The incredible blood sacrifices that the Bolsheviks have made during these past winter months will also have a very negative effect on the approaching spring offensive for the Reds. Nevertheless, exaggerated optimism is not appropriate here. We know that the Soviets have not let this winter pass idly. Further to the rear, reinforced lines have been put in place; the industrial centers in the Urals have churned out a series of new and improved T-34 tanks.
27-28 March: Every now and then, we are paid a visit by a few Soviet aircraft. They arrive humming, passing narrowly above our heads, and blanket us with their on-board fire; there is buzzing all around us, which means that we have to take full cover! And quickly! Those who are unable to find a hole in the ground climb into or rush under a truck and wait for this “blessing” to pass. Here and there, bombs are also dropped.
29 March: Aclear and cloudless sky—perfect weather for flying. Suddenly, in the middle of dinnertime, our brave anti-aircraft fire starts barking. And while high above those small, dangerous, black clouds develop, we start to hear a low hum and see three Soviet bombers pass over us. The anti-aircraft fire turns wild. We are all standing there observing excitedly, just as if this was a thrilling boxing match, the position of the shots. There—that was a hit! A cheer composed of multiple voices erupts when one of the bombers starts to trail, becomes unstable, sways, and then slides down vertically over one wing, trailing a long, dark smoke cloud behind it. Even before we are able to hear the dull explosion of the crashing bomber we see back there along the forest edge the mighty mushroom cloud of smoke.
The two other bombers have calmly continued their flight. There—one of us saw it first and is pointing with an outstretched right hand toward a miniscule point in the sky, which quickly grows larger, and takes a straight course toward the bombers flying east. A jäger! A German fighter! Now the suspense starts to build! Long forgotten is the split pea soup. Split pea soup will be there another time! But you don’t get to witness every day an air fight like this.
As the fighter approached close to the bomber, at high speed, it suddenly pulls upward, floating directly above one of them, and then plunges from above in a steep angle toward the bomber, sending burst after burst into it. One appears, then another one. Always short, well aimed bursts. He then turns away without paying any more attention to the enemy. Initially, we are a little bit disappointed, but we then realize what is happening. Coming from an initially narrow, thin trail of smoke which the bomber seems to pull behind it, grows thick black smoke, a jet of flame, and then it plunges downward. At the last minute, the pilot ejects in order to save himself. But his parachute only floats in the air for an instant before it is pulled into the abyss by his own crashing machine.
The fight lasted no longer than two minutes, by the time the fighter had already disappeared. The sky is blue and cloudless, just as peaceful as it was before. Even the split pea soup in our bowls stayed warm—that’s how quickly it happened.
30 March: Totally unexpected, the weather has changed overnight. A blizzard rages with a strength that we have not encountered all winter. I pity the sleigh units who were surprised by it in the open field. Our eyes are unable to penetrate more than two meters into this crazy flurry. In front of us are two enroute sleigh units; we are very worried about them, as they are several hours late. Only by the evening does one of the vehicles arrive; there is no trace of the second one.
31 March: The storm has subsided. The sun hangs in the sky peacefully, as if nothing has happened. And yet, a lot has happened overnight. In yesterday’s blizzard, the second sleigh unit missed the road and fell into a deep gorge; our comrades froze to death during the night. And something else, even more serious, has happened: with the heavy eastern storm to their backs, the Reds have once again succeeded in blocking the highway near Drosty. In order to boost the counterattack, we reach the breakthrough point by around noon.
The enemy’s power has already been broken; there is not much more for us to do here. Our artillery has wreaked havoc in Drosty, which had been occupied by the Reds for a few hours. The beaten enemy had to leave hundreds of dead people behind. It is looking particularly gruesome on one of the village streets. Someone calls it the “avenue of death.” Others pick up the phrase, write it on a board, and attach it to a pole on the side of the road—Avenue of Death! Until the war ends, this part of Kursker Street will be named this.
