What is not customary to talk about, recalling the Battle of Stalingrad. Letters from German soldiers from Stalingrad

Memoirs of Wehrmacht Veterans

Wiegand Wüster

"In the hell of Stalingrad. The bloody nightmare of the Wehrmacht""

Edition - Moscow: Yauza-press, 2010

(abridged edition)

The Second World War. Battle on the Volga. 6th Army of the Wehrmacht. 1942

The farther our train went east, the more spring turned its back on us. It was rainy and cool in Kyiv. We met a lot of Italian military transports. The Italians, with feathers on their hats, did not make a good impression either. They were freezing. In Kharkov, in some places, there was even snow. The city was abandoned and gray. Our apartments on the collective farm were nondescript. Belgium and France were remembered as a lost paradise.

Nevertheless, entertainment remained in the city, such as soldiers' cinemas and a theater. The main streets, as elsewhere in Russia, were wide, straight, AND imposing - but rather neglected. Oddly enough, Kharkov theatrical performances were not bad at all. The Ukrainian ensemble (or those who stayed here) gave "Swan Lake" and "Gypsy Baron". The orchestra appeared in woolen coats trimmed with fur, with hats pushed back to the back of the head or pulled down over the nose. Only the conductor, visible from the hall, was dressed in a worn tailcoat. Time has not spared both costumes and scenery. But, using a lot of improvisation, the production went quite well. People tried hard and were talented. In the Soviet Union, culture was given meaning and significance.

Our division had not yet fully arrived in Kharkov when the Russians broke through the German positions north of the city. The infantry regiment, our heavy battalion and the light artillery battalion (211th infantry regiment of Oberst Karl Barnbeck, 1st battalion of the 171st artillery regiment of Major Gerhard Wagner and 4th battalion of the same regiment of Oberst Lieutenant Helmut Balthasar) had to play the fire brigade.

The battery had already suffered losses, moving to the first firing position, when Russian bombs fell into the column. German air supremacy diminished, although it remained. The harassing fire of the Russian artillery fell near our battery, but it seems that the enemy did not detect it, although we repeatedly fired from our position.

I was standing behind the battery, shouting instructions to the guns, when there was a terrible explosion on the third gun. In the heat of the moment, I thought we had taken a direct hit. A large dark object flew past me. I identified it as a pneumatic compensator torn from a howitzer. Everyone ran to the destroyed artillery position. Numbers one and two were on the gun carriage.

The rest seemed intact. The gun looked bad. The barrel in front of the breech was swollen and torn into strips. At the same time, the front part of the trunk did not part. Two spring knurlers on either side of the barrel were knocked off and fell apart. The cradle was bent. It was clearly visible that the pneumatic compensator located above the barrel was torn off. There was a rupture of the trunk, the first in my experience. I have seen cannons with a barrel rupture, but there they burst from the muzzle. In general, barrel breaks were rare.

The two gunners on the carriage stirred. The pressure of the blast covered their faces in dots of broken small blood vessels. They were seriously shell-shocked, they did not hear anything and could not see well, but in all other respects they remained intact. Everything looked scarier than it turned out. This was confirmed by the doctor. With his arrival, their condition began to improve.

They were, of course, hit and stunned, so they were sent to the hospital for a couple of days. When they returned, they did not want to return to the guns. Everyone understood them. But, having dragged shells for some time, they preferred to become artillerymen again. For a long time there were disputes about the reason for the gap. Someone even tried to blame those who serviced the gun, because the barrel is supposed to be inspected after each shot for foreign objects left in it.

Yes, there was a visual check rule, but it was an empty theory, because it did not allow a high rate of fire and no one remembered it during the fighting - there were enough other worries. It has also never happened that the remains of a powder cap or a torn off shell belt could do this. Most likely, it was the shells.

Due to the shortage of copper, shells were made with soft iron belts. Problems appeared in some batches of shells, and from time to time there was a rupture of the barrel, as if not in my battalion. Now, before firing, the markings on all shells were checked in case there were shells from those unfortunate batches. These appeared every now and then - they were specially marked and sent back. Just a few days later, the battery received a brand new gun. Kharkov and its supply depots were still very close.

When everything seemed to calm down, the deployed parts of the division were withdrawn to the rear. But before the battery reached the place of quartering on the collective farm, the Russians again broke through in the same place. We turned around and went back to our positions. This time the battery directly collided with the Saxon units. Now the deliberately hostile attitude has changed to the judgment "what could these poor fellows do ...". The Saxons lay all winter near Kharkov in the mud, had poor supplies and were in poor condition, a living picture of poverty.

They were completely exhausted, a laughable combat strength remained in the companies. They couldn't have done more if they wanted to. They burned down, leaving only firebrands. I had never seen a German unit in such a pitiful state before. The Saxons were in a much worse state than our 71st Division was when it was withdrawn from army control last autumn because of losses near Kyiv. We felt only compassion and hoped that our own parts would avoid a similar fate.

The main front line was on a flat hill. In the rear, on the other side of the valley, the battery had to settle on the front slope of the slope between several clay huts. The unusual arrangement of guns was inevitable, because there was simply no other shelter in this threatening situation at the right distance from the Russians. We couldn't even fire far enough into the enemy's depths. If the Russians launch a successful attack and drive our infantry off the crest of the high ground, the position on the forward slope will become dangerous.

It will be almost impossible for vehicles with shells to reach us, and we will have very little chance of changing position. But first, for several days I was a forward observer on the front line under continuous heavy shelling. Our infantry dug in well, but their morale was affected by the non-stop shelling, when during the day no one could move, even could not stick out of their hole. Well, my radio operators and I suffered less from the shelling: we sat quietly in a deep "fox hole" and knew that even a close hit would not affect us.

A direct hit, which would have had a very sad outcome, we did not take into account. Experience has again shown that gunners are more afraid of infantry fire than artillery fire. For the infantry, the exact opposite was true. You are much less afraid of a weapon that you own yourself than of an unknown one. The infantry liaison officers, sometimes hiding in our hole, watched nervously as we calmly played cards. Nevertheless, I was glad when they changed me and I returned to the battery. This time the main observation post was far behind the gun emplacements.

It was an unexpected decision, but such was the terrain. The Russians attacked again on 17 and 18 May, with vastly superior numbers. Spring is coming soon with summer warmth. It would be nice if the enemy attacks did not start at this time. Accumulations of enemy tanks were found. We had to open barrage more and more often. The observer who replaced me increasingly demanded fire support. The entire advanced line on the crest disappeared under the clouds of bursts of Russian artillery. It was clear that the enemy would soon launch an attack.

The short distance to the rear made it easier to transport shells. Once a motorized column even drove right up to the guns. Our own horse-drawn columns could not handle the high flow. The barrels and bolts were hot. All free soldiers were busy loading guns and carrying shells. For the first time, barrels and bolts had to be cooled with wet bags or just water, they became so hot that the crews could not shoot.

Some of the barrels, which had already fired thousands of shells, developed severe barrel erosion at the leading edge of the shell chamber - in the smooth part of the barrel - where the leading end of the projectile entered. It took a lot of force to open the lock while ejecting the empty cartridge case. Every now and then, forcing the edge of the cartridge case out of the eroded chamber, a wooden banner was used. Because of the erosion of the barrel, there was a shortage of gunpowder. If, during rapid fire, the lock was opened immediately after the rollback, jets of flame burst out.

In fact, they were safe. But they took some getting used to. Once, when we had infantrymen in position, they wanted to shoot from cannons. Usually they were cautious. The cord had to be pulled with force. The barrel rolled close to the body, the sound of the shot was unfamiliar. For the gunners, this was a good opportunity to show off. There were always tales about a barrel rupture. As for heroism, naturally, the gunners felt embarrassed in front of the poor fellows from the infantry, which they tried to compensate for.

The morning of May 18 was decisive. Russian tanks attacked with infantry support. The forward observer transmitted an urgent call. When we saw the first tank on our own front line in front of the artillery position, the observer relayed the request of the infantry to deal with the tanks that had broken through, without thinking about our soldiers. In their opinion, only in this way will it be possible to hold the position. I was glad that I was not in the front line in this mess - but I was worried about our unsuccessful position on the forward slope, which the tanks could at any moment take under direct fire.

The gunners were worried. The tanks went from the opposite slope, firing at the squares, but not at our battery, which they probably did not notice. I ran from gun to gun and assigned gun commanders specific tanks as direct targets. But they will only open fire when the Russian tanks are far enough away from our front line to avoid hitting ours. Our barrage opened at a distance of about 1500 meters. 15 cm howitzers were not really designed for this. It took several shots with correction to hit the tank or finish it off with a close hit of a 15 cm projectile.

When one accurate hit tore off an entire tower from the terrible T-34, the numbness subsided. Although the danger remained clear, hunting excitement rose among the gunners. They faithfully worked at the guns And clearly cheered up. I ran from gun to gun, choosing the best position for distributing targets. Fortunately, the tanks did not shoot at us, which would have ended badly for us. In this sense, the work of artillerymen was simplified, and they could calmly aim and shoot. In this tough situation, I was called to the phone. The battalion commander, Balthazar, demanded an explanation of how the shortfall from the 10th battery could fall behind the command post of one of the light artillery battalions.

It could only be from 10 batteries, because at that moment no other heavy battery was firing. I cut short this accusation, perhaps too abruptly, and referred to my struggle with tanks. I wanted to go back to guns, which were more important to me to control. Maybe I answered too confidently, caught off guard in the midst of the fight.

When I was again ordered to answer the phone, I was given the coordinates of the allegedly threatened command post, which, fortunately, was not damaged. Now I was completely sure that the 10th battery could not be responsible for this shot, because the barrels would have to be lowered about 45 degrees FOR this, and I would have noticed it. It would be, moreover, completely wrong, because the guns fired at enemy tanks.

I tried to explain the situation to Balthazar. Meanwhile, the battle with tanks continued without stopping. In total, we destroyed five enemy tanks. The rest were dealt with by the infantry in close combat on the main line of defense. The tanks are gone. The enemy's attack failed. Our infantry successfully held their positions. Encouraging messages went from the forward observer, who was again in touch, he began to adjust the fire of the battery on the retreating enemy. I contacted battery commander Kulman by field telephone and made a detailed report, which satisfied him. And yet he continued to talk about the shortfall. I responded in the most disrespectful way. For me, the story was the most idiotic.

When the battle finally died down towards evening, the gunners began to paint rings on the barrels with white oil paint - from where they just got it. I was sure that there were no more than five in total, but together with the tank near Nemirov it was already six. Fortunately, not a single gun was spared by victory, otherwise such a “stink” would have risen. Gunners and gunners with two victories each were naturally the heroes of the day. It was because of the position on the front slope that we could shoot directly at the tanks, but the main thing was that the tanks did not recognize us at our Idiot position on the slope. Not a single enemy shot hit us, and even the Russian artillery did not touch us. Soldier luck!

Because of all this noise around the notorious underflight, I behaved prudently. As a precaution, I insured against all charges. I collected all the records from the gun commanders and even from telephone and radio operators about target designations from our main observation post and from the forward spotter. I compiled and reviewed the documents for any inaccuracies or errors. The more I looked into them, the clearer it became to me that such a miss required an extraordinary change in azimuth. There was an error. We really fired from different angles of elevation, but with the slightest traverse of the barrels. Although this was already a reinsurance, I checked the ammunition consumption and looked through the gun formularies - a work that only added to the overall picture. Among other things, the traverse angle of the howitzers deeply bogged down in the ground was not enough. The beds would have to be deployed - serious work that would not have passed unnoticed by me. I calmed down: my position was solid as a rock.

It was a wonderful sunny morning and I planned everything to arrive on time, but not too early. Balthazar seemed to be already waiting for me when I entered. His adjutant, Peter Schmidt, stood to one side behind him. - Arrived at your command. - Where is your helmet? You must wear a helmet when you come to collect,” Balthazar growled. I answered to the point and in the most calm manner that I am absolutely clear on this issue, because I read the regulations and made sure that the cap is enough. It was already too much.

You dare to teach me?! Then followed a hysterical stream of insulting words taken from the repertoire of a barracks non-commissioned officer, a language that had already almost disappeared from memory in the field. I think Balthazar knew that his lack of self-control would always call into question his qualities. His outburst came to an end: "And when I order you to wear a helmet, you put on a helmet, okay?!" The adjutant stood motionless behind him, silent, stone-faced - what else was there to do? "Give me your helmet, Peter," I said, turning to him. - I need a helmet, but I don't have it with me.

On the way back, I hesitated, thinking about what to do and in what order everything would happen. On the way back, I decided to call on Ulman to report to him. Surprisingly, he tried to calm me down and dissuade me from filing a complaint: "You won't make friends like that." What kind of friends did I have now? But Kuhlman, it seems, was on my side in one thing. He did not want to do anything with the rings on the barrels, because they were the pride of the battery. I should look for witnesses. Our spotter could help me. However, he seemed to help me grudgingly.

From the "Book of the Wise" I learned that the complaint should be filed through official channels, the report should be filed in a sealed envelope, which in my case can only be opened by the regimental commander. I acted according to this formula. I contested the "lack of supervision" charge and attached evidence. I complained that there was no honest investigation. Finally, I complained about gross insults.

Submitting a complaint made me feel better. In any case, it was clear to me that Balthazar would pursue me relentlessly. He'll get me one way or another. I would have to be on the lookout and hope for a transfer to another battalion, which was common practice in such cases. Oberst Lieutenant Balthazar was confident enough to call me. Complaining - well - I should know that what I did was stupid.

Then he got to the point: the envelope was probably sealed so that any old "pisepampel" (a local Rhinelandic, or rather Brunswick, expression meaning "bad guy", "stupid, ill-mannered guy" or even "bore" or "wet bed"), as he called himself , will not be able to read it, so he will have to open it. He was amazed when I forbade doing this, referring to the "Book of the Wise". The whole matter can be revisited if I let him open it. I declined the offer without further comment, believing that the complaint procedure should proceed on its own.

To get confirmation of our knocked out tanks turned out to be more for me. difficult business. Of course, experts could determine whether the tank was hit by a 15 cm shell or not. But such considerations did not work under certain conditions. The destroyed tanks were located in our zone, but will the infantry not declare them themselves? It's good that other batteries and anti-tank units did not fire at the tanks - otherwise the request for 5 tanks would have turned into 10 or 20. This often happened, like the miracle of the multiplication of loaves by Jesus. Besides us artillerymen, who were firing, who could see anything? The infantry during the Russian breakthrough had other concerns.

If they managed to reorganize, any search would be useless. Question to question. The officer of the artillery and technical service, who ended up on the battery due to problems with barrel erosion, doubted that clear evidence could be found on the wreckage of tanks that they had been destroyed by 15-cm howitzer shells. In some cases, everything is clear and clear, but in general everything is extremely doubtful. I wanted to go and start questioning the infantry myself, fearing that evidence would not be found - and foreseeing new conflicts with Balthazar.

Lieutenant von Medem reported that the infantry was completely encouraged by our battle with the tanks. The battalion commander alone confirmed three victories and put them on the map. There was even one that we did not notice and did not count. Moreover, there were three more confirmed victories from company commanders. So 5 burned tanks became 6 and even 7, because two tanks collided when the first one was knocked over on its side by hitting the tracks. The main thing is that now we could provide our victories in writing. Kuhlman himself was quite proud of his 10th battery. My yesterday's underestimation must have left a good impression. But Hauptmann Kuhlman did not want to interfere in the confrontation between me and Oberst Lieutenant Balthasar, although he patted me approvingly on the shoulder and called the punishment pure trifle.

I kept my thoughts to myself, only noticing along the way the adjutant Peter Schmidt, whom Balthazar had sent to me because he had put the task of proof before the MNCY, but those reports from the spotter were already going to Kuhlman through "official channels". Yes, those 7 tanks were now shouted from the rooftops, making up a glorious page in the history of the battalion, which had little to do with it - as Kuhlman explained - indicating that all this was done exclusively by his battery, although he personally did not participate in this and agreed with Balthazar about my punishment.

The big victories of 1941 before the beginning of winter caused a real stream of medals, later they began to be saved. When Stalingrad came to an end, even the strongest distribution of medals and promotions could not stop the collapse. The legend of the Spartans was remembered, and (dead) heroes were needed for the monument ... The study of wrecked tanks was informative in several ways. T-34 was in 1942 the best and most reliable Russian tank. Its wide tracks gave it better mobility on rough terrain than others, a powerful engine allowed it to develop better speed, a long gun barrel gave it better penetrating power.

The disadvantages were poor observation devices and the lack of all-round visibility, which made the tank half blind. Nevertheless, for all the power of the armor, he could not withstand 15-cm shells; a direct hit was not even necessary for defeat. A hit under a caterpillar or hull turned it over. Close gaps tore caterpillars.

Our combat sector was soon transferred to another division. In the meantime, our 71st was gathered together and replenished again. We passed through Kharkov to the south, in the direction of a new encirclement operation. The Battle of Kharkov ended successfully. The defense against the large-scale Russian offensive turned into a devastating battle to encircle the aggressor. Now we were moving east again, the victorious end of the war was close again. The crossings over Burliuk and Oskol had to be fought in heavy fighting. but after that - as in 1941 - there were long weeks of advancing in exhausting heat, not counting days full of mud when it rained.

Apart from two major offensive maneuvers, our heavy battalion rarely saw action. We had enough worries with one movement forward. The stocky draft horses were frighteningly thin and showed by every appearance that they were not suitable for long marches, especially over rough terrain. Temporary help was needed. We still had a few tanks turned into tractors, but we were also looking for agricultural tractors, mostly caterpillars. Few could be found in the collective farms right by the road. The Russians took as much as they could with them, leaving only faulty equipment. There was a constant need to improvise, and we were always on the lookout for fuel.

For this, we were best served by a random T-34. We sent "prize teams" who hunted to the right and left along the road of our offensive in captured trucks. To maintain mobility, we found a 200-liter barrel of diesel fuel. "Kerosene," the soldiers said - because the word "kerosene" was unfamiliar to us. A 200-liter barrel was transported on a tank without a turret, on which ammunition was brought. And yet we were always short of fuel, because we could not properly satisfy even the needs of motorized units. In the beginning we moved the whole howitzers because it was easier that way. But it soon turned out that the horse-drawn suspension of our limbers was weak and broke for this. This created the greatest difficulties in moving into position. We had to move the barrel separately. New springs were hard to come by, and an officer of the artillery and technical service could hardly supply them in the field. And behind each tractor moved a long caravan of wheeled vehicles.

We, of course, did not look like an organized combat unit. The battery resembled a gypsy camp, because the load was distributed among peasant carts, which were pulled by small hardy horses. From the mass of prisoners flowing towards us, we recruited strong voluntary assistants (Khivi), who, wearing a mixture of civilian clothes, Wehrmacht uniforms and their Russian uniforms, only strengthened the impression of a crowd of gypsies. Horses that got sick or weak were unharnessed and tied to cars so they could trot beside them.

I worked out my punishment "in parts." The place of house arrest was a tent made of cloaked cloaks, which, on quiet days, was set up separately for me. My orderly brought me food. The battery knew what was happening, grinned and continued to treat me well. Kuhlman carefully kept track of the time and announced when it had expired. He gave me a bottle of schnapps to "release". I contacted the regimental adjutant and asked how my complaint was progressing. He acknowledged its receipt, but explained that Oberst Scharenberg had postponed it for the duration of the operation, because he did not have time to complain.

What was I to do? Scharenberg and Balthazar were on good, if not friendly, terms. I had to wait and constantly wait for nasty things from Balthazar, who tried to take out evil on me, which caused the battery to suffer every now and then. Hauptmann Kuhlman was again affected by tension, as last year. Now he was even transferred to the spare part at home. Since there was no other suitable Officer (Dr. Nordmann was no longer in the regiment), I had to take over the battery. With this began the constant nit-picking of Balthazar.

