14 July: 1900 hours. There is a sudden explosion about 25 to 30 steps to the right ahead of our tank line. A few moments later, a second, even bigger detonation in the same spot occurs, followed by two more about 80 steps from our panzers. The battalion leader on the spot and a few men are thrown over from the force of the explosion; the troops in the frontline trenches are buried alive. The support trenches [grabenbesatzung], however, did not cave in; the main pressure from the explosion passes without doing much damage up front. Except for a few scratches, it did nothing to me or my men.
With the sudden onset of artillery fire, an assault unit attempts to break through our position. Everything is turned upside down with hand grenades and carbines; our small and large machine guns that were buried under the collapsed berms are not functional, and are useless in the close-range combat.
We are even able to take in a few prisoners while all of this is occurring. They will tell interesting things later on when they are interrogated. Besides a dozen wounded and three dead, we escaped with nothing more than a black eye this time. Fixed position combat to mine combat! Now we’re there! The only thing I am missing now is fuel.
From the attack we also discover the following: the origin of the tunnel was located in the very first trench across from our position. Large numbers of storm units were deployed for the construction of the tunnel, which on the 14th was 170 meters long. In the tunnel, twenty men worked at a time, and the work itself was accomplished with an earth cutter the shape of a horseradish cutter. Because of the soft clay, they were able to accomplish the work in almost complete silence. At the end of the tunnel, in the actual explosive chamber, there was, according to the prisoner’s account, a 1,000 kilo bomb, which was detonated on the 14th. This incident can be counted as one of the most devious forms of combat on the part of the Reds. Hardly a day passes during this singularly brutal campaign that the Reds do not bring us losses through one devilish plan or another.
The following is just a small sampling of this:
Wired balloons and phosphorus grenades are not new anymore, as we already made their acquaintance last winter along with about fifty different kinds of mines. On the other hand, how ever, are the mine traps. The especially cunning Bolsheviks cross German lines at night and at different points put up signs with the following written in German: “Attention! Mine! Trucks must drive to the right!” The right side of the road is of course mined, and the truck meets its destiny.
Other examples: the sign “This is a mine-free passage!” is placed in the middle of a mine field, or in a mine-infested crater you will see a cardboard sign reading, “collection station for grenade shells—‘Remember comrade, the home front needs raw materials to be able to provide you with new grenades!’” Many conscientious infantrymen fell victim to this malicious trick before being warned from above.
That nothing is sacred to the Red schweine can be demonstrated by the following: in the back-and-forth of positional warfare, dead comrades have to very often be left behind in enemy territory. It is expected that a counterattack on the following day will bring the lost sections back into our hands. The Reds know that this is the minimal duty of the honorable German soldier to at least bury his fallen comrades. They know that we do this with the peace and devotion that frontline soldiers owe to their fallen comrades. Precisely because of this, they do something that is unimaginably devilish and cruel: they connect the stiff arms or the shattered limbs of the fallen with a mine, which blasts our comrades who want to put them to rest into smithereens. Again and again, I stand aghast before the villainy of such thugs.
A few days ago a new Russian mine in the shape of a first-aid kit displaying a red cross was used by partisans to booby trap a supply road. It detonated when the kit was picked up, which killed the truck driver. Besides the already familiar drop of mechanical pencils and fountain pens loaded with sensitive explosives, the Russian air force now also drops small first-aid kits resembling German kits. When the bandages are unwrapped, a highly sensitive detonator cap explodes, causing extensive abdominal and facial wounds.
According to the statement of a deserter—an officer—the Russian air force has the following at its disposal:
—Cigarette cases: when opened will detonate.
—Pocket watches: when one attempts to wind them they explode.
—Grey colored frogs: detonation occurs when pressure is applied to the natural looking body.
At Maloarchangelsk, along the supply road, 100-gram field post packages with German addresses and senders were picked up. When touched, they exploded and caused serious burns. In the same area, small, oval tin cans were found with the German label “oil treatment for mosquitoes and lice,” along with a very dangerous explosive effect. And so forth, and so forth…. Yet another wonderful thing which has caused great confusion during the difficult nights near Droskowo….
Listen up! The following has been confirmed by official sources: “Russian sound grenades.” The grenade explodes a few meters above ground; after the detonation, a sound is audible for ten seconds, which is very similar to sound of the impact. What causes this sound cannot be explained. Despite a thorough investigation of the impact sites, nothing can be found that would explain what causes such noises.
I could list a good dozen similar examples. They are always the same! Bolsheviks are far superior to us when it comes to waging war in this manner. It is a pitiful superiority, and a dangerous one!
July: Deserters and POWs state that on the other side, comprehensive preparations for underground combat are taking place. The Reds want to capture our advantageous cave position this way; corresponding orders from Stalin have been submitted.
Subterranean combat! The Vosges [a small mountain range in southeastern France] and Argonne [the site of heavy battles between German and France during World War I] combatants of the Great War know all too well that this form of combat takes its toll on the nerves of every man. Day and night, we now lie listening in the deepest parts of our bunkers.
