A sketch of the Luftwaffe attack on February 18 that pounded Soviet artillery and infaantry positions. “Jabo” was German slang for Jagdbomber (fighter bomber).
20 February: Despite the snowstorm, which has picked back up, we are able to hear very faint artillery fire in the west. Could this be our savior? The attacks from Leski are becoming weaker and weaker by the hour, and end completely by around noon.
Suddenly, several bombers appear. We take cover with lightning speed. But this time they are Heinkels, which circle two or three times, and then deploy the much sought after ammunition and supplies.
A few of our tanks and shooters are approaching from the west! Replacements and guard changes! I see quite a few guys, strong as bears, with tears in their eyes. During the night a reconnaissance patrol makes contact with the relief troops arriving from the west.
21 February: The Reds are retreating and flee to the east. At 0900 hours, German tank forces reach Leski! The reception is indescribable. Full of deep joy and gratitude, we embrace our “black brothers,” our saviors. After a short break they begin to storm the enemy’s position. We cannot allow the Reds any room to breathe; we have to clean up over there finally, once and for all.
The afternoon passes with the orientation of the new replacements.
22 February: Relieved! A small number of dirty, dilapidated soldiers pass the area where our dead comrades lie. Half of them will remain here; here on top of the “coffin,” these brave men have found their final resting place. We have dug three large mass graves. The Red shells have done their dirty work here as well. The ground has been ploughed from strong explosions, the contents of the graves scattered, ripped apart for the second or third time. An even more gruesome one will soon replace this horrible picture.
After a four-hour march, we reach the location where the Reds butchered the 180 men of the marching battalion. These animals, these sub-humans, even had the time to mutilate the naked bodies of the dead soldiers and pile them up in large heaps. According to information from prisoners, these schweine even took a dozen photos of this place of horror. (Four weeks later, on March 25, hundreds of thousands of leaflets with reproductions of these pictures are dropped over Charkow-Bjelgorod.)
Physically and emotionally exhausted, our small group reaches Jakoblewo at dusk. Although everyone here knows the sorry sight of the Leski relief unit, this time someone turns his head around to look. We all resemble mad men: full beards cover our pale faces. Some of us are wearing Russian caps, while others are wearing the yellow-brown Red Army coats, sheep pelts, and sacks wrapped around their boots. Besides our weapons, we no longer have any gear left—no blankets, no bread bags, no water bottles or cooking utensils; everything, and I mean everything, has been completely destroyed for a third time on February 20. Now, two sleds are sufficient enough to pull away the last two machine guns. Our three cannons are lying shredded and overrun at the “coffin.”
23 February: Back in Obojan. Those days in Leski have affected us deeply on the outside as well as on the inside. Some are suffering from a bad case of nerve fever, others from severe frostbite. Rheumatism is also rampant. My leg hurts badly, probably from the last wound. But shit, we are soldiers and not old wives! And if any one of us has a nervous breakdown out here, so be it—later, at home, the love and patience of our wives will heal many surface and inner wounds.
24–28 February: On all sides of the front, heavy defensive battles are being fought. The winter that the Reds have placed all their hopes on is coming to an end. It is still terribly cold, icy blizzards are still whipping over the vast plains. “Now or never” is the motto which Stalin uses to force hundreds of thousands to run and bleed to death. We have reached the climax of the winter battle. Everybody performs like a super hero these days.
All sections of the unit, with their last reserves, take part on the defensive line. Defense means to ward off the enemy. Warding off does not imply waiting until the enemy arrives, until he takes the initiative and determines the outline of the battle. Warding off also demands counterattacks and engaging in reconnaissance patrols to find out the enemy’s intentions in order to beat him while his strategies and plans of action are taking shape. Warding off means conducting small skirmishes to acquire favorable positions. It not only means being consistently on guard, standing one’s ground in murderous artillery fire, holding out during attacks from the air, but also standing up to the power of tanks. It demands being prepared day and night. Warding off also means not being tired for a single second, always having your hands on your weapon. This eats at your nerves and takes its toll on the depleted strength of your body and soul.
At home, they will never be able to have even a remotely accurate picture of the demands that this defensive fight in the East requires of us: exhaustion, mobilization of will power, and personal sacrifice! Up front are the infantrymen, then us, the tank hunters, their eternal companions and most faithful friends! We are the front line, closest to the danger. During these months, we have seen nothing but snow, enemies, and desolate vastness; we experience nothing but danger and the battle of man versus nature.
For days, our boots do not come off our legs, and the warmth of a stove is far away. The cold temperatures and snowstorms shake us through and through, and even when we eat, one hand is always on our gun. One ear is always trained to the outside, listening for the enemy—even during those hours when combat has died down.
Doubling one’s own commitment and strength is required to compensate for the holes that death rips into our lines; the unwritten law of brotherhood and the moment’s necessities demand nothing less. I could give hundreds of gut-wrenching examples and incidents of such selfless comradeship among us frontschweine.
