did not like the tone of the conversation. He was also worried about Speer’s manner and inconsistencies. If it ever became known that Speer had talked to him this way, everyone at his headquarters would probably be shot. Heinrici deftly brought the conversation back to the original subject, the protection of Germany from the scorched-earth policy. “All I can do,” the Vistula commander reiterated, “is to perform my duty as a soldier as well as I can. The rest lies in the hands of God. I will assure you of this. Berlin will not become a Stalingrad. I will not let that happen.”
The fighting in Stalingrad had been street by street, block by block. Heinrici had no intention of letting his troops fall back to Berlin under Russian pressure and there fight a similar kind of battle. As for Hitler’s instructions to destroy vital installations, throughout his army group area Heinrici had already privately countermanded that order. He told Speer that he expected the Berlin Commandant, General Reymann, momentarily. He had invited Reymann, Heinrici said, to discuss these very matters and to explain personally why it was impossible to take the Berlin garrison under the Vistula command. A few moments later Reymann arrived. With him was Heinrici’s Chief of Operations, Colonel Eismann. Speer remained throughout the military conference.
Heinrici told Reymann, as Eismann was later to note, “not to depend on the Vistula Army Group for support.” Reymann looked as though his last hope was gone. “I do not know, then,” he said, “how I can defend Berlin.” Heinrici expressed the hope that his forces could bypass Berlin. “Of course,” he added, “I may be ordered to send units into Berlin, but you should not depend on it.”
Reymann told Heinrici that he had received orders from Hitler to destroy bridges and certain buildings in the city. Heinrici replied angrily, “Any demolition of bridges or anything else in Berlin will merely paralyze the city. If by any chance I am ordered to include Berlin in my command I will forbid such demolitions.”
Speer added his weight to the discussion, begging Reymann not to carry out the orders. In such a case, he said, most of the city would be cut off from water and electric supplies. As Eismann recalled Speer’s words, he said, “If you destroy these supply lines, the city will be paralyzed for at least a year. It will lead to epidemic and hunger for millions. It’s your duty to prevent this catastrophe! It’s your responsibility not to carry out these orders!”
The atmosphere, as Eismann remembered, was charged with tension. “A hard struggle was going on within Reymann,” he said. “Finally he answered in a hoarse voice that he had done his duty as an officer in an honorable manner; his son had fallen at the front; his home and possessions were gone; all he had left was his honor. He reminded us of what had happened to the officer who failed to blow up the Remagen bridge: he had been executed like a common criminal. The same, Reymann thought, would happen to him if he did not carry out his orders.”
Both Heinrici and Speer tried to dissuade him, but they could not change his mind. At last Reymann took his leave. Shortly thereafter Speer drove away, too. Finally Heinrici was alone—to concentrate on the one thing uppe
rmost in his mind: the timing of the Russian attack.
The latest batch of intelligence reports had arrived at the headquarters and they seemed to point to an immediate assault. General Reinhard Gehlen, OKH Chief of Intelligence, had even included the most recent prisoner interrogations. One report told of a Red Army soldier from the 49th Rifle Division who “stated that the major offensive operation will begin in about five to ten days.” There was talk, the prisoner had said, “among Soviet soldiers that Russia will not allow the U.S. and England to claim the conquest of Berlin.” A second report was similar and contained even more speculation. A prisoner of the 79th Corps taken earlier in the day near Küstrin said that when the attack began, its main purpose would be “to get to Berlin ahead of the Americans.” According to the soldier, “brushes were expected with the Americans” who would be “covered ‘by mistake’ with artillery fire so that they will feel the force of Russian artillery.”
