Memories of the Germans about the Battle of Stalingrad. The battle of Stalingrad through the eyes of the Germans

According to the memoirs of Russian and German soldiers who participated in the Battle of Stalingrad, many books and articles have been written. The best, little-known facts I want to bring to your attention.

Death tango

It is known that the Soviet side used various methods of psychological pressure on the enemy during the battles.

On the front line, loudspeakers were placed from which popular German songs of that time were played, at a certain moment the songs were interrupted by messages about the victories of the Red Army in the sectors of the Stalingrad Front, wildly annoying German listeners.

The most effective remedy was ...

The monotonous beat of the metronome, which was interrupted after 7 beats with a comment in German: "Every 7 seconds one German soldier dies at the front."

At the end of a series of 10-20 "timer reports", tango was heard from the loudspeakers.

Alexander Nevskiy

Military actions were accompanied by all kinds of signs and signs. For example, a detachment of machine gunners under the command of Senior Lieutenant Alexander Nevsky fought. The propagandists launched a rumor that the Soviet officer was a direct descendant of the prince who defeated the Germans on Lake Peipsi. Alexander Nevsky was even nominated for the Order of the Red Banner. And on the German side, Bismarck's great-grandson, who, as you know, warned never to fight with Russia, took in the battle. A descendant of the German Chancellor, by the way, was captured.

Mars vs uranium

A number of esotericists claim that a number of strategic decisions of the Soviet command in the Battle of Stalingrad were influenced by practicing astrologers. For example, the Soviet counteroffensive, Operation Uranus, began on November 19, 1942 at 7.30 am At that moment, the so-called ascendant (the ecliptic point rising above the horizon) was located in the planet Mars (the Roman god of war), while the setting point of the ecliptic was the planet Uranus. According to astrologers, it was this planet that ruled the German army. Interestingly, in parallel, the Soviet command was developing another major offensive operation on the South-Western Front - "Saturn". At the last moment, it was abandoned and carried out the operation "Little Saturn". Interestingly, in ancient mythology, it was Saturn (in Greek mythology Kronos) who emasculated Uranus.

Get to the bottom of hell

A large system of underground communications was located near Stalingrad. Underground passages were actively used by both Soviet troops and Germans. Local battles often took place in the tunnels. It is interesting that German troops from the beginning of their penetration into the city began to build a system of their own underground structures. Work continued almost until the end of the Battle of Stalingrad, and only at the end of January 1943, when the German command realized that the battle was lost, the underground galleries were blown up. For us it remained a mystery what the Germans built. One of the German soldiers later ironically wrote in his diary that he had the impression that the command wanted to get to hell and call on the demons for help.

Armageddon

In Stalingrad, both the Red Army and the Wehrmacht, for unknown reasons, changed their methods of warfare. From the very beginning of the war, the Red Army used flexible defense tactics with rejects in critical situations. The Wehrmacht command, in turn, avoided large, bloody battles, preferring to bypass large fortified areas. In the Battle of Stalingrad, both sides forget about their principles and embark on a bloody cabin. The beginning was laid on August 23, 1942, when the German aviation carried out a massive bombing of the city. 40,000 people died. This exceeds the official figures for the Allied air raid on Dresden in February 1945 (25,000 casualties).

Mink coats

Many German soldiers recalled that in Stalingrad they often had the impression that they were in some kind of parallel world, a zone of absurdity, where German pedantry and accuracy immediately disappeared. According to the recollections, the German command often gave senseless and absolutely stupid orders: for example, in street battles, German generals could put several thousand of their own fighters in a minor area.

The most absurd moment was the episode when the German "supplies" dropped from the air the fighters locked in the "bloody cauldron" instead of food and uniforms female mink coats.

Revival of Stalingrad

After the end of the Battle of Stalingrad, the Soviet government discussed the inexpediency of restoring the city, which, according to estimates, would have cost more than building a new city. But Stalin insisted on restoring Stalingrad literally from the ashes.

For all the time, so many shells were dropped on Mamayev Kurgan that after the fighting on it for two years, the grass did not grow at all.

During the German summer offensive of 1942, General Friedrich Paulus's 6th Army reached Stalingrad (now Volgograd) at the end of August. By mid-November, they had conquered about 90% of the city. While German troops were dealing brutal strikes and fighting in the streets, the Soviet Southwestern Front supplied fresh military forces to Stalingrad. On November 19, 1942, the Soviet army launched a major offensive simultaneously from the northwest and south. After three days of the offensive, the entire 6th Army of the Wehrmacht was surrounded, along with the 4th Panzer Army and the remnants of the 3rd and 4th Army of Romania, as well as about 250,000 Germans and more than 30,000 Romanian soldiers.

He declared that Stalingrad would be taken and would become a symbol of the German Victory. At the same time, he believed, simultaneously with the conquest of strategically important facilities and a transport center on the Volga, that his personal greatest achievement would be the victory over his most cruel enemy, Joseph Stalin, whose name the city bore. Therefore, the news of the impossibility of finding a way out to escape from the 40-kilometer-long cauldron in the west broke all Hitler's plans. Rather, he trusted the unconfirmed statements of the commander-in-chief of the Luftwaffe that it was possible to retain a significant part of the army and make a hole in the resulting cauldron for his release.

However, the Wehrmacht did not have enough strength to do this in the winter of 1942/43. The 6th Army's daily requirement for deliveries of 300-400 tons, including food and weapons, could not be quickly satisfied. On December 12, the hastily assembled army under the command of Erich von Manstein, including the tank units of Colonel General Hermann Hoth, not reaching 48 kilometers to Stalingrad, was stopped nine days later due to the tough resistance of the Soviet troops. On December 23, Hitler finally left the 6th Army to its fate.

