Bloody Stalingrad
The Trilogy
By Andrew McGregor
The combination of the following three books:
Bloody Iced Bullet
Bloody Rattenkrieg
Bloody Kessel
Act I: Bloody Iced Bullet
Prologue
November 1942 on the banks of the River Volga. The German Army advance into the Caucasus Mountains in search of the Russian oilfields has halted for the winter as the bitter fighting in Stalingrad takes centre stage.
The German Air Force, the Luftwaffe, has virtually driven the Red Air Force from the skies.
The Germans, confident in taking the city that holds Stalin’s name, strip their flanks of troops to bolster their forces fighting inside the city…for just one last push to decide the battle and the outcome of the war.
To the south of Stalingrad, on a thinly held front line stretching hundreds of miles, small groups of German troops are dispersed across positions held by their allies of the Fourth Romanian Army. In the north, it is a similar story, the Romanian Third Army bolstered by resting German troops.
As winter approaches and temperatures drop, the soldiers bed down in their positions, consoled by the thought that they will not have to fight through another Russian winter in the bitter sub-zero temperatures. Temperatures that the Russian Army is more than accustomed to.
Press releases advise the front line troops of the impending collapse of the Russian Army and state. The drive to the banks of the Volga had produced few prisoners and seen most Red Army units retreat before the mighty and victorious German Sixth Army…that Germany would finally win this war against Mother Russia within days or a couple of weeks at most. Hitler had even proclaimed it in radio broadcasts.
Common belief was the Russians were making one ‘last stand’ in the city that held Stalin’s name…that the Russian Army was finished, the bitter war in the east was nearly over…that this was the end of communism.
The front was relatively quiet. Soldiers sat in their warm bunkers writing home to family and sweethearts, their conversations and thoughts of the coming Christmas and the dawn of a new world.
A new world where the German Reich stretches from the English Channel coast to the Ural Mountains deep in Russia and beyond.
The men on the front line believed that they would soon be going home……
Introduction
It was snowing heavily, the large flakes falling all around the dugout, slowly collecting and blanketing the wooden and earth structure cut into the side of the small hill, the numerous boxes and equipment that lay around the entrance slowly becoming covered by the falling snow. He sighed heavily, his exhaled breath spiralling and rising in the cold surrounding air, creating a cloud and adding further condensation to his lips, this instantly freezing. The inhale of oxygen always slightly uncomfortable as the freezing air entered his lungs before warming to his body temperature.
The scarf covering his mouth was becoming frozen again from the condensation of exhaled breath as he exerted himself, the battle between his body warming the material from the inside and the external temperature continuing relentlessly. The cold bit at his exposed flesh, his nose and eyes painful in the piercing frost. He had to blink more often to ensure the moisture in his eyes did not freeze and the condensation that froze to his eyelashes had to be regularly broken off by brushing his gloved hand across them to prevent restriction to his vision.
He stamped his feet, the freshly fallen snow crunching beneath his boots. The severe cold was infiltrating the two layers of socks and straw he had pushed into the boots, nipping cruelly at his feet and toes…this was going to be a cold night, even colder than last night he mused. At least the cloud cover would prevent the heaviest of frosts which was the bitterest night to endure, almost too much for human flesh to stand. His second guard duty would be the hardest if the cloud cleared, the temperatures dropping mercilessly in a clear sky.
He looked east, seeing only 5 or 6 metres to his front, the snow now falling so thickly it seemed to form an impenetrable curtain around him, a suffocating blanket of cold that must be resisted for survival. He considered to himself, deep inside, ‘if they attacked now, they would not even find us, let alone us see them coming.’ Yet it was very quiet, he knew there was a sentry to his left and to his right, but how far now? They were maybe thirty metres apart before it started snowing, but now he would struggle to find them. He realised he should not move too far or he would become disorientated, losing the dugout’s entrance…that it would probably mean death if he wandered anywhere other than his bunker. Being lost in the fields around this position would eventually lead to death from exposure, his body temperature dropping slowly over time, his blood beginning to slow in his veins. The panic that would overcome him would simply hasten his end, reducing his temperature more rapidly and causing further confusion and disorientation.
