HE WEATHER has calmed down a bit, and during the night there was even a bit of frost again and many of the vehicles had a chance to get back out of the mud. However, the further we retreat, the muddier and more churned up the roads become.
Under the leadership of a young Leutnant, our Schwadron is more often than not assigned as rearguard, our job being to hold the enemy back for as long as we can and, if possible, mount a counter-attack. But, as a rule, the Soviets attack us in massive force, and without suitable heavy weapons we have nothing to match them. When they charge after us shouting ‘Hurrah!’, it is often as much as we can do to escape in one piece. As a result, our little band gradually becomes smaller and smaller.
At the start of the retreat between Apostolovo and Schirkoye, we are at least more or less organised. In order to gain time for our baggage trains and heavy weapons to churn their way through the mud, we as the rearguard occupy a former artillery position with a bunker. We are under orders to hold this position until evening and then, after nightfall, move back. As support, our Schwadron is reinforced with several men from other units, including a 75mm ATG towed by a tracked vehicle. As the artillery position is located in the middle of the steppe, the conditions are quite good; only the sunflower field off to our right is a bit of a morass.
It is quiet here to begin with: we can neither see nor hear anything of the enemy. But we know he has been advancing relentlessly and can appear at any time. He has realised that there is no continuous frontline any more, and he often just leaves us sitting in our trenches when we prove awkward for him and simply bypasses us on our left or right flank. This is apparent from the many fires and clouds of smoke to our left and right which the enemy leaves behind along his route.
Our young Leutnant makes the bunker his headquarters. While my HMG goes into position in a narrow foxhole to the right of the bunker, Fritz Hamann is supposed to secure the bunker. The light platoons are to the left The ATG has been left behind the heap of dirt excavated when the bunker was built. Wachtmeister Fender’s recommendation that the ATG be positioned further to the rear is based on the argument that, if spotted by the tanks, it could endanger both the bunker and the HMG. His suggestion is, however, disregarded. As I improve the field of fire in front of my HMG with Franz Kramer, the first enemy artillery rounds scream in towards us. The barrage is not directed at anything in particular —‘A bit of disruptive fire,’ says Waldi, who is standing in a foxhole to my side and behind me and is scanning the rolling hills in front of us with his field glasses. After a little while I hear him yell, ‘Bloody hell! They are coming at us like a swarm of
ants!’
I look through the telescopic sight and see them too. The Soviets are moving towards us like an army of termites, hell-bent on destruction. Waldi estimates that the range is still three or four kilometres. They’re moving slowly, at an almost leisurely pace, but they are making progress at a constant speed. They could be on us in about an hour’s time. After a few minutes, however, we decide that the mass of troops is not moving directly at us, but rather towards our right. ‘Looks like they might actually pass by us,’ I say. ‘I don’t think so,’ says Waldi. ‘We’ll probably just catch his right flank.’ In the meantime the Russian guns are firing further ahead, pounding the vacant terrain immediately in front of their slowly moving infantry. Waldi is right: if they continue in this manner, we will brush their right flank. The first thing is that we mustn’t move, but when they get dangerously close we should open fire. Waldi agrees. The Leutnant sees it differently. He calls over to us and says that both machine guns should open fire now. ‘That’s crazy! At a range of one and a half kilometres it is a total waste of ammunition —and we will give away our position,’ says Waldi, annoyed. So I wait. But then the other weapon opens up, so I fire off a belt too. The brown mass in front of us doesn’t stop for a moment, but continues forward as if nothing has happened. Then my gun jams.
I curse the enamelled steel cartridges: as so often happens, one has got stuck in the barrel. I normally only use this type of ammunition when the enemy is still some way off and needs to be disrupted while he is getting ready, but I always have a few cases of good ammunition in reserve and use this when the enemy makes his frontal assault. I still need one or two spare barrels, in case we go into action here. Josef Spittka, our ammunition carrier, has got at least one reserve barrel. But where is he?
‘They must all be in the bunker,’ Bittner answers from next door when I ask him if he knows where our assistant is. I need to get over to the bunker and ask Waldi.
‘Of course, I’ll man the gun in the meantime. The Russians are still a long way away.’ Waldi is saving his ammunition and fires only very short bursts at the Russians. Only Fender and two other men are in the bunker—the Leutnant has sent the rest off to the nearby foxhole. I quickly light up a cigarette and am on my way out of the bunker when someone yells ‘Tank!’ Seconds later rounds hit the top of the bunker. The ATG fires one shot, then the tank destroys it.
I run out of the bunker, trying to get to my machine gun. The tank shells explode all around me. I leap into the next foxhole. Then I see three T-34s, approaching from the left, heading directly towards the bunker. The men in the trenches are already out of their holes and running back.