The daily diet of starving German soldiers at the time consisted of two slices of bread and some tea, sometimes thin soup. The first deaths due to starvation and malnutrition began in mid-December. The Russian winter of minus 40 degrees also claimed thousands of German soldiers' lives due to poor preparation for low temperatures. By January 18, 1943, German troops were forced to abandon all defense lines and retreat completely to the urban part of Stalingrad, where they were divided into two groups. On January 30, Adolf Hitler appointed Paulus Field Marshal.

Since the German field marshal had never surrendered before, this appointment as an incentive should have prompted Paulus to continue fighting the 6th Army until the "death of the last hero". However, he surrendered on January 31, 1943, while with his colleagues in the southern cauldron. Two days later, the defeated troops surrendered in the northern basin of the city, which resembled a field of rubble. About 150,000 German soldiers fell victim to the fighting, cold and hunger in the cauldron. About 91,000 people were taken into Soviet captivity, of which only 6,000 survivors returned to Germany in 1956.

The first defeat in the war against the Soviet Union, which destroyed the Wehrmacht, steadily changed the position of the war. The advantage in the active forces has now gone over to the side of the Red Army. Stronger than the military consequences was the decline in the morale of the German soldiers and the population. A significant part of the Germans, shaken by the scale of this defeat, recognized the turning point of the war on the Eastern Front. An attempt by the German leadership to portray the fall of the 6th Army as a heroic epic, as well as the announcement of "total war" on February 18, 1943, did not ease doubts about the final victory of Germany. Soon after the end of hostilities in Stalingrad, the inscription "1918" appeared on the walls of houses in major cities of Germany - as a reminder of the defeat of the German army in the First World War.

One of the most atmospheric and poignant German memoirs about the defeat of the 6th Army that have come across so far. From an unpublished manuscript by Friedrich Wilhelm Klemm. In the early 2000s, the author allowed the following excerpt to be published. Published in Russian for the first time. Born on February 4, 1914. Until March 1942, he was the commander of the 3rd battalion of the 267th infantry regiment of the 94th infantry division. Was recommended for enrollment in the General Staff courses, became an adjutant of officer Ia [operational management] of the 94th Infantry Division.

After the dissolution of the division, he was in the rank of captain at the artillery group at Stalingrad. During one of the attacks on January 17, 1943, he was seriously wounded, buried in a dugout and spent a week in this state and without food at a temperature of -25. An icy steppe wind blew over the outskirts of Stalingrad. He threw dry snow at the empty faces of the no longer human figures. It was the morning of January 23, 1943. The great German army fought in agony. There was no more salvation for the masses of loitering, haggard and weakened soldiers. A few hours earlier, I was one of this hopeless crowd, condemned to defeat. Then the Army Quartermaster [Lieutenant Colonel Werner von Kunowski] found me in an abandoned dugout, I was delirious because of the injury, shook me and reported to the headquarters of the 6th Army.

There I received permission to take off and the order to get to the last auxiliary airfield in the southwestern corner of Stalingrad. For 4 hours I made my way to my goal on two hands and one good leg through knee-deep snow. The wound in my upper right thigh hurt me a lot with every movement. Forward, forward, my last reserves of will told me, but my emaciated body could no longer move. Months on a slice of bread a day: in the last few days, supplies have been cut off altogether. Add to this the moral oppression from this first terrible defeat of our troops.

I lay, completely buried under a small snowdrift, and wiped the snow from my face with the sleeve of my torn greatcoat. Was there any point in this effort? The Russians would have dealt with the wounded man with a rifle butt. For their factories and mines, they only needed healthy prisoners. This morning, the chief of staff of the army [General Arthur Schmidt] talked me out of my dark plans. “Just try to get to the airfield,” he said as he signed my permission to take off. “The seriously injured are still being taken out. You always have a lot of time to die! " And so, I was crawling. Perhaps there was still a chance for salvation from this gigantic piece of land, turned by man and nature into a witch's cauldron.

But how endless was this path for a man who dragged along it like a snake? What is this black crowd on the horizon? Is it really an airfield or just a mirage created by an overexcited, feverish consciousness? I pulled myself together, stretched out another three or four meters and then stopped to rest. Just don't go to bed! Or the same thing will happen to me as to those whom I just crawled past. They, too, only wanted to take a short break during their hopeless march to Stalingrad. But exhaustion was beyond their strength, and the brutal cold made them so that they never woke up. One could almost envy them. They no longer experienced pain or anxiety. After about an hour I reached the airfield. The wounded sat and stood close to each other. Gasping, I made my way to the center of the field. I threw myself on a pile of snow. The snowstorm has subsided.

I looked along the road behind the takeoff: it led back to Stalingrad. Individual figures with great effort pulled themselves to the outskirts. There, in the gaping ruins of this so-called city, they hoped to find shelter from the frost and wind. It seemed that masses of soldiers went along this road, but hundreds did not succeed. Their numb corpses were like pillars on this terrifying retreat road. The Russian could have occupied this territory for a very long time. But he was strict and walked only a designated distance per day. Why was he in a hurry? No one else could defeat him. Like a giant shepherd, he drove these defeated people from all directions in the direction of the city. The few who else may have flown around in Luftwaffe planes don't count. It seemed that the Russian gave them to us. He knew that everyone here was seriously injured. Two people were lying on a raincoat near me. One had a wound in the abdomen, the other was missing both arms. One car flew off yesterday, but since then there has been a blizzard and it was impossible to land, a man with no hands with a vacant gaze told me. Muffled groans were heard around. Again and again the orderly crossed the lane, but in general he could not help here. Exhausted, I passed out on my pile of snow and fell into a restless sleep. Soon the frost woke me up. Teeth chattering, I looked around.

