by Tom Zola
Engelmann frowned while Born continued. “But why Russia? Why are we here?”
Engelmann nodded slowly. Questions like this entered his mind more frequently than he cared for, and sometimes the answers he came up with were anything but comfortable. The lieutenant sensed that Born had to speak his mind about something that was threatening his inner peace.
“You know,” the corporal continued, “when we kill Russians in a battle – like we did today – then sometimes I think that they’re just people, too, who are fighting for their lives. Who are defending their country – against intruders. For a long time I used to think that we were the good guys. But now – well – for a while I’ve been suspecting that we’re the bad guys in this war. The attackers, the Martians.”
Engelmann thought for several seconds because he didn’t want to smack the man down with slogans. Instead he wanted to give him a well-founded answer. “We’re in a war, Herr Stabsgefreiter,” he finally replied in a tone of voice that indicated that he was choosing every word extremely carefully. “Unfortunately there are no good guys in a war. There are only people who kill each other. I know religious faith doesn’t mean anything to you but trust me, the God I believe in doesn’t like this war any more than we do. But it seems to be necessary because apparently we human beings can’t live together in peace. Maybe first the cruelest wars have to be fought so that afterwards mankind can live together in peace. So to put your mind at ease, all I can tell you is: We Germans are neither the good guys nor the bad guys. You always have to look at everything in the big picture: the great war, the Treaty of Versailles, poverty and starvation. Let me tell you honestly: I was no friend of the Nazis and I like the NSDAP the best where it is right now: as political marginalia without any recognizable influence. I think our new government is doing a lot of things better, especially here in the East. Now we’re conducting a war again, no longer a campaign of complete destruction, and we stick to certain rules, as absurd as that may sound when it comes to fighting for your life.
“One of the subjects I studied at the university was how societies work. Believe me, wars don’t start because one man points a finger at another country. Wars are preceded by millions of actions, events and things whose combined effect nobody can predict. That’s why I unfortunately can’t give you a complete answer. It looks like the 20th Century is to be the century of wars. So we just have to accept the situation the way it is, and it doesn’t matter any more – that is maybe the saddest part of it – who was originally responsible for the outbreak of the war. These days all that matters is surviving and saving our Heimat. That’s all it is about.”
Born smiled. “Thanks, Herr Leutnant. That’s exactly why I asked you.”
Engelmann had to smile, too, while his own words echoed in his mind. His answer may not have been satisfactory but at least it was sincere. Suddenly he wished for one thing: When he became a teacher sometime in the future, he wished to have students like Eduard Born.
West of Ponyri, Soviet Union, May 4th, 1943
Heeresgruppe Mitte – 71 kilometers north of Kursk
“Come on, get the radio operator!” Pappendorf yelled, but this time there was no hatred in his voice; it sounded just frantic. The staff sergeant crouched on the ground, bending over a young soldier whose chest had been torn to pieces by a large metal splinter and who only lay there, twitching, while bloody foam bubbled out of his mouth. Berning could see the wound only in the light of his flashlight, and he could barely make out Pappendorf’s bloody hands that were fishing a sketch of the area out of the map case hanging from his shoulder. He then spread out the piece of paper over the abdomen of the wounded soldier. Berning was unable to do anything but stare at the torrent of blood that was flowing out of his comrade’s body. His fingers shook, he felt his legs cramp up, and he had left his weapon at the spot where he had been surprised by the rocket attack.
“Berning, come on, man! The radio operator!” Pappendorf shouted without looking up from the sketch. The sergeant started to run. The air was filled with cries of pain, with screaming men wrestling with death while some of his comrades were slowly struggling to get up.
“Werner?” Berning gasped, stumbling between the dead bodies and wounded or dazed soldiers. PFC Werner was the radio operator of Pappendorf’s squad, which meant that he had to carry a 40-pound backpack around with him at all times.