Under Kuhlman, this was held back because he could fight back. Even during short operations, the battery was constantly getting the most frustrating tasks. The rest time was more inconvenient than other batteries. In obscure situations, I was assigned all kinds of special assignments and even though I was a battery commander, I was constantly used as a forward observer. If my lieutenant, who was very inexperienced, encountered difficulties on the battery, because he could not cope with the veterans - spies and foragers - I had to intercede for him. These two tried to make my life difficult from the very beginning. In any case, one of my watch as a forward observer brought us another T-Z4 as a tug. The retreating Red Army units had taken almost all the working vehicles, so the gunners had to repair the ones that were left. I was a little uneasy because the sound of enemy tank tracks could be heard nearby. I could shoot - but where? Just in the fog? So I began to wait.

On my way back to the radio operator's trench, I had to divert my attention to "morning business," so I went into the bushes and dropped my trousers. I hadn't finished yet when the tank treads clanged~ literally a few steps away from me. I quickly rounded off and saw the tank as a dark shadow in the fog right above the radio operator's post. He stood there, not moving anywhere. I saw the radio operator jump out of the trench, fleeing, but then turned around, probably trying to save the radio station. When he jumped out with a heavy box, the tank turned the turret. Terrified, the radio operator launched an iron box at the tank with a flourish and dived into the first empty trench he came across. I could only watch without being able to do anything.

The foot soldiers came running. The radio operator came to his senses. The tank was safe and sound. The whole incident could only be explained by one thing: the Russians must have seen the man with the box and thought it was a subversive charge. Otherwise, they would not have fled in such a hurry.

There were many loud cheers and the bottle went around. When the fog cleared, there were no Russians to be seen, and certainly no tanks. They fled into the fog, unnoticed by anyone. Offensive, heat and dust! Suddenly, the trailer with the gun barrel fell through to the axle. Although there were no streams nearby, it seemed that a ravine had formed under the road - probably heavy rains had worked. There was a lot of work ahead. We hurriedly took out shovels, and excavations began. Ropes were tied to the wheels and the axle to pull out the trailer, and horses unhooked from the limbers stood nearby as additional draft power. We already knew that we often have to play such games here.

Balthazar drove past, he looked pleased: - How can you be so stupid and get stuck on a flat road. We have no time. Lieutenant Lohman rides with the battery immediately. Wuster, you're on a trailer with a barrel. Eight horses, eight men. The decision was not objective. He could have let me use the T-34 for the dash, which is what I wanted to do. That alone could guarantee the success of the "dig." It was clear to my people that this was one of those little games that Balthazar liked to play with me.

After we seemed to have swung the shovels enough, the attempt with eight weakened horses Failed: the trailer could no longer be pulled out. The soldiers were also exhausted. And I let them have a snack - I was also happy to eat, because nothing useful came to my mind. from time to time they applied to it, drank, but did not get carried away. The heat held back the desire to drink. Already in the evening I reached the battalion, which got up to rest at the collective farm. Balthazar concealed his surprise: he had not expected me so early. I didn't mention the infantry. On another occasion, our division commander, Major General von Hartmann, drove past a dusty, slowly moving battery. I reported to him in the usual manner. - There at the front porridge is brewed. How fast can you get there? he asked, showing me a place on the map. - At normal march speed, it will take 6-7 hours. The horses are doing their best.

The advance continued. Once a long, stretched column was fired upon by Russian encirclement, hiding in a field of swaying sunflowers. This happened all the time, nothing special. Usually only a double-barreled mount on a machine-gun cart answered them, and we didn't even stop. This time, Balthazar - who was there - decided that things would be different. He ordered to unload one turretless T-34, took a machine gun and rushed towards the enemy in a sunflower field, which remained invisible.

I hope our tractor will not be covered, - said the gunners left on the road. And so it happened. Flames and clouds of smoke rose from the tank. They probably hit a 200-liter barrel of fuel standing on the back of the tank. The gunners were able to see where they would have to rescue the tank crew from. A fairly large group ran towards the scene, firing their rifles into the air as a deterrent. The tankers were still alive, having managed to jump out of the burning tank, and took cover nearby. Some of them were seriously injured. Oberst Lieutenant Balthasar suffered serious injuries to his face and both hands. He gritted his teeth. Now he will be in the hospital for a long time.

None of this would have happened - the whole idea was stupid from the very beginning. How can you drive around with a barrel of fuel? I was glad that the destroyed T-34 belonged to the 11th Battery and not to my 10th. It was not easy to find a new tractor. Now Balthazar won't be able to pester me for a while. But I didn't feel malice. I did not withdraw my complaint, even when the regimental commander spoke to me in passing about it, referring to Balthasar's burns. The division approached the Don. Heavy fighting was going on near Nizhnechirskaya and at the Chir station, including for our heavy battalion. Due to the constant change in the place of the main attack, on the orders of the command, we often traveled back and forth behind the front line, as a rule, never firing a shot. We were not new to this mysterious method, these cunning gentlemen never learned anything. further north, the battle at the Don crossing had already begun. The newly formed 384th Infantry Division, which entered the battle for the first time in 1942 near Kharkov - and had already suffered heavy losses there, was bleeding. When the Russians later surrounded Stalingrad, the formation was finally pulled apart and disbanded. Its commander, who had become expendable, must have left in time. In a good six months, the entire division will be destroyed.

When the Russians suddenly bombed my 10th battery, our Heavis - still friendly and reliable - simply disappeared. We should have been more careful with them. So far, it was easy to find a replacement among the new prisoners. Looking back, I can say that we were too careless. We rarely set clocks at night: often only signalmen were awake to receive orders or target designations. With a few reliable soldiers, the enemy could easily take our battery by surprise. Fortunately, this has not happened in our sector. As simple as it seemed to do so, getting through the front lines for such a raid was definitely not easy. In addition to determination, the highest level of preparation was required. Such "Indian games" were suitable only for cinema. So casualties in the heavy artillery battalion were kept to a minimum even in 1942. We thought more about the hardships of the march than about the real dangers.

On the night of August 9, 1942, the battery moved along a wide sandy road along the steep bank of the Don. We were supposed to cross the river somewhere further north. I did not know in what order we were moving, but some parts of the battalion must have been walking ahead. I received movement instructions and carried them out without maps and without knowledge of the general situation. No security measures were ordered, so they seemed unnecessary. By 03.00 in the morning we called for fire on ourselves from the front to the right, from the other side of the Don. It was fought almost exclusively with hand weapons. It didn't bother any of us. This sleepy idyll ended abruptly when a mounted communications delegate galloped up and reported that the Russians had crossed the Don and attacked the 11th battery on the road in front of us.

And where is the headquarters battery and the 12th? Without the slightest idea. What should we do? It was too risky to move on. Should we turn around and run? None of these options made sense. They could lead to fatal consequences, because the Russians could cross the Don and follow us. There were no more troops between the Don and the road. Do I have to wait for the commander's orders? Impossible, because we didn't know where he was. Balthazar has returned from the hospital. I thought, "Let's wait." So I ordered all transports to take cover in the bushes and prepared four camouflaged howitzers to fire towards the Don. With this decision, I cut off the possibility of a quick retreat, but if the Russians appear, I can let the guns enter.

I sent observers forward along the road and began to equip positions for close defensive combat with all the available people, where I put up two anti-aircraft machine guns taken from the vehicles. Then I sent Lieutenant Lohman and two radio operators ahead so that we could fire on the enemy at dawn. The road remained empty. Nobody came from the front, nobody came from the rear. In the open, we felt alone and forgotten. We heard the growing fire of hand weapons. The fire of hand weapons was approaching, and finally our messenger ran towards us, shouting: "The Russians are coming!" We are in a delicate situation.

I instructed the commanders of the guns to fire directly, distributed the shell carriers and formed a "rifle unit" under the command of two sergeants, which would be able to open fire with rifles as quickly as possible. Only the riders remained in the shelter with the horses. They will be able to run if the danger is too close. When the first figures appeared on the road, silhouetted against the morning sky, I hesitated, wanting to be absolutely sure that they really were Russians and not our retreating soldiers. And he gave the order, which was heard many times by the commander of the guns in Poland: "To the commanders of the guns - a distance of a thousand meters - fire!"

The numbness subsided; the lump in my throat disappeared. Four shells came out of four barrels tightly, like one shot. Even before they could reload, my riflemen and machine gunners opened fire. The Russians obviously did not expect to stumble upon our battery. They were taken aback and began to retreat, leading a furious return fire. On their right flank, personal weapons were clearly being fired. It must have been the remains of the 11th battery. My riflemen went on the attack, jumping out into the open and firing while standing at full height. Lohman ordered them to return. He spotted the retreating Russians and suppressed them - as well as the crossing - by firing from covered positions.

A little later Oberst Lieutenant Balthazar arrived. I filed a complaint against him for unfair disciplinary action. Now I met him for the first time after he had received burns, however, already completely healed. He was in a cheerful mood. The cars of the 11th battery and the headquarters battery were recaptured. They were still on the road, having received only minor damage, which was not worth mentioning. Thanks to our artillery fire - which also threatened the enemy's crossing - the Russians lost their heads. They even fled from our gunners, who pretended to be infantry.

From the south, a motorized rifle company from the 24th Panzer Division approached for safety. Balthazar thanked them for the offer, but rejected their help as he felt he was in control of the situation. I wasn't so sure, but I kept my mouth shut. I'd love to let the infantry comb this place instead of our improvisations. But the Russians quickly gained confidence once it dawned on them that they were running from "amateur foot soldiers." They quickly regrouped and started the attack again, all we managed to do was to remove some of the cars from the road. While my battery was again preparing for direct fire, friendly infantry appeared from the bushes on the side where we had left our limbers. It turned out to be a whole battalion from our division in a full-fledged attack on the enemy. The feeling of insecurity disappeared. Our infantry moved forward in the manner of experienced professional soldiers, deployed mortars and machine guns and were practically invisible in the open, while a little earlier our people were standing here and there in tight groups.

When my "shooters" regained their courage and tried to join the infantry, they were turned back by a friendly wave of the hand of one of the company commanders. Artillery soldiers can handle a rifle without problems, but they do not have any tactical infantry training. As a result, we often there were problems when close combat started, but to be honest with my men, it's worth saying that they always worked professionally with guns, even under heavy enemy fire.

Lieutenant Lohman acted impeccably all the time. Once more he intervened in the battle, correcting our fire on the retreating Russians, and especially on their crossing, which they wanted to use for their retreat. The firing positions of the 10th battery became a rallying point for scattered elements of the battalion. The 12th battery, it seems, was bypassed by the battle (but the battery commander, Lieutenant Kozlowski, was wounded). They most likely went ahead when this terrible episode began. In the 11th and headquarters batteries, the losses were heavy, especially during the second phase of the battle, when the Russians resumed their attack. The battery commander and senior battery officer were killed, and the battalion adjutant Schmidt was seriously wounded.

I spoke briefly with Peter Schmidt, who, in great pain, expressed his disappointment with Balthasar. He died at the dressing station. The commander of the rangefinder unit - a young, but long serving in his rank, Lieutenant Warenholz - was also killed. Other officers emerged from this mess with wounds, while non-commissioned officers and enlisted men had relatively few casualties. The main reason for this was that our officers - inexperienced in the combined arms sense of the word - spent too much time running back and forth, leading their soldiers. Nobody really had any idea what to do. At first they ran forward in tight groups, firing while standing, but then they got really scared. The soldiers began to crawl away, and then ran in a panic.

Our 10th also had a few losses. The medic, an Upper Silesian who spoke Polish better than German, surged ahead and was cut down by the Russians as he made his way towards the wounded soldier. This soldier has proven his mettle in many battles. He was sensitive and took offense when others laughed at his slightly stuttering accent.

Now things looked bad for our IV Battalion. Why the hell did Balthazar turn back the mechanized infantry? Isn't it his job to send infantry forward, even if no one knows the exact number of Russians who crossed? Our losses were mostly due to Balthazar, but no one dared to talk about it. I took command of the 11th battery, since they no longer had officers. The 10th will have to make do with the two remaining lieutenants. The offensive continued towards Kalach and the Don River. It was not easy to regroup a battery in which I did not know the soldiers. Spies and non-commissioned officers were loyal, but remained on their own minds and far from thinking about the functionality of the entire battalion in the first place.

The deceased commander, career officer Oberleutnant Bartels, who was several years older than me, left a very good riding horse, a powerful, black one named Teufel (German "devil" or "devil"). I finally have a decent horse! After Panther and Petra on the 10th battery, I had to make do with Siegfried. he had a good exterior, but rather weak front legs. There were many things this beast could not do. He was weak for jumping. True, this no longer mattered to me, since since the beginning of the Russian campaign in 1941 I had participated in a few equestrian competitions. Teuffel was not with me for long. For several days I rode him with pleasure, and we would have got used to each other if one day he had not run away. Horses are always lost. But he was never found. Who would turn down a good stray horse? Maybe Teuffel was even stolen. Horse stealing was a popular sport.

Kalach is taken by German troops. The bridgehead on the eastern bank of the Don is also sufficiently fortified. German tank units are already making their way to Stalingrad, and our battery, a little to the south, crosses the river on a ferry under cover of darkness. The crossing was under harassing fire. The so-called sewing machines (low-flying Russian biplanes) threw rockets at us and then bombs. Despite this, the crossing proceeded without delay. There was a slight confusion on the east bank. There were skirmishes in different directions.

On sandy ground, it was difficult to turn the guns. Then we heard rumors that the German tanks had already reached the Volga north of Stal ingrad. We found several leaflets showing Stalingrad already surrounded by German tanks. We did not notice anything of the kind, as the Russians resisted fiercely. We didn't see any German or Russian tanks. For the first time we encountered a large number of Russian aircraft, even within one day. Their modern single-engine fighters swooped down on us from low altitude, firing machine guns and rockets at our slow-moving column. They also threw bombs.

When the plane attacked us from the side, there was almost no damage. True, once, when two "butchers", firing from cannons, entered the axis of our movement, I expected heavy losses. Rolling off my horse to hug the ground, I felt noise, explosions, clouds of dust and confusion. After a few seconds it was all over, nothing else happened. On some machines there were holes from shrapnel. The firebox of the field kitchen has turned into a sieve. Luckily, no one was hurt and the horses were also safe.

Later that day, during a noon break on a Soviet collective farm, our battery was badly beaten when our own Xe-111 bombers began to drop bombs in an emergency. No one paid any attention to the slow, low-flying aircraft, when suddenly bombs began to fall, bursting between tightly packed cars and wagons. I saw three pilots jump out of a falling plane, but their parachutes did not open in time. Then the plane crashed into the ground and exploded. No one paid any attention to the burning debris. We couldn't do anything there. All our attention was occupied by the amazed soldiers and horses. Several rounds in the ammunition truck caught fire. Flame shot out of the gunpowder caps like water from a ruptured hose. They had to be thrown out of the truck so that they could burn out quietly and not blow everything up. The most important thing was to get them away from the shells.

Our driver's forearm was torn off, he lost consciousness. Terrible spectacles were so common on the Eastern Front that the soldiers gradually got used to not paying attention to them. But a little later, the German Officer will experience a moral shock from the need to decide the fate of a badly burned Soviet tankman himself: a torn artery with my finger, I stepped on his stump, until someone finally applied a tourniquet and we stopped the bleeding. Several horses had to be shot.

Material losses were comparatively low. We directed all the anger at the pilots. Couldn't they have dropped their bombs sooner or later, if they had to? And was there any point in dropping bombs if their plane was already on the verge of crash? When we examined the crash site, we found nothing but burnt debris. Three pilots lay on the ground in grotesque poses with unopened parachutes. They should have died instantly from hitting the ground. We buried them with our soldiers in the collective farm garden. We took off their name tags, collected watches and other personal belongings and turned them in with a short report. Now I had the unenviable task of writing letters to my relatives. It had to be done, but finding the right words was not easy.

A more objective picture of what had happened only partly dominated me. What can be demanded from pilots in trouble? What were they supposed to do when the plane didn't stay in the air? They could try to make a belly landing, but only get rid of the cocked bombs. The remaining fuel was a threat in itself. Is it fair to expect a cold mind from a person in such a situation? At night we moved forward along a narrow corridor in the direction of Stalingrad, which was pierced by tank divisions. Along the road we saw German columns, broken into pieces, with many still unburied bodies. From the flashes of gun shots to the right and left of us, it was clear that the corridor could not be wide. Explosions of enemy shells did not approach us. It was probably just a harassing fire.

At a close halt, we found a seriously wounded Russian - he was half burned and trembling constantly - in a destroyed tank. He must have come to from the cold of the night, but he didn't make any noise. One glance was enough to understand that it was useless to help him. I turned away, trying to figure out what to do with it. "Someone shoot him," I heard someone's voice. "Get over it!" Then a pistol shot rang out and I felt relieved. I didn't want to know who, out of pity, finished him off. All I know is that I couldn't have done it myself, even though my mind told me it would be more humane to finish him off.

One early morning we were driving through a ravine. These are heavily eroded ravines that suddenly open up in the steppe, usually dry as gunpowder. They are constantly washed away by showers and melting snow. The head of the battery was making its way through these gullies, when suddenly tank shells began to burst around our wagons. I stayed close to the "foxholes" of the telephone operator and radio operator, and several times I had to look for shelter there. The general situation was confused, and the course of the front line - if it was clearly drawn at all - was unknown to me. I did not even know who was deployed on the right and to our left. From time to time I received conflicting orders to march and to fight, which only added to the confusion. As a precaution, I set up an observation post at the nearest height and ran a telephone line from the battery there.

Since August 10, when we fought on the road near the Don River, events have rushed at breakneck speed. The fighting began to take its toll from the IV battalion. We constantly suffered losses. As strange as it may sound, I was able to sleep peacefully. Despite this, I didn't feel as relaxed and confident as others thought. From my school years, I learned not to show my feelings. The bruise on my arm still hurt, Hv I didn't want to get a badge about the wound, because I had a bad feeling that then something really bad would happen to me. We were ordered to change positions. By that time, the front line had regained clarity. All three batteries of the heavy battalion - 12 powerful guns - stood very close. As usual, I was at the main observation post, from where I could see the western edge of Stalingrad, which stretched out in length.

Somewhat closer, in front and to the left, stood the complex of buildings of the city flight school. The division will launch an offensive in the coming days. We had great maps and approved tasks for each day. Can our increasingly thinning division meet these expectations? Observation posts and firing positions were improved, and each gun was surrounded by an earthen rampart to better protect it from enemy fire.

The Russians put their launchers on trucks, which made it possible to quickly change position. This weapon system made a deep impression on us. The terrible noise made during their fire had an acoustic effect comparable to the sirens on our "things". to distinguish on the outskirts of Stalingrad numerous bunkers made of earth and wood.Our infantry slowly and carefully made their way through this line of fortifications.

When they got close enough, assault cannons would appear, driving up to the bunkers and crushing the embrasures with them. "Sturmgeshütz-III", heavily armored at the front, without a turret, so low profile, armed with a powerful 75 mm gun. Assault guns were also successful tank destroyers. Therefore, it was wrong to use them instead of tanks. Assault guns silenced most of the bunkers Where this failed, infantry with flamethrowers and demolition charges completed the work.

From a safe distance from my vantage point, the splitting of the bunkers looked very professional and natural. I only had to think back to the Russian bunkers in the Veta forest that we encountered a year ago to fully appreciate how dangerous this kind of combat is. As soon as one bunker was finished, preparations began for the destruction of the next. The same procedure with assault guns and flamethrowers was repeated over and over again. It was impressive how calmly our infantry went about their hard work, despite losses and stress.

It was an unbreakable fighting spirit, without excessive patriotism with flags. Chauvinism was a rare feeling for us during that war. After all, we shouldn't have expected it. We firmly believed that we were doing our duty, believed that a fight was inevitable, and did not consider this war to be Hitler's war. Perhaps this is not so historically true when all the blame for that war and its horrors is placed solely on Hitler.

This time, a simple soldier at the front believed in the necessity of this war. Accustomed to the constant risk and mindset of a mercenary, he still believed that the best chance of survival came from a minor wound, because he could hardly expect to remain unharmed for long. Soon I received a request to become a spotter in the forward units, contact the infantry and try to provide them with fire support in street battles. Nothing else was visible from the main observation post. We moved towards the city through the flight school. To the left and right were damaged aircraft hangars and modern country barracks. In front of me, but at a safe distance, endless bursts of "Stalin's organs" flared up.