The Luftwaffe inspector walked across the runway. I shouted to him and asked if there was a chance to fly away. He replied that 3 hours ago they had been told by radio: three planes took off, they would drop supplies, but it was unclear whether they would land or not. I showed him my permission to fly. Shaking his head, he said that it was invalid, the signature of the chief of the army sanitary service [Lieutenant General Otto Renoldi] was needed. “Go and talk to him,” he finished, “there’s only 500 meters, over there in the ravine…”. Only 500 meters! Again, great effort. Every movement gave off pain. The mere thought of this weakened me, and I slipped into a half-asleep state. Suddenly I saw my house, my wife and daughter, and behind them the faces of my fallen comrades. Then a Russian ran up to me, raised his rifle and hit me. In pain, I woke up. The "Russian" was an orderly who kicked me in the wounded leg. There were three of them, with a stretcher. They apparently had a task to remove the corpses from the runway. He wanted to check if I was alive. This is not surprising, since my constricted, bloodless face looked more like that of a corpse than that of a living person.

A short nap gave me some strength. I asked the orderlies to describe to me the way to the medical dugout, with the intention of getting to it. I dragged myself forward with my last breath. It seemed like an eternity before I sat in front of the Chief of the Sanitary Service. I described the incident to him and received his signature. “This ram might not have sent you here,” he said as he signed, “the signature of the army headquarters is enough.” Then he sent me to a nearby dugout. The doctor wanted to change my bandage, but I refused. A sense of acute uneasiness urged me to leave the warm dugout. After vigorously crawling out of the ravine, I returned to the airfield. I looked for the inspector, saw him not far from my snowdrift. My papers were in order now, he said.

I decided to be smarter and did not call him a ram: maybe this saved my life. During our conversation, the noise of the engines of several planes flying towards us was heard over the field. Were they the Russians or our saviors? All eyes were directed to the heavens. We could only see vague movements in the bright cover of heaven. Signal lights were lit from below. And then they descended like giant birds of prey. These were German He 111s, descending in large circles. Will they just drop the food containers, will they land to pick up a few of these unfortunate, shot people? Blood rushed violently through the arteries, and, despite the cold, it was hot. I unbuttoned the collar of my greatcoat to make it easier to watch. All the efforts and suffering of the last days, weeks and months have been forgotten. There was salvation, the last chance to get home! Inside, everyone was thinking the same thing. This means that we were not written off and forgotten, they wanted to help us. How sad it was to feel forgotten! Everything changed in a second. At first, everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Then a sudden commotion began on the large airfield, like in a destroyed anthill.

Who could run, ran; where - no one knew. They wanted to be where the plane landed. I also tried to get up, but after the first attempt I fell over in pain. So I stayed on my snowy hill and watched this senseless rampage. Two cars touched the ground and rolled, loaded to their limit and springy to stop 100 meters from us. The third continued to circle. Like an overflowing river, everyone rushed to the two landed cars and covered them with a dark, agitated crowd. Boxes and crates were unloaded from the aircraft fuselage. Everything was done with the utmost speed: at any moment the Russians could occupy this last runway of the Germans. Nobody could stop them. It suddenly became quiet. A medic in the rank of an officer appeared at the nearest plane and shouted in an incredibly clear voice: “We take on board only sedentary seriously wounded, and only one officer and seven soldiers in each plane!”. For a second there was a dead silence, and then thousands of voices howled in indignation like a hurricane.

Now - life or death! Everyone wanted to be among the eight lucky ones who got on the plane. One pushed the other. The swearing of those who were being pushed back intensified: the cries of those who were trampled were heard throughout the entire strip. The officer gazed calmly at this madness. He seemed used to it. A shot rang out, and I again heard his voice. He spoke with his back to me; I didn't understand what he said. But I saw how immediately part of the crowd without a word recoiled from the car, falling to their knees where they stood. Other medical officers selected those to be loaded from the crowd. Completely forgetting myself, I sat on my pile of snow. After so many weeks half asleep, this beating life completely conquered me. Before it became clear to me that there could be no more talk of my salvation, a dense stream of air almost blew me away. Terrified, I turned around and just a few steps away I saw the third plane. He rolled up from behind. The huge propeller almost chopped me open. Petrified with fear, I sat motionless. Hundreds of people were running from all directions in my direction. If there was a chance for salvation, it was him!

The masses collided, fell, some trampled on others. That I did not suffer the same fate was only thanks to the horrifying, still rotating propellers. But now the field gendarmes were holding back the onslaught. Everything slowly calmed down. Packages and containers were thrown out of the car directly onto the frozen ground. None of the starving soldiers thought of this priceless food. Everyone was waiting tensely for loading. The officer in command climbed onto the wing. In the silence that followed, I heard, almost over my head, the fateful words: "One officer, seven soldiers!" And that's all. The moment he turned to get off the wing, I recognized him as my inspector, the man who sent me on this crazy chase after the chief of the sanitary service, and he recognized me. With an inviting gesture, he shouted: “Ah, here you are! Go here!". And, turning again, he added in a businesslike tone: "And seven soldiers!" Dazed, I probably sat in my snow chair for a second, but only for a second - for then I got up, grabbed the wing and nimbly made my way to the cargo hold. I noticed how those who stood around me silently moved away, and the crowd gave me a pass. My body was falling apart in pain. They carried me onto the plane. The noise around me turned into a joyful cry: I lost consciousness.

