This situation may be unique to the entire Eastern campaign. The leaders know that only this move alone will be able to save us from destruction. Remaining cool-blooded is the key to success in such circumstances. One imprecise shot can hit our own assault guns and vice-versa; inaccurate fire from our anti-tank cannons can destroy our own assault guns.
Being fired at from two sides, the second wave veers to the north, creating havoc for the third wave. Sixteen more Red tanks are destroyed and the rest attempt to take cover on the side of the hill.
And then a miracle happens: German SS troops in camouflage jackets appear to our rear. It is the Leibstandarte [Adolf Hitler]—finally arriving after hours of waiting. They were halted somewhere around Dubno and ordered on a forced march to come to our aid. They had only been in their positions for about ten minutes before alternating rows of Russian tanks and soldiers appeared. The battle lasted three hours. It was a terrible butchery—a man-against-man fight that could not have been any worse.
Photograph depicting German soldiers returning from a reconnaissance mission. As Roth describes, the men have camouflaged their helmets with reed and covered their bodies in mud. Taken in June 1943, close to Nikopol, present day Dnipropetrovsk Oblast, Ukraine. (Photograph courtesy of Håkan Henriksson)
A bayonet wounds my upper arm. Get the first-aid kit and move on! The sun is burning down on our helmets. I am no longer wearing my jacket. To their surprise, we attack enemy tanks and soldiers, who are dressed in just their shirts and pants. Aircraft arrive and join in on the ground attack with great effect. The entire valley is stirring like a cauldron.
Victory comes that afternoon. The Reds attack for the last time around 1500 hours. The masses charge with a loud “hurrah!” There are no longer any tanks; with our concentrated fire we mowed them down row after row. The attack is gloriously crushed. The Russians make a final retreat to the north.
As sweet as victory may be, our casualties are numerous. Of the 12 ordnances in the 3rd, seven have been destroyed by direct hits. My knees are soft like rubber. Don’t collapse! Although our strength is fading, there is no time to rest. That same night we march on to Rowne.
4 July: Around midnight we stop at a village lying peacefully blanketed in the moonlight. We have not had any enemy contact until here. The plan is to stay here the rest of the night and sleep in the houses. However, we receive warning to move on, as the village may or may not be held by the Russians. Once again, we “rest” in the ditch next to the road. After making several detours, we arrive at our destination at around 0700 hours. We are refreshed after a few hours sleep.
The Russians have retreated a great distance. The division’s order of the day is read that afternoon. It is full of praise for our troops’ courage during yesterday’s tank battle. However, we also receive bad news: 36 comrades fell and many were wounded. The announcement ends on a staggering note: Red motorized units ambushed a supply convoy and annihilated it—53 comrades were butchered. Unfortunately, three of our own panzers arrived on scene too late. Michen, Hufmann, Brosig, Sudback, and Schmidt from our unit died yesterday.
5 July: We continue our march in the morning. Our panzers took Rowne last night and we push forward in a forced march to cleanse the area like any infantry would. The heat is terrible! Our infantry marches in this heat 150km in two days. All the units are working tremendously hard.
6 July: We continue on after midnight. Our pace is extreme; we barely have time to eat and we don’t dare think of sleeping. We break through the lines of a few weak enemy forces that are attempting to stand in our way. We leave their destruction to the troops that follow to our rear.
“Push forward! It’s all or nothing!” Damn it, what is “all” anyway! What is going on?
During the sparse breaks, we shuffle about on our legs of rubber. The sun is burning mercilessly on our skulls. The engines are humming quietly and radiate the stench of diesel. The dust is so thick that I am unable to see the person in front of me. My eyes tear up and burn. My mug [fresse, or face] is crusted with dirt. The damn limestone gets in everywhere.
We reach Korcecz at night. We pass through the town after a short battle. We roll on at a maddening speed. Orders to halt are finally issued after an hour. I feel like I was just put through a meat grinder. I let myself collapse a few steps from my motorcycle. Even the enticing smell coming from the mobile field kitchen is unable to motivate me to get up. Sleep, I just want to sleep!
