German Army of 1942 is not what it was a year ago. The picked German troops have,
in the main, been destroyed... The German army cannot carry out offensive operations
on a scale similar to last year's. [Emphasis added.]
But even if this optimistic propaganda was believed for a short while it was very soon to be disproved by events and as the German offensive progressed throughout the summer
of 1942, the feeling that Russia—Holy Russia—was again in mortal danger grew from
day to day. True, there was not the same feeling of bewilderment as in the early days of the invasion in 1941, and the German failure to seize either Moscow or Leningrad had created an undercurrent of hope—and perhaps even the conviction—that "something"
good would happen again. Even so, whereas the communiqués in May and the greater
part of June were vague but reasonably optimistic, those that followed were to spread almost undiluted gloom throughout the country.
Hitler's Directive No. 41, drawn up in the spring of 1942 outlined the main aims of the German summer campaign; but certain important changes were then made in the course
of the campaign itself. Briefly, Hitler's plan boiled down to this: first, liquidation of the Russians in the Crimea (Kerch and Sebastopol); second, the capture of Voronezh, which would present the double advantage of constituting a serious German threat both to
Central Russia south-east of Moscow (Tambov-Saratov area), as well as to Stalingrad; third, the encirclement and liquidation of the main Russian forces inside the Don bend, with one German pincer striking south-east from Voronezh, and the other north-east from Taganrog; fourth, after thus clearing the way to Stalingrad, either capture the city on the Volga, or at any rate destroy it completely by bombing, and then turn due south towards the Caucasus, and capture the oil areas of Maikop, Grozny and Baku, and finally reach the southern frontier of the Soviet Union, which would probably bring Turkey into the war on the side of the Axis Powers. The plan also provided, among other things, for
another attempt to capture Leningrad.
But once the campaign had started, a number of major and, as it proved, fatal, changes were made in this plan. First the Russians stopped the Germans at Voronezh and
secondly, they did not allow themselves to be trapped—at least not in large numbers—
inside the Don Bend. These, and a few other factors (such as the easy German capture of Rostov) made Hitler change his original plan. As Chuikov was to comment later:
This logical and coherent plan was abandoned; and so, instead of doing his utmost in using the bulk of his forces to capture Stalingrad during the third phase of the campaign, and then proceed to capture the oil areas in the Caucasus, Hitler decided to carry out two operations simultaneously: capture Stalingrad and invade the Caucasus.
[V. I. Chuikov, Nachalo puti (The Beginning of the Road). (Moscow, 1959), p. 18.]
The big German offensive which began over a wide front on June 28—i.e. a few days
before the fall of Sebastopol, which was by now a foregone conclusion—assumed at first all the old characteristics of the blitzkrieg. Telpukhovsky's semi-official history of the war, published in 1959 briefly sums up the situation in June-July as follows:
Our forced abandonment of the Crimea and our defeat at Kharkov substantially
changed the situation along the whole southern part of the front in the Germans'
favour. Once more the enemy was able to take the initiative... On June 10 the
Germans started offensive operations in the Kharkov sector, and on June 28 they
launched a major offensive in the Kursk-Voronezh sector... They broke through our defences south of Kursk and on July 8 came very close to Voronezh. However, the
stubborn resistance and the counter-attacks of the Soviet troops of the newly-
formed Voronezh Front stopped the German advance, and the Nazi high command
therefore turned part of these troops towards the south, along the right bank of the Don-on the way to Stalingrad.... The Soviet troops, retreating under the pressure of superior enemy forces, nevertheless resisted heroically, and thus gained valuable time, which was used for throwing in reserves and strengthening the defensive
capacity of Stalingrad... But with 1,200 planes in this area of the front, the enemy had great superiority in aircraft, as well as in guns and tanks.
[ Telpukhovsky, op. cit., pp. 119-20.]
Within a short time the parts of the Donbas still in Russian hands were overrun, the important industrial city of Voroshilovgrad (Lugansk) falling on July 19. More rapid still was the German advance further north into the Don country; and only at Voronezh,
further north still, were the Germans stopped. Here the Russians succeeded in averting the danger of a German breakthrough to the Tambov-Saratov area—which would have
meant that Moscow's main communications with the east would be cut before long. It is still not clear, despite much discussion by historians of both sides, whether such an advance on Tambov-Saratov ever entered the German plans; but the possibility was
clearly envisaged on the Russian side, and very strong Russian forces were concentrated for that reason in the Voronezh area.
Communications with the east and south-east had already become highly precarious; the Caspian-Volga waterway, with its ships and tanker-fleet was one of the principal Russian supply-lines, the equivalent of ten railways. Practically all the Caucasus oil came along the Volga route. After the ice had melted in the spring of 1942 enormous quantities of Caucasian oil had been shipped to Moscow and central Russia—the equivalent of about a year's reserve; but with the beginning of the summer campaign German bombing of the
Volga line made it more and more hazardous. Russia's alternative oil supplies from the east depended on the railways running through the Saratov-Tambov area, which was one reason for the Russian determination to stop the Germans at Voronezh at any price. The grave danger of a critical oil shortage was emphasised in Moscow in July 1942, when the most drastic cuts were made in petrol rations, even for some of the most privileged
categories of users.