Grinning ironically underneath the scarf wrapped round his mouth, he cleared his negative mood, determining a different line of thought. Who would ever have thought of this situation? The actions that had led to this place? He watched as the warmer air he exhaled swirled with the snowflakes as they fell, disrupting their descent. The air and flakes playfully embracing each other as the temperature of the air dropped and in less than a metre away the stillness and calm returned, the severe temperature seeming to slow and dissipate any signs of life.
He turned to his left, ‘north’ he prompted himself. Stamping his feet again, blowing onto his hands, although this made little difference, his hands remained cold and numb in their gloves. He knew he should make only two or three steps and perhaps be able to see the light near the bunker, the small fire he had prepared earlier with the other sentry. He looked down as if to trace his footsteps back to the warmth, sensing a stab of uncertainty, the realisation the fallen snow had now covered them.
He gingerly stepped forward in the shroud of snow, one cautious and frightened step…two steps, three steps…he hesitated, staring into the swirling white maelstrom…he could not see a flickering light. He strained his ears to listen, the crumpling of snow under his feet having been the only sound. A jab of fear swept through him, dancing across his spine…the thought, ‘was he going the wrong way?’ He could not call out, he dare not call out…perhaps another step? The fear of disorientation rising, he gingerly stepped forward slowly, aware he could be moving further from safety…squinting, he could still see nothing, no light of any kind, the concern becoming more intense. His eyes narrowed, he slowly turned though 360 degrees, adopting his father’s teachings, to turn his feet to 90 degrees each time to ensure he did not lose direction.
The shroud of snow continued, the heavy flakes falling to earth, obscuring his view and limiting visibility to now less than two metres. Stood there motionless in the snow, he felt utter loneliness…complete isolation. Strangely he had known this feeling for some time now, but recently it had subsided…this was a harsh reminder. There were many times in the last year he had thought of this loneliness, struggled with faith and loyalty, but always concluded that fate had chosen this path and that it would be difficult, if not impossible to change what had happened, to alter what he was now. After all, it was in a way achieving what his parents and neighbours had always talked about with their subdued whispers and mutterings. He had confused and conflicting feelings…both of guilt and loyalty…
He stiffened, had he heard something? He realised he had become distracted and had lost his fear, his thoughts focussing him. He heard a muffled voice in front of him, and stepped forward cautiously, taking the rifle slowly and quietly from his shoulder, lifting it to his waist in anticipation of challenging. Then a shadow in the blizzard, slightly visible through the thick falling
flakes, he stepped forward half a step in curiosity. The shadow moved slightly towards him, his excitement rising as he recognised the outline, his muscles relaxing as he heard again a whispered ‘Wo bist du?’
‘Heir’, he hissed back, lowering his rifle. The slim outline grew bigger and a pair of welcoming dark brown eyes and narrow smiling young face emerged through the darkness. The soldier eyed him up and down, the smile widening to a grin, his fears subsiding further inside him. This was the man he knew as Udet, a young soldier of perhaps 22 years with a positive outlook and friendly demeanour, always ready with a comment or quip at the retorts from the others. The man was saying something he did not understand and nodding, beckoning him forward. As the two men became alongside each other, the young man slapped his back comfortingly. He relaxed further, shrugging off the thoughts that had distracted and concerned him. The other soldier was a similar height and dressed as him with a scarf over his nose and mouth, the steel helmet covering his short brown hair frosted. The soldier placed a gloved hand on his shoulder in order to guide him, whispering into his ear, ‘Kommen sie mit’. He smelt hot food in the man’s breath and after a couple of steps could see the light from the dugout nearby. His feeling of loneliness melted away and a warmer feeling of camaraderie overcame him. Stepping nearer to the light, the soldier guided him with a reassuring hand.