7 July: Our artillery fires all throughout the night. I think there is danger brewing out on the front lines. The air is thick and I can smell trouble. Rumors are circulating that we are in proximity to the dreaded Stalin Line.
In the early hours of the morning, strings of Russian fighters appear at low altitude. Their on-board machine guns scour our positions, and bomb after bomb is dropped across our lines. Thank goodness there are no casualties.
It calms down around noon—and how about that—we receive mail! After 14 days, a letter from Rosel. I am so happy to have that woman as my wife! Her bravery can be felt in each line. Her good heart gives me much courage and comfort for the difficult hours to come!
I have only one wish: to get home in good health and to thank her.
8 July: Scheisse. No sleep again last night. At around 2300 hours, our old reconnaissance group crept forward through the swamps around the Slucz River. We must have looked ridiculous with our painted war faces. On top of our heads we had our hurratute [slang for steel helmet] camouflaged with dirt and garnished with reed. We carried a bag with hand grenades around our chest and our machine gun over our shoulders. Our only clothing was a bathing suit. Our bodies were covered in clay from head to toe. That was how we left camp.
We made it to the first line of enemy bunkers without seeing any infantry or trenches. We returned around 0200 hours without ever being noticed by the Russians. I tried to sleep, though with no luck, due to the thousands of disgusting mosquitoes from the swamps that torture us down to the blood. It can drive one crazy! All of that on top of the heat and constant thirst!
Unexpectedly, at 1100 hours a swift attack from the Stalin Line. At the same time, Russian bombers attack at low altitude. We are suddenly awoken from our slumber. The first salvo was alarmingly precise. Wounded soldiers are crying and moaning. Foul-smelling smoke hangs below the trees. Ten minutes later, and the ground near us bursts into the air; fragments of splinters fly into our foxholes. The firewall moves slowly toward the so-called “Tarn Position.” Here, shells and bombs create a dreadful bloodbath; 41 dead and 82 wounded lie where our Kradschützen [motorcycle infantry] had been positioned. We have to work until late in the evening in order to recover the dead and secure our wounded comrades. My heart aches when I think of their loved ones—their mothers, wives, and children.
We regroup and reposition on the same night due to the large number of casualties. The grand attack against the front lines and the fortifications to the west of Zwiahel [Novohrad-Volynskyi] will commence tomorrow morning. The situation is as follows:
Our scouts discovered days ago that 5th Army is moving in a forced march toward Zwiahel so as to secure an important crossing over the Slucz River. The crossings are being protected by strong enemy units. However, thanks to our forced march, we have arrived here first. I now understand the reason why we were marching at such an insane speed during these past few days. The primary Red Army formations are still a day’s march to the east of Zwiahel. We must use all our strength to break through the strongholds so as to take the city and river crossings tomorrow. Each and every one of us knows what is at stake. We are ready.
9 July: The big coup was a success. Today, around noon, the town of Zwiahel, and the crossings over the Slucz fell into our hands after fierce resistance—just in time. The initial units of the Russian 5th Army arrived at just about the same time. We could not have asked for anything better than to have the band of fortifications now destroyed. The effect of our 30.5 caliber mortars and Stukas was devastating. Together with t
he Sturmpioneren, we contributed well to the collapse of the bunkers.
The Reds make a retreat to their fortified positions by the woods where the masses of enemy soldiers are regrouping for a counterattack. We, however, are rewarded by having our heads bloodied for our attempt to follow and destroy the Russians; we are outnumbered. With our one and only division we’re supposed to hold the city and bridgehead until noon tomorrow. We can only expect the adjoining divisions to arrive tomorrow at the earliest.
The faces of the officers and soldiers are very serious. How far along are the preparations on the other side for an attack? Will the flank reinforcements arrive in time? Nothing but questions for which there are no answers. The situation is grave or even desperate. If the Russians attack now, or during the night, their sheer masses will trample us into the ground. Stories from the Great War about the Russian steamroller [dampfwalze] suddenly come to mind. Yes, they will definitely smash us to a pulp of blood and dirt. Again, the orders are made clear: “The town and bridgehead will be held to the last man!”
