Objetivo de la evaluaci´ on

URING the early afternoon of 23 November our combat group was, surprisingly, reinforced by a larger pioneer (engineer) unit under the leadership of a

Hauptmann.* They suddenly appeared in front of us from nowhere, driving forward a platoon of Russians they had taken prisoner while on the way over here to us. The unit came from a pioneer school which had been stationed near Kalatsch on the Don heights. They were able, with a strength of nearly three companies, to save themselves from the T-34s.

The experienced Pionierhauptmann takes over command of our combat group and brings some organisation to the confused and demoralised men. It turns out that most of the demoralised soldiers and NCOs have no combat experience, while those in the Stalingrad area mainly served in supply, maintenance and administrative units. Even though we, the replacement troops since October, also don’t have much front-line experience, we are the best-trained and -armed unit and are well prepared for any serious incident. For that reason we have the only combat-proven men—assistant machine gunners—assigned to us. During the breakthrough they were either sick or on their way back from leave, and were in the rear areas.

I’m not particularly happy when a leader assigns me Obergefreiter Petsch—the one whose nerves have failed him—as my number two. Küpper is assigned as number two to Meinhard, who has the second MG 34 light machine gun in our squad. Our morale is boosted by the knowledge that most of the men in our unit will be taking up positions close to each other.

In the meantime we’ve been able to find out where we are. We’re on the so-called Don Heights Road. Behind us is a village called Rytschov. This lies directly on the Don and on the railway line to Tschir and Stalingrad. A few kilometres to the south-east there’s an important railway bridge which crosses the Don. We can see this bridge clearly only if we use of field glasses. On the other side of the Don there is reported to be another combat unit. Only a few kilometres west of us is Tschir railway station. Tschir has a fuel depot and other war supplies. Two drivers coming to us from this direction report that the Russians have already secured the area. We also learn from Meinhard that our combat unit has formed a bridgehead in order to stop the Russians securing the important railway line which leads to Stalingrad, and the two bridges which lead south over the Don. For defence we have one 88mm AA gun, two 75mm AT guns on mounts and one quad AA gun for use against ground targets. The pioneers have in addition several mortars and hollow charges for anti-tank work. Three tanks and another 88mm gun are supposed to be joining us. Hopes are raised more because a rumour is going around that Generaloberst* Hoth and his Fourth Tank Army is

on his way to break the siege and the encirclement. With that our situation here will also loosen up.

This news and the slogans which follow—‘Soldiers, hang on! The Führer will get you out!—improve morale only for a short while. We quickly realise that we are entirely dependent upon ourselves. Our early hopes disappear like the melting snow as soon as a shell explodes. The almost daily Soviet attacks and the constant fight to stay alive drain us visibly. To these privations must be added the hunger we suffer for days on end when no food can be delivered, forcing us to search through the dirty bread bags of dead Russians lying in front of us in order to find anything edible. Occasionally they’d have more German rations on them than we’d ever been given.

It’s all very difficult—a time that I and the few who survive it will never forget. It’s particularly demoralising for us because, after the loss of our few AT weapons, no more replacements are available. What is more, contact with other combat units south of the Don is nonexistent.

24 November. At about midday one of the machine guns on our right flank suddenly starts hammering away. Then we hear rifle fire. The firing becomes more intense, and next we see Russian infantry appearing through the haze. I am meeting the enemy face to face for the first time, and, apart from an undeniable curiosity, also feel an enormous amount of nervousness and excitement. The brown, huddled figures remind me somehow of a great herd of sheep moving over a snow-covered field. As soon as the herd comes under fire from us, they hesitate for a moment, move apart from each other, and then immediately move forward again.

We are firing from all positions; only our machine gun is silent. What is the matter? I have concentrated so fiercely on the Russians that I’ve paid no attention to Petsch. Why doesn’t he shoot? His ammunition belt is in place, his machine gun is okay. Then I hear Döring call over: ‘What’s wrong, Petsch? Why don’t you shoot?’

Yes, for God’s sake—why doesn’t he shoot? Some of the enemy fall, hit by rifle fire and fire from Meinhard’s machine gun, but the mass continues undeterred towards us. I am in a turmoil and feel fear in every part of my body. Why is Petsch dabbling with his hands all over the machine gun instead of pulling the trigger? The questions are screaming out within me. His entire body is shaking as if in a fever, and the barrel of his machine gun is wandering backwards and forward. He’s had it! His nerves are gone and he can’t open fire! What should I do? I can’t just push him away from the weapon and take his place. I still have too much respect for him. But every second is precious! Finally it happens—a burst of fire comes from the barrel! Every third bullet is a tracer round. The stream of light passes way over the heads of the attackers, disappearing into the haze. The next burst is also poorly aimed and goes high into the clouds. By now the attackers have located our machine gun. The bullets swarm around our heads and bury themselves in the embankment behind us. Petsch suddenly yells out. He holds a bleeding ear and falls into the trench. Seidel, who has seen what has happened, looks after of him.