“Werner?” he whispered in a trembling voice. He looked around. Hege looked dazed, shook his head and grabbed his machine gun to check it for damage. Farther away, another comrade lay on the ground, moaning and holding his leg. Berning took his flashlight and walked up and down the rows of men. Then he noticed a square-looking silhouette on the ground lying beside a crater. He took one step towards it and let the beam of his flashlight roam across the object he had discovered. All that was left of Werner was a bloody torso, half a leg, and his head down to his lower jaw. The rocket explosions had strewn the rest of his body all over the place. Berning puked like a horse. He threw up disgusting chunks of food, garnished with stomach acid, into the grass while getting dizzy. He closed his eyes and turned his head away while his shaking hands fumbled to feel the radio. He clenched his teeth and wanted to scream while his fingers dug the radio out of the chunks of flesh. He could feel the warm blood stick to his hands and lower arms. More undigested food rose from his stomach and up his throat, but he kept his mouth shut though it was filling with vomit. With tears in his eyes, he swallowed and yanked on the backpack. Suddenly it came loose. He ran back to Pappendorf and put the radio down next to him without saying a word.
“Find the platoon’s frequency!” Pappendorf muttered in a voice that was astonishingly easy to understand despite all the screaming. Again Berning stared at the soldier with the splinter in his belly, whose eyes were wide open while he was coughing up blood. Berning couldn’t tear his eyes away from him.
“Jesus Christ, Berning! Find the platoon’s frequency, will you?” With these words Pappendorf, who was busy drawing something onto his sketch with a pencil, brought Berning back to the present. The sergeant shook himself quickly like a wet dog. Then he looked at the bloody instrument panel of the radio that was miraculously undamaged.
“Is ...” He was unable to get out another word.
“Berning!” Pappendorf yelled but the sergeant just stared in all directions, mesmerized, taking in the contours of all these wounded, dead and uninjured soldiers.
“BERNING!” Pappendorf bellowed, straining his voice.
“Jawohl?”
With his pencil Pappendorf pointed at a dot on the sketch. “Grab the MG-man and a soldier. I want a secured area here ahead of the woods. Then come back. Move it!“
Panting, Berning set out to do as ordered. He got Hege and another soldier. Then he took both to the point Pappendorf had indicated on the map, where he found an indentation in the ground near two pine trees. He positioned the fire team there and ran straight back to Pappendorf. Again he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the disaster the Stalin organs had created. When he had reached his squad leader, he stopped without saying a word.
The sketch, which was smeared with blood by now, was still on the abdomen of the wounded soldier. His hands were shaking but apart from that he just lay there, blinking.
“Has the area been secured or why are you back?” Getting up, Pappendorf stared directly at Berning. His eyes were steely, and the sharp undertone, for which the staff sergeant was known, was back in his voice.
“Yes … ” Berning was unable to think clearly. His ears hurt and his head was spinning.
“Well, then report it, will you?”
“Jawohl … ”
“Jawohl, Herr Unterfeldwebel!”
“Jawohl, Herr Unterfeldwebel!”
“Jawohl what?”
“Jawohl, the secured area has been set up!”
“HERR UNTERFELDWEBEL!” Pappendorf roared, spitting his words into Berning’s face. “THE SECURED AREA HAS BEEN SET UP, HERR UNTERFELDWEBEL!”
“Jawohl, Herr Unterfeldwebel.”
“Then start to take care of the wounded! The platoon is sending a squad that will help us transport them to the casualty area.”
“Yes … ” Berning’s lips trembled. “Jawohl!” he stuttered, getting himself under control just in time. He looked around, completely lost. Then he froze when he noticed Pappendorf’s penetrating look.
“... Herr Unterfeldwebel!” he added hastily. Then he fished the large package with the first-aid kit from the lining of his field blouse without knowing at first where to go with it.
Finally he squatted down beside Pappendorf, tore the package open, and brought his shaking fingers to the thick metal splinter that was sticking out of the soldier’s chest.
“Not him!” Pappendorf bawled. “He’s kaputt!“
Berning stared at his squad leader wide-eyed. Then he looked at his comrade on the ground. The wounded soldier was spluttering blood and his eyes looked feverish. His face was deathly pale.