It is evening. Hour after hour, we expect the attack; however, nothing happens. With the exception of the flashes from cannon fire, nothing out of the ordinary is occurring on the other side.
What is happening? Are the Russians going to miss their big chance once again? Don’t they know that their opponents are nothing more than small combat forces? Again, we start to ponder our thoughts, which are beginning to eat on our nerves. At midnight, the order to send out reconnaissance troops comes as a blessing. Soon after, the old caste leaves our lines. The Russians have also sent out patrol units. We encounter one of them during our investigation. We take one prisoner after a brief exchange of fire.
The night is pitch black. Occasionally we hear the whistling of a shell or of tracers flying through the sky. Otherwise it is quiet. It is only between the lines that scouts from both sides are crawling around, trying to sniff their way around the enemy’s position and gather information. Upon their discovery, a short burst of a machine gun follows, and then it is quiet again. The damn silence is making me suspicious.
10 July: We returned to our lines at dawn. Interrogation of our prisoner confirmed our suspicions: an entire army lies on the other side. However, they appear not to be firmly entrenched yet.
Someone delivered the mail during the night. A letter received by one of our comrades is passed from trench to trench. In it, someone is complaining about working overtime, the shortage of beer and cigarettes, and other similar matters. How little does that idiot understand about the things that go on out here? Is that the voice of the homeland? They will hear our stories of success at home and Mr. “Indispensible” will say in triumph: “Well, we’ve done a great job, haven’t we?” Let it be said: you local natives, if anyone has accomplished anything it was us! Well, we are indebted to you for our great weapons and ammunition without duds, but the Russians too have good weapons—sometimes even better than ours! The key factor is the spirit and bravery of the person carrying those weapons. None of you guys have any idea of these two things. Shame on you if you think that you have fought these battles and have accomplished such great victories with your overtime! Think about our overtime out here. The reward for some of us was a burning piece of metal in our spine.
The idiot continues to write in his letter to the front that we had it better out here; here, not because he has remembered his manhood, but “because there is an abundance of cigarettes, beer, and schnapps at the front, and the shootings aren’t that bad at all!” Such impertinence leaves one speechless! Dear Sir, you are more than welcome to join us! You will shit in your pants because of all these cigarettes and cigars in the air. But enough of that—we have other issues and problems than talking about the whining of a “home-fighter.” My anger is blown away when I think of the pure idealism of my parents.
IR 530 [530th Infantry Regiment] receives orders at 1000 hours to push forward from Rzadkowka toward Czykowka. After battling for four hours over every yard, and suffering an enormous amount of casualties, they have to retreat to their original positions. If we hadn’t had the heavy artillery, which protected the flanks with an iron curtain, the Russians would have rolled over our entire front line from the flanks.
Unfortunately the Russians have encircled part of the retreating regiment. It is impossible to utilize our artillery; the danger of hitting your own guys is too large. Therefore, “Volunteers are needed!” There is not much discussion among us—comrades are in danger, which is all we need to know.
In company formation we attempt to attack the Russians simultaneously from both sides. We each throw our two smoke grenades at the right moment. The Russians seem to be sensitive to the white smoke. They assume a large-scale counterattack from the west and retreat to their fortified positions. We lose a few comrades who approach too close to the iron curtain that the Russian heavy artillery has erected around our position. We make our way back to our lines with just a small number of casualties.
Arriving at our positions we receive good news: reinforcement divisions have arrived on our flanks. Thank goodness! A huge weight has been lifted from our chests. The attack will commence tomorrow. Wonderful!
11 July: The hellish spectacle starts all over at night. The ground shakes for an hour from the exploding shells. Shrapnel is whistling over our heads. Flares rise into the skies and light up the smoke. They then direct the fire into our vicinity in heavy batteries. What is going on? Do these schweine want to attack us as well? Flare after flare rises into the sky. Our faces are white and petrified. No shots are being fired from our side. However, B-officers [B offizier] and light and sound measuring troops [licht und schall messungtrupps] are working feverishly. The fire then becomes weaker. It must be time for their attack. Our eyes try to penetrate the darkness. Where are the Red flares? Nothing? Everything is as it was before; the fire slowly dies out. It is now quiet, much too quiet for our nerves.
