By the afternoon it is only 14 kilometers to Sumy. We are hungry and freezing. The icy storm rattles our bones. Fourteen kilometers more and we will enjoy a warm shelter.
The village Schewtschenko is on the right, a forest is on the left and ahead of us. The deep red sun sets over the treetops. It is a peaceful picture that reminds us of our homeland, since forests are rare in this area, yet we are so accustomed to them. Nobody can hold it against me for being nostalgic about my home. I am cherishing my beautiful memories.
Suddenly, we are faced again with the harsh reality; a single loud bang knocks us over. Constant flashes of light appear at the edge of forest and now also at the villages located further above. Three shots hit our windshields, several pieces of shrapnel fall to the left and right. Let’s get out of the car immediately! We are wedged in by the Hungarians’ last vehicles. Ahead of us are a German car and a truck. Everywhere Hungarians run in all directions, panicked. None of them shoots—they don’t have any weapons left anyway! All we hear is screaming, whimpering, the singing and chirping of machine gun fire, the dull thump of the mortars, and the howling of the anti-tank guns.
Our two trucks swerve on the snow-covered road. The Hungarian sleds are blocking the road. We beat on the guideless horses, and with superhuman strength succeed in tilting the sleds off the road. We now remain the only target and are now attracting fire from carbines and guns. We are in a stupor. We have to get the trucks ready! We succeeded. The first truck starts moving. The cover of the truck is hit by machine gun fire. The carbine was shredded into two pieces in the hands of my comrade, Deuschle. But our track is rolling. Fire bombs hit the snow in front of us; 2cm anti-tank projectiles drop on the side of the road! Damned bastards! I stand on the running board of my truck and look around! Black smoke billows from the truck cover, the gas is burning! We are close to our destination and it is over! The second truck is lost as well; a burning Ford blocks the road.
Now we have to run for our lives! We run through snow that is up to our knees; we are surrounded by rifle fire. Totally exhausted we arrive in the evening in Junakowka. It is incredible: none of us six comrades have sustained any injuries. God help us in our future!
The village had been cleared and leveled. In the forest are traces of approximately 200 partisans or remaining Red Army troops. It is not our task to verify this. The area of the attack is horrific even after the snow has blown over the mangled corpses. Smashed sleds, trucks, cars, dead horses, and about 80 fallen Hungarians lie on the ground. A German car was riddled with bullets like a sieve. It is covered with soft snow, as if to pity the distorted bodies of our comrades. At a short distance, in the middle of the ruins, is the German truck which provided a path for us though the snow. The sergeant and the soldiers are dead, killed by shrapnel! And now I recognize my truck. I am tremendously relieved. A quick check reveals that the truck has been pillaged but the documents are still there. Some of the boxes have been opened. The motor is still okay, but the loading structure and the cover have been heavily damaged.
The second truck has burned down to the tires, blackened iron rods lay in the snow—a sad picture. But we are happy since we still have the second truck including its valuable load. In the evening we arrive in Sumy and are temporarily on safe ground. Sumy is now being threatened from the south. Far on the west side the enemy has broken through and is now near Romny, half the distance between Kursk and Kiev.
The air is totally calm on this icy cold February morning. The sun rose on a cloudless sky. Its yellow-red sphere provides a stark contrast to the pale, grey sky. Above the horizon are stripes of green interspersed with shades of pink. The icy air generates a crackling sound. Day and night are reflected in the hollows of the snow, which when uncovered by the sun light, shimmer with a blue light, mysterious as the light in a grotto. Where the sun beams hit the snow, the colors change to the paleness of a corpse, touched by a vibrant, reddish breath.
With our tired legs we shuffle through the snow; ragged horses pull the six sleds. Attached to the first sled is an Akja, a toboggan which is weaving left and right in its attempt to follow the tracks. It is a silent convoy, a death knell. The Akja carries a precious load, the body of our leader, First Lieutenant Simon! His corpse has been with us for eighteen days and nights as a token of our comradeship. During this, shots from the enemy were being fired above his body, intending to destroy us. We finally broke through the Red ring; our first lieutenant is with us, and this is good!