I somehow managed to get through it all with my radio operators. A horse-drawn telephonist van drove past us towards the city, laying cable to ensure a reliable connection. When we got to the first fences around the small gardens of the houses on the outskirts of the city - often primitive wicker fences around the huts - we saw desperate women in white headbands trying to protect their young children as they tried to escape from the city. The men were nowhere to be seen. From the look of the surrounding areas, the city looked abandoned. Ahead, the operator's van pulled up on a broken, bumpy, partially paved street.

A terrible noise forced us to take cover. Then a volley of "Stalin's organs" hit the road. The van disappeared in a cloud of fire. HE was right in the middle of it. "Direct hit," the radio operator said with compassion in his voice, a tone that betrayed relief at having survived the raid. This was reminiscent of the principle of St. Florian - "save my house, burn others." To our absolute surprise, nothing happened. The people, horses and wagon remained intact. Taking a breath, the soldier squeezed out a joke to hide his fear: "More dirt and noise than it's worth."

At that time, no one could have known that this very bathhouse would be my last bunker in Stalingrad and that around this building I would fight for Adolf Hitler for the last time, a man who preferred to sacrifice an entire army rather than surrender the city. With the loss of Stalingrad, the world I knew collapsed. I thought more about the world that opened up to me after that, and now I look at it with a critical eye. I've always been a bit of a skeptic. I never considered any of those who had to be unconditionally followed as a “superman”.

Of course, it is much easier and simpler to go with the "zeitgeist", even if it is done out of opportunism. On a ghostly morning lit by fires, our spirits remained cheerful. In the evening, Roske's regiment reached the Volga with the first jerk, right through the center of the city. This position was maintained until the last day. Our losses were comparatively low.

The neighboring divisions did not want to stay on the tail of the retreating Russians, exceeding the tasks of the day. The divisions to the south endured the heaviest fighting before they were finally able to reach the Volga, while the divisions neighboring us to the north never made it to the river despite increasingly violent attacks. To begin with, the 71st Infantry Division held a relatively narrow corridor that reached the Volga, with flanks for the most part unprotected. T-34s drove across the streets, and Russians still occupied various residential buildings.

Early in the morning we followed the messengers, who had already scouted safe enough routes among the ruins. Most importantly, they knew which streets the Russians had under surveillance. These streets had to be run in one breath, one at a time. This was new to the gunners, but not as dangerous as we first thought. Without giving the Russians time to see, aim and shoot at the man running alone, the soldier was already crossing the street and disappearing to a safe place.

Now my battery was ordered to provide assistance - in the form of artillery support - to our northern neighbors so that they too could successfully fight their way to the Volga. I had to move the observation post, and in the area of ​​continuous burnt wooden houses, I was able to find several underground rooms with concrete ceilings, which were reinforced with several layers of sleepers from the nearest depot. Hard physical labor was performed by Khivs (voluntary helpers, mostly Russians). Nearby, desperately trying to survive, lived several Russian families without men of military age.

They suffered terribly from the incessant Russian shelling. It was always hard to see them die or get hurt. We tried to help them in any way we could. Our doctors and nurses tried their best. So gradually they began to trust us. Of course, we were to blame for their fate, because we put them in greater danger by occupying their safe cellars. Despite this, some time passed before they accepted the offer of the German side, and they were taken out of the city with supply columns.

We had to equip an observation post in the beams of the destroyed house, which we also tried to strengthen with railway sleepers. It was an uphill climb that was difficult to climb. The dark basement looked strange, and few people liked to go there. Heavi avoided the basement and suffered losses. We felt sorry for them, because they were killed by their own fellow citizens, and this after just a little earlier they had escaped death from the fire of the Germans. Of course, they offered us their service voluntarily, but not because they loved us very much. If they took such a risk, they did so only to avoid the grim fate of a prisoner - a fate they had already experienced, at least for a short time - with all the torment and hunger, when they were driven across the steppe, almost like cattle.

As Khiwi they were in a sense "semi-free", received enough food from the field kitchens to fill their stomachs, and were well supplied in other respects. They lived among us not so badly. Some of them must have considered running away. There were many opportunities to do so, but few disappeared from the location. Most were friendly, hardworking and loyal to us beyond any expectation.

Our artillery support on his feet helped the neighboring division. We could not interfere in street fights. There, grenades and machine guns did all the work, from one side of the street to the other, from floor to floor and even from room to room. The Russians fought stubbornly for the ruins of the city - with a tenacity that exceeded their already impressive fighting spirit. They did it so well that we could hardly move forward. It was hardly a matter of their system of political leadership. How would it help them in hand-to-hand combat?

Only now did we understand how lucky we were to penetrate deep into the center of the city and take a wide piece of the Volga coast from the first blow. I was finally able to direct shells at a large industrial complex in the sector of our neighbor. After carefully aiming the shells, our 15-centimeter guns broke through holes in the brick walls. However, the building could not be demolished. With only a few attempts, our neighbors were able to break into the plant - before the Russian defenders counterattacked after artillery preparation. Hand-to-hand combat at the factory complex lasted for days, but artillery support had to be reduced - our troops were already inside.

In other batteries, things went worse. Their positions were on the western outskirts of the city. The Russians suspected they were there and subjected them to continuous shelling. Wood for the construction of dugouts had to be found in the city itself, and then with difficulty delivered to the positions. The 1st Battalion was completely unknown to me. When I came with a report about the arrival to my new commander, I came across a young Hauptmann who had previously served in the 31st Artillery Regiment.

He greeted me warmly. His battalion command post was at the vodka factory. Production was largely destroyed. Aside from empty vodka bottles, mostly fused into ingots of glass, there was no longer any sign of alcohol here. But here, too, there were strong basements that allowed for safe shelter.

The half-batteries facing the Volga were well located in the ruins of high buildings near the steep bank of the river. The team was led by a non-commissioned officer who lived with his people in the basement. The post of the forward observer was not far from us, on the stairwell of a residential building. We had to be extremely careful, because the Russians with sniper rifles or even anti-tank rifles darted around here and there, shooting down many lone soldiers.

Only when you knew which areas were under Russian surveillance did you feel comparatively safe in the ruins. Over time, much has been done to improve security - warning signs appeared, screens were hung that blocked the field of view of snipers. Sometimes even deep trenches were dug for crossing certain streets under surveillance. Nevertheless, it was necessary to move with caution or - even better - to have with you soldiers who knew the terrain well.

Later, a 105-mm howitzer was deployed on my new battery to fire on individual buildings in the city east of the station area. The place where she was located could only be safely approached in the dark. The gun had been in serious business several times, and each time the crew suffered losses. Such tasks could only be performed during the day, otherwise it was impossible to aim the gun at the target. Before the first shot, too much time passed, because the howitzer had to be rolled out of the shelter to the firing position by the forces of calculation. Two gunners each pushed their own wheel, while the other two rested their shoulders on the beds.

The fifth member of the crew and the gun commander also tried their best, pulling and pushing. Before the first round left the barrel, these soldiers were easy targets. The Russians, who had seen what was happening from afar, fired with everything they had. Even when everything seemed to be in order and the Russians had to lie down, they continued to fire mortars. The usual practice was to fire 30-40 rounds at the houses occupied by the Russians as quickly as possible in order to quickly drag the howitzer back into cover.

During the skirmish, the calculation did not hear the enemy, because he himself was pretty noisy. If the enemy mortars fired accurately, the crews noticed it too late. In general, there was little we could do with our light howitzers. When firing at thick brick walls, even our shells with a delayed action fuse did not penetrate them. Shells with a fuse set on impact only knocked plaster off the walls.

We fired half and half - shells of instant detonation and with a delay. When we were lucky, we hit the embrasure or sent a shell through a hole in the wall into the house. We didn't expect to seriously damage the buildings. The enemy had to take cover from the shelling, so that with the last shell, until the defenders returned to their positions, our infantry could enter the building. Be that as it may, we acted according to this theory. In reality, little came of these costly actions.

Understandably, the infantry was asking for artillery support, and we all knew we were safer than they were. I think that's why our superiors agreed to help, even if our help made little difference. Why shouldn't infantry regiments use the much more powerful 15 cm infantry guns, which gave a much greater result, even when firing from indirect positions? In my opinion, the infantry lacked the imagination to properly occupy their heavy artillery.

When I went under the cover of darkness to the forward positions of our guns, I found the soldiers in a depressed mood. The next day, the same actions were planned, and they were afraid that something would happen again. As a "new recruit on the battery," I felt that I should take part in the action, and went to study the target area. I was looking for the safest position for the gun. I found a garage with a concrete roof. From the side, a gun could be rolled up there. Then it was possible to shoot through the hole in place of the door. A lot of rubbish hung and stood on the road, masking our position, but also hindering the flight of shells. And yet the position seemed promising to me.

The next morning, I tried categorically to dissuade my new commander from using guns in battles for every house. He agreed - in principle - but was worried that it would make a bad impression on the infantry. No one wanted to seem like a net or a coward who left all the risky business to the infantry. He too, unsuccessfully, tried to persuade the infantry to use their own heavy guns. But, oddly enough, the infantry tended to use their cannons like a battery of artillery, rather than concentrating it on single targets. This, in theory, was her main business, to support her regiments during independent actions.

Every now and then getting the nickname " gypsy artillery", infantry artillery did not understand its main purpose - the suppression of point targets. "You don't have to go there if you don't want to," the commander finally said. I was honest and said that I do not go looking for danger if I can do my job from a distance - but especially when I see no chance of success. Of course, I don't have to be there all the time, but in my first operation as a rookie commander, I really want to be seen there, on the front lines. I pointed out that the preparations for the future attack had been carried out very well.

Without much seriousness, I said: “Herr Hauptmann, you can evaluate everything yourself. This time all conditions are good, because we can roll the gun into position unnoticed, and you will see how little we can change. He agreed and we agreed on where we would meet. At the battalion command post, I learned that Balthazar had been transferred to an artillery school. I wonder if his good friend Scharenberg had a hand in this translation? It is quite possible - if you remember how slowly my report was considered.

Von Strumpf was promoted to Oberst Lieutenant after Balthasar, which made my assumption less likely. Why did such a respected officer get the production so late? He was a better commander than his predecessor, whose command style was barely visible.

The meeting with the commander worked. We got to the garage. Everything was quiet. All preparations were also made, but now I had an unpleasant feeling in my stomach. The infantry assault group stood ready to take the assigned house. We last discussed everything with their lieutenant. The attack was to begin at sunset. The first shot was aimed calmly and accurately. We did our best to secure the bed openers so that the implement would not roll away on the concrete floor. Otherwise, every shot would have turned into hard labor. Because of the danger of getting a debris collapse on the first shot, we extended the trigger cord with a piece of rope.

"Okay, let's go," I called out. - Fire!" A shot - and an abyss of dust rose, everything else was in order. The gun was in place. While it was being reloaded, I took another look at the panorama. After that, we started shooting quickly. With all the dust and explosions in the building we were shooting at, I couldn't see much. The nose and eyes were clogged with dust. After a few shells, the Russians returned mortar fire, but for us it was not a threat due to the concrete ceiling. The infernal roar that we created was diluted with dry mine explosions. “Come on, it’s no use,” said the Hauptmann. - Why? asked the gun commander. We have never fired 40 shells faster than today. Our fire actually barely damaged the building. "Let's finish what we came here for," I said. And so we did.

Having fired the last shell, we dragged the howitzer out of the building to another safe position. The Russians now know where we're firing from and will definitely destroy that position tomorrow. We could finally rest, take a sip of vodka and smoke under the protection of the cellar. I hardly smoked, did not enjoy it, in addition, smoking did not help to distract or relax. This time the attack on the house occupied by the Russians failed. A little later, a hastily prepared attack without artillery preparation turned out to be more successful. For us, this was the last time we used a howitzer in street fighting in Stalingrad. Now we had to pull the howitzer back to positions near the bathhouse. At night, a limber will be attached to it, to which six horses are harnessed. The Russians, if possible, will not be allowed to learn anything. First of all, we put the gun behind the houses so that we could attach the limber by the light of flashlights. At first everything went according to plan, but in the depot the gun got stuck on the arrow.

The horses stumbled over the rails. We soon got over this problem, but it cost us precious time. With a much more clumsy heavy howitzer, you would have to mess around a lot more. The experience of all the jams gained during my service in the 10th battery was now justified: now the soldiers saw me as an expert. After the depot, the terrain went uphill sharply, and the horses did not have enough strength. We had to take short breaks, prop up the wheels and start harnessing to the cables. By the first rays of dawn, we had finally completed the ascent and left the gun on a hill among the houses out of sight of the Russians, in order to finally put it in position later. If we had not been able to do all this the first time, the gun would have had to be abandoned. At last the limber, the horses and the soldiers left, to come again the following night. Of course, if the Russians do not find our gun in the meantime and destroy it with artillery fire. In war, you have to rely on luck.

My two Russian guns near the Volga earned a clear point in their account. Almost every day, at sunset, the Russians sent a gunboat down the river, equipped with two T-34 turrets, to quickly bombard our positions with shells. Although it did not cause much damage, it was a source of concern. My gunners fired at her many times. This time we aimed at a certain point, through which the “monitor” always passed. On this day, the boat reached the desired point, both guns simultaneously opened fire and hit. The damaged boat stood near the Volga island and was able to return fire. The guns responded instantly. The boat quickly sank.

Because of the noteworthiness of this, in general, an ordinary duel, it was mentioned in the Wehrmachtsbericht on October 10, 1942. Several people from my "coastal defense" received Iron Crosses, which, of course, they were delighted with. A soldier also needs luck - and only success counts. The achievements of the unlucky do not count. While the situation gradually improved in our division's sector as the last buildings and streets with high casualties were taken, things to the north of us looked much more pale.

In particular, for large industrial complexes - the Dzerzhinsky tractor plant, the Red Barricades arms factory and the Red October steel plant and others - the Russians fought ruthlessly, and they could not be taken. Both attackers and defenders were hopelessly locked together in destroyed workshops, where the Russians, who knew the situation better, had an advantage. Even the special sapper units set in motion could not turn the tide.

However, Hitler was already boasting: Stalingrad had been taken. To take the city completely, large fresh forces were needed, but we no longer had such. We bit off more than we could chew. On the Caucasian front, events did not go as we had planned either. Germany had reached the limit of its capabilities, and the enemy had not yet weakened - on the contrary, thanks to American and allied help, he was becoming stronger. The 71st Infantry Division was preparing for trench warfare along the Volga and preparing for the coming winter. We hoped that in the coming year we would be replaced by fresh parts. It was obvious that our small divisions needed a breather and reorganization. Everyone who was still alive was cheerful and dreamed of spending the summer in France. The vacation system, which had been suspended for the duration of the campaign, has been reactivated. Why didn't he rise to the big ranks? there was something wrong with it. As for the spy, I wasn't so sure. He was a professional soldier who knew how to deal with superiors of any rank. He knew exactly how to deal with a young lieutenant like me.

His only problem was that I could see right through him. As a lieutenant, I learned something while serving under the command of Kuhlman, whose cunning spy tried to trick me around his finger, and Kuhlman did not interfere with him. I quickly learned that you can only rely on yourself to protect your interests. It's not easy when you're 19-20 years old. Spies on the 2nd battery was clearly disappointed in me from the first meeting. I showed no gratitude for the extra wine and cigars on the dinner table. On the contrary, I rejected all suggested supplements. I lived on the standard ration of an ordinary soldier on a battery. The same applied to groceries. Soldiers at the forefront had the opportunity to supplement their diet - personal or group - whenever they wanted. And this despite the fact that nothing could be found in the steppe around Stalingrad, except for a couple of melons, and even then not at this time of the year.

Many Russian houses had a large brick oven in the center that ran through several floors to heat adjoining rooms and used for cooking. The windows, equipped with additional glass for the winter, did not open. Sawdust was poured between layers of glass for thermal insulation. Only weak daylight reached the rooms. There were hygiene issues as well. In severe cold water was scarce.

Laundry and personal hygiene were reduced to a minimum. Nevertheless, the inhabitants of the house seemed clean to us. They did everything they could for us and were friendly. They made delicious food from our supplies, so they had enough for themselves. They were mainly interested in our "commissar" and canned food. We won the trust of Russian children with chocolate and sweets. When we woke up the next morning, the sun was already shining and the snow was shining brightly, reflecting the light into our room through a small window. Only one of us was bitten by bedbugs - the one who slept on the table. We decided that it was fair - he already took the best place.

The life of soldiers was not the most important thing for Hitler when he thought about the future. Goering was largely to blame for the disaster at Stalingrad. He could not fulfill his promise to airlift as many supplies as needed - and HE knew this even before he promised. He degenerated into a pompous, drugged bastard. Climbing with Bode into the Yu-52 transport aircraft at the Rostov airfield, I was forced to squeeze past a large, securely laced box with a paper sticker "Christmas greetings to the commander of the Stalingrad fortress, Oberst General Paulus." I found the inscription tasteless and inappropriate. To me, a fortress is a carefully built defensive position with safe havens and suitable Defensive weapons, as well as ample supplies. None of this happened in Stalingrad! On the whole, Stalingrad was a mess that needed to be put in order as soon as possible. I think the crate contained booze and snacks for the big guys... for obvious reasons. Now, when the troops in the encirclement were starving, this grand gesture was out of place, was impermissible and even provoked disobedience.

Several hours passed in anticipation, spiced with fearful curiosity. The Junkers flew over the snow-covered fields, slowly gaining altitude, then falling down like an elevator, repeating all this again and again. Can't say my stomach liked it. I'm not used to flying. To the left, I saw burning sheds, houses, and thick smoke from burning oil tanks. “Tatsinskaya,” said the pilot. - The airfield from where Stalingrad is supplied. We call him Taci. The Russians recently rolled us with their damned tanks - the entire airfield and everything around. But now we have recaptured it." Soon we landed at Morozovsky, at another supply airfield. The Russians were close here too. Artillery fire and barking of tank guns could be heard. On the airfield bombers and fighters hung bombs. I heard someone say: "They will quickly jump up and unload over there, on Ivan." Explosions were heard in the distance. Everyone around was nervous

Rumors buzzed around again: “We have already broken through the Encirclement. The Russians are running like they used to...” I wanted to believe it, especially after I saw these self-confident troops. My belief that we will overcome this crisis grew stronger. The truth, unknown to me at that time, would have plunged me into despondency and, most likely, would have kept me from flying to Stalingrad. I expected that the 6th Panzer Division, with its excellent weapons, would join Panzer Group Gotha for the offensive on Stalingrad. But they were soon turned into a "fire brigade" in order to eliminate Russian breakthroughs in the Tatsinskaya area, aimed at Rostov.

Desperate battles were going on along the Chir. The tank corps of Colonel General Hoth, with relatively weak tank units, tried to break through the encirclement around Stalingrad from the south. They were able to approach the "boiler" for 48 kilometers. Then they ran out of momentum. The last hope of the 6th Army for liberation was lost. Death became inevitable. Goth's tanks were all needed on the threatening southwestern front. In fact, Stalingrad would have surrendered before Christmas. My then-confidence may seem naive, and perhaps it was so - but I have always been an optimist. This approach made life easier. He made it possible to cope with the horrors of war, with the fear of being killed or maimed, and even with the terrible years of Soviet captivity.

After dinner we tried to take off again: this time, in three Xe-111s, we flew as far as the Don under cover of clouds. Over the river, the clouds suddenly disappeared, and Russian fighters immediately fell upon us. "Back into the clouds, and - to Morozovskaya, that's enough for today!" - Said the pilot. On that day, another opportunity to fly to Stalingrad appeared: refueling and reloading of a large group of Xe-111 with supply containers under their belly began. In the meantime, it got dark. "This time the flight went without problems. I saw the Don, here and there flares came up occasionally. Because of the artillery fire, it was perfectly visible where the front lines were passing on both sides. After that, the plane began to descend, the landing lights turned on, and the landing gear came into contact with "But the plane took off again, picked up speed and turned around. I climbed through the boxes to the pilot. "I thought we were already there," I told him. "And thank God," he replied.

