Eastern Inferno

by Christine Alexander

  A partisan group of 2,000 men has been reported. We deploy our men and encounter initial exchanges with these well-armed gangs. They possess machine guns, mortars, PaKs, and even infantry weapons. As these schweine are beginning to seriously threaten Lebedyn, we acquire reinforcements from Achtyrka. At one point, we even have to flee, leaving our dead and injured men behind, whom we later find mutilated like animals. In the town itself, insecurity is mounting. A petty officer is mugged; the culprit is hanged from the gallows on the very same day. The next evening I was attacked by two thugs. It was pitch dark out, and they were both able to escape into the labyrinth of housing nearby. One of them must have been badly injured, for during our sweep of the area the next morning we notice traces of blood all over the place. Nevertheless, we have not been able to apprehend the perpetrators.

  During the afternoon, ten hostages were shot dead. We are now acting with an iron fist; the gallows in the town square is always busy. Executions are the daily norm. It has to be this way.

  We receive bad news from the front: on November 21, the part of the division that had a chance to recuperate has left in a rush in order to meet up with Petersdorf Group, which is in charge of the extremely dangerous Obojan sector of the front.

  Meanwhile, it has become terribly cold, rarely above -25° to -30° C. The majority of us are still lacking winter clothes and we encounter our first cases of frostbite.

  12 December: The largest part of the division leaves Lebedyn. In a “sleeper car,” i.e. mainly by railroad tracks, we reach Obojan on the 19th.

  22 December: The division is divided into individual security groups which are now under the command of different units. The front here is very thin, and not at all without breaks. Near Rshawa, the demarkation line to the neighboring army, there is a 40km length of the front line that is unoccupied. What we encounter here at the front is not at all encouraging. This is supposed to be our winter position. Are we not supposed to halt the onslaught of the Reds here?

  You just want to cry; a few holes have been blasted into the frozen solid ground, a little bit of barbed wire, that’s all! The men who we relieve have boney, pale faces; there is a strange glimmer in their eyes. They shake our hands in silence and slowly make their way to the rear. An hour later, a direct hit brings us two deaths and several wounded.

  Tonight is the first mass attack from the Bolsheviks. With the support of tanks, fast ski battalions come over us like a tornado. An icy eastern wind forces snow into our faces; our eyes are swollen shut, our weapons refuse to operate. We have a visibility of no more than ten steps in front of us. Here and there, a Red tank appears out of the snow, like a ghost, often only meters away. The muffled roars of hand grenades, wild screams, horrific hand-to-hand combat is happening all around us. Two cannons are overrun.

  There is no more holding on—everyone for himself!

  In Kolchos, two kilometers behind the front line, our group gathers back together. We wait and wait, for half of our unit is still missing—no one else appears…. The drama has begun ….

  23 December: We receive reinforcements during the night, but the men are so exhausted they’re on the verge of collapsing. They have done the unimaginable, marching 30 kilometers in knee-deep snow during an ice storm, even bringing with them two cannons. Under these circumstances, a counterattack is senseless, yet tomorrow it will be too late.

  We do not understand why the Reds have not followed through.

  Under strong tank attacks new holes are blasted, and the Panje huts and potato bins are transformed into bunkers.

  24 December: There is increased reconnaissance activity on both sides during the day. It has gotten even colder, -30° C, someone says. As we are already lacking ammunition, along with two men, I take a small Panje sleigh and we start to move toward the battalion command post. The small, emaciated Russian horse trots with small steps. In front of its mouth is a cloud of steam; its matted hair is crusted over with ice.

  It’s so cold our breath wants to freeze. All of us have pulled up the collars of our coats; ice hangs from our caps and our beards, even though we are hiding our heads down around our shoulders. Our legs are wrapped with sheepskin. Without mercy, the storm blows the snow like sand over the small path, which has been frozen over by glass-like ice.

  Our horse stumbles along. The cold reigns relentlessly over this vast landscape which we try, in vain, to shut out. No one says a word, for it seems as if each word, once uttered, will freeze. The miserable huts stand frozen solid like glass in the snow. Beneath our hard steps, the snow crunches loudly as we hurriedly try to shorten the distance, for the cold aches like an open wound.