“NOW GO, BERNING!” Pappendorf’s roar hit the sergeant like a hurricane. He got up and ran off – panic-stricken. He had no idea where to go or what to do. His fingers gripped the bandages and smeared the radio operator’s blood all over them. Then he heard that same noise in the distance: airplanes that were taking off. Berning stopped in his tracks and looked up at the sky while the sound was becoming louder and louder. He was unable to move.
Suddenly someone threw himself against Berning with full force. He lost his balance and fell on the ground. He felt Pappendorf’s arms pushing him down.
“Sergeant, get down, man!“ the staff sergeant yelled. Within the blink of an eye, the howling concerto of the rockets diving down started again, and the area west of Ponyri turned into pure hell for the soldiers of the reconnaissance squadron.
Lutshki I, Soviet Union, May 5th, 1943
Heeresgruppe Süd – 87 kilometers south of Kursk
In the light of the rising sun Lieutenant Engelmann, looking out of his cupola, witnessed the combined power of Luftflotte 4, one of the primary air fleets of the Luftwaffe, crowd the sky with seventy-five Henschel Hs 129 ground-attack planes, twin-engined one-seaters with a futuristic design, on their way to Prokhorovka. Engelmann knew that the “can openers“ would make his job a lot easier. The Henschels were, for good measure, also accompanied by a group of Ju 87’s.
The most impressive of them all, however, were the twelve heavy Heinkel He 177 bombers. They were giants with one propeller on each wing and a big glass cockpit at the nose. Protected by the other planes, the bomber squadron flew in the center of the formation, that was itself accompanied by fighter planes. Therefore nearly two hundred German airplanes were swarming in the cloudy sky on their way to the enemy lines.
Engelmann was quite aware of the fact that the Heinkels’ mission was not to dump their three tons of bombs per plane over the Russian trenches, but rather over the city itself. He hoped that there were no more civilians there; at the same time he knew all too well that today would most likely claim innocent victims.
*
The German planes were already small dots on the horizon when Panzer Regiment 2 received the order to attack. At 4:32 a.m. German time – here in Russia it was already early morning – the thirty-four Tiger tanks of the heavy tank battalion went into motion, crushing the road to Prokhorovka as well as the area to its left and right with their tracks. Once again the III Abteilung started to move in the wake of their big brothers. The 6th Army was on the way to its first goal, which was to be taken today. In the east their flanks reached the Donets, and therefore the troops of Kempf’s army that were farthest toward the front, while in the west the mechanized troops of the 2nd Panzerarmee progressed towards Beloye. This mass of forces in a relatively small space allowed the German Army to form a closed line. In the north it lined up with two more armies that pushed forward in the direction of Olchovatka to finally penetrate the Russian lines completely.
*
The territory to the left and right of the road to Prokhorovka was a wide open space only interrupted by a few groves, and in addition it was rather hilly. Every few hundred yards a farm or a tiny village hugged the road, but there were no more civilians around.
To the right of the road, the III Abteilung tore through the field while the I Abteilung used the road. The Tiger battalion roared ahead, fanned out widely, thus placing itself almost completely in front of the regiment.
Engelmann looked at his map. They were only a few thousand yards away from the southern bank of the Psel River, which flowed around a bend here before it forked off to the north where its source was. Now they came up to a narrow branch of the Donets that was no more than a brook. The panzers of Engelmann’s platoon crossed the water while the Tigers in front of them were already plowing through the next open space over a length of several miles. On the horizon a small village appeared that sat enthroned up on a hill. The road twisted and turned uphill all the way to the buildings. Engelmann looked out of his turret at the area ahead of them and saw the black smoke columns that rose up everywhere in the village and on the surrounding hills. Over there the Luftwaffe had already raged, and now the German artillery was busy producing more matchwood. With every one of Engelmann’s heartbeats, dozens of shells fell on the houses, tore off roofs and churned up the ground. Huge pillars of dirt rained down on the village, but even that couldn’t break the Russian resistance. Their guns, which were positioned everywhere between the buildings and the surrounding hills, were already booming, tickling the Tigers. The latter returned the greetings and silenced several enemy guns with their blasts while the “Ratsch Bumms”, as the Germans called the Russian 76-millimeter divisional guns M1942 (based on the sound they made), blasted at the German steel colossuses from the hinterlands. Engelmann stared at his map and tried to translate the Cyrillic letters into something he could understand.