What makes these defensive battles here in the east so hard and filled with deprivation is the sheer mass of men and material that the enemy throws at our front ruthlessly and relentlessly. It is the battle against the snow, cold, and ice. These are the difficult hours, when ammunition becomes scarce and when from the other side, more and new waves of men are thrown at us. These are the difficult hours when the soldier at the front line is waiting in vain for food and drink, because the supply truck is stuck in a snowstorm. This is what it was like in Leski, when the superior force appears to be suffocating. These are also the trying hours for the leaders who are often confronted with the decision, “Shall we hold out any longer? Haven’t we already done everything humanly possible?” And still, none of us complains, we, who hold watch in the lonely foxholes of the East. None of us thinks of giving up hope just because a meal is missing. None of us thinks of cursing because our bodies have not felt the warmth of a stove for so long. We know that all of this is asked of us because the greater purpose of the war demands it of us.
The winter battle during these months has become the Second World War for us. We have been forced in this defensive battle to encounter war in its harshest form, further amplified by the brutality of the enemy.
Poland and France cannot be compared to the years of the Great War. Even we young soldiers know this from our own experience. The Eastern campaign, however, and especially the weeks spent here, would stand up to any comparison with the intensity of the Great War. And this means in all aspects!
It is trial by fire for the German Army, for each and every one of us. And we are up to the test a hundredfold, with a degree of duty and devotion which can truly only be appreciated by the direct leadership and the Führer himself; this man, who as an old frontline soldier, understands the thousands of horrors on the front line. We do not at all feel like “heroes”; we only want simple acknowledgment for our performance.
We do not want to be pitied for our hard life; we only want the pride and trust of our homeland. It is one of the more bitter experiences for us fighters on the front, during one of the most brutal wars ever, when someone, who does not know about all the misery and fighting in the trenches, already believes and talks about a lost battle, or furthermore, when for tactical reasons, a
village or section of land is surrendered back to the enemy. Those who speak like this trample on all the blood spilled while fighting for the ideal, and on the superhuman efforts which we take on with the last bit of our strength. What does it all amount to, such words like fighting, and exertion? What can the words snow, bitter cold, ice, loneliness, mental burden, blizzard, freezing, and poor roads, possibly mean compared to the reality? With those words, we connect a meaning from our European life which is not valid here in the East. Here they mean the exaggeration of the unbearable. Nature alone is presently throwing something into the battle, which can only be described as a gigantic intensification of the European winter. What Bolshevism throws into the field is completely opposite to any concept of true soldierly spirit; it is inhumane cruelty to the highest degree.
Again and again, the Reds deploy a combination of artillery, tanks, aircraft, and infantry. Pure mass is the god to whom these infidels seem to pray and serve. They believe that the number is of decisive importance. We know all too well that this is dangerous. These days, however, it is becoming particularly apparent that the person, the individual soldier, can be more effective than sheer numbers and mass. More than ever, the burden of battle lies on our shoulders.
Due to the snowdrifts and the icing of the roads, tanks and vehicles are stifled in their mobility and denied their utility. Sorry, but the little Panje sleighs have taken their place. Engines and machine guns suffer terribly in the cold. They may break down, but the human, we cannot, otherwise the front would collapse.
It is becoming apparent in this battle what a decisive role the mental acuity of each and every comrade plays. Here, we stand, live, and suffer everything that humans are capable of enduring, from terrible cruelties to great atrocities. Who could possibly name all the acts that are perpetrated hourly out here on the front? Just like during the Great War, trench warfare, hand grenades, and the bayonet receive the highest of honors. Hand-to-hand combat is the horrible daily reality; drumfire is the accompanying music to death. And despite everything, we stand like an insurmountable wall against the Red witch’s brew; may God give us strength to hold out during these most difficult days of winter.
10 March: They have moved us from north to south and back again, from Prochorowka via Solnzewo and Baharow, always to where a fire needs to be put out. Tuesday we encountered a large-scale offensive from the Reds, which started on February 23, the anniversary of the founding of the Red Army. With huge mass deployments on the southern part of the front, this was the last great test of endurance for our forces. They were broken by our defenses, fighting with all the strength we could mobilize. Surely the Bolsheviks will try more than a dozen times to break through our lines from now until the spring offensive; but their attacks will never regain such a dangerous reach. We know that we have lived through the most difficult part and in only a short while spring will have sprung.
11 March: There is still heavy pain in my leg. They have advised me to transfer to a field hospital. But I will hear none of this. There will be no way to pry me from here! So now I am lying flat on my back. Next to me there is a folding closet; day and night I am on communication duty with the command posts. It is a task full of responsibility, and I am happy to be of some use.
12 March: It is relatively quiet here except for the aircraft visits, which occur with strange frequency. These guys have learned that this location is crammed with staff from every branch of service. Day and night there are alternating rounds of bombers which snot on the houses. But this is not of great importance, as the damage is only minor.
13-14 March: Over night there was an air raid warning. Orders to go on high alert were given. Three heavy transport aircraft have flown in from the direction of Bjelgorod. Airborne units have attacked the general staff office in the army division the day before yesterday and caused a lot of damage. Guards are doubled and patrols are sent into action.
