Tonight our fate will be determined.
Kharkov town center prior to German occupation. (Photo courtesy of www.wwii-photos-maps.com)
At 20.00 hours the concentrated storm on the city begins.
At different locations the enemy succeeds in breaking through; in bloody close combat he is beaten, breaks through again at different places, infiltrates the field hospital and causes a horrific bloodbath among the wounded. With limitless fury we force him back again, not being in control of our senses, we are shooting, stabbing and beating around us like in the throws of madness. On a ward in a side wing of the hospital there has been a horrible struggle. The Reds do not have any more hand grenades; with long sticks the Caucasians beat at us, with our rifles we force them towards the windows and throw them hand over feet out the windows into the yard. I look terrible, the hands are bleeding, the uniform is ripped, soiled with brain matter and dirt. A tank shell rips howling through the outer wall, a hand-sized fragment rips the head off the body of my companion, nothing happens to me. Damned, am I immune?
Up until the early morning hours there is bitter fighting in all street quarters. With the breaking of dawn the attack has finally been defeated.
January 9: The pressure of group Dostler, approaching from the south, onto the deep open flank of the enemy is definitely discernable.
Around 10.00 a.m. the enemy attempts another breakthrough in the north, but with the aide of our two storm cannons this undertaking is stopped and squashed right in its inception.
Outside the heavy firing, the day passes in relative calm. The hour has arrived when we, together with our infantry, assemble for the counterattack. At around 21.00 hours our own intelligence reports that the enemy is retreating toward the northwest while leaving a rearguard. He must retreat because he is forced to do so from the outside.
January 10: The connection with group Dostler stands. The retreating enemy is nearly completely destroyed; the remaining troops are forced eastward.
January 11: The small brave fighting group of Obojan takes a roll call at the main city center where there remains not one building standing. The general, who was awarded the Knight’s Cross the day before, thanks his men. He reads a thank-you telegram from the Führer, which makes us all very proud. (Only once before during this war has the Führer issued a similar personal telegram: This was to general Dietl at Narvik.)
We can hardly believe it: Obojan is free again, and free is the connection to the rear areas in Kursk and Charkow. Finally there is something to eat and finally we can sleep in. Unimaginable hard days lie behind us, bitter fighting at temperatures of –45 degrees Celsius. But despite everything we held on to Obojan, thus honoring our dead comrades. They will not have died in vain!
The heavy casualties of these fights are demonstrated by the following numbers:
Dead are 195 men
Missing in action: 18 men
Wounded: 327 men, 65 of whom are suffering from exposure of the severest degree.
540 brave men gave their blood, 540 of 1, 130 defenders. I believe numbers speak louder than words.
What the Russians had planned and their overwhelming manpower is demonstrated in the following order which we intercepted from a captured lieutenant; it refers to the large scale attack of January 8th and 9th:
O. must be taken under all circumstances during the night of 1/8 – 1/9. Available are: 16 battalions [assuming 500 men per battalion we were looking at at 8,000 men] and heavy weaponry. From 17.00 hours until 20.30 hours O. is to be attacked with all available artillery and tanks in order to be stormed. At 20.30 hours the battalion Potowka will break through the German outpost in the north, will battle through the outer city fortification and will march in spearhead formation towards the south of the city. After successfully reuniting with our own troops stationed in the south the city is to be annexed according to plan.
In order to prevent the enemy from escaping from Obojan, the Samonew, Timansko, and Lachiwirkow battalions will form a blockade to the northeast and east; an additional regiment will take care of the south (Omsk).
Battalions “Maxim Gorki” 2 and 3 will traverse from the north to the northeast, thereby regaining the connection to those stationed in the south. Again, please refer to the special command of 12/17/41. This special command, issued by Stalin, which we have known about since Christmas, states this among other things: “In the future, the only Germans I want to see are dead Germans!”
Oh well, those horrible days are over, and the Bolsheviks have had to reckon without their host. We too seldom take prisoners now.