Four weeks ago, we were lying exactly like this in our holes and sap trenches, our ears pressed to the wet ground, listening for the muffled pounding of the pick axes and shovels with which they were digging. To calm our pounding hearts and frazzled nerves, we tell ourselves again and again: as long as there is pounding, there is no danger. What pitiful comfort during these hours! But then we heard shuffling and buzzing when the cases of explosives were installed at the head of the completed tunnel. We knew that danger was growing and growing; if it becomes quiet down there, then it is time—the chamber is fully loaded and any second now an enormous, destructive blast could erupt.
For hours and days, we were literally lying on 1,000 kilograms of dynamite, until the evening of July 14, when its detonation blasted our positional structures to bits, and combat around the still smoking craters began.
Even today, we don’t know where or if the Reds are digging their tunnels. It is exactly this uncertainty that is worse than everything else. Again and again, we place our heads on the ground to listen! We are driving each other crazy, each person claims to have heard a suspicious noise on the ground. It is like the loony bin here, as it is very difficult to bring our men to their senses.
I know, however, that even the smallest preparation on the other side will be quickly detected by our leadership, and it is this trust that relaxes me and therefore my men, for nothing is more contagious in the trenches than perseverance and cold blood.
And then something else stirs our spirits and turns even the staunchest of pessimists into happily smiling optimists—the new leave regulations! I am hoping to see my wife and kid in the beginning of August. With all the joy of knowing this though, suddenly a great fear comes down over me. We, who God knows have battled with death and the devil, are dreading that before then we will be hit by a piece of metal, which would rip this whole saintly picture to shreds. All of a sudden, we are now cautious in combat; gone is the stubbornness during heavy bombardments. We are no longer the c
allous Frontschweine, we are civilians in uniform. God knows, I’m just like all the others!
Leave—how long will it be? Will we be able to cope internally and externally at home? Thousands of thoughts and considerations are running through my poor head. Damn it! If the vacation would just get here!
Prisoners are taken during my nightly reconnaissance mission. It is of utmost interest for us to find out about the enemy’s mine preparations. According to statements made by captured Bolsheviks, the gophers over there are working night and day. Where the tunnels are being driven forward, they can’t—or won’t—say, despite our drastic measures.
There is one statement that all four of them have made: this is supposed to be their first substantial undertaking, and the explosion isn’t expected to occur for two months. (These guys were right; on October 5, a section 200 meters north of us is blown up.)
For days, trouble has been in the air. Nobody is thinking about going on leave or nice things like this anymore—we just don’t have the time for it. Early today at dawn, this week’s 14th Soviet tank assault rolled in. Now in the late afternoon, it has finally been pushed back. We closed in on them with tanks and FlaKs, and broke through their lines all the way to a small section of forest. It was very difficult this time. We did it though, and a deep drag on a pipe is our reward.
On the front line, the infantry is waging a stubbornly hard fight. On a hill across the way, where the rubble of a large tank is, where the ground has been turned over a dozen times by shells, where burned tree stumps stand strangely sad against the sunny sky, all hell seems to have broken loose. Our mortars send blasts that ignite fireworks of red lightning bolts onto the ridge, which creates a thick wall of smoke. And since their tanks were snubbed, the Reds are now sending bombers and low-flying anti-tank bombers which mess with the ground combat. Our machine guns are barking, and our grenades hiss as they fly across to the enemy. The droning of airplane engines and the rattling of on-board weapons mix together into an infernal noise, which fills heaven and earth.
There is suddenly a strange tone to the uproar, a tone that sharpens our ears and heightens our senses: enemy artillery! The rounds are crashing about while tired fragments, the late comers, which fall out of the sky with a final mean snarl, splash onto the wooden planks of the trench covers.
They are shooting poorly today, the Reds. They must know it as well, for after the fourth round, there is silence. The front line is growing quiet as well. I am familiar with this; for one hour there will be peace and quiet, only to start up again with full force when night falls, and early tomorrow morning, when the schweine come out again with their tanks. Just as a side note—I want to go on leave. It brings tears to my eyes that I can’t tear myself away from here tonight. To go on vacation, especially now, seems so incredibly remote!
10 August: I am on the train home, which moves along bumpily, as slow as a snail. It is almost unbelievable, but nonetheless, I am sitting on board a solidly built German passenger train. Each passing telegraph pole brings me closer to seeing my dear Rosel and my little girl again. Luckily the trip is long, because it is difficult for me to leave behind the experiences of the last hours on the front line. It was hard to leave; two of my men fell. The gun-carriage burned out; all my stuff has gone to the dogs.
It’s best to sleep; in sleep lies oblivion. Perhaps it will also bring nice dreams, an advance on the happy days ahead of me. What a lucky dog! I am getting teary eyed—now that’s unbelievable! Who could understand what is going on inside of me?! A lucky dog isn’t supposed to be sad!
6 September: I am back with my unit! The seventeen days of sun and happiness lie behind me like a distant dream. It was an entirely great experience, this leave. Full of gratitude, I think of my love, whom I have to thank for the countless hours of untroubled happiness. Unforgettable will also be my hours with little Erika. Everything, really everything, was full of harmony and sunshine. I have many beautiful, comforting thoughts and memories stored up for the approaching difficult winter days. I received so much new energy and optimism from my time at home. Everything makes sense again. To cherish something like this, and to fight for it, is worth it. Yes indeed, it is worth it!
