Eastern Inferno: The Journals of a German Panzerjäger on the Eastern Front, 1941-43 (11 page)

We receive orders to attack at around 1000 hours. It smells like trouble! The division apparently got stuck after making good progress yesterday. The roaring of artillery is deafening; three groups receive orders to wind their way through the minefield in order to make contact with our over-extended front line. My group’s task is to reach the Terempki estate by 1130 hours. The commander and his adjutant, who arrived from Gatnoje, have already taken position at the estate early this morning. We do not have to hear a speech to know that the passage through the minefield will not be easy. Three curtains of artillery fire are released over the field through which we have to pass—not to mention the shrapnel, mines, and bombers. There is no time for discussion; we pick up our equipment and weapons without saying a word.

A moment later we begin our mission, walking in single file. Without the cover of clouds the sun burns hot. The mugginess is driving us mad. We bring two TO [communications] units along as per our orders, which will be part of an observation post near the front line. These poor guys are carrying such heavy boxes on their backs. Little Arthur collapses after a few hundred meters. Dear God—how will we accomplish this mission? We reached the first artillery curtain, but have not yet crossed it. Don’t give up now! One of our comrades places the heavy box on his back and we continue, passing by the carcasses of stinking horses and dead soldiers. Many mangled corpses are lying in our path. They have black and swollen faces.

We now move off the cobblestone road. Everything was going well up to this point. Four enemy aircraft then suddenly appear, flying so close to the ground that we can feel the slipstream from their propellers. These
schweine
stalk us for about five minutes. Why are we throwing ourselves into the mud? They’re flying so low just to have a headcount. Their sporadic fire does not cause any harm. Our group appears to be too small to be worth a real attack. They turn away and drop their bombs further down the cobblestone road.

At the barn (ask any Kiev fighter for the barn at Gatnoje and he will walk away in silence with his memories of the wretched brick walls covered with mangled and bloody bodies)—this awful place—we take a break since it is the only source of shade on the entire field. A cigarette is hastily smoked. It is said to calm one’s nerves; however, it has no such effect on us. We have a clear view of our path through the mine-infested field, past the shredded forest, all the way to our destination, the ruins of Terempki. The three murderous curtains of enemy artillery fire are most intimidating. I suddenly do not like the taste of my cigarette anymore.
Scheisse
. It is all a bunch of
scheisse
. Little Arthur is so excited: the tension inside him is so intense that he starts telling jokes. It is well known that quiet and shy guys turn into jokesters full of quick repartee under such circumstances. He has come up with lines that he could not have created otherwise, even with half an hour of thinking. But what does it matter, we have to move on. Orders are orders; they are performed as they are received.

My group reaches the Terempki estate at 1120 hours. There is not much talk about how we got there! It is a miracle! With luck on our side, we walked past hundreds of mines and crossed an artillery curtain which offered us only small amounts of shrapnel. We have arrived and are in one piece, except for a few scratches. My poor
ToFu
[
Funker:
radio operator] men took much longer. Their backs are bloody from the heavy boxes. How many times during these few kilometers did we have to throw ourselves down on the ground for cover? One is mistaken if he thinks that we could quickly recuperate from the horrors of our march.

When it rains it pours—shell after shell howls toward us and smashes the pathetic ruins of the Terempki estate. Debris is swirling through the air.

Our comrades have organized dugouts in checkerboard style. Our sap position is close to the last house, in the middle of a vegetable garden with half a dozen shredded trees. We have to crawl in order to reach our cover holes. We barely made it into them by the time the sky was suddenly filled with those damn bi-planes. They approach in squadron formation from the right of the forest. They fly lower and lower. The machine guns rattle to the tune of the planes’ engines. They are good at this, these
schweine
! I can see the pilots stretching out of their seats and over the fuselage in order to scan the ground and throw their dreadful hand grenades. My stomach starts to churn. The coffee I drank this morning isn’t sitting well with me. They come down even lower, fly over our position, and turn toward the forest. Their red stars on the bottom of the wings sparkle in the sun […] just lay still, very still! My steel helmet is feeling increasingly heavy. How long has it been since I slept? I cross my arms behind my head and lie on the ground with my eyes closed. The soil is pleasantly cool….