Except for the very important German failure to break through at Voronezh, the general outlook was very serious indeed.
[In Moscow at the time some military observers, e.g. General Petit, the French military attaché, who had close contacts with Russian top brass, attached the utmost importance to this; had the Germans broken through at Voronezh, Moscow might have been encircled;
by spreading south, the Germans were much less dangerous, and were less likely to
achieve any quick and decisive results.]
The breakthrough into the wide open spaces of the Don country was bad enough; but the real shock to the Russian people came with the announcement on July 28 that
Novocherkassk and Rostov had been lost. This meant that the Germans were now going
to invade the Kuban and the Caucasus. At the same time, they were already far inside the Don country, and were busy forcing the Don on the southern side of the bend at
Tsymlianskaya, on the way to Stalingrad.
What happened at Rostov? Many dark hints were dropped at the time both in the press
and in private conversations. The gist of it all was that certain Red Army units had panicked and fled, and that officers and generals had lost their heads under the fierceness of the German onslaught. This time the Germans had attacked Rostov from the north and north-east, and not from the west, as in 1941; east and north-east Rostov had no defences to speak of. It was made clear in the press that no orders had been given to abandon the city, and that here was a clear case of disobedience. Many were shot and demoted:
generals, officers and ordinary soldiers. There is no doubt that a cry of "Pull yourselves together!" went through the country; and this cry was loudly echoed in the press. It talked more and more in the days that followed of the "iron discipline" that had been introduced, and the fall of Rostov w
as openly attributed to "cowards and panic-stricken creatures"
who had failed in their duty to defend the city. There are some rather puzzling aspects about the whole "Rostov affair". Militarily, it is extremely doubtful whether, in the circumstances of July 1942, it could have been held for any length of time, and it has even been suggested (perhaps with some hindsight) that any attempt to make of Rostov another "Sebastopol" could only have ended in encirclement which, in turn, would have entailed the useless loss of many thousands of valuable troops. It seems clear that, on the pretext that Rostov had been abandoned without orders, the government was going to use the tremendous shock caused in the country by the fall of the city for a vast
psychological, as well as organisational operation.
[See pp. 414 ff.]
Anyone who was in Russia at the time knows that the great anxiety that had been
mounting throughout July reached something very like panic the day the fall of Rostov was announced. Looking back on this period there is no doubt that the psychological
operation undertaken as a result of the fall of Rostov was highly salutary; throughout August, the mood in the country continued to be grim, but no longer panicky, and by
some curious instinct, people were expecting a change for the better as the Germans
approached Stalingrad.
It was after the fall of Rostov that the Russian command called a halt with Stalin's "not a step back" order, read to the troops on July 30, and although this was very far from being literally carried out—for the retreat continued rapidly in the Northern Caucasus and (more slowly) in the Don country, on the way to Stalingrad, something, as we shall see, had changed in comparison with the earlier part of the summer campaign.
More valuable contributions to our understanding of this period than the official histories are the reminiscences by a number of Russian generals who played an active part in the operations, such as Marshal Yeremenko's and Marshal Chuikov's. No doubt, like generals the world over, they have axes to grind about some of their colleagues; but what emerges most clearly from their reminiscences (and this was not altogether clear at the time) is not only that some Russians generals were good, and others quite useless, but that the morale and efficiency of some of the troops was high, while other Russian troops retreating to Stalingrad were almost completely demoralised.
An even more vivid picture of what was going on in the south is given in certain novels written after the war, such as Fadeyev's Young Guard, or in films like the much more recent Ballad of a Soldier—with all the roads teeming with refugees who were being attacked from the air; trains that were being wrecked by German bombers; troops in more or less disorderly retreat—scenes of horror reminiscent of the worst days of 1941 but with the difference that in 1942 there was practically nowhere further to retreat to. Or more precisely, the limits were Stalingrad and the Caucasus foothills. There was a frantic feeling in the country that if the Germans were not to be stopped there, then the war would be as good as lost.
The military situation at the end of July and the beginning of August was certainly
looking serious for the Russians. There was very heavy fighting inside the Don Bend, and the Germans had already crossed the river at Tsymlianskaya. They were clearly on their way to Stalingrad. Meanwhile, the Russians were in full retreat in the Kuban. By August 3 the Germans, advancing from their Tsymlianskaya bridgehead, had reached
Kotelnikovo, and they then continued their advance, more slowly, towards Stalingrad
until August 18. The only redeeming feature was the Russian success in firmly holding the country north of the Don Bend as well as a number of bridgeheads within the bend itself, notably at Kletskaya. They also later captured a bridgehead at Serafimovich, which, as we shall see, was to play an important part in the Russian counter-offensive at Stalingrad in November.
In the Caucasus the German advance was much more rapid. By August 11 the fighting
had spread in the west to the oil town of Maikop, and to Krasnodar and the Germans were penetrating the mountains on their way to the Black Sea coast. In their southern thrust, they had, by the 21st, occupied the famous watering places, Piatigorsk, Essentuki and Kislovodsk in the Caucasus foothills, and soon afterwards planted the Nazi flag on the top of Mount Elbrus. In their south-eastern drive they were crashing ahead towards the vital oil areas of Grozny and Baku.