It must have been just a few short minutes, because when I woke up, I heard the inspector counting, "Five." So five have already been loaded. "Six seven". Pause. Someone shouted “Sit tight!” And they started counting again. We pushed ourselves into each other. "Twelve," I heard, and then, "thirteen ..., fourteen ..., fifteen." Everything. The steel doors were jerked shut. There was only room for eight, and they took fifteen on board. Fifteen people were rescued from the hell of Stalingrad. Thousands are left behind. Through the steel walls, we felt the gazes of those desperate comrades focused on us. Say hello to the Motherland from us, probably, they were their last thoughts. They didn't say anything, they didn't wave, they just turned around and knew that their terrible fate was a foregone conclusion. We flew to salvation, they went to the years of death captivity. The powerful roar of the engines pulled us out of our pre-takeoff thoughts. Are we really saved? The coming minutes will show. The car was spinning on rough ground.

The propellers gave out everything they could. We trembled with every cell of our body. Then suddenly the noise stopped abruptly. Looks like we were turning. The pilot repeated the maneuver. The rear window in the cockpit opened, and he shouted into the compartment: "We are overloaded - someone has to get out!" Our happy burning was blown away by the wind. Now before us was only an icy reality. Log off? What does it mean? The young pilot stared at me hopefully. I was a senior officer, I had to decide who would come out. No, I couldn't do that. Which one of those on board, just rescued, could I throw away to meaningless death? Shaking my head, I looked at the pilot. Dry words escaped my lips: "Nobody leaves the plane." I heard the sighs of relief from those who were sitting next to me.

I felt that everyone was now feeling the same, even though not a word of approval or disagreement was spoken. The pilot was sweating. He looked as if he wanted to protest, but when he saw all those determined faces, he turned back to the dashboard. His comrades in the cockpit must have told him, "Try again!" And he tried it! Probably, it is not enough when fifteen people prayed so sincerely to their God, as we did in those decisive moments. The motors roared once more, singing their menacing song.

Following the snow tracks left by the other two cars, a slender, dull-gray colossus rolled violently down the runway. Suddenly I felt an indescribable pressure in my stomach - the plane was leaving the ground. It climbed slowly, circled twice around the field, and then turned southwest. What was below us? Not the gray ranks of comrades that we left behind? No, these soldiers were wearing brown uniforms. The Russians took the airfield. Just a few more minutes, and we would not have time to slip away. Only at that moment did we understand the severity of the situation. Truly, it was a last minute salvation from the clutches of death! For a few more seconds the Russians were visible, then the cloud took us under its protective cover.
A poster for the 1993 German film "Stalingrad" is used as an illustration.

Much has been written and said about the Battle of Stalingrad. The emphasis was more often on the factors that allowed the Red Army to turn the tide of the confrontation, much less attention was paid to the reasons for the failure of the Wehrmacht.

Chasing two hares

The Germans took the defeat at Stalingrad much more painful than, say, in the Battle of Kursk. And it's not just more tangible losses. For Hitler, the city named after Stalin was an important semantic dominant of the war. The Fuhrer was well aware that the capture of Stalingrad could deal a tangible blow to the pride of the Soviet leader, and, possibly, demoralize the Red Army.

On the other hand, the conquered Stalingrad was supposed to become a springboard for the successful advance of the German army to the south - to Astrakhan, and further to the oil-bearing region of the Transcaucasia, which is so strategically important. The implementation of these goals took place simultaneously. One part of the grouping of German troops led by Friedrich Paulus moved towards Stalingrad, the other, led by Ewald von Kleist, headed south.

If Hitler hadn’t chased two birds with one stone, but decided to concentrate on Stalingrad, then the preponderance of the Germans in manpower and equipment, which was outlined by the beginning of hostilities (for example, the Luftwaffe outnumbered the Soviet Air Force by 10 times in aviation units) would have become more tangible ... And no one knows how the course of the confrontation could unfold in such a situation.

Fatal mistake

Many Western historians and military experts are of the opinion that the defeat of the German group at Stalingrad largely predetermined Hitler's ban on withdrawing troops from the cauldron. Then, according to various sources, from 250 to 330 thousand Wehrmacht servicemen were surrounded. Cancel the Fuhrer's decision immediately, and the troops would have a chance to break out of the ring, the German generals were sure.

But Hitler was stubborn, he kept hoping for a miracle: “Under no circumstances can we surrender Stalingrad. We will not be able to capture it again ”. The author of a number of books about World War II, Briton Anthony Beevor wrote: "Hitler was possessed by the obsession that the retreat of the 6th Army from Stalingrad would mark the final withdrawal of German troops from the banks of the Volga."

To help Paulus, German units from the Caucasus began hastily to be transferred, but by that time the 6th Army was already doomed. Soviet troops under the command of Zhukov, Rokossovsky and Vatutin mercilessly squeezed the ring around the city, depriving the Germans not only of supplies, but also of the slightest hope of salvation.

Insurmountable ruins

German troops, after stubborn battles by the end of September 1942, were able to overcome the resistance of the 62nd Army of General Vasily Chuikov and break through to the city center. However, the further advance of the Germans stalled. In addition to the fierce resistance of the defenders of Stalingrad, the size of the city played a role, stretching for several tens of kilometers along the right bank of the Volga. At the end of August, after a series of powerful bombing strikes by German aircraft, numerous city blocks were actually turned into impassable ruins.

German historians almost unanimously note that the bombing of Stalingrad, which turned the city into a real hell, where every house had to be recaptured at the cost of heavy losses, was a major strategic blunder of the German command. For example, the building of the Regional Consumer Union, known as the Pavlov House, was held by Soviet fighters for 58 days. So the Germans did not manage to completely seize the Red Barricades plant, 400 meters from which Chuikov's headquarters was located.