12 January: Sleeping, sleeping, and more sleeping.
13 January: A strong, agile raid party is formed under the leadership of Colonel Hackle. At various locations to the east of Obojan, there continues to be heavy fighting.
The Reds succeeded on January 1, just at the eleventh hour, in leading two regiments through the gap near Rshawa, who were to provide reinforcements to the occupiers. We would have fared really badly had they been able to advance more quickly. The two regiments rejoined those who were flooding back, forcing the combat to continue near Werch-Dunajez.
14 January: In a forced march, our assault detachment is thrown there. The fighting and the cold over the last few weeks have worn us out badly. My men are only skin and bones, and the “corpses” now truly have a deathly pallor about them. Ever since the early morning hours, we have been laboring through the goddamn snow. For hours now, the storm has been blowing across the land. It eats through our coat and any protective clothing; it curdles the blood and petrifies our bones so much so that the freezing temperatures feel like a biting pain in all our nerves. By now, only the long poles, which are standing in the snowdrifts on the sides of the roads, show us the way. Darkness is falling upon us. The long nights now stand over this land where a relentless wind from the tundra rushes over the solemn, white distances, cold as a knife under the merciless, blinking stars. At -40° C, our weapons speak a terrible language. Who has not, during these winter days, and indeed, how many times, been called to the utmost limits of his strength!
After a short rest in a run-down hut (no one is allowed to sleep, although we are dog tired, and just about at the end of our strength), we carry on. At daybreak we reach Werch-Dunajez.
15 January: The enemy is sitting before us at Saikin and Plotawo. Our infantry comrades, whose ranks we now join, tell us about the Reds over there. These are new forces which have been brought over from the Soviet Far East; reserves whom the Soviet leadership believes will change their luck in this war to their favor this winter.
Yesterday, our infantry took Werch-Dunajez; the rubble is still smoldering. They are a crazy bunch, those Caucasians, Kyrgyzsians, and Mongols; stoically, they stay put in their snow dugouts when resistance is hopeless. Perhaps they are hoping to go undetected. But their hope is in vain, as our eyes are now accustomed to the snow.
In the dark night, Soviet forces, the strength of one battalion, march toward our positions. Their actions are unfathomable. Our outposts detect them, and within 100 meters, they are smashed to a pulp by the combined fire of our vigilant company. They cover the bottom of the basin in a wildly gruesome pile, at the point where death met them while fleeing or marching.
We press forward toward Saikin and Plotawo. In the villages, the sight after our attack is not any different. Corpses—nothing but corpses. The penetrating Soviet forces suffer immeasurable blood sacrifices. The immense Red losses give too easily the wrong impression that our fight here in the East is not that difficult. To the contrary; the true picture of the enemy goes like this: tough, stubborn, and malicious.
It will never be possible to describe in words the deprivation and exertion that we have suffered during these defensive fights led by our brave infantry comrades.
16 January: A deep layer of snow covers the ground, and we have to fight for each step that we take. The icy cold temperature freezes our limbs solid, and our fingers would stick to metal if we were to touch
it with our bare hands.
In front of us Gotschegurowka is burning; it still has to be captured today. The Red defense is tough, and for some of us, this is the hour in which our life becomes fulfilled. In this burning village, where there is not a single house that remains standing, our company will spend the night. Where? Next to a smoldering beam, in a snow hole, in a windsheltered corner of a remnant of a house that still stands? The only thing we know is that we will indeed spend the night here, despite the cold, despite the privation. Will the supply trucks follow us, or will we have to set up camp where there is no camp, and with our stomachs growling? Will we awake after a freezing night, with frost-bitten limbs, and sense nothing like a warm tea, a warm meal until—if the attack does not continue—supplies have reached us? Maybe we will just chew on the hard zwieback of our iron rations, and try to thaw the frozen meat in tin cans.