‘They are all running away!’ yells Fritz Hamann. Then he too jumps out of the foxhole with Bittner and dashes after the Leutnant and the others. Two tanks fire on the fleeing soldiers, while the third is circling the bunker and opening up. One round tears the escaping ATG crew apart, then the turret hatch on the T-34 opens and several hand
grenades are thrown into the bunker entrance.
My muscles tighten—I want to jump up and run behind the others. Too late! The tank has just waltzed over Fritz Hamann’s HMG and flattened it. Now it is lumbering past me, following the other two. To get up now would mean certain death. I have to stay in my hole and see what happens. Both Waldi and Kramer are still in their foxhole. Fender should still be in the bunker—or has he been hit?
The thread by which my life is hanging continues to be very thin as I look over to Waldi and Kramer. They are not firing, but working on a machine-gun barrel, in which no doubt another cartridge has become stuck. At this moment the attacking Soviets are getting unpleasantly close. Then I hear Wachtmeister Fender.
‘What’s the matter? Why don’t you shoot?’ Fender is standing by the bunker, holding his left arm close to his body. He must have been wounded.
‘Cartridge jams in all barrels!’ Waldi yells back, trying desperately to release the jammed cartridges. Finally he manages it. He replaces the barrel in its socket, closes the breech and pulls the ammunition belt tight. The machine gun rattles away and sends off two long bursts. The Soviets in front of us throw themselves down on the ground. Then the gun jams again. It is exasperating—I know the feeling! When the barrel is hot and even the smallest imperfections have built up inside, the problem starts all over again. The only solution is to fit a new barrel and let the others cool off, or use good-quality ammunition.
The retreat to the Bug in the Russian mudbath.
I hope Waldi realises this, but over the last few months he has only been using his sub- machine gun and doesn’t have the routine any more. If that machine gun doesn’t fire we’ll all be dead men—the Russians will pull us out of our foxholes and then either shoot us or
take us prisoner. Waldi and Kramer are keeping their heads down, messing around with the barrels, while rifle bullets are zipping all around them. Waldi is swearing and praying, every now and then glancing up at the Soviets moving ever nearer towards us. I too am panic-stricken and blame myself. Why didn’t I stay where I was?
I reckon Waldi and Kramer have been using that lousy ammunition for too long, even though they have at least six cases of good ammunition in their foxhole. I am also much better at getting cartridges out of barrels, as I have had more experience of this than Kramer, who has never really come to terms with it. If both barrels have cartridges stuck, and if they have punched out the bottoms of the cartridges, then getting the rest of the cartridge out is a major problem and would take time.
All these thoughts are racing through my head. But before all is lost I just have to try everything possible to get that machine gun to fire. My God—up until now I’ve always been able to depend on my machine gun. In panic and fright I yell through the ever increasing inferno of rifle fire: ‘I’m coming, but one of you must get out of the foxhole!’ The hole is too narrow for three; Waldi knows that too. We leap at the same time, and Waldi disappears in a neighbouring foxhole with two strides. I have much further to run, through the rain of bullets, and feel a hot graze on my left forearm. It’s not much, but I can feel blood running out of my sleeve. With a final leap I land in the hole and start to look at the barrels. Just as I thought— cartridges stuck in both of them, both with their bottoms punched out. Damn! I am going to need more time to clear them out. I see a couple of soldiers at the bunker. ‘I need spare barrels!’ I yell to them and then try to free the cartridges with a special tool. The brown figures in front of us are now almost so close that we will soon see their faces. By this time I can hear Waldi firing his sub-machine gun, and rifle fire is also coming from the bunker. So there are some riflemen left after all!
However, against this great horde, a few salvos of rifle fire are worthless. Is this, then, the end? That’s certainly the way it looks. I never really thought it would finish like this. But why should I be an exception? Now it’s death or imprisonment—maybe something worse. We’ve heard so much about the Red Army, and how they treat their prisoners. A quick death is much to be preferred, then—I’d never survive Russian imprisonment. I try to pray quietly, but because of my churning stomach can’t say anything coherent. Quite automatically, I unbutton my holster and feel the cool handle of my 08 pistol in my hand… Then someone behind me coughs. ‘Here you are—two barrels from the other machine gun!’ I turn round and recognise our ammunition carrier, who amidst a rain of bullets from the enemy had leapt up from a foxhole and thrown us two barrels in their protective covers, landing about a metre behind us. He can see Franz and I trying to reach the package with our hands, then he jumps up again and runs back. He manages just two strides before he falls silently to the ground and remains motionless. The bullets keep ripping into his dead body, but Josef Spittka, our ammunition carrier, feels them no more. He has given his young life for his comrades.
longer. My hands trembling, I open the sleeves and pull out a new barrel, which I lock into the gun. Franz Kramer has already brought out a new belt of the good brass ammunition. I pull the belt tight and close the breech.