Hunger, cold, hopelessness

By the end of autumn 1942, the position of the Wehrmacht became critical. A huge number of corpses, an even greater number of wounded, sick with typhus, exhausted and hungry soldiers, forced several times a day to hear a proposal to surrender from loudspeakers: all this created a picture of a real apocalypse.

The Germans were completely unprepared for severe frosts, unsanitary conditions reigned in the troops, there was a catastrophic shortage of food. “The soup is getting thinner and thinner. The shortage can only be covered by slaughtering the remaining horses. But even that is impossible, "the former Wehrmacht soldier recalled.

Best of all, the deplorable situation of the not so long ago gallant German warriors is described by the words of General Ivan Lyudnikov, to whom the language was brought: “On their feet - something resembling huge felt boots on wooden soles. Tufts of straw come out from behind the tops. On his head, over a dirty calico shawl, is a woolen cap comforter with holes. On top of the uniform there is a female katsaveika, and a horse's hoof sticks out from under it.

The supply of the 6th Army was extremely bad. The German soldiers fighting at Stalingrad were extremely outraged why, instead of ammunition, medicines, warm clothes and food, the Propaganda Ministry thought of throwing 200,000 newspapers and leaflets, as well as boxes of unnecessary pepper, marjoram and condoms.

Achilles' heel

To help the 6th Army, the German General Staff sent Italian, Romanian, Hungarian and Croatian units, which were supposed to support Paulus from the flanks. However, as soon as the positions of the allies were subjected to a more or less serious blow from the Soviet troops, the German general already had to puzzle over how to break out of the encirclement.

A historical anecdote can best tell about the combat effectiveness of the allies. After the Soviet counterattack, Benito Mussolini asked his minister if the Italian army was retreating. "No, Duce, she's just running," he heard in response.

The Romanians fought no better than the Italians. From the description of the commander of the German sapper battalion Helmut Welz, you can see what the Romanian officers were like: “A whole cloud of cologne envelops them. Despite the mustache, they look pretty broad-minded. The features of their tanned faces with plump shaved cheeks are vague. " The Soviet military called these dandies with drawn eyebrows, powdered and painted faces "characters from an operetta."

After the Stalingrad surrender, the German allies, having lost their most combat-ready units, could no longer provide any serious support to Germany on the Eastern Front. Observing the beating of the allied forces at Stalingrad, Turkey finally abandoned plans to intervene in the war on the side of the Axis.

Memories of veterans of the Wehrmacht

Wiegand Wuester

"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 year.

The further our train went east, the more spring turned its back on us. It was rainy and cool in Kiev. We encountered many Italian military transports. The Italians, with their feathers on their hats, did not make a good impression either. They were freezing. There was even snow in some places in Kharkov. The city was deserted and gray. Our kolkhoz apartments were plain. Belgium and France were remembered as a lost paradise.

Nevertheless, entertainment remained in the city, such as the soldier's cinemas and theater. The main streets, as elsewhere in Russia, were wide, straight And imposing - but rather neglected. Oddly enough, the Kharkiv 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 with fur trim, with caps pushed back or pulled down on the nose. Only the conductor, visible from the audience, was dressed in a well-worn tailcoat. Time did not spare both the costumes and the scenery. But with a lot of improvisation, the production went pretty 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 lines north of the city. The infantry regiment, our heavy battalion and the light artillery battalion (the 211st Infantry Regiment of Oberst Karl Barnbeck, the 1st Battalion of the 171st Artillery Regiment of Major Gerhard Wagner and the 4th Battalion of the same regiment of the Oberst Lieutenant Helmut Balthazar) had to play a fire brigade.

The battery had already suffered losses, moving to the first firing position when Russian bombs fell into the convoy. German air supremacy declined, although it remained. Harassing Russian artillery fire fell at our battery, but it seems that the enemy did not spot it, although we repeatedly fired from our position.

I was standing behind the battery, shouting instructions to the guns, when a terrible explosion was heard from the third gun. In the heat of the moment, I thought we got a direct hit. A large dark object flew past me. I recognized it as a pneumatic compensator torn from a howitzer. Everyone ran to the destroyed artillery position. The first and second numbers were on the gun carriage.

The rest seemed whole. The gun looked bad. The barrel in front of the breech was swollen and torn into strips. In this case, the front of the barrel did not part. Two spring knobs on either side of the barrel were knocked down and fell apart. The cradle was bent. It was clear that the pneumatic expansion joint located above the barrel had been torn off. The barrel ruptured, the first in my experience. I saw guns with a bursting barrel, but there they burst from the muzzle. In general, barrel ruptures were rare.

The two gunners on the gun carriage stirred. The pressure of the explosion covered their faces with the dots of bursting small blood vessels. They were seriously concussed, they did not hear anything and did not see much, 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 go back to the cannons. Everyone understood them. But, after dragging the shells for a while, 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 maintained the gun, because the barrel is supposed to be inspected after each shot for foreign objects remaining in it.

Yes, the rule of visual inspection existed, but it was an empty theory, because it did not allow a high rate of fire and no one remembered about it during the hostilities - there were enough other worries. Also, it never happened that this could be done by the remnants of a powder cap or a torn off shell belt. Most likely, it was the shells.