This is my chance! I immediately get behind the machine gun and fire some short, carefully aimed bursts, just as I learned how. I aim into the mass of the advancing Soviet

infantry. Grommel is now beside me, helping me by feeding in the ammunition belt. My aim is good, and several of the brown-clad figures fall to the ground. The waving mass stops for a moment, but then moves ahead, bent double, step by step, right for us.

My mind goes blank. I only see the advancing stream of enemy soldiers coming directly at us. I again fire straight into it Only fear is there—fear of this dirty brown heap of destruction constantly moving closer, which wants to kill me and everyone around me. I do not even feel the burning pain on the inner surface of my right hand, which I have caught on the hot metal while changing barrels seconds after getting a jam.

This is crazy! We are firing with four machine guns and at least eighty carbines from secure, covered positions into the advancing horde. Our machine gun bursts rip openings in their ranks. Dead and wounded are hitting the ground all the time. But more of them are coming through the haze, and we can’t see them clearly. The first ones are now so close to our positions that we can readily make out the plump, bent figures with rifles and Russian Kalashnikovs. Then, suddenly, two of the machine guns on our right flank are silenced.

Immediately the mass moves towards that flank from which they’re now getting only rifle fire. Together with Meinhard, I continue to fire into it as it moves towards the right. Their move now becomes their undoing: the heavy, hard-hitting fire of the 20mm quad anti-aircraft guns also comes as a surprise to us. Their bursts sound like low, regulated beats on a drum. We can see how the tracer rounds spew out of all four barrels and hit the middle of the attacking mass, tearing huge gaps in its ranks. Our two machine guns on the right flank start firing again; I assume that their silence was deliberate.

The quad machine gun is now raking the attackers in front of us, and when it stops firing stillness descends over the battlefield. We can hear calls and crying in Russian. I take a deep breath. The first battle with the enemy has affected me deeply, but now all my thoughts are working again. I raise my head out of the trench and peer into the field ahead. In front of us lie innumerable brown clumps on the snow. The quad’s fabulous fire power still amazes me—I never imagined it would have an effect like that. The terrain in front of us is quiet, and I, in my innocence, believe that all the attackers are either dead or wounded. As I move a bit further out of my trench to get a better look, a Russian machine gun opens fire. The bullets zip around my ears. Then a second machine gun starts firing and spraying us. Shortly after this I hear a sound that I recognise from Stalingrad, and the mortar rounds start landing all around.

‘Mortars!’ someone yells, and shortly afterwards: ‘Döring and Markowitz are wounded. We need a medic!’ Someone calls back that the medic is on his way.

I later discover that Gefreiter Markowitz, who was once a driver in our Schwadron, has taken a bullet through his shoulder and has had to be evacuated. Unteroffizier Döring, however, is only slightly injured on the cheek. At his own request, he stayed where he was. Petsch has lost his right ear. We’re all delighted when they bring him back to the village.

The mortar fire is so intense that we dare not stretch our heads over the trenches. But then we hear the familiar plop! of our own mortars. The pioneers have moved into position and are now beginning their own counter-fire. Their rounds rise up and over us and are exploding somewhere in the haze, where, it is assumed, the enemy is located.

Gingerly I raise myself out of my trench, in order to watch what is going on—and I cannot believe my eyes. Many of the brown lumps, which I thought were dead or wounded, are now standing up and are moving off: under cover of their own machine-gun and mortar fire, they are retreating.

Warias has also realised this, and he calls out from the neighbouring hole, ‘Hey, the Russians are leaving!’

Now our mortar rounds are landing right in the middle of the retreating Russians. For the quad machine-gun crews, either the range is too great or they are saving their ammunition for later. It’s not long before the Russians have disappeared in the fog. I have just filled my pipe with tobacco when the order to counterattack comes. We are to clear the area in front of our positions and stay on the heels of the Soviets for a while longer. Before I jump out of my hole and throw the machine gun, ready to fire, over my right shoulder, I light my pipe and take a couple of deep drags. Tobacco never tasted so good, and it feels as if I have gained new strengths. We fan out on a broad front and get only sporadic counter-fire. We fire back and move slowly forward. Close behind, the quad machine gun follows on its carriage. As we get to the fallen Russians, we discover that the wounded have been taken away. For the first time I see the dead enemy in front of me. The bodies are lying spread out over the snow and sometimes close together, just as they fell: wearing thick coats, they are either stretched out or bent over. Red puddles of blood are frozen on the snow.