A Russian plane slipped between the descending Heinkels And dropped bombs on the runway. The left wheel of my "Heinkel" fell into a funnel in the frozen ground, and the pilot could hardly get the car back into the air. Now we were talking about a belly landing, but not here, at the local airfield Pitomnik inside the encirclement, but in Morozovskaya. Who knows what will happen if you try to land here. Another wheel, or rather its strut, jammed.

It was not released by hand. - Crap! - said the pilot. - It's better to jump with a parachute! They discussed the possibility of skydiving. I, as a passenger, was not happy to hear this, because there was no parachute on me. I started to worry. Should I fly at my own risk or is it easier to shoot myself? Well, the pilots also had no idea how they would jump - because they had never done this before. Maybe there is still a chance to drive safely on the icy strip. I even somewhat calmed down. When we landed at Morozovskaya, it already seemed to me that everything was in order and the precautions were just reinsurance. "Clean the lower gondola, put on the steel helmet, put your back against the outer wall." Then the plane banked to the left. It hit the ground and broke.

I sat in a daze until I felt a blast of cold air coming into the fuselage from the outside and heard a voice say, “Is everything all right? Come out!" The entire port wing, including the engine, was torn off, the lower nacelle was crushed, and the forward glass dome was shattered. I grabbed my things, including a courier bag with mail, and got out. A fire truck and an ambulance flew up, but we were unharmed, and the plane did not catch fire.

As expected, the Heinkel skidded across the ice and then broke apart. On soft ground, this would not happen. “Damn lucky again,” I thought, but this time death was very close. Actually, I was surprised that the events of the day did not affect me more strongly. I was just tired and went to bed on the table in the room adjacent to the mission control room. But before that I was offered food and a lot of alcohol - all of the best quality. The pilots were hospitality itself. “When we run out of supplies, the war will end.

With our connections, thirst and hunger do not threaten us ... ”In the middle of the night I was pulled out of sleep. Anxiety, screams, slamming doors, the noise of engines: “Morozovskaya is being evacuated! The Russians are coming!” Outside, activity was raging. Everything that could be tied up and thrown into the bodies of trucks. I picked up some delicacies, including French cognac, and began to ask about the next flight to Stalingrad.

Stalingrad? You went with your Stalingrad. No one else will fly from here. We have enough anxiety here already. What the hell do you need in Stalingrad? one officer asked. - And what should I do now? - Either jump in the truck, or look for a plane, but planes are all for pilots, so you probably won't be lucky. Someone else yelled at me: - Where to? No matter where! Get out of here - or do you want to give the Russians a red carpet welcome? I was aimlessly running back and forth, not recognizing anyone and not finding a single clear answer. Then another pilot reported to the control room. - Do you have a place for me? I asked him, not hoping for an answer. - If you are not afraid of the cold, then I fly on the "terminal", it has an open cabin.

We landed in Rostov; again Rostov. How to get to Stalingrad now? Passes were now delivered via Salsk. Where is this Salsk? How to get there? An antique Yu-86 with engines converted from diesel to gasoline was carrying spare parts to Salsk and could have taken me too. Where did Bode go? Did he fly to Stalingrad? Did he return to the battery? Is the battery in the old place? Yu-52 squadrons were based in Salsk. Most still counted on "Aunt Yu". My travel documents began to raise some doubts. I was almost accused of wandering back and forth behind the front lines instead of returning to my people or joining the fire department. Only a bag of courier mail added credibility to my words.

When I was trying to find a place in a large barracks to keep warm, one pilot informed me that he wanted to take me to the Nursery. A large group of Yu-52s was going to break through into the encirclement after dark. In one of them, full of barrels of fuel, I found a seat behind a transparent cap, on the side of the radio operator's seat. I left my bag of groceries next to me, which also contained a courier bag. The mail has long lost all relation to the latest news. Don appeared below us. We began our descent towards the Pitomnik airfield.

The radio operator was nervous and pointed to a small hole in the fuselage: A two-centimeter anti-aircraft gun, ours. . . damn... DAMN!!! he called to the pilot. - One of these in a barrel of fuel, and we'll fry! he replied. - And now what? I asked, not hoping for an answer. The plane rolled on the ground. Again the Russians slipped through our formation and dropped their bombs on the runway. Our anti-aircraft guns fired into the gaps between us. But in the end everything worked out. I finally "happily arrived" in the Stalingrad "cauldron". The plane ran to the edge of the airfield. The hatches opened, and the crew began to push barrels of fuel out of the plane. I climbed out onto the wing, said goodbye to them and looked around. Ragged, poorly dressed, wounded soldiers stumbled towards us across the strip. They desperately tried to get on the plane and fly away.

But the pilots had already closed the hatches, and all three engines roared. Shouts, commands, someone’s words “we don’t want to stay here for good!” were the last I heard from the pilots. The engines roared and the plane took off. They took off on their own initiative, without any instructions and without contacting the mission control center. The plane disappeared into the darkness, and the screaming wounded, who had tried more than once to grab onto the plane, also disappeared. Several of them crawled in the snow on all fours, swearing and whimpering. They were dirty, unkempt, overgrown with beards, emaciated, in blood-soaked bandages, wrapped in rags like gypsies and completely forgetting about discipline.

I wandered around and finally found a deep dugout with an entrance covered with a cape. There were flashes of anti-aircraft fire and bomb explosions all around. I crawled into the dugout, where I was greeted by the stench of unwashed bodies and leftover food. They met me with hostility. "Where? Where?" When I described my adventures, they laughed at me.

You must be out of your mind, Herr Oberleutnant. Now, like all of us, you are up to your ears in shit - up to your ears. Return tickets are only for the wounded - without a head, without a leg, and so on, and at the same time, you still need to find yourself a plane! - said one staff - corporal. There was no insubordination in his words - more like regret. It was just a disastrous ending to the holiday. As much as everything was good at the beginning, everything was so terrible at the end. At least in the Nursery, absolute chaos reigned. No one gave clear orders to anyone, and helpless, desperate wounded lay and wandered anywhere.

How are our tanks, have they already made their way? - It was early in the morning on December 29, 1942. Our tanks had become firmly in ruts many days earlier. The offensive to break through the Stalingrad encirclement from the south was too weak from the very beginning. Another case when our troops were not strong enough to achieve what they wanted. Despite this, the disillusioned soldiers in the bunker did not expect the fall of the 6th Army. Outside, bombs were constantly exploding.

I asked myself again and again if it was smart to return to Stalingrad. I tried to get rid of the dark thoughts. When I woke up the next morning, the sun was shining on the steppe from a completely clear sky. The glitter of the snow blinded me. Coming out of the dark dugout into the light, I could hardly open my eyes. The terrible night is over. There were German fighters in the sky, but there were no Russian planes to be seen. I said goodbye to the owners and went to the control room. There everything moved the axis running.

Since I was carrying courier mail, a car was called for me to the command post of the 6th Army in Gumrak. The command post was a bunch of log cabins built into the slope. Everything there was filled with the noise of managerial work and the general uproar - heels clicked, hands threw up sharply, saluting. The mail was accepted - but I think it had no value. I was told to wait. Listening to snippets of telephone conversations, I realized that now they are trying to create new “alarmenheiten” out of nothing.

And they needed officers there. If I had such a career, I would have gone to the “fire station” back in Kharkov, where the conditions were much better. I quietly slipped out without attracting anyone's attention. It was stuffy in the overheated dugout. There was snow outside and it was minus twenty. Throwing my satchel over my shoulder, I followed the trail of wheels towards the flight school. The area was familiar to me, even now, when there was snow everywhere. A passing truck picked me up.

I walked almost the same road as on September 14, during my first visit to the city. The gun positions of my 2nd battery were all in the same place. When I appeared in the basement of the bath - naturally, I was greeted with many welcome exclamations. Bode arrived many days before me. He did everything on the first try and told the others that if "Old" did not arrive soon, he would not appear at all. This means he - everything, he got his. Remember - we took off at the same time. Bode was only a few years younger than my twenty-two, but to the soldiers I was "Old". The contents of the satchels that Bode had brought had been divided and eaten long ago. They were divided fairly, but my personal belongings, which remained on the battery when I went on vacation, also parted with them. There was some vague inconvenience in this. Since I "resurrected", everything was returned to me through the orderly. I was grateful to them. In war people think and act more practically. In any case, I was even glad to be in a "familiar environment."

Soon I went to the observation post, taking my satchel with food, because nothing had been received from Bode's satchels there. The reason given for this was that, since my absence, special rations had already been received there, allegedly for being in greater danger. A lot more is eaten in the limber positions, I thought, before the food reaches the front lines. From the very beginning, I considered this explanation exaggerated and biased, but I did not say anything, because at first I wanted to hear what they would say to me. Actually, my deputy, a lieutenant from another battery, really assigned abundant likes to the observation post - and therefore to himself.

During normal combat operations, soldiers in an observation post are required to do more than in firing positions or even in a wagon train. But here, in Stalingrad, my NP lived more comfortably. To avoid discontent, pets are not allowed, especially when supplies are severely limited. Despite the fact that I got fat during the holidays, from the first day in the environment I sat on the local starvation ration. The soldiers on the battery had been living like this for a month. I did not let go of the bag of food, because I had to think carefully about how to divide it.

My first order was absolutely equal food for all soldiers of the battery. Then I reported my assumption of duty to the battalion commander and also notified the regimental commander of my engagement. Although I was welcomed with joy, the regimental commander wanted to know why I did not ask him for permission to marry. In the end, I had to go to him for a report, and I was a little puzzled. I apologized, but pointed out that I did not know about it, and besides, going on vacation, I did not know that it would end in an engagement. It was a spontaneous decision that happened because the opportunity presented itself. Lieutenant-Colonel von Strumpf mellowed a little and listened to my story. I told about the family of my future wife and promised that I would apply to him for permission to marry when the wedding day was planned.

The situation on the front of the division along the Volga remained relatively calm. Perhaps the general state of affairs in the environment was better than many thought. If only supplies were better! With the exception of a couple of patients with jaundice, who were immediately evacuated by plane, there were no losses on the battery during my absence. The reason for such a good life on the battery was the fact that it stood far to the east, in safe positions in the city. Most of the horses and riders were not even inside the "cauldron". They were sent far, west of the Don, to the area where horses were kept, because they were not needed for positional warfare. Last winter we had a lot of unpleasant moments connected with horses. Now they were well looked after and fed on the collective farm.

On the western side of the city, in a beam, our convoy was located, with a staff, a field kitchen and a treasurer. Not many of the horses available here were used to carry ammunition or move cannons. After being fed well on vacation, I now suffered from constant hunger - just like everyone else. I donated my bag of food to a spontaneously assembled New Year's celebration, everyone on the battery got a little bit. This gesture was well received, although each received so little. All free from service were invited to a large cozy basement, where the command post was located. There was still enough coffee and alcohol. We hoped that 1943 would be more disposed towards us.

Due to the time difference, the Russians sent a furious "fireworks" at exactly 23.00 German time, so to speak, congratulating us on the New Year. As a precaution, I sent my gunners into position. Perhaps that's not all. Since there were not enough shells, we did not answer, but the evening was spoiled anyway. On January 1, the battalion commander gave the officers a reception with schnapps. There was no other drink at these festivities. From our battery, only I was at the reception, because after the invitation, the lieutenant received other tasks.

The booze was terrible. In the end, I was just drunk in a sausage. I usually fit in a lot. And it was much harder than drinking in the morning to communicate with the adjutant - my soldiers brought me to him in the morning on a hand sled. They never saw me like this. But the first irritation was soon replaced by sadness when a bomb hit the stairwell at the vodka factory the next evening. The battalion headquarters was there, in the basement. A divisional Catholic priest was invited there. They were just seeing him off when this fate befell him, the battalion commander and adjutant. All three died.

The next day, the battalion was received by a young hauptmann from the divisional motorized artillery, we did not know him. When I was returning back to my command post after the first meeting with him, a shell fragment hit my hand. I was hoping for a heimatschus (a wound that serves as a basis for sending home), but it was only a scratch. I didn't even have to go to the doctor. The new Hauptmann was a pleasant fellow, even-tempered and friendly, if perhaps a little naive. When he visited me shortly at my wonderful CP, he complained that he was hungry and, without embarrassment, asked for something for breakfast along with the vodka I offered him. I was stunned that although this was normal under normal circumstances, in an environment where everyone was starving, this was out of the question.

From a niche near my sleeping place I got him a piece of sausage and a piece of bread and ordered the orderly to set the table for us. It wasn't much. Hauptmann ate it all quickly and with a healthy appetite, and when we had drunk some more vodka, he asked why I had not eaten with him. "You eat my daily ration - and after that what should I eat?" was my rather impolite reply. There were no guest rations on the second battery. For diplomatic reasons, I couldn't eat with him anyway. The soldiers were waiting for the end of the case.

Our new commander was not a brute. He did not react in any way and ate what was in front of him. We talked a little about this and that and parted in a rather good mood. That same night, a messenger brought some food from him - exactly as much as he had eaten in the morning. Since then, he never ate on the batteries, which previously received him with all hospitality. My professional relationship with him was not affected by this incident. He was a good guy, he just didn't always think right.

The post office was still working. I wrote letters a lot and often and received letters from home. Unexpectedly, disturbances began on the battery. So far, there has been talk of a breakthrough. This idea was discussed from the very beginning of the environment, when I was still on vacation. Then the breakthrough had a good chance of success, but now we were tired, hungry and exhausted, and we had no fuel and ammunition. Still, there was some incentive. Three Skoda trucks and two three-axle Tatra trucks came to the battery.

These trucks were needed to transport guns, ammunition, a field kitchen and the most necessary communications equipment. We even got some shells with them, so now there were 40 shells per gun. No more deliveries of shells were foreseen. One hundred and sixty shells were better than nothing, but you can't conquer Stalingrad with that many.

We had the following rule: according to practice-tested instructions, 120 shells were needed to suppress an enemy battery, and twice as many for complete destruction. Could a few extra shells justify the existence of our 2nd battery? The first one has already been disbanded and sent to the infantry, deployed along the Volga. From there they took the real infantry and sent them to the steppe. Filling the gaps on the front line began long ago, but mixing different types of troops and different weapons weakened our ability to resist rather than strengthened. When it comes to combat, you need reliable neighbors who won't leave you.

The tense preparations for the breakthrough raised our hopes again. The commander of our corps, General von Seydlitz, was considered the soul of the idea of ​​​​a breakthrough, but Paulus hesitated. There were even those who declared that Paulus was no longer in the boiler. In any case, no one saw him. When trying to break through, everyone agreed on this, the losses would be high. Still, it was better than waiting by the sea for the weather in this damn environment.

Our 71st Infantry Division was offered the enviable role of "deputy heroes", since it was located in relatively calm positions near the Volga and did not show the slightest trace of decay. Improvised "fire departments" had to be transported to the steppe by trucks.

The march on foot was too exhausting for the exhausted people, and they would not last long. And so my trucks disappeared and did not return, although a few survivors returned. They were shell-shocked and frozen to death. Despite the fact that these soldiers - completely inexperienced in the role of infantry - were not taught anything and were not even explained the task, they were taken straight to the steppe. On the way, the lead truck was hit by a Russian attack aircraft. The one following caught a tank cannon shell.

The front was an imaginary line running simply through the snow. It was declared the "main line of defense" on which the advanced infantry units could rely if necessary. Most of the soldiers did not have winter clothes. They wore thin overcoats and leather boots, in which every bone froze through. They dug holes in the snow and, where possible, built snow huts to keep warm.

Officers - helpless and mostly unfired - were rarely assigned to them. The soldiers did not know each other, had no personal relationship with each other, and all confidence in a neighbor disappeared. As soon as the advancing Russian soldiers found serious resistance, they simply called in their T-34s and shot at the hastily built fortified points, blowing them to pieces. Those who remained alive were crushed by tank tracks. The scattered remains painted the Russian steppe red.

Even when the Russians did not attack, our lines of defense sometimes disappeared on their own. The people were starving, they were exposed to the cold, they had no bullets, and - for better or worse - they were at the mercy of the superior forces of the Russians. Morale was as low as ever. These new rabble units disintegrated and suffered huge losses. No one knew the neighbors on the right and left, and some soldiers simply disappeared into the darkness to appear in their old units. Even many infantrymen who had been fired upon succumbed to this temptation and disappeared into the underworld of the ruined city.

The soldiers who had fled from the front did not look out of the city. Scattered soldiers from broken units and fleeing convoys, all without command, in small and large groups, rushed to Stalingrad. They sought salvation in the basements of destroyed houses. There were already hundreds of wounded and sick soldiers there. The military police did not have the opportunity to pull out of this mixed mass fit for combat and send them back to the front. Only in order to find food, these so-called "rats" left their holes.

The commanders of the untouched units - like me - again and again received orders to send people to the infantry. We couldn't refuse. And all we could do was send not the best, but, on the contrary, the weak and undisciplined, which are in any part. Of course, I felt sorry for them - but it was my duty to keep the battery combat-ready as long as possible. A successful breakout from the encirclement was no longer possible. The Russians were constantly squeezing the ring around us. The Russians relentlessly pressed on the city with their fresh divisions. Many thoughts flew through my head - a quick death at the hands of the enemy or, perhaps, from my own hand.

Our units were combed over and over again for people who could be sent to the front. I made sure that no one was sent to these suicide squads twice. There were even two lunatics who volunteered to escape the daily hunger on the battery. They were true mercenaries - they were hard to kill. They were good guys and almost always got it right. They even knew how to make a small profit out of a big disaster.

In the confusion of the retreat, they were often able to find food and drink. They picked up many useful little things from the broken equipment thrown on the roadside. Unlike the "rats", they always returned to their units, because they felt a strong connection with their comrades, and often shared their prey with them. These fighters in our unit gained a lot of experience, thanks to which they lasted longer than others in battles. Our inexperienced soldiers went to the Volga - where nothing happened - for a carefree service. Battle-tested officers and soldiers gathered and went west to meet the Russian onslaught. Thus, our division commander was able to save the division and prevent it from falling apart. All this raised our morale and prevented unnecessary losses, as often happened in the hastily assembled "Alarmenheiten".

We lost the airfield near the Nursery on January 14, 1943. This practically brought an already inadequately meager supply to a halt. There was no longer any escort of transport aircraft by fighters. The sky over Stalingrad was controlled by Russian planes. We were dropped supply containers with ammunition, food and medicines. Naturally, this minuscule was not nearly enough to supply the army with a minimum amount of food so as not to die of hunger. Many of the containers dropped by parachute missed their targets and fell alongside the Russians—not uncommon. Others that could be found did not surrender as ordered, and those who found them kept them.

The Cauldron was now shrinking every day. The army leadership tried to boost our morale with quick promotions and distribution of medals. Despite all the superiority of the enemy, the army in these days of destruction made a simply superhuman effort. Every day we could hear how this or that corner of the cauldron came under heavy fire from Russian artillery. This meant that an attack would soon begin there and the encirclement zone would be further reduced.

We learned from the many leaflets dropped on us that the Russians offered to capitulate the army. Depending on von Manstein and Hitler for his decisions, Paulus refused - as expected. What he felt and what he personally thought remained unknown. We did not feel that we were being led in every way by a superior commander of the army, although everyone felt that now we needed energetic leadership.

In the bitter cold of the steppes around Stalingrad, nothing more could be done. The front line became thinner and thinner, and it was necessary to go over to the defense of only the nodal “shverpunkt”. Maybe we ourselves needed to dig in the city ruins in order to get better protection from shelling and from the enemy. In my opinion, too little could have been done to protect our "citadel". the encircled army now had three options: 1) break out as soon as possible; 2) to resist with all concentration as much as necessary to weaken the enemy; 3) capitulate as soon as resistance becomes useless.

Paulus did not choose any of these three, although he, as commander of the army, was responsible for his soldiers. The last time I went to visit my semi-battery on the Volga, I looked into the basement of a department store on Red Square, where in September the headquarters of a battalion from our division was located. I was lucky to stumble upon Oberst Roske, who commanded his infantry regiment with great skill and professionalism. I worked with him several times and was impressed by his youthful energy. We chatted a little. He believed that the air in the "hero basement" did not suit us. For me, there was something unreal about running around the department store.