0330 hours: initial fire from 36 batteries suddenly begins. 150 cannons of all size calibers spit their shells across enemy lines. Like the sound of a sawmill, they howl, hiss, and streak through the air. Light flashes along the edge of the forest; these are the impacts of our shelling.
We advance along the train tracks under the cover of our firewall. From there we take over and cover our advancing infantry regiments. The Russians, understanding the importance of such a position, attempt to storm the train tracks. Our shelling has brought them enormous casualties; however, more and more enemy fighters are flocking to the scene. My machine gun barks and spits out its deadly rounds against the attackers. It is magnificent! The railroad embankment provides excellent cover.
Not a single shell sprays its splinters near our heads. Prima, prima! [Awesome, awesome!] It is like a shooting range out here, and it goes on like this for a long time. Our mood is excellent. Some are even making cruel jokes. Oh how these young men have become so cold-hearted. Yet one should never forget the gravity of the moment during battle—it might just take its bitter revenge, which is what happened in our situation.
During target practice we completely forgot about the right end of the railroad embankment. Despite all our wild fire, the Russians somehow managed to position a heavy machine gun there—and shortly after, a second machine gun. It cost a lot of our sweat and blood to get them off the embankment. We are unable to bring our PaK into position atop the embankment. All that is available to us are our machine guns and a bunch of hand grenades—a lot of hand grenades. We were able to get them off of the embankment within two hours. We had one dead and one wounded comrade lying over there behind the bushes. And the day had started so well!
It’s two in the afternoon, the sky is deep blue. It is so hot that one can see the air coming over the embankment in waves. The train tracks are steaming they’re so hot. The ties are slippery and stink from the hot tar. The vapors from the tar are good for the lungs, they say! Scheisse! There is a dead body on the ground over there—shot through the chest. Because of the stupid sce
ne at the other end of the tracks, the Russians have had enough time to entrench themselves just 300 meters from us. If we had enough, we could hammer them with grenades. If we had enough…
We’ve already thrown too many grenades. Two men went back to retrieve more ammunition, but they don’t seem to be coming back. Thank goodness—the Russians have lost their drive to keep attacking us. They are occupied with digging themselves in. They’re masters at that. I look carefully to the left. What a splendid view. For as far as I can see, there are plumes of smoke above the impact craters from our shells. The artillery from both sides is doing its job at creating a protective firewall. The position of the Russian fire unfortunately tells me that we have only advanced about one kilometer.
Reinforcements arrive at night, as we expect a major offensive from the Russians around sunset. If we are unable to receive protection from our artillery, we will hold the embankment with iron will. We wait and wait, and not a single shot is fired. It is getting dark. I am lying between the tracks in a lookout position. What was that? There is a clang and crashing of pieces of metal. Almost immediately one of us fires a flare. Shots are fired, and shortly after bullets from a heavy machine gun whistle over our heads.
The Russians used the cover of darkness to approach our position to within one hundred meters and commence a hellish concert. The bursts of their machine gun fire are situated only a couple hands wide above the top of the embankment. Series of rounds strike the train tracks. A few projectiles ricochet off the train tracks in sloping trajectories. The singing of infantry carbines can be easily distinguished from the buzzing and hammering of the heavy machine guns.
The damn Russian water-cooled machine guns crackle like a thousand alarm clocks. We carefully bring a PaK into position onto one of the canals below the embankment to our right. A large group of soldiers is also deployed to protect the cannon. (Only five comrades return the next morning after this suicide mission.) We are unable to shoot due to our lack of visibility and our need to save the flares for a later moment. We just lie there and wait. We keep our carbines or machine guns positioned in our arms, our legs bent, prepared to jump up and fire. Our hands grip reassuringly our grenades and ammo clips. The light machine gun crews are sitting alert, ready to tilt the barrel and start firing. As the fire pauses, I realize that it is my neighbor, the “greenhorn,” who received the letter earlier today that made me so angry. He rolled down the embankment—dead from a shot to the head. Poor guy! He had just shown me pictures of his young wife this morning.
Eastern Inferno Page 4