My stomach is churning, and I cannot bring myself to look at their colourless faces. Now, for the first time, when I see the lifeless bodies before me, my consciousness really grasps the meaning of death. As a young person you tend to push these thoughts far away from you, but here there is no way to escape them. These people are our enemies, but, even so, they are flesh and blood, just like us. And just as they are lying here now, so could I or some of us be lying here dead and motionless in this ice cold snow.

I glance over at Grommel, who is carrying two ammunition boxes for me. The poor chap is as white as a sheet, and his eyes are staring towards the front, so as to avoid looking at the corpses. The others are doing the same. Küpper, Wilke and I go up to a dead soldier who only has a bloody half of his head left because the other half was probably torn away by an exploding shell. Wilke turns away, just as I do, while Küpper has to summon all his strength to stop himself throwing up. For us newcomers, the first view of a dead body gives a feeling of confusion, fright and helplessness—unless perhaps someone is of such a robust character and is so insensitive to human feelings that he is not affected: someone like the little black Unteroffizier von der Infanterie who looks like a gypsy. His name is Schwarz, and I saw him two days ago in position on the MSR. I met up with him again here, as Grommel and I were advancing against the weak but still dangerous enemy fire, behind some flat ground rising over on our left flank. While we were here we also stumbled across a circular-shaped earthwork. Round a centre circle dug out fairly deep in the ground was another rim dug down to the height of a man.

Meinhard had mentioned these features while we were still in our defensive positions. He said that while the division was advancing they used them for their artillery and anti- aircraft guns, and we could now expect the Soviets to use them for themselves. This was

obviously correct, for scattered around there were a number of dead Soviet soldiers. This is when I hear this black Unteroffizier tell a soldier to shoot a crumpled figure in the head; he himself had the muzzle of his submachine gun against the back of another soldier’s head. Both shots sound muffled and unpleasant, much as if one had shot into a sack. I was shocked, and I shuddered. Is the man so full of hate that he even has to dishonour the dead? After this he walks past me towards another fallen soldier. He kicks the body, which is lying on its side, really hard in the stomach and mutters angrily, ‘This one too is still alive!’ He places his barrel directly on the forehead of the soldier and fires. The body, which I had assumed to be dead, convulses. After the retreat from the cauldron of Stalingrad to the defensive positions near Rytschov, up to 13 December 1942. ‘Why don’t we take them prisoner?’ I ask him angrily. The black sergeant just looks at me in disgust and growls: ‘Then just try to get them up when they are playing dead! The swine think we won’t realise they’re alive and will cut us down from behind. I’ve seen it before!’ How can I answer him? I’m still not conversant with all the underhanded things that are done in warfare. But I would never shoot at any unarmed soldier, even if it was to my personal disadvantage. What I consider unworthy and terrible, the Unteroffizier only looks upon as a safety measure for our own protection.

Nevertheless, I can’t bring myself to fire if I am not attacked. And I don’t intend ever to change my mind!

Grommel is also upset, and so he presses on, and I have to hurry to catch up with him. All the time I can hear these muffled shots to the head, and they really shake me to the marrow. Although this Unteroffizier may have a very logical argument, I still reckon a large part of his thinking comes from his rather sadistic nature, which such people can satisfy in time of war under the pretext of legitimacy.

Meinhard says that the Soviets commit atrocities on our soldiers and often do not take prisoners. So our side behaves in the same manner. He says this is the way of war, with its constantly increasing avalanches of hate. It begins with an attack and then combat. The two enemies fight for their lives, and it develops into grim determination and over-reaction from both sides. That leads to revenge and retaliation, in accordance with the motto ‘As you do unto me, so I do unto you!’ Oh, and heaven help the loser. I’ve never heard Meinhard speak like this before, but I suppose he’s right. I haven’t been in the war long enough to be able to form an opinion.

Our counter-attack is over as we arrive at the jumping-off point of the Soviet attack. The enemy has in the meantime withdrawn far behind these positions, so we take them over, keeping on the alert. After dark we are given hot coffee and our rations. The vehicles take five wounded back to the village. On one of the vehicles are one dead and one slightly wounded soldier. We don’t know either man. Some of the soldiers tell us that they have found German rations and cigarettes in the Soviet soldiers’ kitbags. On the wrist of a Kommissar they also found a German Thiele wristwatch, with a name inscribed under the second lid. The driver from the supply vehicle will give them to the Pionierhauptmann.

We spend the night in the new positions. It’s bloody cold, and an icy easterly wind penetrates into our very bones. Anyone not on watch at an observation post sits huddled in his cold foxhole and dozes until morning. 25 November. Even before it gets light, we have orders to board our vehicles. We make for the village and re-occupy the old positions and trenches scattered around on the steppe.