  Finally, after two hours of exhausting stomping in the snow, a small hill appears. Alongside the hill you can see the exposed, tall birch trees, but as you approach, you are able to recognize that there are caves within the earth, in front of which are squeaking lids intended as doors. This is the entrance to the battalion command post, which is under fire every day.

  The interior of the room is dominated by a stove made of clay and dirt, with the chimney being nothing more than tin cans stacked on top of each other. A meager light provides just enough illumination to study maps and write orders. Four officers are sitting inside with their legs crossed; all non-essential items have been stacked outside. Above the stove there is bread and meat on a wooden plank; it was frozen and had to be thawed. Just like all the other food items, it freezes during the short distance it takes to get from the field kitchen to the bunker and has to once again be thawed.

  Suddenly a heavy fire attack races over the hill. We seek protection in the soldiers’ dugouts, which are of course the same as ours, meaning nothing but a hole in the ground, 1.7 meters wide and 50cm high, with out any light or warmth, and intended to accommodate two men. These days, quite a few holes have lost their owners, and so we find refuge easily.

  Thirty minutes later and the firestorm has passed. With stiff bones, we crawl into the daylight only to see that our good little “Kunny,” along with our most valuable sleigh, has been beaten to pieces, lying in a pool of red broth. I am so angry that the curses I try to shout are stuck in my throat. How are we supposed to bring the precious ammunition up to the front, to our frontline brothers?

  A short while later, a group of ten men with heavy sacks and ammunition on their backs, leaves the battalion. In silence and frostbitten hands, each of them steps grimly into the footprints of the man in front of him.

  Oh how our thoughts are so different. Today is Christmas Eve, and at this time everyone will be lighting the Christmas tree at home; little Erika’s eyes beaming, Rosel standing there next to her smiling quietly. Her mother’s heart will be heavy; all her thoughts will be far away, here with me. One burning wish will be with all: God, let him return safely to us! Just don’t think, don’t become soft, wipe away the ice from under your eyes!

  Our comrades are waiting desperately for the grenades, because today the Reds, who hold nothing sacred in this world, will begin their storm! Someone is moaning, his feet frozen, he can hardly walk anymore. His load is distributed among us and we march on. Just hurry up, hurry!

  It is already dark when we arrive half-dead from exhaustion at our group. We receive official orders to get some sleep in one of the holes. Ridiculous! Who is able to sleep when upstairs there is thundering and howling, and every man is needed? So out of these ditches we go!

  Our shells tear into the rows of storming Reds, shredding large holes into the Asian pack. These guys fear shells like the plague, since there are no tanks to back them up as they retreat shortly thereafter.

  Oh holy night!

  Twice they return tonight, and twice we herd them back with their heads bloodied.

  Oh holy night!

  The candle burns all night long in the earthen bunker of the medical orderly; moans and screams can be heard from there. Near the morning hours it quiets down; our battalion does not have to suffer anymore.

  25 December: We are huddled outsid
e in the firing hole with our machine guns. We handle our weapons carefully and cautiously; we cannot repeat what happened on December 22. Not a drop of oil can touch the steel, for it will freeze immediately.

  We look over to where the enemy is lying, he who would love to form an alliance with winter and who tries again and again to break through our positions. We have learned quite a few things from him already: we wear our shirts over our coats now, and as we have no white paint, each morning we quickly piss on the steel door, then spread snow over it, and there is your camouflage.

  Soviet fighters approach, howling, in low altitude flights. The whole mess is now starting up again. We grab our ammunition clips. The enemy’s artillery is revving up; we are lucky to have such deep snow, for on the rock-hard frozen ground, the effects of the detonations are so much stronger. We hear the tanks rattling closer, and we know that there will be no rest for many hours.

  Over on the other side, the enemy’s snowshoe units are emerging silently from the forest in their white coats. Our machine guns are barking, our hand grenades are ready; our comrades inside the bunkers have been alerted and are firing while standing behind the trees, as the icy and crusty earth offers no cover. And as so often has been the case within the last few days, the hard fight begins, man against man, with their own weapons becoming a dangerous liability, because their hands freeze to them if they touch the metal with bare fingers.

