Eastern Inferno: The Journals of a German Panzerjäger on the Eastern Front, 1941-43 (25 page)

The winter battle during these months has become the Second World War for us. We have been forced in this defensive battle to encounter war in its harshest form, further amplified by the brutality of the enemy.

Poland and France cannot be compared to the years of the Great War. Even we young soldiers know this from our own experience. The Eastern campaign, however, and especially the weeks spent here, would stand up to any comparison with the intensity of the Great War. And this means in all aspects!

It is trial by fire for the German Army, for each and every one of us. And we are up to the test a hundredfold, with a degree of duty and devotion which can truly only be appreciated by the direct leadership and the Führer himself; this man, who as an old frontline soldier, understands the thousands of horrors on the front line. We do not at all feel like “heroes”; we only want simple acknowledgment for our performance.

We do not want to be pitied for our hard life; we only want the pride and trust of our homeland. It is one of the more bitter experiences for us fighters on the front, during one of the most brutal wars ever, when someone, who does not know about all the misery and fighting in the trenches, already believes and talks about a lost battle, or furthermore, when for tactical reasons, a village or section of land is surrendered back to the enemy. Those who speak like this trample on all the blood spilled while fighting for the ideal, and on the superhuman efforts which we take on with the last bit of our strength. What does it all amount to, such words like fighting, and exertion? What can the words snow, bitter cold, ice, loneliness, mental burden, blizzard, freezing, and poor roads, possibly mean compared to the reality? With those words, we connect a meaning from our European life which is not valid here in the East. Here they mean the exaggeration of the unbearable. Nature alone is presently throwing something into the battle, which can only be described as a gigantic intensification of the European winter. What Bolshevism throws into the field is completely opposite to any concept of true soldierly spirit; it is inhumane cruelty to the highest degree.

Again and again, the Reds deploy a combination of artillery, tanks, aircraft, and infantry. Pure mass is the god to whom these infidels seem to pray and serve. They believe that the number is of decisive importance. We know all too well that this is dangerous. These days, however, it is becoming particularly apparent that the person, the individual soldier, can be more effective than sheer numbers and mass. More than ever, the burden of battle lies on our shoulders.

Due to the snowdrifts and the icing of the roads, tanks and vehicles are stifled in their mobility and denied their utility. Sorry, but the little Panje sleighs have taken their place. Engines and machine guns suffer terribly in the cold. They may break down, but the human, we cannot, otherwise the front would collapse.

It is becoming apparent in this battle what a decisive role the mental acuity of each and every comrade plays. Here, we stand, live, and suffer everything that humans are capable of enduring, from terrible cruelties to great atrocities. Who could possibly name all the acts that are perpetrated hourly out here on the front? Just like during the Great War, trench warfare, hand grenades, and the bayonet receive the highest of honors. Hand-to-hand combat is the horrible daily reality; drumfire is the accompanying music to death. And despite everything, we stand like an insurmountable wall against the Red witch’s brew; may God give us strength to hold out during these most difficult days of winter.

10 March:
They have moved us from north to south and back again, from Prochorowka via Solnzewo and Baharow, always to where a fire needs to be put out. Tuesday we encountered a large-scale offensive from the Reds, which started on February 23, the anniversary of the founding of the Red Army. With huge mass deployments on the southern part of the front, this was the last great test of endurance for our forces. They were broken by our defenses, fighting with all the strength we could mobilize. Surely the Bolsheviks will try more than a dozen times to break through our lines from now until the spring offensive; but their attacks will never regain such a dangerous reach. We know that we have lived through the most difficult part and in only a short while spring will have sprung.

11 March:
There is still heavy pain in my leg. They have advised me to transfer to a field hospital. But I will hear none of this. There will be no way to pry me from here! So now I am lying flat on my back. Next to me there is a folding closet; day and night I am on communication duty with the command posts. It is a task full of responsibility, and I am happy to be of some use.