We can’t stop now. Charkow has been abandoned due to pressure from the enemy. The large depots and buildings have been blown up; the beautiful mansions dating back to the times of the czar have been burned down.
Stalingard-Rostow-Charkow: the big triangle is now in the hands of the Reds and lost for us. We desperately cling to every village and city. But the enemy is too strong. We have to retreat after a few hours of bitter fighting. Our faces are grey; bitter desperation settles in our hearts as our toughest enemy. It is –40° C; the snow level is as high as our bodies. The steaming, agitated and exhausted horses can’t even pull the empty sleds anymore. Our small group becomes smaller and smaller, only half of them are still able to fight. Injured soldiers, many with frostbite, load their carbines and shoot. They lumber through the snow; their faces are contorted with pain. In the midst of the blizzard, some fall behind and lose their group, which was supposed to support them.
The tanks of the Reds arrive everywhere. All of a sudden silhouettes can be seen on both sides of the road. Our Stukas always arrive on time to get us out of this mess. We continue to rush through the snow. Everything is so totally useless! The icy cold numbs us so much that we are losing the will to survive. Who cares about the shrapnel of the tank shells and ricocheting bullets from the enemy carbines? We are tired, incredibly tired.
After the relatively mild weather of yesterday and the day before—temperatures ranged between -15° and -29° degrees C—a sudden change in the weather. A whistling, piercing wind sweeps through, pushing ahead the dry snow in wide sheets. A dirty, grey sky, in which the sun is glued on it like a lemon yellow, starts to fade.
We have met up with other retreating troops that have suffered equal losses and are now forcing our way together as a considerable fighting power toward the northeast. During the day we take turns fighting or sleeping in snowdrifts. At night we sneak past villages that are occupied by the enemy. Provisions and ammunition are scarce but the mood is better, because here and there we keep hearing about new divisions that are supposed to be attacking from the south.
A thin sickle of a moon is hanging in the ink dark night. With the fall of darkness we have moved away from the enemy. At first the road is blocked by a snowdrift. Then there is hissing rifle fire and loud thuds in the snow from exploding shells. Assault troops are filing along the waves of the snowy desert. Corpses are lying around everywhere, there were many fatalities. And we continue to march, a forever lasting and painful rush though the deep snow.
We are now sitting in a dank basement around a fuel drum which substitutes for an oven, and are enjoying the comfortable heat. This morning we broke through the last line of the Soviets. The dark blood from our dead horses still sticks to our uniform from when we had to lie along the highway behind their still warm corpses. These short and shaggy horses from the steppe saved the lives of some of our comrades.
But let’s not spend any more thoughts on this anymore. As a matter of fact we don’t even want to reflect about the past! We just want to sit around silently and hold our icy cold hands to the fire and feel the warmth streaming through our bodies, slowly, very slowly. And as we look at each other we are trying to smile. Where is the winter? At the front door? Where is the horror? We have probably passed the last barrier. Outside, death is still haunting the streets. Heavy Soviet artillery is shelling the northern part of the city. But we’re just sitting around a glowing fuel drum and trying to smile. We are quite safe and are now getting homesick. We yearn to join our brave and courageous army div
ision. We heard that they fought gallantly.
But right now we have only one question, how can we get to Orel? With a few tricks and some cigarettes we secure several flat railcars [Rungenwagen] to head up north on this beautiful evening. (Beautiful is certainly not an apt word in this context considering the icy blizzard whipping across the railroad tracks.) The trip turns into an endless misery, and the rumor spreads once again that these are the foot soldiers’ final weeks in the East.
The hissing curse “scheisse” [shit] is an expletive used by generals and privates alike and is now used also by the Russian civilian population. This crude expression is symptomatic for the entire state of the war. It characterizes the disappointment and rage, reluctance and impatience. But a bit of humor alleviates everything, even if it is just morbid humor. But not to despair; in case we don’t get a meal, if our vehicles get stuck in the mud or snow, if our machine gun is covered with layers of ice when we change positions, when we miss the mail from our home country, we use only one word: scheisse!