The man reached forward and grasped the several sheets of tent cloth that had been strung up as a makeshift door to the dugout and pulled them back slightly, pushing him through the opening, patting him on the back as he did so. The soldier then turned round into the cold, acknowledging with a sigh his turn on duty had come, ‘Scheisse! Das is Kalt.’ The thick fall of snowflakes swirled around him as the tent material fell back into place.
He exhaled, feeling the warmth of the dugout hit the exposed features of his face like a wave, the skin tingling as it regained warmth, re-energising with life. The smell of a fire and some food reaching his nostrils, this aroma tinged with the smell of unwashed bodies.
The dugout had been made with winter in mind, with the wall placed directly in front of the door, from which you went either right or left into the one main room. Both options had a further tent flap to negotiate, thus providing some additional shelter from the all-enveloping, advancing cold.
He hesitated, slowly dusting the snow from his overcoat and reaching purposefully for his helmet, removing it quickly so as not to lose the straw he had packed into it for further warmth. Turning right, he stepped forward towards the tent flap. Noticing the scrawled message scratched into the wood to his left, he touched it briefly, then reached out and grasped the tent material. Drawing it back slowly, he leant to his right to slip through the opening into the room, the action to minimise heat loss. He brushed against the scrawled message and stepped into the room, pulling his scarf down from over his mouth.
The message was a stark reminder of the fall of a comrade, the author having scratched it with his bayonet into the thick bark before leaving the safety of the dugout to take food to a forward foxhole. All soldiers leaving the dugout would now touch it ‘for luck’, sometimes pausing to reflect. Its author, a kind, engaging teenager with blonde hair and blue eyes, always ready to share a joke, always smiling…had died after a shot to the head by a Russian sniper.
It read boldly, ‘Wilkommen zu Stalingrad. Ein Kristall Fortress Platz an der Volga.’
Outside it continued to snow heavily.
Chapter One: Camaraderie
The dugout was a rough square with a compact stove at the back exuding warmth. Its chimney was very small to reduce the advance of the cold, thus leaking some smoke into the room. This created a thin layer of smoke which hung and twisted slowly near the low beamed ceiling. Three candles placed around the sides added further light to the stove, their glows dancing and flickering across the wooden logged walls of the dugout, casting fleeting shadows from distortions and cracks in the bark.
Three soldiers sat or lay around the space, collected between the candles, almost filling the room completely. All still wore their greatcoats, but had removed their helmets, this closeness creating further warmth. The group looked up as he entered, acknowledging his presence with a nod or fleeting smile. Their rifles, including a medium machine gun, were stacked in a small side hollow, with a tarpaulin sheet laid beneath the weapons to avoid dirt.
To the far right, a soldier beckoned him forward, ‘Come sit with me, my friend.’ The officer smiled welcomingly, ‘We are in for a cold night I think.’ He swung back to the radio in the corner, turning the volume down. The radio set was placed on a makeshift table created from two ration boxes, the officer sitting on another.
He nodded, smiling slightly as he stepped forward…the man was his closest comrade of this group having spent many an hour talking with him, becoming a close friend over the last nine months. Responding to the welcome, he proceeded towards the corner, carefully stepping over outstretched legs and lowering his head to reach the back of the room. Arriving beside the officer, he crouched down next to him, slowly easing his legs onto the floor, using his arms against the wall of the dugout to lower his body. This man had once saved his life and he owed him his loyalty, he felt comfortable giving this commitment.
The officer continued with the radio, jotting down some notes onto his small notepad next to the machine and lowering the earphones. Reaching out with his right hand, he picked up an opened ration tin next to the radio, and scraped some food from the interior of the tin with a knife. He turned to face him smiling, depositing the morsels into his mouth as he did so, the candle light flickering across his angled features.
This man had piercing blue eyes and was clean shaven, a very particular habit he commenced every morning upon rising. He had high cheek bones and dark blond hair and he estimated his age at around 25, a little younger than himself. The man usually wore his helmet at all times, but this evening had discarded it to the left of the radio, his hair unkempt and matted after a day pressed down under the combat helmet.