“That village up there should be Bele … Behlenkin … Belenkino … to hell with it! You know what I mean. Hans, take up position behind the narrow mound 60 yards in front of their positions. Ebbe, let the platoon gather to our left and assume attack position. Be prepared for Russian counter-attacks!”
“Yes sir, the platoon to our left,” Nitz confirmed, and squeezed in behind the radio. Engelmann’s tank moved towards the position he had ordered and stopped there. The Tigers ahead of them also took up their positions. In the meantime the Russian resistance was almost completely extinguished.
Engelmann took a glimpse at his watch. Already past 9 a.m., he groaned silently. Despite the fact that there hadn’t been much enemy fire today, things progressed slower than planned. Still, he intended to reach Prokhorovka before nightfall. Biting his lower lip, he looked ahead. Thick clouds hung over Belenikhino. If they got any downpour, everything would quickly turn into mud here, and then the offensive would progress even more slowly.
Engelmann put a piece of chocolate into his mouth while his mind continued to race. Beyond Belenikhino the regiment would turn north and surmount the hills this side of the curve of the Psel River before moving on to Prokhorovka. The schedule was extremely tight, and the lieutenant worried that it would be already now difficult to stick to it.
“The Panzergrenadiers will be here in twenty minutes,” Nitz, who had overheard a radio message, announced.
“They’d better hurry up,“ Engelmann mumbled. Since any built-up area was a very dangerous territory for tanks, the plan of operations had the men of Panzergrenadier Regiment 64 conquering the village under cover of the tanks while the German artillery moved into positions directly behind the front troops so as to range all the way behind Prokhorovka in the ensuing combat actions.
*
Engelmann watched the Panzergrenadiers that approached the village platoon by platoon. The soldiers were disembarked and advanced on foot, under cover of the half-tracks that could give sufficient suppressive fire if needed due to their mounted machine guns. Behind III Abteilung numerous artillery guns took up position on the hil
ls that blocked the view of the landscape farther away. Engelmann glanced at Elfriede’s interior. Though it wasn’t that hot today, the air inside the tank was stale again. Münster slept in a bath of his own sweat while Ludwig and Nitz were lost in thoughts. Eduard Born was absorbed in a new book. The cover read The World Set Free.
Shots were fired from the distant village. Russian snipers had holed up there and fired with long guns and small anti-tank rifles. Wherever an enemy position was discovered and no German soldiers were around, the Tigers sprang into action. One of the heavy tanks blasted a whole house into the air with a high explosive projectile while the foremost Panzergrenadiers reached the buildings on the outskirts and at once dismounted from their half-tracks.
To Engelmann, his comrades looked like ants that were making their way into the village. He could see tiny figures dropping like flies or disappearing into houses. Soon fresh smoke columns joined the long plumes that already hung over Belenikhino. The Panzergrenadiers advanced building by building and had soon cleared the whole southern part of the village.
The radio hissed. “I Abteilung reports retreat movements. The Ivan infantry’s leaving the hills in the east,” Nitz informed them.
“Roger,” the lieutenant replied while his eyes kept looking ahead. How glad he was to be able to sit here in his tank instead of having to trek through the enemy villages with his submachine gun and pistol! Yet the Russians didn’t seem to measure up to the Panzergrenadiers. Though some shots could still be heard in the area ahead, the firing was no longer as intense as it had been a few minutes ago. Only here and there the noise of a gun or a mortar could be heard, while now and then one of the half-tracks fired a blast that echoed in sound waves across the land. Nitz pressed the receiver of the radio to his ear when a new radio message came in.