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

When everything seemed to have calmed down, the deployed units of the division were withdrawn to the rear. But before the battery reached the place where it could be quartered on the collective farm, the Russians broke through again in the same place. We turned around and went back to position. This time, the battery ran directly into the Saxon units. Now the obviously hostile attitude has changed to the judgment "what these poor fellows could have done ...". 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, and a laughable combat strength remained in the companies. They couldn't do more if they wanted to. They burned down, leaving only the embers. I had never seen a German unit in such a pitiful state before. The Saxons were in a much worse condition than our 71st division when it was pulled out of the army last fall due to losses near Kiev. We only felt compassion and hoped that our own parts would pass such a 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 between several clay huts. The unusual placement of the 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 shoot far enough into the depths of the enemy's position. If the Russians begin to attack successfully and knock our infantry off the crest of the hill, 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 front-line observer under continuous heavy fire. Our infantry dug in well, but their morale was affected by the non-stop shelling, when during the day no one could move, could not even lean 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, was not taken into account. Experience has shown again that the gunners are more afraid of the shelling of infantry weapons than of artillery. For the infantry, the exact opposite was true. You are much less afraid of weapons that you own yourself than of the unknown. The infantry messengers, sometimes hiding in our hole, nervously watched us calmly play cards. Nevertheless, I was glad when I was replaced and I returned to the battery. This time, the main observation post was far behind the gun positions.

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

The small distance to the rear simplified the delivery of shells. Once a motorized convoy even drove right up to the guns. Our own horse-drawn columns could not cope with the high flow rate. Barrels and bolts were hot. All the free soldiers were busy loading guns and carrying shells. For the first time, the barrels and bolts had to be cooled with wet bags or just water, they heated up so that the crews could not shoot.

On some barrels, which had already fired thousands of shells, severe barrel erosion appeared at the leading edge of the projectile 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 an empty cartridge case. Every now and then, forcing the edge of the sleeve to come out of the eroded chamber, a wooden bannik was used. Due to the erosion of the barrel, the gunpowder undercooked. If, during fast firing, the lock was opened immediately after a rollback, jets of flame burst out.

In fact, they were safe. But you had to get used to them. Once, when the infantrymen were in our position, they wanted to shoot from the cannons. They were usually careful. The cord had to be tugged with force. The barrel rolled back close to the body, the sound of the shot was unfamiliar. It was a good opportunity for the gunners to take the lead. There were always stories about a bursting barrel. As for heroism, naturally, the artillerymen felt embarrassment in front of the poor fellows from the infantry, which they tried to compensate.

The morning of May 18 was decisive. Russian tanks attacked with infantry support. The forward observer made 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, this is the only way to keep the position. I was glad that in this jumble I was not there, on the front line - but worried about our unsuccessful position on the forward slope, which the tanks could at any time take under direct fire.

The gunners were worried. The tanks started 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 specific tanks to the gun commanders as a direct fire target. But they will only open fire when the Russian tanks are far enough away from our front line not to hit ours. Our barrage opened at a distance of about 1,500 meters. The 15cm howitzers weren't really designed for this. It took several shots with correction to hit the tank or deal with it with a close hit of a 15-centimeter projectile.

When one precise hit tore an entire tower off the dreaded T-34, the numbness subsided. Although the danger remained clear, hunting excitement rose among the gunners. They worked faithfully at the guns And obviously cheered up. I ran from gun to gun, choosing the best position for distributing targets. Fortunately, the tanks did not shoot at us, so that it would end badly for us. In this sense, the work of the gunners 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 an undershoot from the 10th battery could fall behind the command post of one of the light artillery battalions.

It could only be with 10 batteries, because at that moment no other heavy battery was firing. I dismissed this accusation, perhaps too harshly, and referred to my fight with the tanks. I wanted to go back to the guns, the control of which was more important to me. Maybe I answered too confidently, taken by surprise in the midst of the battle.

When I was ordered to answer the phone again, 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 by about 45 degrees for this, and I would have noticed that. Moreover, this would be completely wrong, because the guns were firing at enemy tanks.

I tried to explain the situation to Balthazar. Meanwhile, the battle with tanks continued without stopping. In total, we have 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 positions. There were encouraging messages from the forward observer, again in touch, and he began adjusting battery fire on the retreating enemy. I got in touch with the battery commander Kuhlman on the field phone and made a detailed report that satisfied him. And yet he kept on repeating about the undershoot. I answered 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 trunks 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 Nemiroff, it was already six. Fortunately, not a single weapon was bypassed by the victory, otherwise such a "stench" would have risen. Gunner and gun commanders with two victories each, naturally, were the heroes of the day. It was because of the position on the forward 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 not even Russian artillery touched us. Soldier's luck!

Because of all this noise around the notorious undershoot, I behaved prudently. As a precautionary measure, I have insured myself against all charges. I collected all the notes from the gun commanders and even from telephonists and radio operators about target designations from our main observation post and from the forward spotter. I have collected and studied the documents for any inaccuracies and errors. The more I looked at them, the clearer it became to me that an extreme change in azimuth was necessary for such a miss. There was a mistake. We did shoot from different elevation angles, but with very little barrel traverse. Although this was already a reassurance, I checked the ammunition consumption and looked over the Formula ry guns - work that only added to the big picture. Among other things, the traverse angle of the howitzers deeply stuck in the ground was not enough. The beds would have to be turned around - a serious work that would not have gone unnoticed by me. I calmed down: my position was solid as a rock.

It was a lovely sunny morning and I had planned everything to be on time, but not too early. Balthazar seemed to be waiting for me when I entered. His adjutant, Peter Schmidt, stood at the side behind him. “I arrived at your order. - Where is your helmet? You should be wearing a helmet when you come to claim, ”growled Balthazar. I replied, in essence and in the most calm manner, that I was absolutely clean on this issue, because I had read the charter and made sure that the cap was enough. It was too much.