17 January: Orders take us to Jekaterinowka, to secure the Rshawa battery. Approaching from the south, two regiments, who are relying on Group Dostler, are moving into the 40km gap. But the Russians have also been able to bring in strong forces. Bitter fighting takes place, the outcome of which is of absolute importance to Charkow and Kursk. Our own tanks are rolling behind us; Stukas successfully enter the combat. In a tough wrestling match, our regiments succeed in pushing the enemy slowly to the east.
We are marching straight through the embattled area. The field of corpses that is left behind in the occupied villages is wretched. The black dots that cover the distant snowfields cannot find any graves. Who is supposed to dig into this ground, which is frozen solid two meters deep? Who is supposed to collect the innumerable Soviets? We are the only ones digging graves for our own comrades. An explosive charge pushes up the hard earth, and a cross in the snow, forged by the men’s hard fists, pays witness to the fact that somebody here has given his life in this never-ending battle in the East.
And so, the victorious battle rages on, as the Soviet reserves bleed to death. We know that the resistance is not as strong everywhere else as it is in this particular area, where the Soviets want to force them to break through with all of their might. We are standing at the focal point of the Eastern Front. But at least we know that at this particular point, there will be no decisive success by the Soviets.
18 January: On the road at –40° C, 1.5 meters of snow, and an ice storm.
19 January: Toward the evening, we reach Jekaterinowka. As we are frozen solid to the bone, we set up camp as quickly as possible. Camping in the village—now that sounds cozy. A warm lamp and a crackling fire, a solid bed, a soothing drink, bacon and eggs—France, you are so far away! This is the reality: you push open the door and immediately have to duck, because otherwise, you would smash your head into a wooden beam. If you are lucky enough to pick your quarters, a hot stench assaults you, rests on your suffocating lungs and chest, and a sluggish cow, which has been lying on warm, soaked straw, raises her head. Only then will you enter through another door into the actual living room, where now a briny odor surrounds you. But your nose has long since been dulled against all these smells, and even if it were only just months ago, you had thought it impossible to endure such emanations for even half an hour, you see quite realistically now that the stove is burning and there is enough space for you and your comrades.
In the flickering light of a candlestick there is the familiar picture: sprawled above the stove a farmer is in hibernation next to the chickens and a malenki (a small pig). Now between these rags and the rubbish on the stove bench, there are a few children’s heads moving, staring at you with large eyes; and even the children, too, appear to you like strange animals, dirty, crawling and slithering, but under no condition human.
God, if these were the only living creatures living in this house! The candle dies down, and now the house pets start to emerge from every corner. Bugs, fleas, and lice, the hours become torturous and suffering; not a thought of getting some refreshing forty winks, as now they are all stuck to your clothes. Day after day you go lice hunting; forty, fifty, and even three times more is the daily loot. And how disgusting is the scurrying of the mice, which the winter forces from the fields into the houses, and who are now racing and whisking with their thin whistle all over your body and face as soon as you lie down. On this particular night, the mice chew fist-sized holes into the pockets of my coat, which I wear while I sleep. There were small remnants of zwieback in the pockets—pieces of my iron ration.
The next morning, you get up, only to be confronted once again with the reality of how soiled and dirty this quarter is, how all the tools are covered in goop and full of dung, how disgustingly greasy the table is, how gummed up the benches are—and yet, you are still grateful to have encountered such good quarters.
In the villages on the front, there where our last security forces lie, the picture is a completely different one. There, misery resides in every hut; there is no straw to be found, and at night, you put your coat on the cracking, ice-cold ground, or you pack yourself onto a hard, wooden table. And yes, the bugs have taken refuge from the cold in the cracks of the planks; in their place, however, the mice and rats hunt through the living room unafraid, and in broad daylight, which allows you to club down ten or even twenty of them. This doesn’t matter and makes little difference. You can also see lice taking a walk in the broad daylight; they crawl upon you and you are unable to defend yourself. And here on the front you must also be prepared at any hour for a hailstorm of fire to come over you, or for a sudden attack from the Reds in the middle of the cold-stiff night, or to be aroused from the urgently needed sleep because perhaps a few houses down there might appear out of the blue an enemy reconnaissance patrol.
