Eastern Inferno

by Christine Alexander

  The shooting, however, has picked up again. New showers of shrapnel are raining down; the air is filled with singing and whining. Ricocheting bullets howl. It sounds like the crackling of a fire or the blazing of spruce trees. The mad fire suddenly subsides. A final few hungry carbines are still spitting their last bullets from their clips—then, absolute silence. We leap up onto the railroad embankment, staring and listening into the night. We cup our hands behind our ears as funnels in order to improve our hearing. Then flares soar up into the sky, burst, and sail slowly to the ground. More flares rise up, and we continue to stare and listen. The stillness is disturbing. We can feel our hearts beating in our chests and temples. Our hands search reassuringly for hand grenades. More flares take off like fireworks.

  Now we can see them coming, those Red bastards, that Asian mob. Night attacks are a particular specialty of this gang. Flare after flare shoots into the sky. We open fire from a distance of 150 meters. Our shells slam into the attacker’s lines and tear open large holes. However, it is night and the terrain is full of natural obstacles. Wave after wave approaches. A bitter battle of man against man is being waged along the canal to the right of the embankment. The cannon over there is out of ammunition and the Russians finish off its crew. Our machine guns are still able to keep the bastards away from us, but for how much longer? Messengers return to HQ. Verflucht noch mal! [Damn it!] Artillery fire is the only thing that can help us here. We shoot signal flares into the sky again and again—in between, enemy flares illuminate the scene. Red tracers also soar into the air in the neighboring sector. What wonderful fireworks, what a grandiose illumination of fear and horror!

  We receive orders to retreat to our baseline positions. The entire front line must be pulled back to its original position. Damn it, it is unbelievable that we must retreat—we, the 299th Infantry Division, have to run; German soldiers have to abandon the field to those Russian schweine!

  Now the drama of the retreat is beginning, which costs us many dead and wounded. We reach our original positions around 0200 hours. Our artillery provides us cover.

  12 July: A Sturmgeschütz [assault gun] group takes over our section of the front. We are pulled back about 3km. A mass dropping of Russian paratroopers is expected in this area to the rear of our artillery positions, and we are the ones who will have to deal with them.

  Shrapnel trenches are dug in great haste. They must be dug deeper since there are no tree trunks in the area to use for cover. This is a dismal landscape. Apparently the Reds cut down all the trees years ago and kept the water, rendering large areas into swamps. Man-high bushes cover the areas of open marshes, but not us attackers.

  The Russians, masters of camouflage and the construction of tactical barriers, have erected their HQ alongside a large forest at the northern entrance to this cauldron of a landscape. The perimeter of the forest was left to grow wild and is therefore covered with hedges and swamp bogs. Beneath the hedges, they have dug escape tunnels about two meters deep, which can be flooded in case of emergency. The bunkers for the positioning of their machine guns are grown over with vegetation. Even with the best optical instruments, it is impossible to make them out. A deserter has told us that hundreds of rangers and soldiers worked for years to transform this area into its present condition. Villages that are still indicated on our maps have disappeared.

  Trails and roads were mined a month ago. Grass was then seeded above the mines, trails, and roads. Hand grenades that were suspended on wires in the bushes have also ripped apart two comrades this morning.

  The shrapnel trenches are complete, the vehicles have been camouflaged, and cannons dug into the ground in semi-circle formation. We await anything that might come. The artillery puts on a great show. The second attack started at 0500 this morning. Howitzers, right before us, incessantly spray their shrapnel into the air. Our very heavy equipment buzzes and rumbles further behind us. Their heavy shells fly close above our heads, targeting bridges, important roads, and mobile ammunition depots, which are 20 to 25km behind Russian lines.

  Meanwhile, it is now noon. Brutal heat is bearing down on the trenches and swamps all around us. The blaze of the sun is driving me insane; my eyes burn from all that staring up into the sun. My head hurts as if being pricked by a thousand needles. Damn it! Do not pass out! Hannes!