During the early morning hours there is a raid. But their attempts at breaking through here are in vain, for the well positioned fire of our batteries destroys the enemy’s strength before they are able to prepare themselves.
The evening passes quietly; except for the guards and the outposts, everybody huddles in the huts, which are badly damaged by bullet fire. A candlestick is burning on top of a wobbly table, around which my men have congregated. Some of them are writing letters, others are engaged in heated discussions. I belong to the latter. Again, there is talk of vacation, home, relief, and the many slackers. When the words “behind the lines service” and “supply units” are mentioned, an incensed howling erupts. All of us were very angry this morning at the supply line servants and kitchen bulls. Those guys squander their days with a warm ass, while we on the front hold down our positions all winter long in the snow and freezing temperatures. I know very well what the conditions are like for these “fine” comrades to the rear of the front line, in Sumy and Lebedyn, and also know through numerous letters how much our frontline sacrifices are met with complete bewilderment by many at home.
Here on the front, we who proudly bear the name “Frontschweine” have become an inseparable brotherhood of men who have been hardened, who have been welded together by death and blood into a close community. And all that these guys, full of dirt and lice, have to hold on to in order to persevere is one thing: love—the depth of which nobody at home can ever imagine—a boundless love and adoration for everything that says “home.” I truly believe that only those who encounter death breathing down their neck every day—be it in hand-to-hand combat or in the heaviest drumfire—are capable of such an unconditional love. Each and every one of us would gladly sacrifice his life for you at home. These are the troops who bear the brunt of it all, who stand at the very front line—this is what we think.
To our rear are the supply and provisions units who already think much differently. Their fear of being deployed to the front line, along with their fear of us, becomes all encompassing. And by the way, these are the guys who will be celebrated as “heroes” later at home, thanks to the bloody tales they tell. This I mention only in passing, since for the true soldier of the front, all of this posturing and pretence are totally inappropriate, as loud and boasting words do not fit our memories of the dear guys whom we’ve lost.
Even further to the rear are the occupying troops, whose “problems” are with the whores and other womenfolk. These are the ones who are shown in the photos at home, who are wrapped in thick fur coats, grouped together in the snow and ice to form a nice picture. (“Oh those poor guys, what a terrible Russian winter!”) Is there anyone at home who knows that these are the very fur coats that are sorely missed here on the front, is there anyone who knows they are drinking with these women the very schnapps that would give us the gift of warmth and an hour of forgetfulness?
And then, to the very rear, are the anti-aircraft crews at home. They aren’t even aware that there is a war anymore, except for the fact that there is a higher percentage of women per anti-aircraft soldier. Come join us, you livingroom warriors, relieve your comrades manning the 2cm and 8.8cm FlaKs; they deserve it, those dear brave guys!
The supply department for these three groups are the three big “supply filters” (a filter permits the “thin” to go through, but traps the “thick”). Soldier, do you notice anything? We, the Eastern fighters, are not allowed to carry a weapon back in the homeland! Why? Yes, why indeed ….
22 March: The Reds are already deploying strong aircraft forces before noon. What is all this compared to Leski! The day ends amidst weak attacks. During the night there is a surprise attack from strong Bolshevik forces supported by tanks, which is brought to a halt, however, after a two-hour battle from the defensive fire of our batteries. A few prisoners and deserters are being interrogated. The prisoners are part of a Russian raiding party. It does not seem to look particularly rosy over there. Provisions and ammunition are supposedly bad and insufficient. It is the job of the Reds’ raiding party to take prisoners and acquire automatic weapons
.
23 March: Today is relatively quiet as well; only light harassing fire reaches us from the other side. Wonderfully warm, the sun is suspended in a marvelous blue sky. The ground has begun to thaw, the muddy season has begun. In a few weeks, the ground will be dry again, ready for the spring offensive.
24 March: Tomorrow we will be relieved. This time we are not looking forward to it. The days have been quiet, quiet for our standards; only medium shell fire during the day, and at night, occasionally a few weak attacks—what’s that to us? We are used to a completely different set of circumstances from this winter. Too bad that we are leaving; it has been a great group here!
25 March: The relief is accomplished smoothly. At noon, Russian fighters surprise us during our march. One man is slightly wounded by air fire. Without any further incident, we reach Obojan during the evening hours.
Today I had the opportunity to read an interesting enemy news bulletin, which listed several numbers from the battles near Leski. During the period between February 17–24, during which the Reds repeatedly focused their attack on the area of Oserow-Leski, the enemy lost in 75th Infantry Division’s sector alone a total of 20,000 men, among whom were 9,000 dead. These are, measured by the current fighting strength, approximately the size of 4–5 divisions. Add to this the number of prisoners and deserters. On other parts of the front, the circumstances are no different. From numerous prisoner reports, we learn that entire companies have been reduced to 20 or even 14 men. This indicates that things are not at all rosy over there.
Eastern Inferno Page 17