The strangest rumors were still circulating in the remains of the city: a German armored fist was preparing to break through the encirclement from the outside. Such was the reason for the feverish attacks of the Russians and their offer of surrender. All we had to do was hold on for a few more days. Where were these tanks supposed to come from if they couldn't even open the "cauldron" in December? Everyone was torn between hope and despair. At this time, the last airfield in Gumrak was lost. FROM the steppe and from Gumrak, endless convoys of defeated divisions poured into the city. Suddenly it became possible to find some fuel. A continuous stream of cars rolled into the city.

Gray buses, conveniently equipped inside as mobile command posts or army departments, gave the impression that the city had bus routes. Columns of trucks were transporting food, alcohol, canisters of gasoline and cartridges to the city cellars - obviously some kind of unregistered exchange funds. Well-fed treasurers in clean uniforms vigilantly watched their treasures and disappeared only when a Russian plane appeared over the traffic flow. “Where did they get all this from and why are they only now bringing all this?” - the soldiers asked with a mixture of envy and bitterness, because they had nothing for weeks. Housing in the city was becoming a rarity. there was still room to take a few people.

A few days later, exhausted infantry began to arrive in the city from the west. There were many wounded, and many were frostbitten. The temperature in those days did not rise above minus 20, more often it was much colder. Lame, hollow-cheeked, dirty and infested with lice, the soldiers hobbled slowly through the city. Some did not have weapons with them, although they looked combat-ready. The collapse of the army was clearly not far off. The Russians made their way from the south to the Tsaritsa. Despite the order not to surrender, several local capitulations have already taken place. Mostly frightened headquarters - but there were also enough remnants of combat units that surrendered without resistance. There were cases when divisional commanders surrendered their sectors. Our resistance no longer made sense. Paulus hardly managed anything at all. He stayed in his department store basement, sitting and waiting.

The hopelessness of the army's situation was hardly a secret even to him. Our 71st Infantry was drawn into the maelstrom of events at Tsaritsa. When our commander, General von Hartmann, saw that the end of the division was near, the lines of command were mixed up or even broken, the army and corps were losing control of the situation, and simply because it was becoming more and more useless to continue fighting, he decided to choose a worthy one - perhaps even with honor - a way out of the situation.

South of the Tsaritsa, he climbed a railway embankment and took a loaded rifle from a soldier accompanying him. Standing to his full height, like a target on a shooting range, he fired at the attacking Russians. Von Hartmann continued to shoot for some time until he was overtaken by an enemy bullet. He was lucky that he was not injured, which would have turned captivity into a living hell - and in the end he would have died a painful death anyway.

It happened on January 26, 1943. In desperation, the other officers fired their pistols. No one believed that they would survive in the Russian POW camp. Our divisional commander chose a more honorable way to leave - perhaps inspired by the example of the highly respected Colonel General Fritsch, who left in a similar chivalrous manner during the Polish campaign. News of Hartman's death spread like fire throughout the division. What he did was perceived from two positions. But regardless of the point of view, it was an impressive way to leave. His successor in the past few days can take credit for the fact that the division has not disintegrated from top to bottom like the others. In the short term, he even somehow managed to boost our morale.

Now a flood of replenishments poured into the battery, but it was difficult to feed them. The heavy batteries of the 4th Battalion, primarily the remnants of the 10th Battery, in which I served for a long time, were looking for shelter with us. They were scattered by the Russians as they unsuccessfully tried to defend the western edge of the city. Spies had to climb into the goods raised from our hotel business, a second horse was slaughtered, and God knows where two sacks of grain came from. The troops now had no supplies.

Something could be obtained, but very rarely, at army distribution points. Rare supply containers and sacks of bread that fell from the sky were left with those who found them. We could only get angry when they found toilet paper or even condoms. In the current situation, we clearly did not need either one or the other.

Some special administrator in Berlin came up with a standard set for containers, and it was useless here. Theory and practice often live apart. There were still a few Russian Khivs left in our positions, they were fed the same way as we were. We haven't guarded them for a long time, and they had many opportunities to escape. In the face of the Russian divisions that surrounded us, one of them disappeared from strength to merge with the Red Army.

Maybe they expected a sadder fate for themselves. In the Stalinist army, human life meant practically nothing. Now, in the final stages of the battle, the Russian civilians had come out of their hiding places. The old men, women and children that we tried to evacuate at the beginning of the battle somehow miraculously survived. They roamed the streets and begged without success. We had nothing to give them.

Even our soldiers were on the verge of starvation and starvation. No one else paid attention to the corpses of those who died of hunger or cold, lying on the side of the road. It has become a familiar sight. As much as we could, we tried to alleviate the suffering of the civilian population. Oddly enough, in recent days there have been cases of Russian desertion to our “cauldron”. What did they expect from the Germans? The fighting was clearly so fierce for them that they did not believe in the inevitable imminent victory or fled from the harsh treatment of their superiors. And vice versa - the German soldiers fled to the Russians, convinced by leaflets and so-called passes. No one expected anything good from Russian captivity.

We have seen too often cases of brutal murder of individuals, small groups or the wounded who fell into their hands. Some deserted out of disillusionment with Hitler, although this in itself was not an "insurance policy". Be that as it may, on the ground more often surrendered - both small units and the remnants of full divisions, since they harbored hope for a more settled life in captivity. These partial surrenders became a nightmare for neighboring units, who fought simply because they were alone and the Russians could not outflank them.

Surrender was strictly forbidden, but who listened to orders in all this confusion? Hardly! The power of the army commander was no longer taken seriously. Probably, this made Paulus make a decision. Nothing happened. Horse meat soup, which was distributed on my battery, drove the "rats" out of their holes. During the night they tried to attack the kitchen staff. We drove them out at gunpoint and since then have posted a sentry at our “goulash cannon” (field kitchen). We ate only part of the second horse, and the third wandered around the first floor of the bathhouse like a ghost.

She often fell from fatigue and hunger. Soldiers who fell behind their own were poured a cup of soup only if they had rifles with them and showed the will to fight. January 29, I again went to the Volga. My "Russian semi-battery" was included in an infantry company. People were in a cheerful mood, the command took care of everything - but they, of course, saw how the inevitable was coming. Someone talked about escaping across the Volga ice in order to get to the German positions in a roundabout way. But where are they, the German positions? In any case, in some place you will definitely have to cross the Russians. It was quite possible to cross the Volga unnoticed on the ice - but then what? Probably 100 kilometers of walking in deep snow - weakened, without food, without roads.

Nobody would have survived this. Singles didn't stand a chance. A few people have tried, but I haven't heard of anyone who has succeeded. The commander of the 1st battery, Hauptmann Ziveke, and regimental adjutant Schmidt tried and are still missing. They probably froze to death, starved to death, or were killed. I said goodbye to the soldiers on the Volga and thought: will I see any of them again? The way back led me through Red Square, which was a kind of monument to the German "air bridge" - there lay a downed Xe-111. Directly across from him, in the basement of a department store called Univemag, sat Paulus and his staff. There was also the command post of our 71st Infantry Division. What were the generals thinking and doing in that basement? They probably didn't do anything. We just waited. Hitler forbade surrender, and the continued resistance by this hour was becoming more and more futile.

I walked towards the liquor factory where my battalion's command post was still located. I passed the ruins of the theatre, now only slightly reminiscent of the portico of a Greek temple. To protect against the Russians, the old Russian barricades were restored. The final battle was already raging in the city itself. There was a strange atmosphere in the basement of the distillery. There were the regimental commander, the commander of the 11th battalion, Major Neumann and my old friend from the 19th artillery regiment in Hanover, Gerd Hoffmann. Gerd was now the regimental adjutant.

Pitiful remnants of the first battalion remained, and the "homeless" soldiers found temporary shelter there. The tables were filled with bottles of schnapps. Everyone was obscenely noisy and completely drunk. They discussed in detail who had already shot himself. I felt my moral and physical superiority over them. I could still live on the subcutaneous fat accumulated on vacation. Others have been starving for a month and a half longer than me. I was invited to join the drinking party, and I gladly agreed. - Do you still have a battery or is that all? asked von Strumpf. - Then it was the last battery of my proud regiment, which is now covered ...

I reported on the artillerymen from the broken units, the construction of positions and the fact that I now have 200 soldiers. I even talked about horse meat soup. When I asked for his instructions for my "hedgehog position", I received only drunken remarks: - Well, it's better to salt your surviving battery, then you will have something left. Now it's such a rarity that it should be shown in a museum for posterity, such a nice little battery... - Don't stand there looking stupid, sit on your fat ass and have a drink with us. We need to empty all the remaining bottles...

How is your beautiful Fraulein Bride? Does she know that she is already a widow? Ha ha ha... - Sit down! Everything, to the last drop - to the bottom, and the triple "Sieg Heil" in honor of Adolf the Magnificent, the doer of widows and orphans, the greatest commander of all time! Head up! Let's drink, we won't see this youngster again...

I was beginning to wonder why their pistols were on the table next to the glasses. - As soon as we all drink, and - bang, - the commander of the second battalion pointed his right index finger to the forehead. Bach - and the end of a great thirst. Oberleutnant Nantes Wüster, in a white camouflage suit, enters the command post of the 1st Battalion in the basement of the distillery and sees that most of the senior officers of the artillery regiment are drunk and ready to commit suicide

I didn't think about shooting myself - I never thought about that. The smell of alcohol in the stale stench of the basement made me sick. The room was too hot.

The candles had eaten all the oxygen, and the basement stank of sweat. I wanted to eat. I wanted to get out of this hole! Gerd Hoffman intercepted me at the exit: - Come on, Wuster, stay. We're not going to give up. We're going to die anyway, even if the Russians don't kick us out of here. We promised each other that we would end everything ourselves.

I tried to dissuade him and suggested that he come to my battery. The drunks in the cellar won't notice he's gone. As long as my battery could fight, I didn't make any decisions about the future. I didn't know yet what I would do when the last shot was fired...if I lived to see it. Then everything will be clear..

I don't think it's particularly heroic to blow your brains out, I told him, but Gerd stayed with his company. Unlike me, the opinion and behavior of superiors has always been a holy revelation to him. Stepping out into the fresh air, I finally felt better. On the way to the battery, a thought flashed through my head: they would soon be too drunk to shoot themselves. But still they were able to end their lives (Oberst von Strumpf shot himself on January 27, 1943, the rest of the officers were missing since January).

We were told about this by a telephone operator who was filming a telephone line to the battalion. This shocked me, and I had a very depressed conversation with the guard on this subject. Gradually my thoughts began to revolve around the idea of ​​using a gun to commit suicide. But then I returned in my thoughts to Ruth and to the fact that I had not yet seen life. I was still young and still depended on others. I had plans, goals, ideas, and I wanted to finally stand on my own two feet after the war. However, in this situation, much spoke in favor of an independent decision to end this once and for all.

One artilleryman received a shrapnel in the stomach, and he was carried into the bathhouse. The doctors gave him painkillers. he had no chance of surviving, not under these conditions. He would have died at the dressing station, with normal medical care. If only my gunner could die quickly and without suffering, I thought to myself. After lunch, the Russian shelling ended. Russian tanks came towards us from the west. To our right was an embankment over one of the city ponds; an infantry unit, which I did not know, settled there. There was no one to our left. They have already capitulated. The Russian cannon rode out and took up position directly in front of us. We drove them off with a few shells. A tank drove up and fired from a cannon, the shell hit somewhere near the bathhouse. Having received no order, Sergeant Fritze and his men jumped to the howitzer and opened fire on the tank.

Even the Russian Khiva worked as a loader. In the duel, the tank had an advantage in the rate of fire, but it was never able to achieve a direct hit. An earthen rampart around the gun protected it from close hits. Finally, Fritz was lucky to hit the T-34 turret with a 10.5 cm projectile. I observed a direct hit through binoculars and ordered the crew to take cover, but, to everyone's surprise, the tank began to move again and fire its cannon. Our direct hit did not penetrate the armor. Armor-piercing shells ran out, and conventional high-explosive shells did not penetrate armor. Only the third hit brought the long-awaited victory. The shell hit the T-34 in the stern, and the engine of the colossus caught fire. I was completely struck by the naturalness with which my men had hitherto fought.

The victorious gunners rejoiced almost like children and briefly forgot about their desperate situation. When another tank soon appeared - a heavier one, of the KV class - I aimed two guns at it. This KV was also destroyed without loss on our part. Unfortunately, our infantry was driven away from the pond. We were pressed to the ground by the dense machine-gun fire of the Russians who had reached there. The situation became more and more hopeless, even though a battery of ancient LFH-16 light howitzers was in position to our left. they also had a few shells left. I offered them to the soldiers, not engaged in combat, a refuge in the bathhouse. Night fell and the fighting subsided. During the day we barely managed to survive. Only 19 shells remained, and as a precaution, I ordered the destruction of two guns. One was already damaged, although it could fire. We had 1kg demolition charges for each gun, they had to be put into the barrel from the breech. They were blown up by inserting fuses, and the guns were rendered unusable. With such an explosion, the barrel, breech and cradle are destroyed.

Suddenly, an unfamiliar infantry officer showed up at the position, intending to stop the second explosion. He was worried that the Russians would notice the destruction of the materiel and might take out their anger on the German prisoners. He said a lot more. In any case, the second weapon was blown up. Soon I was ordered to report to the commander of my battle group. Why not? If it is necessary to confirm my independent status, I will refer to General Roske. I met with a pompous lieutenant colonel who no longer cared that the guns had blown up.

He ordered me to recapture the embankment at the pond that same night. This hill dominated the entire region. So he took control of my battery so he could control everything. When I reminded of my autonomy, he pointed to his higher rank and tried to put pressure on me. He also paid no attention when I pointed out that it was useless to send untrained gunners to beat back what the infantry could not hold in battle. So I indifferently promised that we would deal with it. I gathered about 60 people, looked for suitable non-commissioned officers and started.

“Nothing will come of this,” said spies, but did not refuse to volunteer. A full moon shone brightly from a cloudless sky. The snow, left where there were no traces of Russian shells, creaked under the boots and illuminated the area brightly, as during the day. At first we managed to pass under the cover of the folds of the terrain, but then, on the way to the height, we had to cross an open place. Before leaving the hideout, we decided to split into two groups to deceive the Russians. So far, they haven't paid any attention, though they've obviously noticed something. Or were they not up to par? "Let's go!" - I whispered, and moved up the slope. I was already scared. Nothing happened. Not a shot. When I looked around, there were only two people next to me. One of them was spy. When no one else followed us, we returned to the shelter. The whole crowd was standing there, no one moved. Everyone was silent. - What the... spirit was not enough? I asked them. - Not enough, - said someone from the back rows. If they were knocked off this hill, let them return it themselves. We do not want.

This is a riot, right? Don't want to fight? And what do you want? There was no need for us to knock out Ivan's tanks this morning,” I objected. At that very moment, I felt my authority begin to dwindle. Even threats could not convince anyone to crawl out from behind the bushes. - We will stay with the guns and even shoot back, but we will no longer play infantry. Well, it's enough.

It was clear to everyone that January 31 would be the last day of “freedom” in the encirclement. After talking with the guard, I distributed all the remaining food to the soldiers and said that there would be nothing more. Everyone could do with his share what he saw fit. The last horse was still tottering around the room above the cellar, falling and getting back up again and again. It was too late to beat her. The sound of hooves on the floor made him feel uneasy. I have ordered the destruction of all equipment, except for weapons and radios. Our wounded man was moaning and screaming in pain because the medic had run out of painkillers. It would be better if this poor fellow died, it would be better if he was silent. Compassion dies when you feel helpless. The uncertainty was unbearable. Sleep was out of the question. We half-heartedly tried to play skat, but it didn't help. Then I did the same as the others - I sat down and ate as much as possible of the food I got. This calmed me down. It seemed useless to allocate the rest of the food for the future.

At some point, the sentry brought three Russian officers. One of them, the captain, spoke decent German. Nobody knew where they came from. I was called to stop hostilities. Before dawn we must collect food, provide ourselves with water and mark positions with white flags. The offer was reasonable, but we didn't make a decision. It was obviously useless to continue resistance. I had to report to the lieutenant colonel and to an unfamiliar battery next door. The Lieutenant Colonel had apparently heard rumors of a Russian visit. He put on a real show: "Treason, court martial, firing squad ..." and so on.

I could no longer take him seriously and pointed out that the Russians had come to me, and not vice versa. I made it clear to him that I would have put the Russians out without salt if his infantry had shown themselves properly in the last battle. Then my people would have fought on the 31st, although they can do little. - Don't destroy anything else. This will only anger the Russians, and then they will not take anyone prisoner, - the choleric lieutenant colonel shouted at me. I didn't want to listen to him anymore. He clearly didn't want to die.

I sent the Russians away, referring to the orders of the command, which, "unfortunately", left me no other choice. This version also helped me save face in front of the soldiers. As usual, we tuned the radio to the news from Germany, and in addition to them, we heard Goering's speech on January 30 on the tenth anniversary of the National Socialist takeover.

It was all the same exaggerated theatrical pouting with pompous phrases that hadn't seemed so vulgar before. We took this speech as a mockery of us, who were dying here because of the wrong decisions of the high command. Thermopylae, Leonidas, the Spartans - we were not going to end up like those ancient Greeks! Stalingrad was turned into a myth even before the "heroes" died safely. “The general stands shoulder to shoulder with a simple soldier, both with rifles in their hands. They fight to the last bullet. They die so that Germany may live."

Turn off! This asshole left us to die, and he's going to spout cardboard phrases and fill his belly. He can't do anything himself, a fat, pompous parrot. In a rage, a lot more abuse was expressed, some even against Hitler. Yes - victims of irresponsible and thoughtless decisions, now we had to listen to funeral speeches addressed to us. It was impossible to imagine a greater faux pas. Goering's promise to supply the "cauldron" by air led to the failure of the breakthrough. The whole army was sacrificed because of his stupid ignorance.

“Where the German soldier stands, nothing can shake him!” This had already been refuted last winter, and now we were too weak to stand - empty words, exaggerated phrases, empty chatter. The German Reich was supposed to stand for a thousand years, and it staggered in just ten. At first we all fell under the spell of Hitler. He wanted to unite all the lands where German was spoken into one German state.

In the basement, an old non-commissioned officer quietly and seriously asked me if everything was over for us and if there was even the slightest hope left. I could not give him, and myself, not the slightest hope. The coming day will be the end of everything. This soldier was a well-bred reservist with a serious education. Many were irritated by his curiosity. Now, quiet and self-absorbed, he simply walked out of the dugout back to the gun.

We smashed radios, telephones and other equipment with picks. All documents were burned. Our wounded man finally died. I put on boots that were a little big so I could put on some more socks underneath. Reluctantly, I parted with my felt boots, but it made it easier to move. Then I fell asleep on the sheepskin under the leather coat that my parents had sent me to the front. The coat fit the general, but here, in Stalingrad, it was not suitable for a front-line officer.

How I wish I had it with me on vacation. Now it will surely fall into the hands of the Russians, like the Leica camera. It's strange what trivial things you think about while fighting for survival. Ruth - well, nothing will come of it. I could be killed at any moment. Let only death be as quick and painless as possible. My spy helped to get rid of thoughts of suicide. In any case, I was too afraid of it - although suicide itself is considered a form of cowardice. I did not blame the Lord for Stalingrad. What could he do about it?

Sunday. I was awakened by a cry: “Russians! Still half asleep, I ran up the steps with a pistol in my hand, shouting: “Whoever shoots first will live longer!” A Russian ran out to meet me, I hit him. Jump out of the basement and run to the embrasures on the first floor, I thought. Several gunners were already standing there and firing. I grabbed my rifle and moved to the side window so I could see better in the morning light. The Russians were running through our lines and I opened fire. Now gunners with raised hands began to run out of the dugouts near the firing positions. The old non-commissioned officer fired his pistol aimlessly into the air. A short burst from a Soviet machine gun finished him off. Was it courage or desperation? Who will say now.