To the left, in a ditch, lies a dead female gunner; the artillery has mutilated her badly. One half of her still young face is completely missing. Her long, blond hair is hardly able to cover the terrible wound. If her grey-brown shirt had not been ripped open across her chest, I would not have known that a woman’s fate had ended here.
It is a strange sight for a soldier, who is only used to fighting against men, then to suddenly be confronted with the dead body of a woman. Occasionally there is a woman among the prisoners. Among them are bad, ugly bitches whose thirst for blood and brutality does not fall short compared to those of their male counterparts in the Soviet Army. Mostly women and young girls, who have been pushed by Bolshevik pressure and instigation, leave a final reminder of their female dignity behind and dabble in the craft of men, with a gun in their hand.
1 April: A security mission calls us to Medwewskoje. This is also the temporary gathering point for what remains of the 299th Infantry Division and other units, which had been assigned to different groups. In terms of formation, we are commencing the “cleansing” of the front. Within a few weeks we will track to the north in the direction of Kursk and will be once again be under the trusted leadership of General Moser. Spring cleaning has also arrived on the front!
Mid-April: It’s the muddy season!
Roads and streets, which were frozen solid only a few days prior, have now thawed and become bogs which threaten both men and animals with drowning. In many sections of our position there is nothing but dirty ice water for kilometers; during these weeks, on nearly a daily basis, we have to wade up to our chests through icy water in order to reach the staging ground of our attack with the enemy.
By the end of the month, I am ordered to undertake an important courier mission to Orel and Charkow. It would fill every page of this book alone to retell what we encountered there enroute with the partisans and the dangers on the roads, which are mostly submerged in water.
In Charkow, we happen to get caught in a tank battle, and in Bjelgorod, a heavy Russian attack blows up our store of ammunition—it’s a miracle that we have come out alive. Before Kursk, we are hunted down by Ratas, and my sidecar is riddled with machine gun fire; near Ponyri, a group of partisans try to capture us. In other words, we are glad as hell to be able to return to our group twelve days later.
By the end of April, the division is pulled from combat. We reach Kursk via an overland march, as the roads are impassable. We continue to the north, and two days later reach the main railroad hub of Ponyri. We take up quarters in Beresowiz. We are in the area of 2nd Panzer Army, and after the odyssey of the past winter months, we are finally able to return to Group Moser. Those wonderful days of rest suddenly come to an end on May 15. In a rapid forced march, we are thrown to the southeast of Orel, into the very dangerous Liwny sector.
25 May: Forgotten are the winter and the muddy season—a stifling heat now hangs over our positions. Summer, with its scorching temperatures, has arrived almost overnight. Both the weather and the fighting are hot in this goddamned sector. Let’s hope that these are the final weeks of trench warfare, and that soon we will move forward again.
These brief summer months will soon be over and then, yes, perhaps then, there will be for us an unfathomable event—a reunion with wife and child, with father and mother.
May God grant us the chance to see our home once again.
JOURNAL III
FRONTLINE WARFARE AND THE RETREAT AFTER STALINGRAD
Editors’ Note:
As Hans Roth’s third journal begins he’s in the Livny (Liwny) sector, east of Orel, at nearly th
e farthest reach of the German front in Russia. Here he experiences trench warfare, as each side trades attacks and bombardments, and the Soviets attempt mining operations beneath the German fortifications.
In the meantime the great German summer offensive of 1942 commences, with drives on Stalingrad and the Caucasus. At first the offensive is highly successful, conquering hundreds of kilometers of additional territory. Roth goes on leave during August, but by the time he returns to Russia the German momentum has stalled. In fact, the Soviets are launching counterattacks all across the front. Woronesh (Voronezh), one of the first German objectives of the campaign, becomes the scene of bloody urban fighting.
On November 19, the Soviets launch a gigantic counteroffensive that caves in the German-allied fronts on either side of Stalingrad, isolating Sixth Army. Roth’s unit, which is outside the pocket, is dispatched to help bolster the Italian-held sector of the front along the Don River, but is helpless to prevent its utter collapse.