  Machine gun bursts shred the white bark off the trees. The air is humming with them. We can hear the heavy ones way ahead of time, and everyone breathes a sigh of relief once they pass by us. All of a sudden, flames jump out of the forest; an enemy tank has been destroyed. The fighting dies down, artillery and guns are quiet. We look at the fire and think that over there, there is warmth, lots of warmth…. The fighting has moved to a neighboring area. We are mesmerized by the fire and are compelled against our will to fantasize about a large stove, a deep chair, or a soft bed in which one could sleep for an entire night without wearing these clothes that are stiff from dirt, or without being tortured by pests, or without having to have our weapons within arm’s reach.

  26 December: The front is thin. At night, we receive orders to distance ourselves from the enemy. To the south, the Bolsheviks have succeeded at breaking deep into the front; our right flank has been seriously threatened. Overnight, the Reds took Dmitrijeskoje.

  Our group is supposed to retreat to Troizkoje. One squad—our squad—remains behind for protection. The enemy tries to push after us. All day long, the rattling of machine guns does not stop; all day long, the squad huddles in their holes and defends themselves against the enemy.

  Only on the following night is our squad able to meet up with the battalion, find our way through the snow desert with the help of a compass, and take a new position near Troizkoje, which the Sturmpionieren have blasted into the icy ground.

  27 December: Gray clouds cover the skies; mighty untamed storms drive icy needles into our faces. Up in the black trees crows are cawing. This time, though, we fare better, taking turns so that we can warm ourselves inside the dilapidated huts. There, we sit and stare into the open fire. Each of us is occupied in his own thoughts. There is great unrest inside me; I feel that some sort of enormous atrocity is brewing against us. As my comrades all of a sudden cling blindly to my predictions, good or bad, I must not show my feelings. The crackling wood also allows our thoughts to wander down pleasant paths. We are thinking of home.

  “The devil knows what kind of winter it would have been…,” someone says, not having to finish his sentence—we all know what he means: if this barrel would have started rolling, which was hit so hard near Bialystok and Minsk, near Gomel and Kiev, and near Bryansk or Vyazma—what kind of winter would it have been back in Germany. These days, we think about this often.

  28 December: After intensive preparation work by the artillery, the Russians attack in the early morning hours, and what an attack it is! The fight is hopeless! New and more masses flood toward us; within a short time, and backed up by tanks, they succeed at driving deep wedges into the line on both sides of Troizkoje. By noon we are already encircled. Unit I/JR 214, which is rushing to our aid, is completely decimated by the Reds, save fourteen men, who push their way through to us. (Later, we found the horribly mutilated corpses lying in heaps.) Poor boys! They had come fresh from the west, from Biawitz. What were they to know about these Caucasian monsters and their methods of fighting!

  The situation is becoming more and more desperate. We wire to Obojan: “Group Petersdorf is trapped, send support!” At 1910 hours, we receive the answer: “Break through the encirclement, rush to Obojan!”

  A 22cm bull’s eye could not have been any more devastating than this cable—for heaven’s sake, is it really that bad? Is Obojan already being threatened? Are the neighboring battalions in retreat? These are the questions buzzing from one person to the next among us.

  The shooting has decreased. It appears as if they are boozing it up on the other side; a victory celebration, the storm carries their yelling and wailing. Their drunkenness brings us luck. Their cannons are blown up; vehicles and provisions burned.

  Shortly after midnight the breakthrough succeeds amidst terrible losses; at 0600 hours, the remainder of Group Petersdorf reaches Obojan.

  The details of what happened on this march could never be described in words—fleeing in 35° freezing temperatures and 75cm of snow from a superior force that is ten times larger! Only the healthy are able to make it with their last bit of strength; the injured, heavily or lightly, are lost in the snow, lying down and freezing to death or butchered by the Reds. We now know that most of them spared themselves this fate by a final bullet.