Gun positions were lost. My gunners have been taken prisoner. The bath, like a "fortress", will last a little longer. All she could offer now was safety. The battery to the left of us was also seized. The battery commander, a fat man who had risen from recruit to hauptmann, with several soldiers made his way to our bathhouse. The embrasures turned out to be very handy. We continuously fired at any movement outside. Some shooters made notches on the butts for each Russian killed. What were they thinking? Or is it necessary to flatter your ego, then remembering long-standing victories? Why all this? It didn't make any sense.

For a moment, out of respect for our rebuff, the Russians pulled back. One of the machine guns failed in the cold. The oil froze, and we gunners did not know what to do with it. The rifle was the most reliable weapon. I fired mine at everything I could think of as a target, but didn't hit as often as I'd hoped. The ammo was plentiful. Open boxes of ammunition were almost everywhere. The firefight distracted me, and I even calmed down a bit. Suddenly I was seized with a strange feeling that I was the spectator of this unreal scene. I looked at everything from inside my body. It was alien and surreal. To our right, where the infantry was with that choleric lieutenant colonel, no more shooting was heard.

There they waved pieces of white cloth tied to sticks and rifles. They came out in a column one at a time, they formed columns and took them away. - Just look at these freaks, - someone shouted and wanted to shoot at them. - Why? Leave them, I said, though I didn't care.

It was minus twenty, but the frost was not felt. In the basement, warmed machine guns and machine guns revived for a short while, then cooled down and failed again. The infantry, according to rumors, lubricated the weapons with gasoline. It was a little quiet outside. So what's now? The bathhouse was an island in the midst of a red flood - a completely unimportant island, the flood now poured past us into the city. As everything calmed down, the cold began to pester again. I removed people from the loopholes so that everyone could go down to the heated basement and warm themselves with strong coffee.

I still had some crumbs left for breakfast. I looked at the Khivs at some of the gun slits, firing at their fellow citizens. We no longer paid attention to them. Heavi could have disappeared at night. What is going on inside them? There are plenty of weapons and ammo around. And yet they remained loyal to us, knowing full well that they had no chance of surviving if we were taken prisoner.

Their attempt to escape the war by deserting to us failed. They had nothing more to lose. The hauptmann who arrived began to show off, although he was only a guest in our bunker. He gave the impression of a man who wants to win the war. He wanted to break out of the bathhouse to join other German troops who were still fighting. I accepted his offer indifferently, although the resisting units were worth looking for no closer than the city limits.

Entering from the bathhouse, we immediately came under machine-gun and mortar fire. Shards of ice and bricks hit his face painfully. We climbed back into the building, but not everyone was able to get back. Several people lay outside dead and wounded. Then several Russian tanks approached and began to hammer on the bathhouse. Thick walls withstood shelling. How much longer will they last? Time passed frighteningly slowly. The T-34s had come closer and were now firing their machine guns right at the embrasures. It was the end. Whoever approached the loophole, instantly died from a bullet in the head. Many died. In all this confusion, Russian parliamentarians unexpectedly appeared at the building. In front of us stood a lieutenant, a bugler and a soldier with a small white flag on a pole, which reminded me of the Jungvolk flag in the Hitler Youth.

We were lucky none of the guests were hurt, I thought. Hauptmann was ready to drive the Russians away, but the soldiers had had enough of the war. They laid down their rifles and began to search for satchels. The shooting gradually stopped, but I did not believe this silence. Most importantly, the Hauptmann was unpredictable. I wanted to get out from under his seniority and talked to two gunners who were standing nearby, as if to get through the trenches coming from the building. Maybe we could sneak into the city center and find the German positions.

Probably the Hauptmann wanted to die a hero's death. But he would drag us all with him. Crouching down, the three of us jumped out and disappeared among the ruins. We needed time to rest. I didn't even forget my leather coat. "Leica" was in the tablet. I filmed until the very end. The photographs would be of great documentary value. We looked back at the bathroom. The fight is over there. The defenders went out in a chain through the Russian cordon. No one went to Valhalla just before the finale. It would be better for us to stay with the rest - because, despite the heavy losses, there was no trace of Russian cruelty to be seen.

We carefully made our way through the garbage heaps to the city center. As the evening wore on, we did not know that at that time Field Marshal Paulus had already got into the car that would take him prisoner, without once sticking his nose out, without picking up a rifle. "Kotel" In the center of Stalingrad ceased to exist.

In the northern pocket, the massacre continued for two more days under the command of General Strecker. Running from house to house and crawling through the cellars, we, the three fugitives, could not get far. We were still in the area of ​​my convenient command post when, looking out from the basement, we came across two Russians with machine guns at the ready. Before I knew anything, the leather coat had changed hands. I dropped the gun and raised my hands. They were not interested in any of our things. When, while searching, they opened my white camouflage jacket, the Officer's buttonholes on the collar became visible. A short curse was followed by a blow to the face.

They cornered us back and several Russians pointed their machine guns at us. I haven't caught my breath yet. The main feeling that gripped me was apathy, not fear. The road to captivity, as Wüster and his brush recall it. Only a few Soviet soldiers are enough to escort a long column of captured Germans. "Well, that's all," a thought flashed. the great unknown is coming in. I didn't know what to expect.

The question whether the Russians would shoot us remained unanswered - a T-34 passing by stopped and distracted the soldiers. They talked. The junior lieutenant, smeared in oil, climbed out of the tower and searched us again. He found my Leica, but did not know what to do with it, turned it in his hands until he threw it against a brick wall. The lens is broken. He threw the film he had shot into the snow. I felt sorry for my photos. All of them were filmed in vain, I thought. we, of course, were taken away from the very beginning of the watch. Despite my protests, the second lieutenant took the leather coat.

He was not interested in my leather tablet, nor the paper and watercolors in it. He, however, liked my warm leather gloves, and smilingly removed them from me. Climbing into the tan, he tossed me a pair of oil-stained fur mittens and a bag of dried Russian bread. 20-30 German prisoners passed by us. With laughter, we were pushed into their group. We were now heading west, along a narrow path leading out of the city. We were in captivity and did not feel anything bad about it. The dangerous phase of the transition from a free soldier to a disenfranchised prisoner - including our dangerous flight - was behind us.

With rare exceptions, I did not meet anyone from our bathhouse for a long time. Although the sun shone from a clear sky, the temperature was extremely low. The desire to live returned to my body. I decided to do everything I could to get through what was ahead of me and come back. I expected that we would be loaded onto transport and taken to the camp - primitive, like everything else in Russia, but quite tolerable. First of all, crackers, which I shared with two fellow escapees - this was the most important. Soon there will be nothing more to share - hunger leads to selfishness and banishes humanity. Little remains of camaraderie and brotherly love. Only the strongest friendships were maintained.

The fact that I had been robbed so horribly was no longer a tragedy for me. I even felt some gratitude towards the smiling tank commander who "paid" for the loot. Bread was more valuable than a rather useless leather coat or a camera that would not last long. Large and small groups of prisoners were led through the ruins of the city. These groups merged into one large column of prisoners, first from hundreds, then from thousands.

We walked past the taken German positions. Wrecked and burned-out vehicles, tanks and cannons of all kinds lined our road, trodden in hard snow. Dead bodies lay everywhere, frozen to a hardness, completely emaciated, unshaven, often twisted in agony. In some places, the corpses lay piled up in large heaps, as if the standing crowd had been cut down by automatic weapons. Other corpses were mutilated to the point that they could not be identified. These former comrades were run over by Russian tanks, whether they were alive or dead at the time. Parts of their bodies lay here and there like chunks of crushed ice. I noticed all this as we passed, but they merged into each other like in a nightmare, without causing horror. During the war years I have lost many comrades, I have seen death and suffering, but I have never seen so many fallen soldiers in one small place.

I walked light. All I have left is an empty satchel, a raincoat, a blanket picked up along the way, a bowler hat and a tablet. I had a can of canned meat and a bag of hardened crackers from the emergency supply. My stomach was full after yesterday's gluttony and Russian bread. Walking in leather boots was easy, and I stayed at the head of the column.

In Russia, a long time ago, the traditional idea of ​​​​the iron German order, that the German “does not steal,” was established. This idea also extends to the years of the Great Patriotic War - the Germans, allegedly, had order in everything. One of the heroes of Viktor Astafiev's novel "Cursed and Killed", for example, reflects: "And they won't rob, they won't eat their German brother - they have a strict case with this matter - a little bit on trial."

But according to the recollections of the Germans themselves, not everyone was afraid of their ships. They were stolen by their near-staff and quartermaster "heroes" in such a way that colleagues from other armies could envy their scope and shamelessness.

Horse meat - comfrey, Belgian chocolate - headquarters

This is what Major Helmut Welz had to face when he ended up in the Stalingrad cauldron. After the remnants of his sapper battalion of the 16th Panzer Division were disbanded, he, along with a few surviving soldiers, waited at the army headquarters for a new appointment. Here, as he was convinced, they did not suffer from malnutrition at all: “A bright lamp is drowning in clouds of cigarette smoke. Warm, one might even say hot. At the table are two quartermasters, smoking like factory chimneys, in front of them are glasses of schnapps. One of the six wooden beds is occupied, a sleeping soldier is stretched out on it. - Yes, you can settle down. The room is vacant today, we're leaving in half an hour.

Do they have a cigarette for us too?

- Of course, Mr. Major, here's a hundred for you! - And the quartermaster shoves a large red pack into my hand. Austrian, "Sport". I frantically open the package. Everyone gets. Baysman holds out a match, we sit down, enjoy the smoke, take a deep puff. It's been a week since we smoked our last cigarette. The troops used up their last supplies. To smoke enough, it was necessary to go to the highest headquarters. There are a hundred - you live great! Apparently, there is no need to save here ...

It's full of treasures long gone. From two half-open bags gleam jars of canned meat and vegetables. Packs of Belgian chocolate of 50 and 100 grams, Dutch bars in a blue wrapper and round boxes with the inscription "Chocacola" come out of the third. Two more bags were stuffed with cigarettes: Attica, Nile, English brands, the best brands. Nearby are flour cakes, folded exactly according to the instructions - right in the Prussian style they are lined up in columns in a row, which could feed a good hundred people to their fill. And in the farthest corner there is a whole battery of bottles, light and dark, pot-bellied and flat, and they are all full of cognac, Benedictine, egg liqueur - for every taste. This food warehouse, reminiscent of a grocery store, speaks for itself. The army command issues orders that the troops must economize in everything they can, in ammunition, gasoline, and above all in food. The order establishes a mass of different categories of food - for soldiers in the trenches, for battalion commanders, for regimental headquarters and for those who are "far behind". For violation of these norms and disobedience to orders, they threaten with a military court and execution. And not only threaten! The field gendarmerie, without further ado, puts people against the wall, whose only fault is that, succumbing to the instinct of self-preservation, they rushed to pick up a loaf of bread that had fallen from the car. And here, at the headquarters of the army, which, no doubt, in terms of food belongs to those who are “far behind”, and from whom everyone expects that he himself carries out his orders in the strictest way, it is precisely here that that for the front has long been a mere memory and that is thrown as a handout in the form of miserable grams to the same people who lay down their heads every hour ....

The full composition of the headquarters at the table set for breakfast - and the ranks of soldiers thinning every day, whose teeth pierce furiously into horse meat - such are the contrasts, such is the abyss that is becoming wider and more insurmountable ... ".

After reading such memoirs, the idea of ​​​​the vaunted German honesty and order involuntarily undergoes significant adjustments.

By the way, before Major Welz could enjoy the chic staff supplies, he had a chance to visit the hospital and evaluate the allowance there: “The next room - a former school class - is occupied by those suffering from exhaustion due to hunger. Here, doctors have to deal with such phenomena unknown to them as all kinds of edema and body temperature below thirty-four degrees. Those who die of starvation are taken out every hour and laid in the snow. Very little food can be given to the emaciated, mostly boiling water and a little horsemeat, and even then only once a day. The blankmeister himself has to go around all the nearby units and food depots in order to get something to eat. Sometimes you can't get anything. Bread is almost forgotten here. It is barely enough for those in the trenches and guards, they are entitled to 800 calories a day - a starvation ration on which you can only last a few weeks.

As they say, feel the difference between horse meat and Belgian chocolate. But, perhaps, Major Welz was faced with a single, atypical case? However, the fact that the situation of the wounded in German hospitals was simply catastrophic was also noted by the Soviet military. For example, Gleb Baklanov, appointed commandant of the Zavodskaya part of Stalingrad after the surrender of Paulus, was shocked that the German doctor did not even know how many patients of his hospital were still alive. And other Germans who survived in Stalingrad also recalled the striking “contrasts” in providing food to the front line soldiers and staff officers.

German soldiers will start shooting at German soldiers

Here, for example, is what Colonel Luitpold Steidle, who commanded the 767th Grenadier Regiment of the 376th Infantry Division, saw at the headquarters of the Sixth Army literally in the last days of the defense: “I open the door without knocking and without reading the inscription on it. I find myself in a large room lit by many candles, among a dozen officers. They are tipsy, some are sitting at two tables, others are leaning on a chest of drawers. In front of them are glasses, bottles of wine, coffee pots, plates of bread, biscuits and pieces of chocolate. One of them is just about to strum on a piano lit by a few candles.”

Literally a few minutes before this, the colonel, from whose regiment by that time there were 11 officers, 2 doctors, 1 veterinarian and 34 soldiers, unsuccessfully tried to explain to his superiors the state of the soldiers on the front line and even tried to scare them with the possibility of internecine fighting inside the boiler: “ You will have to reckon with the fact that soon here, yes, it is here, in the yard and in these basement corridors, German soldiers will begin to shoot at German soldiers, and maybe officers at officers. Perhaps even hand grenades will be used. This can happen quite unexpectedly.” But in the presence of chocolate and wine, it was difficult for the staff officers to understand the mood of the trench soldiers. In general, in the German army, with a really excellent organization, the inevitable pattern in any military structure, formulated by Yaroslav Hasek in the immortal book “The Adventures of the Good Soldier Schweik” still operated: “When ... the soldiers were handed out lunch, each of them found in his bowler hat two small pieces of meat each, and one who was born under an unlucky star found only a piece of the skin. The usual army nepotism reigned in the kitchen: everyone who was close to the ruling clique enjoyed the benefits. The batmen walked around with muzzles glossy with fat. All the orderlies had bellies like drums." Well, just the 6th Wehrmacht Army in the Stalingrad winter.

It should be noted that German memories of the theft of their quartermasters are also confirmed by the observations of representatives of the Soviet side during the surrender of the 6th Army. The winners noticed that, despite the extreme exhaustion of most of the prisoners, some of them “were in a full body, their pockets were stuffed with sausage and other food, apparently left after the distribution of“ meager rations ”.

What would the sausage owners say about the arguments about how they “do not rob, do not eat their German brother - they are strict with this matter”? Probably, they would have laughed at such a naivety of a Red Army soldier. He thought too well of the German rear.

Instead of the wounded, motorcycles were taken out

But not only that, inside the ring, due to the fighting soldiers, the quartermasters and near-staff hangers-on “lived beautifully”. At the same time, utter chaos was also created during the organization of return flights from Stalingrad to the "Mainland".

Who, it would seem, in a similar situation in the first place is subject to evacuation? It would be logical to take out the seriously wounded in the first place. They still cannot fight, but they need the delivery of medicines and food. But the wounded place was far from always:

“There is a feverish rush at the airport. The convoy drives in, everyone quickly gets out of the cars, the planes are already ready to take off. Outsiders are not allowed on the field by security. While an air battle is being played out above us and one Messerschmitt is deftly trying to rise above two Russian fighters, the doors of the gray-white planes open, and now the first officers are sitting inside. The batmen can barely keep up with them. With boxes, suitcases and linen bags, they trot after them. Two motorcycles are loaded onto the planes. While they are being dragged upstairs - and this is not easy, because they have a solid weight - I have time to talk with the staff clerk, in whose eyes the joy of unexpected salvation shines. He is so intoxicated with this joy that he is ready to give the most detailed answers to all questions. The general wants immediately after landing - presumably in Novocherkassk - to move further west as soon as possible, according to orders, of course. Unfortunately, you can’t drag a car into such a small plane, so we are transporting two motorcycles, both refueled to the very top.”

Taking out the general's motorcycles and underwear of staff officers instead of the wounded is a strong move. Is it necessary, with such behavior of the authorities, to be surprised that at the Stalingrad Pitomnik airfield, the evacuation turned into a uniform disgrace? “At the very edge of the airfield there are large tents of the sanitary service. By order of the army command, all seriously wounded are transported here so that they can fly out in vehicles delivering supplies. The army doctor, Major General of the Medical Service, Professor Dr. Renoldi, is here; he is responsible for sending the wounded. In fact, he is powerless to restore order, as many lightly wounded people also get here. They hide in empty trenches and bunkers. As soon as the car has landed, they are the first to be in place. They ruthlessly repel the seriously wounded. Some manage, in spite of the gendarmes, to slip into the plane. Often we have to clear the plane again to make room for the seriously injured. You need the brush of Brueghel, called the painter of hell, or the power of Dante's word to describe the terrible scenes that we have witnessed here for the last ten days.

How can order be demanded from the soldiers during the evacuation if they see how the general and officers take out motorcycles and junk instead of the wounded?

Don't mind wearing Russian pants

Is it any wonder that already in December 1942, a few weeks before the end of the battle, German soldiers completely forgot about the notorious Prussian bearing? “Scout Alexander Ponomarev delivered a prisoner to the headquarters of the division, the whole appearance of which could serve as a convincing illustration of the thesis “Hitler Kaput”. On the feet of the Nazi - something resembling huge boots on wooden soles. Bunches of straw come out from behind the tops. On his head, over a dirty cotton handkerchief, is a holey woolen comforter. On top of the uniform is a female katsaveyka, and a horse's hoof sticks out from under it. Holding the “precious” burden with his left hand, the prisoner saluted every Soviet soldier and loudly shouted: “Hitler Kaput!” - recalled Ivan Lyudnikov, who during the Battle of Stalingrad commanded the 138th Infantry Division, which was defending in the area of ​​\u200b\u200bthe Barrikady plant.

Moreover, the prisoner turned out to be not an ordinary, but a sergeant major (!). In order to bring the master of the German sergeant major, who has long been considered the living embodiment of order and discipline, to such an indecent state, one had to try very hard ... The commander of the 13th Guards Rifle Division Alexander Rodimtsev in his memoirs quoted with undisguised pleasure the order of the commander of the 134th German Infantry Division:

"one. Our warehouses have been taken over by the Russians; they are therefore not.

2. There are many excellently equipped wagonmen. It is necessary to take off their pants and exchange them for bad ones in combat units.

3. Along with the absolutely ragged foot soldiers, soldiers in patched trousers are a gratifying sight.

You can, for example, cut off the bottom of your pants, hem them with Russian cloth, and patch the back with the resulting piece.

4. I don't mind wearing Russian pants.

Colonel Steidle's prediction did not come true - internecine fighting in the Stalingrad cauldron did not break out. But it is no coincidence that it was the German prisoners from the Stalingrad cauldron that became the backbone of the anti-fascist organization Free Germany. Should this be surprising?

Many people know that the Battle of Stalingrad was terrible. From any point of view and by any standards. And yet, I think, few people fully realize how scary it is.

I’ll just translate the memoirs of the German Erich Burghard, a participant in those events:

... We ended up in a cauldron, completely surrounded by Russians. I remember that on January 8, the Russians dropped leaflets from an airplane to us, there were calls to surrender, as well as promises of good conditions in captivity, food and women. But we didn’t even think about it, because we were afraid of being captured by the Russians, like “bald hell”.

But the situation was simply catastrophic, thousands of comrades died every day. And this death was far from a heroic death for the Fuhrer and the Motherland, people simply died like rats. We were still relatively well, we were in the ruins of the city, the worst was for those who ended up in the icy steppe. I personally saw fighters who crawled on their knees, because their feet were completely frostbitten. The wounded simply remained lying, no one had the strength to think about them, they simply lay down and died in hours or days, all the while screaming heart-rendingly in pain. Many simply committed suicide, in particular, even General von Hartmann simply went to a prominent place of fire and began to wait for a Russian bullet.