Roth’s battalion is then dispatched to Kursk, only to find Soviets closing in on the town and the Germans preparing to abandon it. City after city falls to the Soviet advance, and Roth finds himself marching halfway back to Kiev. Reflecting the fact that his Panzer jäger unit was once again employed as a mobile fire brigade, Roth not only expresses homesickness for his family but for the rest of the 299th Division, saying, “We heard that they fought gallantly.” During this period the journal largely foregoes exact dates, and when his unit is transferred to Orel aboard flatcars in mid-winter, his description is only of “endless misery.”
Despite intense combat around Orel, which is now part of a German salient bulging into Soviet territory, Roth manages to survive his second winter in Russia—one in which Sixth Army is utterly destroyed—and witness a new build-up of German forces. In the war to date, the Soviets had succeeded in the winter, whereas they had not yet been able to stop the Germans during good weather. The summer of 1943 would put this system to one last test.
June: Before me is a vast Russian plain, massive gorges cut treacherously deep into the black earth, like cracks in a windowpane. Forever humid and swampy, they are a threatening breeding ground for malaria and other feverish epidemics which are yet to be named. The HKL [Hauptkampflinie—main line of battle] extends here along a thin strip of woods and sparse huts. The ground has been scarred and the grass scorched by thousands of impacts from the months of dug-in fighting. A tropical heat hovers over the badly torn up trenches. On the other side in this flickering heat can be found the Russian bunkers. It’s very difficult to keep your eyes open, for the heat is heavy and our limbs are like lead.
The half hour before noon, with its tempting calmness, is the most critical moment of the entire day. We wait for the meal service as we doze off, only a breath away from falling asleep. Then, all of a sudden, a hissing comes across from the other side, crashing with a thunder beyond our cover. The same thing occurs every day at noon. Regardless, we’re still startled from our dreams every time. The images of home and all our longing thoughts are abruptly torn apart….
The hissing, rolling, and thundering last for one to two hours. Here and on the other side, the relentless wind mixes the stinking plumes of smoke from the explosions, these waves of fumes in all colors, with the blinding white shrapnel clouds, into a dirty grey mass. The firewall begins to die down slowly.
The nights are damp and cold, and full of restlessness. After the artillery fireworks every evening to honor the departing day, the action increases on the front. The heavy artillery has been put to rest, and now it’s time for the small guns, for the PaKs, MGs, and carbines. On the front line, late-arriving troops fumble through the darkness. Glaring white flares hiss in the night sky. Like startled hens, maxims [automatic machine guns] are firing off somewhere in the distance. We respond by adding more machine guns, and within a few minutes, the whole chicken coop is in a great flurry, a hellish racket throughout the sector. It often takes hours before friend and enemy calm down; most of the time the night is over by then, and once again you have to forget about getting any sleep.
Map in Hans Roth’s third journal of the southern front during the massive Soviet counteroffensive at the end of 1942. The lines drawn in pencil apparently indicate the multiple enemy thrusts that cut behind Sixth Army, which found itself isolated in Stalingrad.
The air raids during these starry nights in the Liwny sector are unforgettable. An overwhelming calm after the evening’s infernal noise of dueling artilleries, a few quiet minutes when you can write a letter in the trench, then, all of a sudden, a fine singing in the air: the Ivans [German slang for Russian soldiers] are coming!
The light singing transforms into a rattling howl, which now fills the air for hours. Each night is the same awe-inspiring picture; hundreds of lightning flashes burst into the air. Shades of white, green, and red splatter the sky; long yellow-orange streaks shoot into the air, and are accompanied by the hard knocking of 2cm anti-aircraft artillery. Glaring white magnesium flashes then fall from above. Red flames from a fire sizzling on the ground jump out 50 to 60 meters, and then appear as yellow-white ornaments on a burning Christmas tree, which is what we call the American tracer shells—only there are no gifts under it, but rather infantrymen.