We stop in Gomel for two hours. This is the area where the “glorious” 8th Italian Army has settled down. It is not a friendly reunion. A rumor is going around that some of these guys haven’t been allowed to take any vacation for two years, and that several regiments have been decimated. I don’t know whether this correct, but this certainly should teach them a lesson.
We are now in Orel. We left the vast partisan-infested forests and the air attacks behind us. On the same day we rejoin our comrades who were deployed in Orel. We are now at home; ready to face our next adventures.
This is the time when an invisible force sucks all color and light from the surrounding landscape and immerses it with a grey layer which is the desolate national color of this country. Very often this country is depressing—but never as poignant as in this hour. It is now five o’clock, yet it is dark in our bunker. The narrow slit offers only a pale grey view to the outside. Our little stove is glowing, the fire cracks and spits. In these grey hours we can enjoy the warmth of the fire. This is not possible during the daytime, since it would betray our position to the enemy.
It is beyond comprehension that, despite the proximity of the front, we are still able to enjoy a quiet moment, a moment where we can dream and reflect. Surrounding our little stove is not only a cloud of warmth but also our silent emotions. We sit around and smoke, interrupting the silence with only a few sentences.
The sun sets, blurring the outlines of the landscape mellowing our hardship at the front.
And now it is time for toasted bread. Our stove has reached the right temperature and now the pleasant ceremony of the soldier starts. We cut large slices of the dark bread and place it on a plate in the stove. The slices turn brown and crispy; the unforgettable smell of the bread fills the cramped space of the bunker. It is a smell which reminds us of long lost days, of the coziness and the pleasantness of the world. There are many ways to toast the bread, which permits you to distinguish the characteristics of the people in the bunker: the greedy person, the easy person, the unconcerned person, and apathetic person. The experienced toaster is patient, but will start dreaming when he stands at the stove and becomes distracted from the bitter reality, if only for a short time.
A pitch black night has now fallen outside. The first shots are fired, shells howl in the icy snow storm. The fleeting pictures of our homeland pass quickly; the fine blue smoke from our toasted bread has vanished; the trenches demand once again the full attention of every soldier. In come the impacts from shells; more and more impacts—thousands, tens of thousands—countless shells without any break. One cannot distinguish anymore between each explosion. It is now a continuous noise of bursting and cracking, a never ending infernal noise. The time does not pass, every minute feels like an hour.
We crawl into our bunkers and snow dugouts. In the beginning we are still talkative, but then we become more and more silent. We are hoping that the explosions will stop and the enemy will attack. Right now we have to endure this endless drumbeat.
Outside the landscape slowly changes its snowy appearance. Shrapnel destroys the camouflage and shakes the snow from the branches. The howling storm whirls the snow in all directions. But the noise of the explosions is drowning out the howling of the wind. The explosions singe the earth and eat up the snow which has turned into a green and black mass covering the ground. Hot pieces of metal—tiny splinters and jagged pieces as big as your palm—howl through the air. This has been going on for three days and nights, interrupted only by short breaks. The fire stops only when the Bolsheviks attack. But since we beat them back every time, despite their tanks and superior numbers, their horrible shell fire starts again every time and engulfs our positions with a widespread and incomparable vengeance. And then, slowly the whiteness of the snow turns black.
The Reds deploy their people and weaponry brutally and recklessly. Here and there they succeed in breaking through our front. Their losses are just as heavy as ours. A few comrades are lying quietly at the bottom of the trench; snowflakes have settled on their stony faces.
It is Sunday. An eerie quietness covers the desolate landscape after the embittered fights during the last three days. The naked winter soil is exposed by the torched Bolshevik tanks. And there are many such dark blotches in the terrain, motionless and silent.