In Moscow on this same day, Sunday, April 15, Ambassador Averell Harriman met with Stalin to discuss the war in the Far East. Prior to the meeting, General Deane of the U. S. Military Mission had drawn Harriman’s attention to German radio reports which stated that the Russians were expected to attack Berlin at any moment. Harriman, as the conference with Stalin ended, casually brought up the matter. Was it true, he asked, that the Red Army was about to renew its offensive on Berlin? The Marshal’s answer, as General Deane was to cable Washington that evening, was: “Stalin said there was indeed going to be an offensive and that he did not know if it would be successful. However the main blow of this attack would be aimed toward Dresden, not Berlin, as he had already told Eisenhower.”
THE FUHRER’S COURT
Hitler with his personal pilot, Baur. Between them is the famous portrait of Frederick the Great, which hung in the Führerbunker and which Hitler gave to Baur as a parting gift.
Hitler and Eva Braun, in happier days.
Hitler with Erich Kempka, his Chauffeur.
Reichsmarschall Hermann Goering.
Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler.
Martin Bormann.
Minister of Propaganda Joseph Goebbels.
All photographs on this page are from the Imperial War Museum. London.
Frau Goebbels and five of her six children by Goebbels. The older boy, a child by her previous marriage, survived the war.
From left to right:
Albert Speer, Admiral Doenitz, Colonel General Jodl, seen here after their capture.
The dining hall in Hitler’s Reichskanzlei, with the shattered Chandeliers hanging to the floor.
The Reichskanzlei in ruins.
The entrance to Hitler’s bunker. On the left is the area in which the bodies of Hitler and Eva Braun were drenched in gasoline and set alight.
All through the remainder of the afternoon, Heinrici went over intelligence reports and talked with his staff and army officers on the telephone. Then, a little after 8 P.M., he made a decision. He had analyzed all the reports from the field; he had assessed and evaluated every nuance of his old enemy’s moves. Now, as he walked the length of his office, hands clasped behind his back, his head bowed in concentration, he paused; to an intently watching aide “it was as though he had suddenly sniffed the very air.” He turned to his staff. “I believe,” he said quietly, “the attack will take place in the early hours, tomorrow.” Beckoning to his Chief of Staff, he issued a one-line order to General Busse, commanding the German Ninth Army. It read: “Move back and take up positions on the second line of defense.” The time was now 8:45 P.M. In exactly seven hours and fifteen minutes, on Monday, April 16, the Giftzwerg would begin to fight Germany’s last battle.
*Francies’ extraordinary feat, unequaled in World War II, has never been acknowledged by the U. S. Defense Department. He was recommended for a Distinguished Flying Cross, but never received it. Curiously Martin, though not a flyer, was awarded the Air Medal for his part in the action.
*Bradley’s estimate has given rise to much confusion, both as to when he gave it to Eisenhower and as to how he arrived at the figure. The incident was first revealed by Bradley himself in his memoir, A Soldier’s Story. No date was given. Thus, as Bradley has told the author, he is partly responsible for the uncertainty that resulted. One version that has seen print depicts Bradley as telling Eisenhower at SHAEF as early as January, 1945, that the Berlin casualty figure would reach 100,000. Bradley himself says: “I gave the estimate to Ike on the phone immediately after we got the Elbe bridgehead. Certainly I did not expect to suffer 100,000 casualties driving from there to Berlin. But I was convinced that the Germans would fight hard for their capital. It was in Berlin, as I saw it, that we would have suffered the greatest losses.”
Part Five
THE BATTLE
1
ALONG THE FIRST Belorussian Front, in the deep darkness of the forests, there was complete silence. Beneath the pines and camouflage netting the guns were lined up for mile after mile and stepped back caliber by caliber. The mortars were in front. Behind them were tanks, their long rifles elevated. Next came self-propelled guns and, following these, batteries of light and heavy artillery. Along the rear were four hundered Katushkas—multi-barreled rocket launchers capable of firing sixteen projectiles simultaneously. And massed in the Küstrin bridgehead on the Oder’s western bank were the searchlights. Everywhere now in these last few minutes before the attack the men of Marshal Georgi Zhukov’s armies waited for zero hour—4 A.M.