My entire body is shaking like a leaf—the first Soviet soldiers are already running towards us. But then my machine gun starts to chatter! An indescribable feeling of relief comes over me as the belt flows through as if oiled. The attackers at the front start falling like flies to the ground. Franz Kramer has already opened all the ammunition cases and is feeding in new belts with both hands to make sure they will pull through without any stoppages.
How often I have stood behind a machine gun and felt the strength embodied in this mechanical purveyor of death. But never have I used it with such relief as at this moment. I see our enemy falling and dying. I see them bleeding from their wounds, hear their whimpering cries and have, believe me, not a spark of pity or compassion for them. A sort of madness has come over me. It’s the bloody revenge for the crazy terror and despair which I experienced just now … and it is retaliation for the death of Josef Spittka, the ATG crew and the others who became casualties.
Revenge and retaliation! That inflammatory clarion call for revenge! That’s the way all war leaders want their soldiers to be. Remorseless, and with hatred and retaliation in their hearts, men can win battles, and quite ordinary soldiers can be turned into celebrities. Fear is converted into hatred, anger and calls for retribution. In this way you are motivated to fight on—even decorated with medals as a hero. But heroes have to stay alive, so that others can see their medals; they are supposed to inspire the weaker among us. Therefore heroes—like Josef Spittka, at least as far his own comrades are concerned—are an irreplaceable loss. In terms of the war effort, however, they are not worth a jot.
But, as I look at our enemies lying there on the ground, all my pent-up aggression vanishes. I am thinking clearly once more. In the far distance, beyond my firing range, the Soviets continue unconcerned. The mass has not allowed its right flank be affected by my machine gun: there is only a large heap of Russians lying on their stomachs in a shallow depression in front of us. We can only make them out when they raise their heads.
I have fired almost six cases of ammunition so far. The palm of my right hand burns as if on fire because I changed the hot barrels in seconds without taking time to grab the protection of the asbestos rag. Strips of skin are hanging on the barrels.
‘We only have half a case of good ammunition left,’ Franz Kramer reminds me. His eyes gleam feverishly and his face is soaked with sweat. His lips are cracked and covered with thick crusts of saliva. I probably don’t look any better myself. The Russians in front of us are motionless. They are less than 50 metres away, but in a really tricky situation. They have cover only when they lie prone: the second they move, I shoot. It must be bloody awful for them I reckon. Franz expresses what I am also thinking.
‘At this range, if they all suddenly jump up and charge, things could get pretty awkward,’ he remarks nervously.
time a steel helmet is held up on a rifle and waved back and forth. Again the voice: ‘Pan! Pan! Not shoot—we come!’ I don’t trust them. How should I respond? I wrap my hand around the grip with a finger on the trigger. I would of course be delighted if I don’t have to shoot and kill any more. But can we rely on them? We are only a handful of men. What if I let them come forward without firing and then they suddenly run us down? What a predicament! ‘Throw your guns down!’ I call back.
The one who did the talking slowly rises to his feet and speaks to those lying on the ground. I wonder about how much confidence he has in us. Some of them stand up, but they are still holding their rifles.
‘Throw away your guns!’ Waldi yells at them.
The Russians throw themselves flat again as a result of the shouting, leaving just the fellow who has done the talking standing with his hands stretched out over his head, waving from side to side, and calling out ‘Don’t shoot, don’t shoot.’ Then he speaks to the others again, and then slowly, one at a time, they also stand up, this time without their weapons. I don’t feel very comfortable seeing so many Russians in front of me, and my finger is still ready to squeeze the trigger.
‘Our men are coming back!’ Fender calls out to us from the bunker.
I glance back quickly and—thank God—they are no longer far away. That was the reason, then, why they decided to surrender: they thought that we were about to counter- attack and that they would be killed in any case. I breathe more easily in the knowledge that the danger is now finally over.
The Russians now come towards us with their arms in the air and are collected by Fender and three soldiers. There are more than sixty of them, all with good equipment, but they are not youngsters. An officer is among them. I learn that the fifty-year-old Russian who speaks some German is a teacher from Kiev. His former supply unit apparently came to the front only three weeks ago. He had been indoctrinated in the belief that he must never surrender to the Germans, as they were ‘known’ to mutilate their prisoners before they killed them. In answer to the question why he still surrendered, he tells us that during the last few weeks of the German retreat a number of Russian prisoners had been able to escape, and they had met up with them and been told that they had been put to work by the