  29 December: Obojan is put on defensive alert. In the morning, a rare spectacle of nature: the sun rises three times. It looks quite bizarre; this strange phenomenon is most likely caused by light deflection in the icy air, which is over saturated with snow crystals. We do not have the time to stand for long and witness this; it is difficult to explode trenches into the ground which is frozen solid.

  The Russian population has a different experience. They are standing together in hordes and staring open-mouthed into the winter sky. Many throw themselves onto the hard ground, crying and screaming; the babushkas are on their knees—a sign from heaven! Death and destruction is going to come over the city! We already know this, even without an omen from the sky; within two days, life and death will be decided here, a few thousand Russians with strong tank forces are closing in on the city with only minimal resistance.

  The God damned 40km gap in the front line. It had to happen this way!

  30 December: Heinz Stichel has returned from Germany. He tells lots of beautiful stories from back home, but also brings news of the horrible famine in the Ukraine. They had a two-day layover in Kiev. Here it is the worst. Hundreds are starving to death each day. PaKs have been put into position on the streets and squares in order to extinguish right away any possible uprisings. One single, small, frozen potato now costs .45RM, a loaf of bread 25RM! The city’s population treks in masses far outside the town, often 30 kilometers away, to fields frozen solid in order to dig for potatoes with iron crowbars and axes.

  On both sides of the supply roads are figures clothed in rags, waiting for one of the small Panje horse to keel over from exhaustion. Like vultures, they scramble over the dying animal. Its body still warm and twitching, they cut into it and greedily take large chunks of meat, which never happens without any thrashing. Dear homeland, be content with the few meat coupons you have!

  At noon, Russian bombers appear out of the blue, circling for an hour over the city. One after another unloads its explosive cargo. Many houses burst into flames. At the end, pamphlets are dropped in huge quantities. They are directed at the civilian population. The contents: “Comrades! Leave Obojan, we are going to raze the city to the ground!”

  Hey, not so fast, what about us, we are still here after all!

  Nevertheless, a large por
tion of the population leaves the city with all of their belongings in hand, which is not a mistake—this way we at least have some space.

  In the evening we receive the bad news that a large supply and medical echelon was attacked and destroyed 25km from here, near Jakoblewo. This comes as a heavy blow. The railway to BjelgorodCharkow is the lifeline for 300km of the fighting front line; its destruction by the enemy means the following: no ammunition, no reinforcements, no provisions. During the night we receive orders to form two reconnaissance units, which are to be deployed in the direction of Jakoblewo.

  31 December: After heavy bombardment during the night, we leave the city at dawn. At around 0900 hours, we reach the location of the attack. The wreckage of a large truck is still smoking. In the streets and ditches lie the horribly mutilated bodies of our comrades. The chest of a lieutenant has been ripped open; intestines are lying in blood-soaked snow, only the heart is missing. We know from the events of the last few days that these savages, this Asian tundra scum, have eaten the hearts of the brutally slaughtered officers. Think of Karl May’s Indian Wars.

  The driver’s cabin of an ambulance is painted red with blood from the injured that have been massacred. Mail is scattered in the snow. Photographs of wives and children, the nicest Christmas present for loved ones on the front, are now soiled with blood. I read a small card with two small pictures attached to it: “Dear Dad, this is me, your Inge, and dear Mama. I have grown so big, when are you coming home?” Little Inge, he will never come home, your dad. Damn, tears are welling up in my eyes.

  We leave this place of horror; one of the reconnaissance units under Lieutenant Simons branches off to the right of the street, I myself, and my ten men and two machine guns, take off to the east.

  After a good hour of burdensome marching in high snow, we reach a miserable little village—no trace of the enemy. The locals are interrogated with pistols drawn against them. During the night, the Reds supposedly left this place and are lying in wait with a force of 500 men in the neighboring village. There are approximately 800 meters between them and us, and even more important is the fact that there is a gorge in between. It would be insanity to try and penetrate this with my men. This much I know I must do: very carefully I bring our two machine guns to the ridge of the gorge and place them into position. I am lying with my binoculars on a hill overlooking the ridge. Upon my signal, the machine guns suddenly bark out several rounds of ammunition.