Do you dare to teach me ?! Then followed a hysterical stream of insulting words taken from the repertoire of the barracks non-commissioned officer - a language that in the field had almost disappeared from memory. I think Balthazar knew that a lack of self-control would always call into question his qualities. His explosion came to an end: "And when I order to put on a helmet, you put on a helmet, okay ?!" The adjutant stood motionless behind him, silently, with a stone face - and what else had to be done? “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, pondering what to do and in what order everything would happen. On the way back, I decided to go to 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. He didn't want to do anything with the barrel rings because they were the pride of the battery. I should look for witnesses. Our spotter could help me. Nevertheless, he seemed to be helping me reluctantly.

From the "Book of the Wise" I learned that a complaint should be filed through official channels, the report should be submitted in a sealed envelope, which in my case can only be opened by the commander of the regiment. I have acted in accordance with this formula. I contested the charge of “lack of oversight” and attached evidence. I complained that no honest investigation had been carried out. Finally, I complained of gross insults.

After submitting the complaint, I felt better. In any case, it was clear to me that Balthazar would pursue me mercilessly. He will get me one way or another. I will have to be on my guard and hope for a transfer to another battalion, which was common practice in such cases. Oberst Lieutenant Balthazar was cocky enough to challenge me. Complaint - well - I should know that what I did was stupid.

Then he got to the point: the envelope is probably sealed in such a way that any old "pisepampel" (local Rhineland, or rather Brunswick, an expression meaning "bad guy", "dumb, ill-mannered guy" or even "bore" or "wet bed"), so he called himself , won't be able to read it, so he'll have to open it. He was amazed when I forbade doing this, referring to the "Book of the Wise". The whole question can be reconsidered if I let him open it. I rejected the offer without further comment, believing that the complaint procedure should proceed on its own.

Getting confirmation of our destroyed tanks turned out to be more for me. difficult business. Of course, the experts could determine whether the tank was hit by a 15 cm round or not. But such considerations did not work under certain conditions. The destroyed tanks were located in our zone, but won't the infantry announce them themselves? It’s good that other batteries and anti-tank defense units didn’t shoot at the tanks, otherwise the request for 5 tanks would have turned into 1O or 20. This often happened, like the miracle of the multiplication of loaves by Jesus. Besides us, the gunners, who fired, who could see anything? The infantry had other concerns during the Russian breakthrough.

If they had time to reorganize, any search would be useless. Question to question. An artillery-technical service officer, who ended up at the battery due to barrel erosion problems, doubted that it would be possible to find clear evidence on the wreckage of the 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 no evidence would be found — and anticipating 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 the three victories and mapped them. 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 of the 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 submit our victories in writing. Kuhlman himself was quite proud of his 10th battery. My yesterday's underestimation, probably, left a good impression. But in the confrontation between me and Oberst Lieutenant Balthazar, Hauptmann Kuhlman did not want to interfere, although he patted me on the shoulder approvingly and called the punishment a mere trifle.

I kept my thoughts to myself, only noticing on the way to the adjutant Peter Schmidt, whom Balthazar had sent to me because he had set the task of proof for MNTSI, 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 that, which Kuhlman explained, indicating that all this was done exclusively by his battery, although he himself did not participate in this personally and agreed with Balthazar about my punishment.

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

The disadvantages were poor observation devices and a lack of all-round visibility, which made the tank half-slack. Nevertheless, with all the power of the armor, it could not withstand 15-cm projectiles, and there was not even a direct hit to defeat. If it hit the track or the hull, it turned it over. Close rips tore at the caterpillars.

Our combat sector was soon transferred to another division. In the meantime, our 71st was brought together and replenished again. We passed through Kharkov to the south, towards the new encirclement operation. The battle of Kharkov ended successfully. The defense against a large-scale Russian offensive turned into a destructive battle to encircle the aggressor. Now we were heading east again, the victorious end of the war was close again. Crossings over Burliuk and Oskol had to be carried out in heavy battles. but after that - as in 1941 - there were many weeks of offensives in the exhausting heat, not counting the days full of mud when it rained.

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

For this we were best served by a random T -34. We sent out "prize teams" who hunted right and left along the road of our advance 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. The 200-liter barrel was transported in a tank without a turret, on which ammunition was transported. And yet we always ran out of fuel because we couldn't even meet the needs of the motorized parts properly. 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 for this and broke. This created the greatest difficulty in moving into position. We had to move the barrel separately. New springs were difficult to find, and an officer of the artillery and technical service could hardly install them in the field. And so behind each tractor was a long caravan of wheeled vehicles.

We certainly didn't look like an organized military 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 volunteers (khivi), who, wearing mixed civilian clothes, Wehrmacht uniforms and their Russian uniforms, only strengthened the impression of the crowd of gypsies. Horses that got sick or weakened unharnessed and tied to machines so that they could trot alongside them.

I worked out my punishment "in parts". The place of house arrest was a tent made of padded raincoats, which were set up separately for me on quiet days. My orderly brought me food. Battery knew what was going on, grinned, and continued to treat me well. Kuhlman kept a careful record of the time and announced when it was up. He gave me a bottle of schnapps for "release". I contacted the regimental adjutant and asked how my complaint was progressing. He acknowledged receipt of it, but explained that Oberst Scharnberg had postponed it for the duration of the operation because he had no time to complain.