  It is disgusting—our clothes are sticking to our bodies. A stinking broth, a mixture of sweat and eight days of dirt are underneath my helmet and runs down my cheeks only to disappear into my collar. Damn this trench warfare, damn this stupid swamp without any shade or water to drink.

  Russian reconnaissance aircraft appear in the afternoon at low altitude. The obligatory attack starts shortly after; however, it does not cause any damage. From time to time they shoot at our position, attempting to locate our ordnance, yet they have no luck.

  The enemy fire slowly dies down by sunset. Messengers relay the latest news: the front line has advanced by a thousand meters. We are very excited about the news, even if it is only a kilometer. We have been humbled during these dreadful days.

  13 July: Except for having to take turns on watch, we all got a few hours sleep last night. Wow, we got some real sleep! Yes, it really does exist! This of course doesn’t mean that these few hours of sleep have really refreshed us. The opposite is true—I feel groggy. All my bones ache from sleeping crouched in a hole. So, get out of the trench and shake those bones. Though most of us don’t have the chance to do so, since the Russians plant a round of good morning fire at our position. All of the bushes in front of us have been trimmed—the best gardeners could hardly have done a better job.

  Unbelievable, comrade, it could have all gone wrong! Someone tells us that he has seen phantom troops; another reports that they have gone into position behind our lines. Someone else is talking about new weapons and a mysterious DO device that has been brought into position in order to be used for the very first time to break through the tough Russian resistance.

  An enormous detonation from cannon fire disrupts our guesswork. A single pounding impact and a yellowish white wall of smoke rises up about 500 meters, blocking out the sun for a short time. Hundreds of missiles—they must be missiles gauging from the smoke tail—howl through the air toward the enemy. A second, third, and fourth round follow soon after. This is a rare spectacle! We have left our trenches and are standing on top of the cover to admire the show. It has beaten the wind out of the Russians, who have not fired a single shot from the other side.

  I get more information about the spectacle at noon: the DO device is able to fire multiple rocket-propelled shells simultaneously. The shells are filled with flame-oil. Once the projectile hits the ground the flameoil splatters everywhere, setting everything ablaze. The effect must be devastating. Despite this, the Russians continue to hold their positions.

  Our heads are bloodied when we attempt to break through enemy positions on part of the border. The Reds are beginning their counterattack. We manage to bring it to a halt, though with a number of casualties larger than theirs. We have almost reached the end of our fighting strength. The unbearable heat and the brutality of combat have battered us. We will only be able to take the waves of Russian attacks for a little while longer! We need fresh troops! In the past two days Infantry Regiments 529 and 528 have lost 380 and 304 men, respectively. The replacements are coming too slowly. Enormous projectiles are crashing into our positions. They rip large chunks out of the ground. What an honor it is that these gentlemen are wasting their large calibers on a bunch of poor ants like us.

  It is getting serious now. The Reds have brought railroad cannons onto the track in the direction of Zhitomir [Ukraine], where they are out of reach of our ordnance. In the evening, the Russian schweine attack us under the cover of heavy fire. They manage to push us back a few kilometers to the outskirts of the town.

  I could cry out of anger and frustration. Nothing works anymore. My body does not want to cooperate any longer. My nerves are singing like the wires of a t
elegraph. Will I ever see my home again?

  Today’s toll: 20 dead, 11 missing, and 163 wounded. Dear Rosel! My Butziben, keep your dad in dear memory!

  14 July: We are ordered to attack this morning at 0800 hours. However, yesterday’s thunderstorm has flooded the roads and rendered them impassable. What now? The following radio message arrives around 0900: “Attack postponed. Reorganize into defensive formation!” So, the Russians are going to attack again. Yes. And how badly they attack! The large calibers buzz over into our positions. Whole series of shells are accompanied by smaller calibers and rounds with tremendous shrapnel capacity.