On January 31, 1943, we surrendered to the Russians. I saw how the Russians took Paulus away - the general who ordered us to fight to the last drop of blood so many times took it like that and surrendered.

But the worst began later. We were loaded into cattle cars, 100 people per car, and taken to Uzbekistan. They gave us almost no food, but the worst thing was that they gave us practically no water. A terrible, painful pestilence began in the carriages. At first we threw the dead into a heap in the center of the car, but soon no one had the strength left for this. The lower bodies began to decompose right before our eyes, after 22 days, when we reached the goal, 6 people remained alive in our car, and 94 corpses. Nobody survived in many other cars.

In this connection, I thought about this - taking into account all that hell arranged by the Germans (indescribable, practically unique in the history of mankind, because the Russians there were not much better then described by Erich), I can quite understand the Soviet authorities, ordinary soldiers, everyone: no one wanted to treat the captured Germans normally. But what Erich describes is worse than death. It was more honest to just put everyone up against the wall and shoot them. But then a cry would immediately rise in the world about the extremely inhuman treatment of prisoners. Yes, but it's even more inhuman. In general, it’s just a monstrous situation, a terrible choice - just imagine, all those people in the photograph are simply being led to the slaughter, painfully, as now in a nightmare no one will treat cattle. So what to do? Treat like a human being? It would be difficult to explain this to the mothers and children of the killed Soviet soldiers, and from the survivors themselves to demand a human relationship, I personally would not turn my tongue.

More about Paulus. I understand Burghard and others - the leader simply could not give up in SUCH a situation, he was obliged to choose death along with his soldiers, especially if he himself gets them to such a "command", and certainly not to live cloudlessly in the GDR, drinking cocoa during the dinner. But it's still worth saying what a rare bitch Hitler was. When the 6th Army was in the ring, they had a sea of ​​​​opportunities to get out of there with a fight. Only from the well-known Hitler personally forbade Paulus 3 times to even think about such attempts, when Paulus put forward specific proposals, plans he had worked out to break through the ring. At the same time, the main argument was that we would supply you by air in any way, so hold out. In any case, only in practice it turned out that instead of 500-600 tons of provisions daily, which were required in order to somehow stay in the ring (this is the very minimum), the Luftwaffe threw them 100, a maximum of 150. And so day after day , Imagine! And Hitler and his lads knew this very well, sitting in their cozy offices, but no, "not a step back" and all that (such an order was then simultaneously, interestingly, for the first time used by both Stalin and Hitler). But all the same, I don’t think it justifies Paulus, I don’t understand how it was possible for a general to surrender alive in such a situation.

Well, and another passage from the memoirs, clearly demonstrating how unimaginably simply indoctrined many Germans were then. Falk Pach, a participant in those actions:

...Once I wrote in a letter home to my father Otto: "I practically lost hope of ever seeing my Motherland again." I wish I didn't! My father sent this letter back to my commander with the note: "Actions aimed at undermining the defense power, take action." It's good that my commander turned out to be a man, called me, showed me the letter and said: "We both understand that I should shoot you for this." Then he burned the letter and let me go.

source http://geraldpraschl.de/?p=929

I bring to the attention of lovers of military history a small selection from the letters of German soldiers and officers who participated in the Battle of Stalingrad and surrounded near Stalingrad. Most of these letters refer to November-December 1942 and the first half of January 1943.

What you are about to read was not intended for print. German soldiers wrote for their relatives and friends. They did not expect that their letters, along with all field mail and downed transport aircraft, would fall into the hands of Soviet soldiers.

I think this selection, in which I omit the names of the authors, who anyway won’t tell anyone anything, because these are not well-known military leaders, but mostly ordinary soldiers and junior officers, will well demonstrate the mood in the German army and their changes during the Stalingrad battles, because I arranged the excerpts from the letters in chronological order.

At first I planned to accompany the quoted excerpts from the letters with my own comments, but in the end I decided that among those who would read this, fools are unlikely to be found, and not fools, and so everything is clear.
Therefore, I simply illustrated them with appropriate photographs.

A German soldier writes a letter home from Stalingrad

***
"...Fighting in Stalingrad continues. We are looking forward to our troops delivering the final blow, since Stalingrad is of decisive importance to us..."(November 12, 1942)

***
"... It is very hot near Stalingrad, because fierce battles are being waged for this large industrial city. But the Russian cannot hold out there for a long time, since the main headquarters is well aware of the strategic value of this city and will make every effort to capture it ..."(November 17, 1942)

***
"...Tomorrow we will again go to the front line, where, I hope, the last attack will soon be made on the part of Stalingrad that has not been occupied by us, and the city will finally fall. But the enemy is defending stubbornly and fiercely..."(November 18, 1942)

***
"... Stalingrad is hell on earth, Verdun, red Verdun, with new weapons. We attack every day. If we manage to take 20 meters in the morning, then in the evening the Russians throw us back ..."(November 18, 1942)

Soviet defenders of Stalingrad

***
"... You will have to wait a long time for a special message that Stalingrad has fallen. The Russians do not give up, they fight to the last man ..."(November 19, 1942)

***
"... We have been participating in the battles for Stalingrad for three weeks already and would be glad if we were replaced for a few days. We are black, like blacks, unshaven, overgrown with mud. There is no water, despite the fact that there is so much of it in the Volga "we can't leave the dugouts during the day, and now bullets start whistling, shell after shell, heavy mortars. We show up near the banks of the Volga only at night. There is a large island on the Volga, several kilometers long. The Russians have set up their heavy guns there and are constantly shelling us "Not a minute goes by without the earth humming and trembling; sometimes it seems like the end of the world has come. Our dugout is shaking so that the walls and ceiling are crumbling. At night there is a veritable hail of bombs. Such is the front near Stalingrad. Already many of our soldiers have parted here with their young life and will never see their homeland again.(November 19, 1942)

***
"... Finally, I was going to write you a couple of lines. I'm still healthy and cheerful, I hope you are too. We will celebrate Christmas 1942 in Stalingrad ..."(November 20, 1942)

"Christened..."

***
"... The Fuhrer told us: "Soldiers, you are surrounded. This is not your fault. I will use every means to free you from this situation. The struggle for Stalingrad reaches its climax. Hard days are behind us, but even harder days are coming. You must hold your positions to the last man. There is no way back. Whoever leaves his place, all the severity of the law will befall him ... "(December 1942)

Hitler surveying the situation on the Eastern Front in early 1943
(Pay attention to the expression on his face, as well as those
the generals of the Wehrmacht present)

***
"... The old year is coming to an end. Goebbels just said, he did not arouse enthusiasm in us. For many weeks now, there has been no trace of enthusiasm. What we have in abundance is lice and bombs ..."(December 31, 1942)

Goebbels in February 1943 tries to convince the German people that
that "the Fuhrer is always right!"

***
"... You often ask yourself the question: why all this suffering, has mankind gone mad? But you shouldn't think about it. Otherwise, strange thoughts come to mind that should not have appeared in a German. But I'm afraid that ninety percent of the soldiers fighting in Russia are thinking of such things. This difficult time will leave its mark on many, and they will return home with different views than they held when they left. What will the new year bring us? , but the dawn does not dawn on our horizon, and this affects us, front-line soldiers, overwhelmingly ... "(January 1, 1943)

***
"... In recent days, soldiers often talk among themselves about the war and its prospects. Many soldiers believe that the war is lost for Germany. In a conversation with comrades, I expressed the idea that it is better to go to the Russians as a prisoner than to die of hunger here. .."(January 1943)

Let's give up!

***
"... I never thought that the Russians are such generous opponents, but this generosity is not properly appreciated by the command of the 6th Army. Of course, they, sitting at headquarters, have nothing to lose. If it is very tight, they will fly away by plane , and we soldiers will have to die ... "(January 1943)

Field Marshal F. Paulus did not have to fly by plane,
and he was later able to appreciate the generosity of the enemy from personal experience

***
"...Today I want to tell you how my life is. I don't know if the letter will reach you, because most of the letters are censored, and if you tell the truth, the letter will be delayed and you yourself can pay for it. But today I don't care. As I already told you, we have been surrounded since November 21. The situation is hopeless, only our commanders do not want to admit it. Apart from a couple of spoonfuls of horsemeat stew, we get nothing, and if anything extra is given, then it is not up to us. it disappears from the boss and his company. You won't believe it, but it's true. You are told all kinds of fables in the newspapers and on the radio, but in reality the notorious front-line camaraderie looks completely different. If I knew that they would be with me in captivity treat even as my father did in 1914, I would immediately defect. An experienced spinner or spinning-machine technician is also needed in Russia. God grant that I return home someday, then I will try to open people's eyes to what is really comes at the front. And I ask you: in the future, when collecting donations with which they come to you, remember my letter. That's all I wanted to tell you today. I hope these lines reach you; if not, then I committed suicide, then they put me against the wall ... "(January 16, 1943)

Extracts from the letters of German soldiers were taken from the book "The defeat of the Germans near Stalingrad. Confessions of the enemy" (M., 2013).

Thank you for attention.
Sergei Vorobyov.

Requisites

I was a member of the British Communist Party until it collapsed in 1991.

I want to say that I do not consider myself a historian. I was born into a poor working class family. I received only a state education and today I do not speak my native language ...

The main part of my story will be devoted to how I, a boy from Schleswig-Holstein, became a participant in the “Napoleonic” defeat in Stalingrad. Sometimes I wonder why history doesn't teach us? Napoleon attacked Russia in 1812. His army of 650,000 men invaded from East Prussia and began to advance towards Smolensk and Moscow, but was forced to withdraw. The Russian army pursued the retreating and when the French returned to Paris, their army numbered only 1,400 soldiers. Of course, not all 650,000 were soldiers, and only half of them were French, the rest were Germans and Poles. To many uneducated peasants, joining the Napoleonic army seemed like a great idea. We, too, during the attack on the Soviet Union under the operation plan code-named Barbarossa, thought that we were the strongest and smartest, but we know what came of it!

I was born in 1922 in Schleswig-Holstein. My father was a handyman. Until 1866, Schleswig-Holstein belonged to Denmark. Bismarck and the Prussian Army declared war on Denmark, after which Schleswig-Holstein fell to the Germans. During my service in Russia, the temperature on the coldest day dropped to -54 degrees. I then regretted that Denmark did not win that war, and I had to go with the Germans to Russia and suffer from this terrible cold in 1942. In the end, despite our nationality, we are all one big family. Now I know it, but then I did not understand.

1930s in Germany

Until I was ten (from 1922 to 1932) I lived in the Weimar Republic that emerged after the overthrow of the Kaiser in 1919. I experienced this when I was a little boy. Obviously I didn't understand what was going on. My parents loved me and did their best, but I remember those troubled times - strikes, shootings, blood on the streets, recession, 7 million unemployed. I lived in a workers' quarter near Hamburg, where people had a very hard time. There were demonstrations with red flags, in which women carried their children, pushed baby carriages and chanted: "Give us bread and work for us," and the workers shouted "Revolution" and "Lenin."

My father was left-wing and explained a lot to me. The German ruling class was frightened by the events that were taking place and decided to do something about it. I saw street fights that I had to run away from, but they seemed to me part of ordinary life.

On Christmas Eve 1932, I was 10 years old. A little later, on January 30, 1933, a bomb exploded in the Reichstag. Soon Hitler was appointed Chancellor of Germany. My mother kept asking how Hindenburg let this happen, because we knew that the Nazis were thugs - a party of racists who only talked about revenge and beatings.

It all seemed interesting and fascinating to me, even though my mother told me that they were just bandits. I constantly saw such impressive stormtroopers in brown uniforms marching through the streets of cities. As young men, we sang their songs and proudly walked after them. In the last three columns, at the end of the marches, scavengers came and, if people on the sidewalks did not salute the flag, they forced them to. Later I joined the Hitler Youth, and I was ashamed to show my mother.

Hitler was appointed to suppress the working class.

Hitler became chancellor. Nobody had heard of him ten years ago. The name "Nazi" (derived from the National Socialist Workers' Party of Germany) attracted enough people who were disillusioned with traditional political parties. Some were sincere socialists who were ready to give Hitler a chance, believing that he could not be worse than the old parties. When Hitler and his henchmen gave a speech, it always concerned the return of Germany to its former greatness, attacks on the Jews as inferior human beings that needed to be dealt with. Therefore, putting things in order in the world became the god-given mission of the German people, whether they wanted it or not.

There were no elections. Hitler was appointed overnight. Elections were abolished in order to give power to Hitler. What for? The Nazis were not a traditional political party. So who gave them the power? Hindenburg represented the ruling class - the military, arms manufacturers, Ruhr barons, bankers, churchmen and aristocratic landowners. When Hitler came to power, his father said that he was only a servant of the rich. Now I know he was right. They gave Hitler the power to put down the rebellion of the working class against poor living conditions. Hitler was not even a native of Germany. He was an army corporal, a vagabond from Vienna. He had no education, he just called for revenge. How did it become possible for a man like Hitler to rise to civil and military power in a highly developed and educated country like Germany? He couldn't have done it alone. His party was nothing. Behind this were the customers who went to this in an effort to prevent a repeat of the Russian revolution.

Hitler had executive power, but he was not a dictator, but only a figurehead. He was not smart enough to manage such a complex mechanism as the German state.

The Nazis set up concentration camps. My father always said that the workers need to fight for their rights, because the rascals employ us only for profit, and they can only be frightened by an uprising that can turn into a revolution. One day, stormtroopers arrived in two cars at 3:00 am and took away our neighbor, the chairman of the trade union. He was taken to a concentration camp. My mother told me about it, and since then my father ordered me to keep quiet about his views, otherwise he would go to a concentration camp. The arrest of one person from our area served as a good tactic to intimidate and intimidate all its residents. Then I was 11 or 12 and I thought he was just an idiot, but I know everything. My father thought that nothing could be done, and he had no choice but to remain silent. The first to be taken to concentration camps were communists, and then they began to arrest even progressive priests and all those who spoke out against the regime. Open your mouth and you are gone. Nazi power rested on fear and terror.

Hitler Youth

I ended up in the Hitler Youth. A law was passed allowing the existence of only one youth organization, and the youth group at my church was transferred to the Hitler Youth. I liked him. All my friends were in it. My father said that I should stay there because under the circumstances it would be worse for both of us if I left her. When I left school at the age of 15, my father, a railroad worker, got me an apprentice job with a locksmith on the railroad. The first question on the job application was: “When did you join the Hitler Youth?” If you had never been a member of this organization, most likely you would not have been hired - thus there was indirect pressure (not through the law) to force young people to join the Hitler Youth. But I have to admit that I liked it there. We were poor, I had few clothes, and my mother sewed them for me. And in the Hitler Youth they gave me a brown shirt. My father would never have bought it for me, since we had no money, but at the next meeting they gave me a package, which I took home. He had two shirts on. My father hated the uniform, but he had to watch me wear it. He understood what that meant. We Hitler Youth marched proudly with drums and swastikas accompanied by fanfare. All this took place in an atmosphere of the strictest discipline.

I liked the camps, which were located in beautiful places, such as the castle of Thuringen. We, young men, have the opportunity to do a lot of sports. When we wanted to play football on the street in our poor neighborhood, no one could afford to buy a ball, and the Hitler Youth had it all at our disposal. Where did the money come from? Most likely from the funds transferred by the arms manufacturers. Hitler was given the power to prepare for a war that could save Germany from economic collapse.

I remember the time when there were 7 million unemployed. Eighteen months after Hitler came to power, there were very few who were not employed. The construction of the fleet began at the docks - warships - the battleship Bismarck, the cruiser Eugen, submarines. In Germany, there was even a shortage of workers. People liked it, but my father said that if all the work is just preparing for war, then something is clearly wrong.

In the Hitler Youth we learned how to shoot and throw grenades, attack and occupy. We played grand war games. We were taught around fires where we sang Nazi songs: “Let Jewish blood drip from our knives” and others. Our parents were shocked by our slide into barbarism. But I didn't doubt anything. We were prepared for war.

A few years later, the Germans occupied huge territories, 4-5 times the size of Great Britain. These territories were held due to the fact that the German youth was trained in the Nazi camps. I believed that we Germans could fix the mess the world was in.

In a tank division

At the age of 18, I was called up and sent to a panzer division. I was very proud that at such an early age I was selected for a tank division. The teachings were very difficult. I came home in my uniform and thought everything was going great. Our instructors told us that they would beat individualism out of us and create a Nazi socialist spirit in its place. They succeeded. When we approached Stalingrad, I still believed in it.

Our officer corps in the Wehrmacht consisted almost entirely of aristocratic landowners with the prefix “fon”. Military propaganda was constantly intensified. We learned that "we" must do something with Poland before they attack us, stand up for the free world. Now history has repeated itself with Bush and Blair. We attacked Poland on September 1, 1939. When the bomb exploded in Berlin, we were told that this was an act of terrorism committed against us, freedom-loving people. The same is being said now, when we are being prepared for a new war. The same atmosphere of lies and disinformation.

I was called up in 1941, when Operation Barbarossa began on June 22nd. I was in training at the time. When war was declared against the Soviet Union, the tank division was in France. At first, the German army and discipline in it, from a military point of view, far exceeded the armies of other countries. Our troops entered the Soviet Union relatively easily. My 22nd Panzer Division was transported there by train only in the winter of 1941. In France the weather was tolerable and the first part of the journey was pleasant despite the season. It was colder in Germany, and it was snowing in Poland. Everything in the Soviet Union was white with snow.

Then we believed that we should accept it as an honor to die fighting for the Fatherland. We passed through a city in the Soviet Union called Tanenburg. Previously, there was a battle involving tanks. Before us was a picture for which 18 year old people were not ready. We didn't know what we had to go through, we just had to follow orders. I began to think: despite the fact that most of the burned tanks were Russian, one of them was German, just like mine, and I could not understand how the tankman managed to survive, because it is very difficult to get out of a burning tank. But then I realized that he probably did not get out, but died right in the tank.

For the first time, I realized that I did not want to die. Talking about great battles is interesting, what are they like in reality? My National Socialist spirit will not shield from bullets. So my first doubts hit me.

We entered the Crimea as part of Manstein's 11th army. The offensive began in late winter/early spring. I went through my first battle. We won. But one day, when I was driving a tank, a sobering event happened. I was taught to never stop him. Stop and you're dead. I was approaching a narrow bridge that had to be crossed. Approaching, I saw three Russian soldiers carrying their wounded comrade, accompanied by German guards. When they saw me, they left the wounded. I stopped so as not to crush him. My commander ordered to continue moving. I had to run over the wounded man, and he died. So I became a killer. I considered it normal to kill in battle, but not defenseless people. This gave rise to doubts in me. But to constantly hesitate about it, you can go crazy. After the battle, we were awarded medals. It was wonderful. We took the Crimea. The victory over the army of the enemy, the capture of the villages - all this seemed very exciting. Then we were transferred by train to the mainland to link up with the units of General Paulus. It was in the spring of 1942. I took part in the advance to the Volga. We beat Tymoshenko. I personally participated in many battles. Then we moved to Stalingrad.

On the way, political commissars gathered us from time to time for operational reports. Our commissar was a major in our unit. We sat on the grass, and he was in the center. He said that one should not stand in his presence. He asked: “Why do you think you are in Russia?” I began to think where he was trying to catch us. Someone said: "To defend the honor of our Fatherland" The major said that this is nonsense that Goebbels tells, and we are fighting not for slogans, but for real things. He said that when we defeated the proletarian scum army, our battles in the south would be over. Where are we heading after? The answer was - to the oil deposits in the Caucasus and the Caspian. After? We had no idea. Let's say if we moved about 700 km to the south, we would end up in Iraq. At the same time, Rommel, fighting in the Nile Delta, would have moved east and also entered Iraq. Without seizing these important oil resources, he said, Germany cannot be a leading power. And now, looking at today's situation, everything again comes down to oil.

“Shocking impressions” from communicating with a communist prisoner of war

At some point, I was badly hurt. I ended up in the hospital, where the doctors determined that I was no longer fit for active combat.