Captain Sergei Golbov’s mouth was dry. With each passing moment it seemed to him that the stillness was becoming more intense. He was with troops north of Küstrin on the eastern bank of the Oder, at a point where the flooded river was almost five hundred yards wide. Around him, he would later relate, were “swarms of assault troops, lines of tanks, platoons of engineers with sections of pontoon bridges and rubber boats. Everywhere the bank of the river was jammed with men and equipment and yet there was complete silence.” Golbov could sense “the soldiers almost trembling with excitement—like horses trembling before the hunt.” He kept telling himself that “somehow I had to survive this day, for there was so much I had to write.” Over and over he kept repeating, “This is no time to die.”
In the center, troops were jammed into the bridgehead on the river’s western bank. This key lodgment—it was now thirty miles long and ten miles deep—which the Russians had wrested from General Busse in late March, was to be the springboard for Zhukov’s drive on Berlin. From here the men of the crack Eighth Guards Army would launch the assault. Once they seized the critical Seelow Heights directly ahead and slightly to the west, the armor would follow. Guards Lieutenant Vladimir Rozanov, 21-year-old leader of an artillery reconnaissance section, stood on the west bank near the Bed Army girls who would operate the searchlights. Rozanov was sure that the lights would drive the Germans mad; he could hardly wait for the girls to switch them on.
In one respect, however, Rozanov was unusually concerned about the forthcoming attack. His father was with Marshal Koniev’s forces to the south. The young officer was angry with his father; the older man had not written the family in two years. Nevertheless, he had high hopes that they might meet in Berlin—and perhaps go home together after the battle. Although he was fed up with the war, Rozanov was glad to be on hand for the last great assault. But the waiting was almost unbearable.
Farther along the bridgehead, Gun Crew Chief Sergeant Nikolai Svishchev stood by his battery. A veteran of many artillery barrages, he knew what to expect. At the moment the firing began, he had warned his crew, “roar at the top of your voices to equalize the pressure, for the noise will be terrific.” Now, gun lanyard in hand, Svishchev awaited the signal to open fire.
South of Küstrin, in the bridgehead around Frankfurt, Sergeant Nikolai Novikov of a rifle regiment was reading the slogans scrawled on the sides of nearby tanks. “Moscow to Berlin,” read one. Another said: “50 kilometers to the lair of the Fascist Beast.” Novikov was in a frenzy of excitement. His enth
usiasm had been whetted by a morale-building speech given by one of the regiment’s political officers. The impassioned and optimistic pep talk had so stirred Novikov that he had promptly signed an application to join the Communist Party.*
In a bunker built into a hill overlooking the Küstrin bridgehead, Marshal Zhukov stood gazing impassively into the darkness. With him was Colonel General Chuikov, the defender of Stalingrad and commander of the spearhead Eighth Guards Army. Ever since Stalingrad, Chuikov had suffered from eczema. The rash had particularly affected his hands; to protect them, he wore black gloves. Now, as he waited impatiently for the offensive to begin, he nervously rubbed one gloved hand against the other. “Vasili Ivanovich,” Zhukov suddenly asked, “are all your battalions in position?” Chuikov’s answer was quick and assured. “For the last forty-eight hours, Comrade Marshal,” he said. “Everything you have ordered, I have done.”
Zhukov looked at his watch. Settling himself at the bunker’s aperture, he tilted back his cap, rested both elbows on the concrete ledge and carefully adjusted his field glasses. Chuikov turned up the collar of his greatcoat and, pulling the flaps of his fur cap over his ears to muffle the sound of the bombardment, took up a position beside Zhukov and sighted his own binoculars. Staff officers clustered behind them or left the bunker to watch from the hill outside. Now everyone gazed silently into the darkness. Zhukov glanced once more at his watch and again looked through the glasses. The seconds ticked away. Then Zhukov said quietly, “Now, Comrades. Now.” It was 4 A.M.
The Last Battle: The Classic History of the Battle for Berlin Page 31