“Sakra! [Damn!],” one of our Bavarians spouts out behind me. That’s all he says. There is a deadly silence now. Oh how it’s blowing outside. Chalk and mortar dust rain down on us like droplets of flour from the ongoing fire from above. Good old stone ceiling, please hold up and don’t let us down!
Orders are supposed to be picked up at regiment HQ this afternoon. I volunteer for this because I can’t stand anymore the stifling air that has been depleted of oxygen, nor the torture of stiff bones and numb limbs. How wonderful the fresh air is! It has stopped raining and a humid haze fills the streets, through which the ghostly grey and sad ruins stick out. The fire has died down. Only occasionally does a volley pass over the high buildings. The whining 122s explode with a dull sound. The street is nothing but a mud hole, and thick mud splatters with every step since the gutters are buried under mountains of rubble. The sun is coming out, but I have no time to enjoy it, because at this very moment the bombing is starting up again with full force. Artillery fire rages over the ruins like rain showers. This damn muck won’t allow me to run. I have to cross some backyard where it is worse. I’m hoping I don’t trip—dear God, don’t let me fall in this manure. The stench from dead bodies is penetrating my nose, and I can’t breathe enough fresh air. This sloshing and sliding through the sticky muck seems endless. Over head, there are sounds of planes, and all around the crashing of bombs. There are many blind shells that sink into the mud. Off to the side is the glistening body of a Rata with grey-green wings, which show off the carefully painted Red Soviet star.
A sketch by Hans Roth showing the center of Woronesh (Voronezh), including the Germans’ main line of defense (HKL) and forward positions.
Verdammt [damn], I should already be there! There is the main street, which isn’t a street anymore, devastated by constant bombing. My map still shows the rows of houses, which have long since been ground to a pulp by shells. Further ahead, where “Molotov-Platz” [“Molotov Square”] must be, there is apparently mortar fire; one can hear its barking like a pack of mad dogs. Single shots whiz by at close range with a dull swash.
It’s no use. I’m sweating like a monkey [ich schwitze wie ein affe], my knees are weak, and I need a cigarette break. Volleys of heavy shells are sweeping over my head in the direction of “Rote Fabrik” [“Red Factory”]. Their impacts are not too far away, though not far enough to be protected from their noise and close enough to observe them. A torn up patch of oak trees is cloaked in smoke. Right now, a giant tree trunk is being blown to pieces, with splinters flying all over the place. There is a blind shell from which I crouch down close to a wall. And across the way, more craters are being formed; smoke plumes trail into the air and clods of dirt are being tossed everywhere. Right now a piece of shrapnel explodes with a loud bang; white-grey clouds of smoke and glaring lightning flashes fill the entire street. I stare at this horrific scene, spellbound.
Then, all of a sudden those hunde [dogs] start to aim more closely. A burned up projectile hisses as it drowns in the mud. I didn’t notice that I had placed my hand over my mouth. There is a loud howling. My God they are huge! Just barely do I reach a partly collapsed basement before the storm begins. A rumbling vibration penetrates the ground all the way to where I am located. What started as a cigarette break has now turned into a long hour of fear and terror.
It’s Sunday, and also a sunny day. After the cold and rainy days, it has finally started to feel like May since yesterday. The sky above the ruins of the big city of Woronesh is blue and peaceful. I climbed all the way to the top of the vast ruins of the gun-powder factory, and am now crouching among the molten and bent iron beams of the ceiling. It is a great view from up here; you can see about a third of the entire city. Over there flows the Woronesh, that good old river, with its wide, muddy streambed, which ha
s been a good front for us for weeks, and also a good barrier to the advancing Reds.
One has been able to let his guards down during these August days, even the command. Our trust in the muddy flow of the good old Woronesh has turned into an inexcusable recklessness. Night after night, we notice that the Russians have started piling up huge amounts of stones. Message after message was sent to the division. Air reconnaissance reported that tanks have been assembled in Mona styrtschenko. Except for a few shells, nothing, absolutely nothing, has been done to guard against this encroaching disaster. One fine day the stone dam across the Woronesh was actually finished. Multiple messages were sent to command. Their answer was as follows: “Let the tanks come close, that way they will be easier to shoot down.” Excuse me for not recounting the details of how well we did in shooting down their tanks.
16 September: The Russians have gained control of the eastern slope of the southern part of Woronesh. Along with it, we lose the important defense bastions of “casino” and “brick yard,” which provide the enemy with a view of the entire hinterland. They are even able to see as far as the Don, with its hills and supply roads. I have already been told how unsuccessful and bloody the counterattack has been, and how the weeklong bombing from hundreds of weapons had no effect.
Ever since then, the Reds have been sitting in the “casino”—an enormous pile of rubble where the basements are deep and safe. They have also been sitting in the oven of the “brick yard,” which could not be easily destroyed by our Stukas. All this looks like a yellow-brown burned out patch lying there harmlessly in the sunlight.
Eastern Inferno Page 19