  In sequence, bombers drop their eggs at low altitude. Fighters spew forth rounds of machine gun fire into our trenches. It is a hellish spectacle capable of robbing a man of his sanity. Half crazy, we crouch down in our trenches. All around us the ground is being thrown into the air—right before our very eyes. To our left and right, to our rear… flames dart everywhere. My hair is charred. A large chunk of soil flies against my helmet and knocks me out for a brief moment. And then they come, the roten teufel [Red devils]. “Hurrah! Hurrah!”

  The first ones close in on us to within 50 meters. We clamber out of our trenches. The machine gun crews stay behind to give us cover. Are these the same people? Their faces are distorted beyond recognition. The hate and endless anger against these bloodhounds switches off any sort of thinking. We end the attack half an hour later. I do not remember the details of the butchery. It is unbelievable, but true. We ran forward like homicidal maniacs. We shot, slashed, and beat. We fell down, got up, and stormed forward again. I am just not able to remember all of the details. And look at us! My shirt is torn, my hands and knees are bleeding, and there are traces of blood all over my uniform. On the collar of my left boot hangs a piece of pulverized brain. I have to vomit. Enough! Now comes the reaction. I feel dizzy and have cold chills—nerve fever.

  15 July: I slept 20 hours straight and am feeling much better now. Large caliber shells and bombs have changed a great deal the appearance of our position.

  I can only wonder about this: I did not notice any of the fire spectacles while I was lying well protected in the medic’s tent. I must have been sleeping like the dead.

  A shimmering heat lingers over our position. Water sits in large puddles in our muddy trenches and gives off an odor of decay. The air and the ground are alive with insects. Black masses of flies gather on anything edible. Apart from some light artillery fire, it has been a relatively quiet today. The rest has done me well. We are further encouraged by the words of [Sixth Army’s Field Marshal Walter von] Reichenau; he sends us his greatest respect for our courage and bravery.

  16 July: The front line has not moved. There has been no combat worth mentioning. Every now and then, there are single rifle shots, the chugging of a machine gun, or even a few rounds of artillery. Bombers attack our position around noon. A stockpile of ammunition was hit; the explosion tears eight comrades apart, and many more are wounded. The loud blare of battle is coming from both the left and right flanks. Divisions of fresh troops are apparently attacking there and are making good progress. Will the Russians finally have to run?

  17 July: We are blessed with enemy fire this morning. Their shelling hammers into our positions for an hour, and Ratas appear as a surprise. They are flying about twenty meters over our heads and fire into our columns. The spectacle is then suddenly over. Shots are no longer being fired by them; then we get the message that the Russians are retreating. We can’t believe it. We’ve gotten excited over one too many false messages during these past few days. And yet, it is all true. Our artillery fires into units of fleeing Russians.

  Orders for an attack arrive in the afternoon. By dusk we conquer a stretch of about 4 kilometers of the Forest of the Dead northeast of Zwiahel. The terrible ten days of trench warfare, with all of its horrors, hours of artillery fire, and bloody man-to-man combat is finally over.

  Our eyes are filled with tears of joy.

  18 July: The Reds must have had tremendous casualties, since our artillery fire was correctly targeted. Shreds of tree trunks are all over the ground. Our shelling has ripped apart the forest floor. Among the destruction lie hundreds of bodies, demolished gear, vehicles, and every type of gun. Bodies of the hated enemy lie in massive piles in front of their positions. The bodies are blackened and swollen by the heat. The terrible, pungent smell of decay looms over the entire forest. Many, many of our comrades can finally be buried.

  Much of the details of the battles during these last days remind me of the grim forest battles in La Besace [France] a year ago, but the Russian is a different opponent than the Belgians and French. At that time, we fought against men who, as soldiers, applied intelligence, endurance, and experience; the enemy here resembles a dull, indifferent, soulless machine of destruction and death. At our leisure, we took the Russians in our vice grip. The French would have learned from experience and attempted to avoid unnecessary casualties. These guys here fight like mad until nothing moves. They never surrender!