The officer smiled as he swallowed his food and indicated for the man to lean forward, a glint in his eye, ‘There is heavy fighting in the north today…good that we are south of that mess.’ He was speaking in a low voice to seemingly not disturb the others, ‘It seems the Russian bear still has some teeth yet, eh, ‘Hase’?’ He winked, the nickname ‘Hase’ one of the officer’s invention and it had been explained it meant ‘bunny’…a term of endearment.
He smiled at the officer’s behaviour, one of a school ground gossip, the delight he exuded in telling him information that was not normally extended to someone like him or of his rank was quite engaging. It was apparent this officer liked him and they had spent considerable time travelling with each other.
He cleared his throat, whispering in response, ‘Is the fighting heading this way?’
The officer’s eyes narrowed, his mood darkening, ‘I don’t think so…but we had better be ready and awake in case there is movement here. It will be very cold later as the skies clear.’ He shifted on the supply box, ‘Will you take the 0500 watch? I need someone out there who’s alert.’ The officer then began collecting some more morsels from the bottom of the mess tin, scraping with his knife, glancing back at him for a response.
He nodded, replying instinctively, ‘Yes, I will be ready for 0500 until first light.’ The dreaded thought of the bitter cold entering his mind again.
‘Good…very good. Thank you Hase, that has put my mind at rest. Keep a fire lit for some warmth if you like and I will see you are relieved as early as possible. Now I believe we will have visitors shortly with some food and drink. Stay next to me, so we can chat…’ The officer grinned, ‘…and can both try and understand Tatu together. Apparently he has had a delivery today and wants to come over and surprise us!’ He laughed, emphasising the expected arrival.
He recalled Tatu was the name of the Romanian Army quartermaster. A solid, fatherly figure with disordered grey hair and moustache…a very popular man
with this and the adjacent unit and quite a character he mused. Tatu’s endearing ability to generate some of the tastiest recipes from seemingly limited or non-existent rations was a form of amusement to the soldiers and a talent that was cherished by both units.
The stillness and subdued mood of the bunker was suddenly broken as they were startled by a cheer of announcement from the entrance. The tent cover was thrown back, and the six feet tall, stout figure of the Romanian quartermaster stood in the doorway, his face flushed red with alcohol mixed with the short walk in the freezing temperatures. The man wore a large army overcoat and was carrying a bottle in either hand. ‘Mein Kameraden!’ He exclaimed, grinning, ‘A feast to share! Come…make room for your friends and allies.’ He stumbled forward into the room, another stout Romanian soldier entering behind him carrying a box, the aroma of freshly cooked food now beginning to circulate around the room.
The soldiers in the dugout started to shuffle to the side, sitting up from their half lying positions to create room for the new arrivals, smiles of anticipation beginning to form on their faces.
Tatu stepped purposefully further into the small room, avoiding outstretched legs and handing a bottle to one of the resting soldiers eagerly awaiting the sustenance and warm offerings. He then lowered himself by leaning on this young man’s shoulder with his free hand until he was squatted on the floor, his legs crossed.
‘Come Petru,’ he indicated by a jerk of his head to the other Romanian soldier, ‘Place my feast on the ground here.’ He indicated to the small space created by the soldiers in front of him. The other Romanian carefully leant across him, placing the box on the ground, a shy smile flicking across his face, his eyes darting to the officer opposite before retreating a step.
‘Meinen Dammen und Herren!’ Tatu announced, indicating to the topless ammunition box with both hands, ‘Here is the food from your Romanian allies.’ He grinned widely, removing his cap to show his unkempt grey hair, dusting the top of his head as to clear imaginary snow from it. Then he drew his hand down across his moustache as if settling it and reached behind him, producing a knife from a scabbard on his belt. He turned, grinning to the officer, ‘We have Ciorba (Meatball soup), Sarmale (Stuffed Cabbage Rolls), Mititei (grilled ground meat) and to wash it down with, Secarica (caraway flavoured vodka) and a rare treat, a bottle of Hornica (plum brandy).’
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