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Not from the Sky
ECEMBER 4, 1942. The day begins like yesterday—not many clouds in the sky and clear visibility. Later the clouds gather and get grey. During the afternoon it begins to snow and the cold wind blows and forms drifts. Before long the brown and white checked ground around us is again white and clean. I’m shovelling the snow out of the connecting trenches and the work is warming me up. Weichert is making sure that the field of fire for our machine gun remains unobstructed. I go to visit Warias, Seidel and the others in the neighbouring bunker, and walk through the connecting trench. They have fired up their oven, so much so that it’s glowing. When I see Warias I have to laugh. He is lying stretched out in the bunker with his lower legs disappearing into the clay wall, as if cut off. Their bunker is just like ours—an enlarged, covered trench—but it is too narrow for Warias’s long legs so he has excavated a hole in the wall to accommodate the rest of his stilts. Two other soldiers are lying on the straw- covered ground beside him, both snoring. I can hear their stomachs murmur, and Warias says that if you sleep you save power and energy. Seidel is standing by the oven, stirring something in his mess tin. He says that when you cook up a hot soup of bits of Zwieback and snow melt it lasts longer in the stomach than it would if you force it down dry. He might be on to something here—I will have to try it some time! You can hear the harmonica again, in Meinhard’s bunker. Kurat’s playing some really sad tunes, bringing back memories from home.They were forever telling us at training camp how to service and use our weapons in order to kill our enemies, and we were trained, and proud, to fight for Führer, Volk und
Vaterland, and, if necessary, die. But no one told us what you might have to go through
before you got killed. Nor that death might not be instantaneous—there are many forms. In the few days we’ve been here we’ve heard the awful screams of the wounded—how terrible it must be to die lying on the frozen ground. The thought fills us with horror—we might lie there, with nobody to help us. We weren’t told that this might happen, nor were we told how we could cope with the anxiety that eats away at you like fire and is far more powerful than the impulse to do your duty. Each soldier will have to solve that problem for himself, they said. But, more than anything, he will have to hide his anxiety, so that the others don’t notice it; if he doesn’t hide it, his anxiety might be interpreted as cowardice— as in the case of little Grommel, who even while under attack can’t bring himself to fire on the enemy.
Weichert has also noticed that Grommel can’t aim and pull the trigger. Even when he is forced to shoot, he closes his eyes as he pulls the trigger, so he can’t see where he’s shooting. Yet he was one of the best shots in the training camp. What is the matter with
him? Do his nerves fail when he sees the enemy, just like Petsch? Weichert has noticed that every time the enemy attacks he acts as if he’s lame, and his eyes flicker and water as though he is in a fever. Maybe I’ll talk to him about it, particularly as it affects the safety of all of us. Unfortunately I never get the chance, because over the next few days we are constantly under attack. The few peaceful moments we have—those of us not on guard duty—are used for sleep; we are always overtired.
This evening I go and see Meinhard in his bunker again. Unteroffizier Döring is also there, and tells us he’ll be returning to the village to pick up his harmonica as soon as he has the chance. On the way to the bunker I hear soft tunes wafting from Kurat’s harmonica. I cannot know that I will see him alive only one more time—he and another chum will be casualties in a day or so.
5 December. It snows again during the night. When Weichert and Swina wake me in the morning there is a wild firefight going on in the village. According to Weichert, it has just begun. He and Swina came back from the observation post and hadn’t noticed anything particularly unusual, but now all hell is let loose in the village. The frosty air is filled with the sharp crack! of tank and anti-tank guns, with the rattle of rifle and machine-gun fire in between. A soldier comes running up, yelling that they need the quad antiaircraft gun. The engine of the towing vehicle is quickly started up and the quad moves along the hillock towards the village. Flares are constantly shooting up from over there. The thin flaky snow makes the darkness seem even hazier. ‘Just the weather for a Russian attack,’ comments an old Obergefreiter as he crawls through the trench.
Then the quad gets into action; there is no mistaking its low staccato firing. Fires are blazing at two places in the village. Soon the firefight dies away and the only firing now comes from the railway line in the direction of Tschir. It is machine-gun fire.
During the sudden lull, loud engine noises can be heard coming from the Rachel and heavy diesel fumes penetrate our noses. Küpper and Warias come over towards us. We assume it must be a T-34 stuck in the Rachel, because the droning noise of the engine starts up and then dies down again, always coming from the same spot. We crawl up to the edge of the Rachel, which falls away steeply. We can see nothing—it’s much too hazy— but we’re in no doubt that the tank has got bogged down.
‘This is our chance to blast it—but how, and with what?’ asks Warias.