Chapter V PATRIE-EN-DANGER AND THE POST-ROSTOV
REFORMS
It is often assumed that what was published in Russia during the war was "just
propaganda", as indeed it often was, and that the real truth is told in the present post-Stalin histories, which it often is not.
To anyone who, like myself, was in Russia at the time, present-day Soviet histories depict the whole period in over-simple terms.
I noted in my Moscow diary, which I quote in The Year of Stalingrad, the extraordinarily emotional atmosphere that summer, for instance even at any routine Tchaikovsky concert
—as though all Russian civilisation were now in deadly danger. I remember the countless tears produced on one of the worst days in July 1942 by the famous love theme in
Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet Overture. Irrational no doubt, but true!
Significant of the sense of deadly danger was also the poem called Courage that Anna Akhmatova wrote during that summer (though it was not to be published until a year
later):
We know what today lies in the scales
And what is happening now.
The hour of courage has struck on the clock
And courage will not desert us.
It is not frightening to fall dead under enemy bullets
It is not bitter to remain homeless.
But we shall preserve you, our Russian speech,
Our great Russian word.
We shall carry you to the end, free and pure,
And give you to our grandchildren and save you from bondage,
For ever.
It was during that summer that Shostakovich's famous Leningrad Symphony was first performed in Moscow. The impact of the first movement depicting the German invasion
—which was now continuing—was truly overwhelming.
These emotional undertones, with the frantic patrie-en-danger mood, and in particular the psychological shock deliberately provoked after the fall of Rostov (and the changes it paved the way for) are scarcely mentioned at all in the Soviet histories. Curiously, a better picture of the mood of the people can be gained from the literature and indeed from the propaganda articles in the press at the time.
So far two feelings had characterised the literature and propaganda of that summer of 1942. One was the same love of Russia that had been so typical of all the writing at the height of the Battle of Moscow—only it was now a love that had even greater warmth
and greater tenderness. It was, too, specifically a love of Russia proper, to which—apart from the Caucasus—the German advances had by now reduced the European part of the
U.S.S.R. The other was hate— hate, no longer mingled with ridicule, or scarcely so
(except for the "Winter Fritz" who still loomed large at the Moscow Circus). It grew during those summer months till it reached a paroxysm of frenzy during the blackest days of August. "Kill the German" became like Russia's Ten Commandments all in one.
Sholokhov's The School of Hate, the story of a Russian prisoner who had suffered hell at the hands of humorously-sadistic Germans, published in several papers on June 23 had a profound effect. Poignant and convincing, it set the tone of much of the hate propaganda during the weeks that followed.
Ehrenburg, too, was a very important factor in the great battle for Russian morale in the summer of 1942; every soldier in the Army read Ehrenburg; and partisans in the enemy rear are known to have readily swopped any spare tommy gun for a bundle of Ehrenburg clippings. One may like or dislike Ehrenburg as a writer, but during those tragic weeks he certainly showed a genius for putting in
to biting, inspiring prose the burning hatred Russia felt for the Germans; this man, with his cosmopolitan background and his French culture, had grasped by intuition what the ordinary Russian really felt. Ideologically, it was unorthodox, but tactically, in the circumstances, it was thought right to give him a free hand. Read later in book form, his articles no longer make the same impression; but one must imagine oneself in the position of a Russian in the summer of 1942 who was
watching the map and seeing one town going after another, one province going after
another; one must put oneself in the position of a Russian soldier retreating to Stalingrad or Nalchik, saying to himself: How much farther are we going to retreat? How much
farther can we retreat? The Ehrenburg articles helped such a man to pull himelf together.
It wasn't Ehrenburg only; but Ehrenburg certainly holds a central place in the battle for Red Army morale. His articles were printed chiefly in Red Star, the army paper, and reprinted in hundreds of Front sheets. Some of the writings of Alexei Tolstoy, Simonov, Surkov and many others, also had an important effect on morale.
Simonov's play, The Russian People, printed in full in Pravda in July and performed in hundreds of theatres throughout the country, was typical of the "all Russians are united "
motif: here, in a seaside town, a sort of miniature Sebastopol, a handful of Russians, an old ex-Tsarist officer among them, fight the Germans till nearly all are killed; they are touchingly frail human creatures fighting against a terrible inhuman machine. The
emotional appeal of the play was overwhelming in the conditions of 1942; I remember
how, at the Filiale of the Moscow Art Theatre, there was complete silence for at least ten seconds after the curtain had fallen at the end of the third act; for the last words had been:
"See how Russian people are going to their death". Many women in the audience were weeping. Needless to say, there was a happy ending; in the last act the town was
recaptured by the Red Army. It could not have been otherwise in those days: for a
Journey's End driven to the very end, would have been too depressing. The feeling of hate for the Germans, already very strong in The Russian People (significant that it should have been called Russian, rather than "Soviet People") grew in intensity during the summer and culminated in Simonov's famous Kill Him! poem.
Russia at war Page 47