  This evening we suddenly receive artillery fire out of the blue. I go on watch during the night, those eerie hours. We know that there are still many Russian schweine hidden in the forest. The night is pitch black. Every creak in the woods could be a Russian lurking around. I’m at my wits end. Morning finally arrives and brings with it the obligatory artillery fire.

  19 July: I’m hungry. Food has been sparse and bad for days now. Cigarettes, the Kola Dallmann [a popular cola based candy] of the German soldier, are also no longer available.

  It is raining. The damn stench of the dead bodies is worse than ever. We have the worst case of malaria. Reading Rosel’s letters is my only joy. I pray to God that I return safe and sound.

  20 July: The Reds have moved into a new defensive position which they try to hold onto with all of their might. This is the third line of the Nowograd-Wolynok [Zwiahel] bunkers—part of the Stalin Line. We’ve gotten a few bloody heads trying to storm those damn concrete bunkers. Because we are so exhausted, they don’t expect us to venture into a second round of attacks.

  Thank God! We are being replaced by fresh troops. We remain on alert in the forest. We dig our trenches close to a group of artillery cannons which had been moved in as reinforcements.

  Since we have always been the first line of defense, we have never had the opportunity to see the firing of the 21cm long barrel cannons at close range. Our eyes and mouths are wide open in awe of these guns—first in awe, then to protect our eardrums. Such a monster requires a crew of forty. It fires up to a distance of 40km. The projectile weighs three centners [approximately 150kg or 330 lbs]. The effect of its shrapnel covers an area of approximately 1,000 meters—enough to yank the molars out of many Russians at no extra charge. A single shot costs about 2,000 Reichsmark. “People, come to the donation box! Who has not donated yet, who still wants to buy a WHW [lottery ticket]?” Two thousand Marks a pop! That is the combined income of the Praunheim and Romerstadt donation boxes. Prepare yourselves collectors, as many more shots are being fired today. And by the way, the cannons here are booty from Czechoslovakia and were manufactured by Skoda. They were built for the Turkish Army but ended up in the German Army. Yes indeed, the Sudetenland Campaign has indeed brought something good.

  Our commander gives a speech in the afternoon that fills us with pride.

  The 299th Infantry Division has been able to withstand the pressure from the Russian 5th Army for days now. The Russians deployed into battle their elite troops from the Moscow defense force. Their one last task is to push a wedge between us and Group von Kleist. They will fail.

  Soviet soldiers captured by the Germans close to Uman in present day Ukraine, summer 1941. (Photograph courtesy of Håkan Henriksson)

  Crucial operations in the south are in jeopardy. We are all now well aware of the situation and will fight, fight until the last man is left standing. We face several difficult hours ahead. Enormous casualties have weakened our fighting pow
er. The Moscow radio station broadcast yesterday that the 298th and 299th Infantry Divisions were destroyed near Zwiahel—nothing more than wishful thinking! It’s not over yet! Did we not just beat you by five hours in reaching the Slucz River? Is that your reason for barking into the microphone! You guys could barely run fast enough! We’ll teach you how to run, but in the opposite direction.

  Unbelievable! Our tired bunch is ordered to rest for a few days in a neighboring village! This good news has caught us by surprise! It’s about time! The casualties would otherwise be great.

  Ukrainian women enlisted to help German soldiers at a stone quarry in Postepnoye, Ukraine. (Photograph courtesy of Håkan Henriksson)

  22 July: We move into the village in separate groups this morning. It has been severely destroyed from our artillery fire. All that remain of its original inhabitants can be found on four or five farms at most. They stand in front of their cottages with curiosity rather than anger in their faces. Perhaps they just have good self-control. They must be curious about what will happen next.

  Our first mission is to split up and search for food. “Min Bohn” was very lucky. He found a pack of “Mahorka” [Soviet brand of tobacco]. The good soul is standing out on the side of the road handing it out to us. Everybody gets a small portion.