As if in answer to his question, there is an explosion and the tank is literally blown apart. We are blinded by the fire and throw ourselves flat on to the ground. The tank’s ammunition explodes in the heat, ricocheting back and forth between the walls of the
Rachel. In the pale light of the breaking dawn we can see thick smoke oozing out of the
engine compartment. The pioneers call over to us that they have destroyed it with a couple of mines.
In the counter-attack that follows we capture a lot of weapons, but we find very little food in the kitbags. Weichert manages to scrounge a few bits of black Soviet Army bread which tastes of dough and because of its texture feels like sandpaper when it is chewed.
However, we still gulp it down, in order to satisfy some of our hunger. From time to time I can again hear, away to the right, those revolting muffled shots to the head, being carried out by the black sergeant, who will no doubt justify his brutality the same way as before.
6 December. Three of us are dozing away in the warm bunker. Weichert has been on night duty outside. We can hear his footsteps in the hard frost coming closer. As he stands in front of the bunker and lifts the blanket away from the opening, we are wide awake. In spite of being permanently overtired we still sleep mostly like rabbits, with one eye open and ears alert for any unusual noises. Weichert tells us that Döring has been issued with several cases of ammunition and that we are to pick up our share.
It is still quite dark when Grommel and I go over to see Döring. Kurat is still not back. Apparently his observation post still has twenty minutes left on this shift. Everything seems to be quiet, and we hope it will stay that way. As I go to enter the bunker, I seem to hear Kurat’s harmonica. But that is not possible—Kurat is at an observation post in a foxhole out in front. Am I mistaken? Are my nerves so frayed that I’m hearing things? I walk back to Warias. Both he and Seidel have heard it—not a tune, just two loud notes, as if someone has just breathed into it. They also were wondering what it was. When we tell Döring about it he at once takes action. ‘Something is wrong. Alert! Give the alarm! Ready to fire!’ I run over to my machine gun and pull the cover off. The entire unit is now on the alert and waiting. For what? Everything is quiet in front of us. Could Kurat accidentally have blown into his harmonica? If he’d noticed anything he would have warned us with a rifle shot, as per the usual procedure. Could this be a false alarm? The shift should now be finished, so perhaps they are waiting for the new shift to take over? Döring holds everything up. Then a tracer spirals up in the air.
What’s that? Less than SO meters in front of us we see figures in white, snow- camouflage battledress. When we fire our machine guns and rifles at them they throw themselves into the snow. As it gets lighter we can see more Russians They lie behind the first group, also in camouflaged battledress, ready to jump up. The pioneers are shooting at them too, from the flank. They stay lying in the snow, waiting. Half an hour passes. Why don’t they attack? What next? What are they waiting for?
We know soon enough—tanks! First we can make out only two, then another three emerge from the haze of the breaking dawn. They advance towards us and fire at our positions. What is our 88mm doing? It is camouflaged and certainly awaiting its chance. The thought calms us only a little. What good is one gun against five T-34s? The Soviet infantry follows up under cover of the tanks in a dispersed file. We try to keep them down. Then, like a bolt of lightning from the clear sky, comes firing from the 88mm. We see a glowing armour-piercing shell slam against a T-34, causing a jet of flame and then thick, black, acrid smoke. The barrel of the 88mm has already been lined up at the next target. The shell goes right into the track of the tank; the vehicle can now only spin in circles. The tank crew has just got enough time to jump out before a second shot, a bull’s-eye, destroys the tank. Another tank tries to escape into the blind spot of the 88. Two T-34s fire on the 88. Their shells come close: one ricochets like a fireball from a snowdrift and slams into
the bunker to our right. We hear yells and calls for the medic. Then the third tank is hit; he can’t work his turret any more. With his barrel angled and immobile, he tries to escape to the rear. Minutes later the other one follows him. The tank which had crept into the blind spot of the 88 now steps out of the frying pan into the fire. As he tries to move into a firing position to wipe out the 88, he is standing exactly under the guns of two of our tanks, which have been waiting for him behind the hillock. Before they destroy him, however, he manages to damage one of them quite seriously.
Although we have again managed to counter the enemy attack, we have had to pay dearly. The T-34 hit on our bunker has killed the promising tank rifleman Dieter Malzahn and a Gefreiter. Three others are seriously wounded, one having had half of his arm torn off. Only later in the day, when the heavy Russian shelling eases off, can we again move into the area in front of our position.