Damn it. I actually fell asleep in all of this commotion. Yes, I even dreamt. We were on a walk, you and I, Rosel. We were standing on top of a rock similar to our favorite place in Falkenstein. We were overlooking a plain that was filled with smoke and fire. You were leaning against me and started to cry silently. Well, dreams are sometimes weird. Nonsense! My brave Rosel does not cry because of smoke and fire.

The enemy ordnances have been plowing into our position for hours now. The wind drives suffocating clouds of smoke over us. The Reds are shooting with all that they have—large chunks, small chunks, shells.… Their fire is landing very well. So well in fact, that one can see our dreadful tarpaulins scattered all over. At times a hand with stiff and cramped fingers or a boot sticks out from underneath them. Ladies, these are your husbands and sons who are lying stiff and torn apart. You are perhaps enjoying the sunny day at this moment, the babble of your children or their sparkling eyes. You have no idea that soon you will receive a letter that renders your life unbearable. Do not think about this! God help me! Do not think about this! We know that the suffering of our wives and mothers is greater than ours here in this downpour of shrapnel.

The artillery fire suddenly stops in the afternoon. This is understandable; even the toughest butcher must have a break for breakfast. I can imagine how they are sitting over there, with grins on their devilish faces black from the soot; I can imagine their smacking while they eat. “Let’s get back to business,” says comrade commissar as their dirty and greasy paws reach for the shells and stroke the cool steel which tears apart the damn fascists.

Just wait you damn bloodhounds. Soon it will be our turn!

We use the break from the firing to our advantage. Doors, fences, boards, and beams are hauled in from the surrounding area in order to build covers for our holes. Earthen walls are reinforced. Anything capable of catching splinters is arranged around the holes—buckets, barrels, chairs, benches…

As we put the final touches on our fortification, the air is all of a sudden filled with the roaring of approaching shells and their impacts. Terempki is nothing but a sea of surging black smoke. The last remaining bricks are being tossed into the air. Heavy Russian shells slam again and again into its ruins. I have counted 243 blows within half an hour. 243 times 500 shards—that makes 121,500 red-hot glowing pieces of metal which are flying over the ground, and which can rip apart everything in their way. Maybe one of you can tell me if there remains a hand’s-width portion of space within a 1,000 meter radius that has not been penetrated by the death carrying iron shards.

It is impossible to describe the horror throughout the hours until the evening. I press myself to the bottom of my hole, half mad from fear and horror. Doesn’t anyone have a bit of compassion for us miserable bundles of humans who are almost insane and who are holding on with their teeth in the dirt?

For God’s sake, if it has to be, at least let me die instantaneously! The moaning and the shouting of the wounded are faintly audible through the howling and crashing. You poor guys! Who do you think will be able to help you? The one who leaves his cover will be rattled with splinters like that old bucket up there.

It is finally getting dark and quiet after long and horrific hours. Life is coming back to our position. Spades clatter, flares rise into the sky, and moaning and shouting rise from the trenches and holes closest to the front line. Paramedics run out with their stretchers. Groups are sitting together in holes and carve crosses. Fires die down and every now and then there is a crackling from the burned out houses and barns. Again and again a whimpering or a cry cuts through like a razor.

10 August:
The barrage starts up again suddenly in the morning. From one moment to the next, the air is filled with whistling and howling. A fist presses my head into the ground. A hammer slams into the soil with a roar. The earth trembles and the muddy ground buckles until it finally bursts.… Six large calibers came to within 30 meters of us. It smells like mud and gunpowder. If there is still a God in Heaven, I am begging him to finish us off. Bring this to an end. Just end it… I cannot take this any longer! Someone amongst us must have gone crazy. He jumps out of the trench, throws his arms wildly into the air, and laughs. He finally jumps into the barbed wire and breaks down after being hit by repeated shrapnel as the next rounds of shells arrive. Poor devil! What got into you? I know so much about you: you are married with four children; you have not had a vacation in over a year; you had it… it is all in the past now!