12 March:
It is relatively quiet here except for the aircraft visits, which occur with strange frequency. These guys have learned that this location is crammed with staff from every branch of service. Day and night there are alternating rounds of bombers which snot on the houses. But this is not of great importance, as the damage is only minor.

13-14 March:
Over night there was an air raid warning. Orders to go on high alert were given. Three heavy transport aircraft have flown in from the direction of Bjelgorod. Airborne units have attacked the general staff office in the army division the day before yesterday and caused a lot of damage. Guards are doubled and patrols are sent into action.

During the early morning hours there is a raid. But their attempts at breaking through here are in vain, for the well positioned fire of our batteries destroys the enemy’s strength before they are able to prepare themselves.

The evening passes quietly; except for the guards and the outposts, everybody huddles in the huts, which are badly damaged by bullet fire. A candlestick is burning on top of a wobbly table, around which my men have congregated. Some of them are writing letters, others are engaged in heated discussions. I belong to the latter. Again, there is talk of vacation, home, relief, and the many slackers. When the words “behind the lines service” and “supply units” are mentioned, an incensed howling erupts. All of us were very angry this morning at the supply line servants and kitchen bulls. Those guys squander their days with a warm ass, while we on the front hold down our positions all winter long in the snow and freezing temperatures. I know very well what the conditions are like for these “fine” comrades to the rear of the front line, in Sumy and Lebedyn, and also know through numerous letters how much our frontline sacrifices are met with complete bewilderment by many at home.

Here on the front, we who proudly bear the name “
Frontschweine
” have become an inseparable brotherhood of men who have been hardened, who have been welded together by death and blood into a close community. And all that these guys, full of dirt and lice, have to hold on to in order to persevere is one thing: love—the depth of which nobody at home can ever imagine—a boundless love and adoration for everything that says “home.” I truly believe that only those who encounter death breathing down their neck every day—be it in hand-to-hand combat or in the heaviest drumfire—are capable of such an unconditional love. Each and every one of us would gladly sacrifice his life for you at home. These are the troops who bear the brunt of it all, who stand at the very front line—this is what we think.

To our rear are the supply and provisions units who already think much differently. Their fear of being deployed to the front line, along with their fear of us, becomes all encompassing. And by the way, these are the guys who will be celebrated as “heroes” later at home, thanks to the bloody tales they tell. This I mention only in passing, since for the true soldier of the front, all of this posturing and pretence are totally inappropriate, as loud and boasting words do not fit our memories of the dear guys whom we’ve lost.

Even further to the rear are the occupying troops, whose “problems” are with the whores and other womenfolk. These are the ones who are shown in the photos at home, who are wrapped in thick fur coats, grouped together in the snow and ice to form a nice picture. (“Oh those poor guys, what a terrible Russian winter!”) Is there anyone at home who knows that these are the very fur coats that are sorely missed here on the front, is there anyone who knows they are drinking with these women the very schnapps that would give us the gift of warmth and an hour of forgetfulness?

And then, to the very rear, are the anti-aircraft crews at home. They aren’t even aware that there is a war anymore, except for the fact that there is a higher percentage of women per anti-aircraft soldier. Come join us, you livingroom warriors, relieve your comrades manning the 2cm and 8.8cm FlaKs; they deserve it, those dear brave guys!

The supply department for these three groups are the three big “supply filters” (a filter permits the “thin” to go through, but traps the “thick”). Soldier, do you notice anything? We, the Eastern fighters, are not allowed to carry a weapon back in the homeland! Why? Yes, why indeed ….

22 March:
The Reds are already deploying strong aircraft forces before noon. What is all this compared to Leski! The day ends amidst weak attacks. During the night there is a surprise attack from strong Bolshevik forces supported by tanks, which is brought to a halt, however, after a two-hour battle from the defensive fire of our batteries. A few prisoners and deserters are being interrogated. The prisoners are part of a Russian raiding party. It does not seem to look particularly rosy over there. Provisions and ammunition are supposedly bad and insufficient. It is the job of the Reds’ raiding party to take prisoners and acquire automatic weapons.