Beside the foxholes at the observation post we find Kurat and his chum in their own frozen pools of blood. The Soviets have slaughtered them and taken their boots and rifles. Kurat can’t have been killed instantly because he managed to warn us with his harmonica. As we carry the two corpses back with us to give them a decent burial, Kurat is still holding his harmonica in his limp hand. He has saved our lives, for without his warning the enemy would surely have taken us by surprise and massacred us. Today has been another bad day for us, and we, the survivors, have again been granted a reprieve by Him above. Grommel reminds us that today is St Nicholas’s Day and Sunday. What is that? For us there are no more holidays, only survival, and every day we remain alive is a good day. I will sleep rather fitfully tonight. 7 December. The weather this morning is hazy again. During the morning it clears up, so that the visibility gets quite good. The enemy snipers are firing like mad again. We have three incidents during the morning. At the station the Soviets are attacking separately and are firing their mortars into the village. When our Stukas arrive, everything becomes quiet. They bomb the Russian positions in front of us. The Soviets have camouflaged themselves so well in the white snow that we are surprised how close they’ve been able to get without our noticing them. The dive bombers throw themselves at the Russians in several waves. We have become used to their wailing sirens when they dive. The many black clouds of smoke make it obvious that they have also hit vehicles and heavy weapons, but they still couldn’t stop the enemy attacking us that afternoon with artillery and mortar fire. Only the Stalinorgeln were not involved. Were they perhaps destroyed by the dive bombers?
For our evening meal we unexpectedly receive bean soup with potatoes and some bread. Jansen managed to bring back some food supplies for us over the Don.
8 December. Today is pretty much the same as yesterday. The visibility is good and the dive bombers start bombarding the Russian positions early. This time they are operating further back: the Russians must have pulled together strong forces on the heights behind Tschir station. The dive bombers attack for a second time, in several waves and lob their bombs on to their targets, and inky black smoke rises up into the blue sky.
9 December. A grey morning, and the enemy is firing with all his heavy weapons into the village and into our positions. Until noon we can peer only with the utmost of caution over the edges of our bunkers. The terrible waiting game has begun again. The Soviets are undoubtedly getting their own back for the dive-bomber attacks, which today will not take place owing to the poor visibility. During the afternoon they attack the village both from the east and along the railway line from the south. We, however, are not involved. If they do manage to take the village, they’ll be able to attack us from two sides and leave us vulnerable to a pincer movement. We wait and pray that they will not succeed. The fight for the village lasts several hours. Then the reserve unit manages to counter- attack and drive the Russians back out of the village again. The losses are great—six dead and many wounded. 11 December. The entire sky is grey today, and so visibility is limited. Since early morning shells have been exploding all around us. The Russians don’t want to give us any respite, it seems. Because of the explosions we don’t hear any engine noises and don’t realise the danger which is about to descend on us. Suddenly, like phantoms, five T-34 tanks are standing in front of us. They surprise not only us but also the crew of the 88mm gun deployed for ground support behind us on a knoll. Before the crew can traverse the long barrel to aim at the tanks, all five of the latter fire simultaneously. This surprise fire, at this short range, means the end for the 88. Surprisingly, the crew manages to destroy one of the five tanks before receiving two direct hits. We see pieces of armour and bodies fly through the air. The men are killed instantly. The four T-34s now advance triumphantly directly towards us, the Russian infantry clinging on like grapes, but the quad AA is still firing. Its tracer rounds are hitting the tanks and are forcing the infantry to get down and seek cover behind their vehicles.
Two T-34s are nearing the edge of the trench in front of us but turn away. They drive along it with their sides towards us until they come to Meinhard’s position. This is an opportunity every tank destroyer dreams about. However, they know that we no longer have any means to destroy them. We fire from all barrels on the infantry following the tanks, but the latter keep on rolling until they come to Meinhard’s position. Some of the Russians who have dared to advance towards us are cut down by our fire. Hand grenades explode close to Warias and Meinhard. Then, suddenly, Meinhard’s machine gun stops firing, although all the others continue. The tracer rounds from the quad AA swish over our heads, aimed at the waves of Soviet infantry soldiers bearing down. Without the quad we would have been overrun long ago. The sappers are also firing their two machine guns from our flank into the decimated ranks of the Soviet infantry.
The first tank halts on top of Meinhard’s position. The engine roars more loudly. He is now turning on the spot and churning up the ground with his tracks as he does so. The quad AA is now firing at point-blank range at the T-34 with explosive rounds, but they have no more effect on the thick turret armour than firecrackers. Then it happens! The tank that has broken through our lines to our right is firing at close range directly at the quad. The second round hits and smashes the weapon. Pieces of metal and various body parts fly through the air and land back on the snow over a wide area. A torn-off leg, still