Damn—I cannot go on like this much longer! And then I go and do something completely crazy. I take a bottle that still has a bit of schnapps in it, sit up on the edge of the trench, and take a big sip. I take my time in closing the flask and throw it into the trench of the neighboring group. I also attached a short note stating: “Are there any bastards [
scheissekerle
] there? Please pass this on.” The bottle with its little note works wonders. After about ten minutes it lands back in my hole. Someone added to the note: “There aren’t any
scheissekerle
here.”

Suddenly, a large group of aircraft appears, followed by a wonderful surprise. Three Messerschmitts are quickly approaching. I don’t care about the shrapnel and raise my head to watch. Dogfights [
luftkampf
]—open-air theater! What’s this? The three veer off! Are the German fighters wimping out [
deutsche Jäge kneifen
]?! The
Roten hunde
[Red dogs] triumph. They come down low, machine guns rattle, and the wounded cry out. This drama is repeated a dozen times this morning. It isn’t surprising that a few of the desperate guys who have lost all their nerve take up their weapons and shoot at the cowards in the retreating Messerschmitts.

The artillery fire dies down a little around noon, though the Reds continue to fire aimlessly at our position. A delivery of food makes its way toward us. The second one didn’t make it—direct hit. The guy paints a colorful picture of blood, pea soup, and brain. Enjoy your meal! Just take the food with you, comrade. My appetite has disappeared.

What assholes these guys are! They still exist. They come and make our lives on the front miserable with their bloodthirsty stories. We are busy enough with our own stories up here. We have left plenty of blood yesterday and today and do not care what is happening in the rear at the moment.

The terrible artillery fire starts up again in the afternoon. And then the most horrible thing happens; there is a sulfurous flame, a deafening explosion, and the beams of our cover are torn to bits. The force of the air presses us against the trench walls; clumps of dirt cover us. I am still half numb when I push through the shredded beams and climb out. Only then can I see the full picture. The neighboring bunker, approximately three meters from us, has taken a direct hit. I see a large crater, which extends all the way up to our dugout. Stinky, yellow smoke boils over the area.

God damn it. Are they all dead? Most importantly, is he dead—our dear lieutenant? Half mad, I leap into the crater. Pieces of uniform and limbs are sticking out of the dirt. I start digging hurriedly in the dirt using my bare hands. I grab a hold of Huebner’s head, which has been severed from the rest of his body. Finally, I find our “Little one” buried up to his neck. In a mad rush, Rueffer jumps into the hole; within seconds we are able to free him from underneath the mass of earth. If only he would stop his terrible screaming, our dear little lieutenant! We have never heard him shout so loud before. He only has a few minutes left to live. His lower body and legs are crushed to a pulp. While we try to lift him out of the hole, a shell slams into the ground right next to us in a loud roar. A shower of shards rains down over us. Rueffer collapses and the lieutenant’s body slides on top of me. He is no longer screaming. A fist-sized piece of shrapnel has smashed into his face. Even in death he has protected me—his best comrade—with his own body.

Everything inside of me is numb. A film covers my eyes. I do not care anymore. Even if they demolish the rest of our small group, at least it will be over. Peace, eternal peace. The memories of these hours of horror will no longer torture me.

Orders to retreat come in the evening. “The division will retreat to the Weta Line in the night and regroup in defensive formation.” One order, one cold sentence, which hits us like the strike of a whip. Soldiers on the front understand what it means to take back a piece of land that has been soaked with the blood of comrades: this was hard-earned, meter by meter, under enormous casualties.

Under the cover of night, my group—I have five men left in my group—feels their way back through the crater field. This is how it must have appeared at Verdun in 1918. The Reds continue their wild firing into our position; however, we are able to reach the cobblestone road by midnight. Nobody is talking, nobody is smoking. As per division orders, smoking is prohibited when aircraft are present. Talking! Everyone has enough to do with his own thoughts and with carrying his equipment.