20 January: During the afternoon our units clear out. Tomorrow morning we will march back to Obojan, where new tasks await us.
We use the few hours of quiet to finally write a letter home. Who knows when these few lines will reach our loved ones back home? Snow drifts several meters high have made it impossible for the vehicles to pass through the roads.
Watch patrol at midnight. Billions of stars hang in the ice-cold winter sky. Once in awhile a shooting star falls in a glimmering path. Wish for something, foot soldier, if that spark of an old childhood dream is even still alive in you. With lightning speed, a thought of the holidays crosses my mind. But that silly dream is nothing but a memory. Those days were already over when the shooting star announced coming happiness. This war silences all such hope.
Far in the distance, bright fire illuminates the sky. It returns often, and a few seconds later, the muffled sounds of the artillery rumbles over us. Over there, our comrades are confronting the enemy; at this very moment they are probably ducking into a snow hole to avoid the howling song of the enemy’s shells, or their bodies will rise like shadows out of the ground, storming forward to attack.
21 January: Departure for Obojan. Strong snowstorm!
22 January: We are supposed to have two days of rest, since on the 24th we are supposed to take our position with Lieutenant Hegner in Woroschilowa.
Not much needs to be logged during these days. Weapons and equipment are inspected and we catch up on a lot of sleep. When the mail comes through on the 23rd, there is overwhelming joy. At night, there is hardly any sleep because the heavy 100-pound bombs are thundering down on the city until the early hours of the morning.
24 January: On our way to Woroschilowa. Attacks from Russian fighters and bombers. At night we set up camp in a piss-poor, godforsaken village. Exhausted to death, and half frozen, we wrap ourselves in blankets.
Sleeping, just sleeping! A telegram rips us from our uneasy slumber. God damn it! Is there no rest at all to be had by us?!
Strong enemy forces threaten the area around Woroschilowa; we have to march tonight. Again, out into the cold—fighting over and over—fighting, is there anything else for us?
Thank God the road is good and there are only small snowdrifts; the Sturmpionieren have been able to hold them open for the ammunition and s
upply convoys. These brave men too, achieve the impossible here. We will never forget these quiet, faithful helpers and pathfinders in the truest sense of the word.
Despite the brightness of the moon, we are unable to discern anything around us. The many dark spots along the side of the road—are they piles of sand which have been hauled in here from afar by the Sturmpionieren during the day and stored there, or are they dead horses? One really doesn’t look there anymore, as everybody is occupied with himself, and we have all seen enough horse cadavers—thankfully frozen—slashed by the sharp beaks of birds which now line the streets in the East.
One hardly looks out over the vast plain, where on the horizon, between the forest and the icy river gorges, where the enemy’s gun flashes, as well as our own, light up the sky—a distant fire display toward which we are moving in a silent march.
“Still 5km to Woroschilowa!” We know that when they say five, they mean ten. Misleading us is the trump card of these forced marches. We listen to shot after shot; in between the sometimes loud and sometimes quiet strikes, we drift off into our thoughts.
We make it through an area of forest. We are wishing that we were finally at the front in our ditches and dugouts! Not only because the temperature has fallen below –35° C. No, much more so because we know that the enemy is directly in front of us over there. Here on the road, he is everywhere, lying in snow holes and bushes waiting to ambush us; shooting from his traps and burying wooden mines along his way.
25 January: Woroschilowa—a heap of rubble amongst a pathetic trench system—our new position. The daily assault from the shells does not allow the snow to stay on the ground for long. As our comrades tell us, this can also be considered a “frontline” position because every day something burns down here, the flames at least giving us some much needed warmth. Besides the shelling and the artillery fire, nothing much happens today. On the other side, as well as here, men are resting from yesterday’s major offensive.
Eastern Inferno Page 15