23 March:
Today is relatively quiet as well; only light harassing fire reaches us from the other side. Wonderfully warm, the sun is suspended in a marvelous blue sky. The ground has begun to thaw, the muddy season has begun. In a few weeks, the ground will be dry again, ready for the spring offensive.

24 March:
Tomorrow we will be relieved. This time we are not looking forward to it. The days have been quiet, quiet for our standards; only medium shell fire during the day, and at night, occasionally a few weak attacks—what’s that to us? We are used to a completely different set of circumstances from this winter. Too bad that we are leaving; it has been a great group here!

25 March:
The relief is accomplished smoothly. At noon, Russian fighters surprise us during our march. One man is slightly wounded by air fire. Without any further incident, we reach Obojan during the evening hours.

Today I had the opportunity to read an interesting enemy news bulletin, which listed several numbers from the battles near Leski. During the period between February 17–24, during which the Reds repeatedly focused their attack on the area of Oserow-Leski, the enemy lost in 75th Infantry Division’s sector alone a total of 20,000 men, among whom were 9,000 dead. These are, measured by the current fighting strength, approximately the size of 4–5 divisions. Add to this the number of prisoners and deserters. On other parts of the front, the circumstances are no different. From numerous prisoner reports, we learn that entire companies have been reduced to 20 or even 14 men. This indicates that things are not at all rosy over there.

The incredible blood sacrifices that the Bolsheviks have made during these past winter months will also have a very negative effect on the approaching spring offensive for the Reds. Nevertheless, exaggerated optimism is not appropriate here. We know that the Soviets have not let this winter pass idly. Further to the rear, reinforced lines have been put in place; the industrial centers in the Urals have churned out a series of new and improved T-34 tanks.

27-28 March:
Every now and then, we are paid a visit by a few Soviet aircraft. They arrive humming, passing narrowly above our heads, and blanket us with their on-board fire; there is buzzing all around us, which means that we have to take full cover! And quickly! Those who are unable to find a hole in the ground climb into or rush under a truck and wait for this “blessing” to pass. Here and there, bombs are also dropped.

29 March:
Aclear and cloudless sky—perfect weather for flying. Suddenly, in the middle of dinnertime, our brave anti-aircraft fire starts barking. And while high above those small, dangerous, black clouds develop, we start to hear a low hum and see three Soviet bombers pass over us. The anti-aircraft fire turns wild. We are all standing there observing excitedly, just as if this was a thrilling boxing match, the position of the shots. There—that was a hit! A cheer composed of multiple voices erupts when one of the bombers starts to trail, becomes unstable, sways, and then slides down vertically over one wing, trailing a long, dark smoke cloud behind it. Even before we are able to hear the dull explosion of the crashing bomber we see back there along the forest edge the mighty mushroom cloud of smoke.

The two other bombers have calmly continued their flight. There—one of us saw it first and is pointing with an outstretched right hand toward a miniscule point in the sky, which quickly grows larger, and takes a straight course toward the bombers flying east. A
jäger
! A German fighter! Now the suspense starts to build! Long forgotten is the split pea soup. Split pea soup will be there another time! But you don’t get to witness every day an air fight like this.

As the fighter approached close to the bomber, at high speed, it suddenly pulls upward, floating directly above one of them, and then plunges from above in a steep angle toward the bomber, sending burst after burst into it. One appears, then another one. Always short, well aimed bursts. He then turns away without paying any more attention to the enemy. Initially, we are a little bit disappointed, but we then realize what is happening. Coming from an initially narrow, thin trail of smoke which the bomber seems to pull behind it, grows thick black smoke, a jet of flame, and then it plunges downward. At the last minute, the pilot ejects in order to save himself. But his parachute only floats in the air for an instant before it is pulled into the abyss by his own crashing machine.