We try to conceal our movements in order not to reveal any more to the Russians than they can already see, for dawn is encroaching over our sap trenches and ditches. Next a slurping and gurgling come from above, which turns into a booming hissing, then a huge bang; the earth trembles, a shower of shiny glowing splinters cut through the air… once… twice, and once more. Planes then hurtle by over our heads. In the neighboring trenches, flames now shoot into the sky until there are no more bombs. Flashes of light come from above; he is shooting at us with his on-board weapons. From below, we attack the multi-colored bursts with our machine guns and 2cm artillery. There is a crashing and thundering all around us. What a tremendous spectacle, just like judgment day! Whoever is calm enough to take this wild, frenetic picture in, will keep these nights in Liwny—in spite of everything—in good memory.
What difficult days! The Russians, knowing full well the importance of the Kunesch sector, throw reinforcements into the trenches day after day, along with pulling out more heavy guns and their damn Stalin’s Organs, which they position across the front.
There is a fine drizzle of rain in the oppressive heat—this feverish air is as warm as piss! A considerable number of men stumble about, sick with malaria. The roads are bottomless pits of mud, the trenches one big swamp. Damn this trench warfare! My hole is about to drown, there’s not a dry speck anywhere!
The sun is again shining, and the Reds, who probably just like us have been suffering like dogs during these periods of rain, are becoming utterly and ferociously aggressive. By night, with the support of their tanks, they break through to our most forward trenches; by day we strike back. This is how it goes for three days, when we, full of righteous wrath, finally bring a small section of forest, where they commenced their attack, into our possession through a bitter close-range attack. At dawn, when the whole affair starts to look more precarious than ever, the excellent DO-Geräte [otherwise known as Nebelwerfer: a multiple rocket launcher] comes to our aid. We sit on the other side with this terribly rutted forest thoroughly in our hands; no force in the world would be able to expel us from here!
We have been sitting here for a week now; a burned out Russian tank is used to construct our B-position, and the forest is packed with our most modern weapons. The Reds approach a few times a day, but only to get their heads bloodied. The position is ideal and almost impossible to capture. The Russians also seem to understand this, and over the next few days and nights hardly bother us. This, however, doesn’t seem right either, for personally I am suspicious of this calm.
Our leadership doesn’t appear to be too trusting of this quietness either, for our sound locating devices and surveillance posts are doubled. After two more days, everybody up here knows that the Reds are
planning something devilish for us. On day three this becomes clear, and on day four, the entire combat position, including our important B-position, explodes under Russian tanks.
I want to tell the story of how this all played out in detail, and how it was reported to the corps:
30 June: A Russian officer is visible in front of our positions, apparently scrutinizing our tanks and taking photographs.
6–7 July: Conspicuous expansion of berms along the entire length of the enemy trench facing us.
7 July: A deserter divulges that a mine tunnel is being built at this position, which lacks only 20 meters before completion.
12 July: Fifteen meters from our own barbed wire barrier a metal post sticking out of the ground is observed. At the same time, Russians are sizing up our tanks from their trenches. Based on these initial observations, it is assumed that the Russians could be advancing with their tunnel toward our tanks. Therefore, a screening trench three meters deep is dug and manned with a sound locater. Based on the deserter’s testimony from July 10, a counterattack with nine heavy T mines [T.Mi.Z.35] is attempted, which despite being executed along ten meters, does not bring any results. An examination of the craters does not provide any evidence of a tunnel. Three more counter-blasts don’t bring any results, and a fourth one is being prepared for the evening of July 14. Our artillery and heavy weaponry are conspicuously organized along the front line. Spanish riders [spanische reiter, X-shaped sharpened poles tied together to form a barrier] and S rolls [S-Rollen, a particular gauge of barbed wire] are laid out as a precaution.
It is a terrible feeling to sit here and wait for the havoc to commence, which could rage upon us at any moment. Abandoning the position is out of the question, therefore, it’s time to write your will and wait with your frazzled nerves for the volcano to erupt. What a terrible situation! Hours turn into minutes, and minutes into hours; time is now crawling by. It’s making us crazy! I could scream, fume, and howl out of rage. Dirty jokes and cursing do not help in this case; the men just stare into nothingness, numb and catatonic while they wait for the catastrophe.
Eastern Inferno Page 18