We get used to the fact that enemy attacks continue to be followed by more attacks, even after we mowed them down more than ten times. We get used to the earthen-colored masses of enemy troops which seem to grow out of the soil and advance like a steamroller, yesterday, today, and certainly tomorrow. Many times we ask ourselves during the few, quite hours between the attacks: did the dead awaken again?
All thoughts stay focused on the present moment when barrages surround us day after day, when volleys of explosive charges are hurled at us, grenades howl without interruption, when bombs explode and tanks shriek. All our actions and thoughts are concentrated on survival. And we learned to hate. We have seen our comrades lying on the ground, barely recognizable; even so, he was dear and precious to us. Late in life we learned to hate, this wasn’t in our nature; and to think that everything used to be so smooth before. But it is not too late.
We receive our mail. The content is more serious than it has been during the past weeks. It reveals to us the mood in our homeland and their worries about us. Our fights are tough and relentless as never before. We know that they are aware of this back home. It is now a fight for survival, a fight for everything.
Orel
About twenty white beams are scanning the sky. This is the night of the bombers. Yesterday Russian planes dropped propaganda leaflets; they announced terror attacks and advised the civilian population to leave the city. Bombs of all sizes fall through the night. Countless fireworks and magnesium cluster bombs—also known as Christbaume [Christmas trees] illuminate the night sky with a dark red glow, the exploding anti-tank shells fall down like sinking stars and the yellow flashing of shrapnel bombs—a true Hexensabbath [witches’ Sabbath]. This night brings heavy losses for our men and our weapons. On account of these hellish nights, our meals for the next weeks consist only of margarine and minimal rations.
Map of the Orel sector of the Eastern Front.
It has now become quieter on the front. On one early morning we are told to move from our present position to support our comrades further back. We are six kilometers behind the main front line, which is very close to the rear limit. After ten hours of refreshing sleep which was interrupted only twice by Ivan’s bombs, we are in a good mood and enjoy our breakfast. It is a picture of almost tranquil peace under such circumstances, and we are very astonished when our babushka gets busy moving all her pitiful belongings to safety. She takes the few pictures and the completely blind mirror from the wall and removes the icon out of the corner. I ask her what the purpose of this is, but she hesitates to give me an answer. My comrades pack their belongings in the meantime. Our experience with previous retreats has taught us that when
the civilians start to pack their belongings, it is time for us to get ready as well.
In January we were in Budjennij and Walniki; in February, Woltschausk and Bjelgorod. It is always the same—we establish our billets in the village huts, or in the stone buildings which at least have windows.
The local people greet us with joy and servility, reading every wish from our lips. We lay down to recover from our previous sleep deprivation. When we wake up we call Matka [one of the women in the hut], as the fire went out during the night and we are freezing horribly. But nobody shows up. We look around; the entire family has vanished.
We wait hours for an explanation, hours of almost unnatural Sunday quietness. Suddenly fire and explosions surround us again. We are already familiar with this grinding sound, interrupted only by short moments of silence, and then the heavy shower of the barrage impacts. The infernal concert started at sunset and lasted without break almost until midnight. And then, suddenly and abruptly, it stops just like it had begun. Then we hear the alarm. The Soviets have broken into the city; the nightly fight for the buildings has started.
The civilian population had already escaped from Bjelgorod a week before its capture by the Soviets. But we scoffed at such an ambush by the Reds, for we had considered it impossible. The front was far, very far. Then one morning there were no more civilians in our billet, but the Russian tanks were in front of the buildings.
We learned our lesson. With mixed feelings we remember now the hasty preparations of our babushka. Our good mood is gone. All the civilians in the other quarters have also vanished without a trace. The famous rats have left the sinking ship.
We should dismantle our telescopes; we are going to be facing a lot of problems! We have known these guys long enough. The civilians usually stay in their huts like cockroaches; they don’t flee when they are threatened by bombs or grenades. But the civilians have now escaped, since they were expecting the Red attacks to go building by building. Their communication system is creepier than all the tribal drums in Africa. By nightfall almost every civilian has disappeared, silently like a bad stench.
Eastern Inferno Page 23