I will now quote from my book Through Hell for Hitler ((Spellmount, Staplehurst, 1990, p.77-81), a new edition of which is due out soon:

“The ambulance train took us to the hospital in Stalino. Despite the fact that at first my wound did not want to heal, I liked the hospital. A few weeks away from the front seemed to me a gift from above.

Most of the staff of this hospital, including surgeons, consisted of Russians. The care of the sick by the standards of the war was quite satisfactory, and when it came time to be discharged, the Russian doctor said goodbye to me with an insidious grin: “Come on, go further to the East, young man, after all, this is what you came here for!” I did not even understand whether I liked this remark and whether I even wanted to go further to the East. After all, I was not yet twenty, I wanted to live and did not want to die at all.

Although my condition was satisfactory for discharge from the hospital, I was still not ready to participate in hostilities as part of my division, which was on the front line and making its way towards Rostov. Therefore, I was sent to a unit that provides security for a prisoner of war camp somewhere between the Donets and the Dnieper. A large camp was set up in the steppe under the open sky. The kitchen, storage rooms and the like were housed under a canopy, while countless prisoners of war had to take cover with whatever they could get their hands on. Our rations were rather meager, but the prisoners fared even worse. It must be said that the summer days were quite serene, and the Russians, accustomed to a hard life, normally endured these terrible conditions. The border of the camp was a round ditch dug along the perimeter of the camp, to which the prisoners were not allowed to approach. Inside the camp on one side were the premises of the collective farm. All of them were surrounded by barbed wire with one guarded entrance. I and a dozen of the same semi-disabled were assigned to guard the inner part of the camp.

For most combat-ready soldiers, escort service seemed a stupefying punishment. Besides, it was the most boring occupation, and everything that happened in the inner part of the collective farm seemed somewhat strange. The key to everything, I believe, was Hitler's infamous "commissar order" according to which all captured political officers (commissars) and other members of the communist party were to be shot. Thus, for the Communists, the order meant the same thing as the "final decision" for the Jews. I think by that time most of us had come to terms with the fact that communism was tantamount to a crime, and communists were considered criminals, which freed us from any need to prove guilt within the framework of the law. It was then that the thought overtook my mind that I was guarding a camp specially designed to destroy the "communist infection."

Any prisoner of war who finds himself on the territory of the collective farm has never been released. I cannot claim that they knew of the fate prepared for them. Among the prisoners of war there were quite a lot of those who were extradited by their comrades from the outer part of the camp, but even in the most unconvincing cases, when the prisoners swore oath that they had never been in the ranks of the Communist Party, were not convinced communists and, moreover, always remained anti-communists - even in such cases they were not released from the camp. But our duties were limited exclusively to the armed protection of the territory, and everything was in charge here of the representatives of the Sicherheitsdienst or SD for short, under the command of an SS Sturmbannführer, which equaled the rank of major in the Wehrmacht. In all cases, a formal investigation was first carried out, and after it the execution was always in the same place - near the wall of a half-burnt hut, which was not visible from the outside. The burial place, several long ditches, was further out in the outskirts.

I, impregnated with the Nazi “school” in educational institutions and in the ranks of the Hitler Youth, was at first puzzled by this first impression of a direct meeting with real communists. The prisoners brought here daily to the camp, whether singly or in small groups, were not at all what I had imagined them to be. In fact, They were indeed different from the rest of the mass of prisoners in the outer section of the camp, who, in their appearance and behavior, strongly resembled the ordinary peasants of Eastern Europe. What struck me most about political instructors and members of the Communist Party was their inherent education and sense of self. I never, or hardly ever, saw them moan or complain, never ask for anything for themselves. When the hour of execution approached, and executions took place constantly, they received her with their heads held high. Almost all gave the impression of people who can be trusted without limit; I was sure that if I met them in peaceful conditions, they could well become my friends.

All days were like one another. We either stood at the gate for several hours with a partner, or walked around alone with rifles loaded and ready to fire on our shoulders. Usually under our care were up to a dozen or a little more "visitors". They were kept in a clean pigsty, which in turn was surrounded by barbed wire, despite the fact that it was located in the inner part of the camp. It was a prison within a prison, which was also imprisoned. The security was organized so that the prisoners had no chance of escape, so we had little to worry about. Since we had to see them almost around the clock, we knew them all by face and often even by name. It was we who accompanied them to where the “investigation” was being conducted, and it was we who escorted them on their last journey to the place of execution.

One of the prisoners, thanks to what he had learned at school, spoke German quite tolerably. I no longer remember his last name, but his name was Boris. Since I also had a good command of Russian, although I mangled cases and declensions, we easily communicated, discussing many topics. Boris was a lieutenant, a political commissar, about two years older than me. During the conversation, it turned out that both he and I studied as a locksmith, he - in the Gorlovka and Artemovsk region at a large industrial complex, I - in a railway workshop in Hamburg. During the offensive, we passed through his native Gorlovka. Boris was fair-haired, about eighty meters tall, with cheerful blue eyes, in which, even in captivity, a good-natured light flickered. Often, especially in the late hours, I was drawn to him and wanted to talk. I called him Boris all the time, so he also asked me if he could call me by my first name, at which point we were struck by how easily people can converge. We mostly talked about our families, school, places where we were born and where we learned our profession. I knew all his brothers and sisters by name, knew how old they were, what his parents did, even some of their habits. Of course, he was terribly worried about their fate in the city occupied by the Germans, but he could not console him in any way. He even gave me their address and asked me, in case I happened to be in Gorlovka, to find them and tell them everything. “But what could I tell them?” I asked myself. I think we both knew very well that I would never look for them, and his family would never know about the fate of their Boris. I also told him about my family and everything that is dear to me. I told him that I have a girlfriend whom I love, although there was nothing serious between us. Boris smiled knowingly and said that he also had a girlfriend, a student. At such moments it seemed to us that we were very close, but then a terrible consciousness came to us that there was an abyss between us, on one side of which was me, a guard with a rifle, and on the other, he, my prisoner. I clearly understood that Boris would never be able to hug his girlfriend again, but I did not know if Boris understood this. I knew that his only crime was that he was a military man, and a political commissar at that, and instinctively I felt that what was happening was very, very wrong.

Oddly enough, we practically did not discuss military service, and as far as politics was concerned, we had no points of contact with him, just as there was no common denominator to which our reasoning could be summed up. Despite our great human closeness in many ways, there was a bottomless chasm between us.

And then came the last night for Boris. I learned from our SD officers that tomorrow morning he was to be shot. In the afternoon he was summoned for interrogation, from which he returned beaten, with bruises on his face. It looked like he was wounded in the side, but he did not complain about anything, I did not say anything either, because there was no point in it. I did not know if he was aware that he was being prepared for execution the next morning; I didn't say anything either. But, being a smart enough person, Boris probably understood what was happening to those who were taken away and who never returned.

I went on a night fast from two to four in the morning, the night was quiet and surprisingly warm. The air was filled with the sounds of the surrounding nature, in a pond located not far from the camp, one could hear the friendly croaking of frogs almost in unison. Boris sat on the straw by the pigsty, leaning back against the wall, playing a tiny harmonica that easily fit unnoticed in his hand. This harmonica was the only thing he had left, because everything else had been taken away at the first search. The melody he played this time was extraordinarily beautiful and sad, a typical Russian song about the wide steppe and love. Then one of his friends told him to shut up, they say, do not let him sleep. He looked at me, as if asking: to play on or to shut up? I shrugged my shoulders in response, he hid the tool and said: “Nothing, let's talk better.” I leaned against the wall, looked down at him and felt embarrassed because I didn't know what to talk about. I was extremely sad, I wanted to behave as usual - in a friendly way and maybe help in some way, but how? I don’t even remember how it happened, but at some point he looked at me searchingly, and for the first time we started talking about politics. Perhaps in the depths of my soul I myself wanted to understand at this late hour why he so passionately believed in the rightness of his cause, or at least to get recognition that this was wrong, that he was disappointed in everything.

And what about your world revolution now? I asked. - Now it's all over, and in general, this is a criminal conspiracy against peace and freedom and has been such from the very beginning, isn't it?

The fact is that just at that time it seemed that Germany would inevitably win a brilliant victory over Russia. Boris was silent for a while, sitting on a sheaf of hay and playing his harmonica in his hands. I would understand if he was angry with me. When he slowly got up, came closer to me and looked me straight in the eyes, I noticed that he was still extremely worried. His voice, however, was calm, somewhat mournful, and full of bitter disappointment—no, not in his ideas, but in me.

Henry! - he said. - You told me a lot about your life, about the fact that you, like me, come from a poor family, from a family of workers. You are good-natured enough, and not stupid. But, on the other hand, you are very stupid if life has not taught you anything. I understand that those who brainwashed you did a great job, and you thoughtlessly swallowed all this propaganda nonsense. And the saddest thing is that you have allowed yourself to be inspired with ideas that directly contradict your own interests, ideas that have turned you into an obedient pathetic tool in their treacherous hands. The world revolution is part of the developing world history. Even if you win this war, which I seriously doubt, the revolution in the world cannot be stopped by military means. You have a powerful army, you can cause great damage to my Motherland, you can shoot a lot of our people, but you cannot destroy the idea! This movement is at first glance dormant and imperceptible, but it is there, and it will soon come forward proudly when all the poor and oppressed common people in Africa, America, Asia and Europe wake up from their hibernation and rise up. One day people will understand that the power of money, the power of capital, not only oppresses and robs them, but at the same time devalues ​​the human potential inherent in them, in both cases allows them to be used only as a means of obtaining material benefits, as if they were weak-willed weak figures, and then throws them away as useless. As soon as people understand this, the little flame will turn into a flame, these ideas will be taken up by millions and millions around the world, and will do everything that is needed in the name of humanity. And it is not Russia that will do it for them, although it was the Russian people who first threw off the chains of slavery. The people of the world will do this for themselves and their countries, rise up against their own oppressors as it seems necessary and when the time comes!

During his impassioned speech, I could neither interrupt him nor contradict him. And although he spoke in an undertone, his words shocked me incredibly. No one has ever managed to touch the strings of my soul so deeply, I felt helpless and disarmed in front of the consciousness of what his words conveyed to me. And to give me the last crushing blow, Boris pointed to my rifle and added that "this thing has no power against ideas."

And if you think that you can now reasonably object to me - he concluded - then I ask you to do without all the senseless slogans about the fatherland, freedom and God!

I almost suffocated from the rage that overwhelmed me. The natural reaction was to put him in his place. But on reflection, I decided that he had only a few hours to live, and for him this was probably the only way to speak out. I had to change my post soon. Not wanting to make a farewell scene and say neither “goodbye!” nor “Auf Wiedersehn” to him, I just looked him straight in the eyes, probably there was some mixture of anger and sympathy in my eyes, maybe he even managed to see glimpses of humanity in him , after which he turned on his heels and slowly walked along the stables to where we were located. Boris did not even move, did not utter a word and did not move while I was walking. But I knew for sure - I felt it - that he was staring after me as I plodded along with my stupid rifle.

The first rays of the rising sun appeared on the horizon.

We, the guards, also slept in the hay, and I always liked to come from my post, collapse and fall asleep. But that morning, I couldn't sleep. Without even undressing, I lay on my back and looked at the slowly brightening sky. Restlessly tossing and turning in different directions, I felt sorry for Boris, and for myself too. I was unable to understand many things. After sunrise, I heard a few shots, a short salvo, and it was all over.

I immediately jumped up and went to where I knew the graves were prepared. It was a beautiful morning in all summer splendor and beauty, the birds were singing, and everything was as if nothing had happened. I met a dejectedly wandering firing squad with rifles on their shoulders. The soldiers nodded at me, apparently surprised that I had come. Two or maybe three prisoners were burying the bodies of the executed. In addition to Boris, there were three more bodies, and they had already been partially covered with earth. I was able to recognize Boris, his shirt was wrinkled, he was barefoot, but the leather belt was still on him, covered in bloodstains. The prisoners looked at me in surprise, as if asking what I was doing here. The expression on their faces was sullen, but other than that, I could see the fear and hatred in their eyes. I wanted to ask them what had become of Boris' harmonica, whether it had been taken away from him before the execution, or whether it had remained in his pocket. But he immediately abandoned this idea, thinking that the prisoners might suspect that I was going to rob the dead. Turning around, I went to the stables to finally fall asleep.

I was greatly relieved when I was soon deemed "fit for action" and was to rejoin my division, which had fought on many fronts. No matter how hard it was on the front line, at least there I was not haunted by maddening painful experiences, so I deceived my own conscience and reason.

The comrades were glad to see me back. The Volga was very close, and the Russians fought with all their prowess, demonstrating everything they were capable of. Some of my close friends died in battle. Our company commander Ober-Lieutenant Steffan was killed by a shot in the head. No matter how sad it was to hear about the death of friends, I still understood that this was a war. But the execution of Boris did not fit in my head - why? It looked like the crucifixion of Christ to me.

On the outskirts of Stalingrad

We all hoped that the summer of 1942 would be grandiose. We tried to pincer the Red Army, but the Russians always retreated. We thought it was because they were cowards, but we soon realized that they were not.

In the Donbas region, we entered the city, where there were many factories. By order of the Soviet government, they were dismantled into parts and moved all the equipment to the east of the Urals. Mass production of T-34 tanks, the most successful tanks in world history, was launched there. The T-34s dashed all our hopes of victory.

There were economic officers in our army, they wore green uniforms. These officers were inspecting the factories, and I saw how upset they were when they found that there was nothing left. They counted on the fact that they could take possession of all the equipment.

Before that, I had never been to Stalingrad. We were unable to capture a single Russian soldier, as they literally disappeared from view, forming partisan detachments. Foreign troops fought on our side, for example, the military from Romania. We used foreigners to guard the flanks behind Stalingrad, but our allies were not properly armed and their discipline left much to be desired compared to our army, so we attacked them. Our unit was located behind the Romanians, and we fought with the Russians, who broke through the ranks of the Romanian soldiers. This was in November 1942. We sensed something was wrong as we stood at our post. The Russian T-34 was the best tank of the Second World War, I could recognize it by the sound of a diesel engine, and I thought I could hear a huge number of these tanks driving somewhere in the distance. We reported to the officers about the approach of vehicles. The officers answered us that the Russians were practically finished, and we had nothing to fear.

As soon as we were on alert, we realized that this was only the prelude to a grand undertaking. The bulk of it was ahead. The artillery fire stopped for a moment, and we heard the tanks start up. They attacked early in the morning, turning on their headlights and firing at us. Tanks came for us. I remembered that officer who thought it was one tank driving back and forth, and now there were hundreds of approaching cars in front. There was a ravine between us. Russian tanks drove into it and immediately got out easily, and then I realized that we were finished. I hid in the dugout like the last coward and, trembling with fear, hid in a corner where, as it seemed to me, the tank could not crush me. They just drove through our positions us. Many screams were heard - Russian speech, voices of Romanians. I was afraid to move. It was 6 am. At eight or about half past eight it got quieter. One of my colleagues, Fritz, was killed. The wounded screamed in agony. The wounded and dead Russian soldiers were taken away, and the Germans and Romanians were left to lie. I was twenty years old and didn't know what to do.

The wounded needed help. But I did not know how to give first aid, I did not have medicines, and I knew that they had no hope of surviving. I just left, leaving behind 15-20 wounded. One German shouted at me that I was behaving like a pig. I realized that there was nothing I could do for them and it was better for me to leave, knowing that I could not help. I went to the bunker with the stove. It was warm inside, with straw and blankets on the floor. Going out to collect firewood, I heard the engine running in the cliff. It was a wrecked Russian SUV, with some firewood lying next to it. Two officers came up to me and I stepped back. They decided that I was a Russian soldier who put on a German coat. I saluted. He gestured that his butt hurt. I made a fire and slept all day. I was scared to wake up. What was ahead of me?

I was about to leave as soon as it got dark. In the Hitler Youth we were taught to navigate by the North Star. I went west. I did not know what was happening: whether the Russians had Stalingrad, and whether the 6th German army of the Wehrmacht was defeated. I was walking just to the place where the breakthrough happened.

I wasn't even 20 yet. Reluctantly, I had to throw away all the blankets. Snow gradually covered the wounded. I took everything I could from my dead comrades: the best rifle, the best pistol, and as much food as I could carry. I didn't know how long I would have to walk before I got to the German front line. I refreshed myself as much as I could and started on my way. For three days in a row I slept in barns and ate snow.

One day I saw a man and he saw me. I knelt down, weapon in hand, and waited. I was wearing a Romanian fur hat. He shouted something. Then he asked if I was Romanian, I replied that I was German. He said he was also German. We went together and walked two more days. We almost died when we crossed the German front line, because the command decided that I was a deserter, so I do not know anything about what happened to my unit.

I got into the battle group under the command of Lindemann. There were no more divisions and regiments. We have lost everything. Then we began to put into practice Hitler's "scorched earth" tactics. One day we were passing through a village consisting of 6-8 houses. Lindemann ordered to take everything that was in the premises, and then burn them to the ground. The houses were very modest, they did not even have a floor. I opened the door of one of them. It was full of women, children and old people. I smelled poverty. And cabbages. People sat on the ground, leaning against the wall. I ordered them to leave the house, and they began to explain that everyone would die homeless. A woman with a baby in her arms asked if I had a mother. Nearby stood an elderly woman, and with her a child. I grabbed the child, put a gun to his head and said that if they did not leave the house, I would shoot him. Some old man asked me to shoot him instead of the boy. Lindemann ordered me to burn down the house even though they didn't want to leave. I did as I was ordered. Then people opened the doors and started running out into the street screaming. I'm sure none of them survived.

Us ordinary German soldiers who fought on conscription also got it. The Russians attacked us. There were very young people among us - even younger than me, who were walking through the snow in the hope of joining their unit. Russian Sturmovik planes appeared in the sky as we walked through the snow and noticed our footprints. We even saw the pilots inside. They made a circle and fired at us. The shell hit one soldier and literally cut him in half - his name was Willy. He was a good friend. He had no chance of surviving. We couldn't bear it, but we couldn't leave it either. I, as the oldest, had to make a decision. Knee-deep in snow, I went up, stroked his head and sprinkled it with snow. I was an ordinary killer again, but what else was there to do?

I was wounded again (for the third time). They grabbed me, but I ran away. Then I was taken to a German hospital in Westphalia in 1944. In early 1945, I again joined a unit on the western front to fight the Americans. It was easier to fight with them than with the Russians. In addition, because of all the atrocious crimes that we committed in Russia, the Russians really hated us, and in order to avoid captivity, we had to fight like animals.

I was sent to defend the Rhine immediately after landing. Patton's army was advancing on Paris. After the defeat on March 17, 1945, we were transferred by train to Cherbourg. We - hundreds of German soldiers - were put into open wagons. We were not allowed to use the toilets, but they gave us enough food. We used tin cans for toilets. When the French at the crossing began to insult us, we began to throw these cans at them. Then we arrived in Cherbourg.

I saw the full horror of devastation stretching from east to west. What have we done! I saw catastrophic losses. 50 million people died in this war! We wanted to seize the territory and 50% of the planet's natural resources, including the oil that was in Russia. That's what was the matter.

Looking back now, I salute the Red Army for saving the world from Hitler. They lost more people in this war. Nine out of ten German soldiers who died during World War II died in Russia. I was asked to come to the Memorial near the Imperial War Museum a couple of weeks ago. I gave a speech there in which I paid tribute to the Red Army...

We Germans thought we had the strongest army in the world, but look what has become of us - Americans should remember this. The revolution will happen everywhere, even if it doesn't happen quite the way Boris said. A new awakening of the revolutionary forces is inevitable.

The Stalinist Society had the honor of meeting with Henry Metelmann, who delivered a speech at the Annual General Meeting on February 23, 2003, chaired by Ella Rule, and Iris Kramer was the secretary of the meeting. He shared memorable memories of his childhood in Nazi Germany, before he was in the German army near Stalingrad. He drew parallels between fascist German expansionism and today's Anglo-American imperialist aggression against Iraq. This version is compiled from extensive notes obtained during the meeting.