What was I to do? Sharenberg and Balthazar were on good, if not friendly, relations. I had to wait and constantly wait for nasty things from Balthazar, who tried to take out the evil on me, which caused the battery to suffer every now and then. Hauptmann Kuhlman was again affected by tension, as in the previous year. Now he was even transferred to a spare part at home. Since no other suitable Officer was found (Dr. Nordman was no longer in the regiment), I had to accept the battery. With this, Balthazar's constant nagging began.

Under Kuhlman it was held back because he could resist. Even during short operations, the battery constantly received the most frustrating tasks. Rest time was more inconvenient than other batteries. In unclear situations, I was assigned all kinds of special assignments, and even though I was the battery commander, I was constantly used as a forward observer. If my lieutenant, who was very inexperienced, faced difficulties at the battery because he could not cope with the veterans - the spis and the forager - I had to intercede for him. These two tried to make life difficult for me from the very beginning. In any case, one of my watch as the forward observer brought us another T-Z4 as a towing vehicle. The retreating units of the Red Army took away almost all the working vehicles, so the artillerymen had to repair the ones that remained. I felt some anxiety, because the sound of enemy tank tracks could be heard nearby. I could shoot - but where? Just into the fog? So I waited.

When I returned to the radio operators' trench, I had to be distracted by my "morning business", so I went into the bushes and pulled down my trousers. I hadn't finished yet when the tank tracks clanged ~ literally a few steps away from me. I quickly rounded and saw the tank in a dark shadow in the fog just above the radio post. He stood, not moving anywhere else. 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 around. In horror, the radio operator with a swing launched an iron box at the tank and dived into the first empty trench that came across. I could only observe without being able to do anything.

Infantrymen 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 shouts of approval, and the bottle went around. When the fog cleared, there were no Russians, of course, no tanks to be seen. They fled in the fog, unnoticed. Offensive, heat and dust! Suddenly the trailer with the gun barrel fell to the axle. Although there were no streams nearby, it looked like a gully had formed under the road, probably because of the heavy rains. There was a lot of work ahead. We hastily got out our shovels, and the excavation began. Ropes were tied to the wheels and axle to pull the trailer, horses were standing nearby, uncoupled from the limbs - as an additional pulling force. We already knew that here we have to play such games quite often.

Balthazar drove by, he looked pleased: - How can you be so stupid and get bogged down on a flat road. We have no time. Lieutenant Lochman immediately rides with the battery. Wuester, you're on a trailer with a barrel. Eight horses, eight people. The decision was biased. He could have let me use the T-34 for the snatch, which 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 Balthazar loved to play with me.

After we seemed to have enough shovels, 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 bite - I was also glad to eat, because nothing useful came to my mind. from time to time they kissed him, drank, but did not get carried away. The heat held back the urge to drink. Towards evening I reached the battalion, which had risen to rest at the collective farm. Balthazar hid his surprise: he did not expect me so early. I didn't mention the infantry. Another time, our divisional commander, Major General von Hartmann, drove past the dusty, leisurely moving battery. I reported to him in the usual manner. - There is porridge brewing at the front. How fast can you get there? he asked, showing me the location on the map. “With a normal march speed, it will take 6-7 hours. The horses are holding on with their last bit of strength.

The offensive continued. Once a long, stretched column was fired upon by Russian encircling people hiding in a field of swaying sunflowers. This happened all the time, nothing special. Usually they were answered only by a double-barreled installation on a machine-gun cart, and we did not even stop. This time Balthazar - who was there - decided that things would be different. He ordered to unload one reckless T-34, took a machine gun and rushed towards the enemy in a sunflower field, which remained invisible.

I hope our tractor does not cover itself, ”said the gunners left on the road. And so it happened. Flames and plumes of smoke rose from the tank. Probably hit the 200-liter barrel of fuel 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 to the scene, firing rifles into the air in intimidation. The tankers were still alive, having managed to jump out of the burning tank, and took refuge nearby. Some of them were seriously affected. Oberst Lieutenant Balthazar suffered serious damage 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 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 gloating. I did not withdraw my complaint, even when the regimental commander spoke to me in passing about it, referring to Balthazar's burns. The division approached the Don. There were heavy battles near Nizhnechirskaya and at Chir station, including for our heavy battalion. Due to the constant change of the place of the main attack, by order of the command, we often drove 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 of 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 to death. When the Russians later surrounded Stalingrad, the unit was finally pulled apart and disbanded. Its commander, now a consumable, must have left on time. In a good six months, the entire division will be destroyed.

When the Russians unexpectedly began bombing my 10th battery, our Khivis - still friendly and reliable - simply disappeared. We needed to be more attentive to them. So far, it was easy to find replacements among the new prisoners. Looking back, I can say that we were too careless. We seldom set our clocks at night: often only the signalmen were awake in order to receive orders or target designations. With several reliable soldiers, the enemy could easily catch our ba tarea by surprise. Fortunately, this did not happen in our sector. As simple as it may seem to do it, getting across the front line for such a raid was definitely not easy. In addition to determination, the highest level of training was required. These "Indian games" were only suitable for movies. So the losses in the heavy artillery battalion were kept at a minimum level even in 1942. We more often thought 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 had to cross the river somewhere further north. I didn’t know in what order we were moving, but some parts of the battalion must have walked in front. I received directions for movement and carried them out without maps and without knowing the general situation. Security measures were not ordered, so they seemed unnecessary. By 03.00 in the morning, we summoned fire to the front and right, on the other side of the Don. It was fought almost exclusively with hand weapons. He did not disturb any of us. This sleepy idyll ended abruptly when a mounted communications delegate galloped up at a gallop and announced 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 a clue. What should we do? It was too risky to move on. Do we need to turn around and run? None of these options made sense. They could lead to fatal consequences, because the Russians could cross the Don and behind us. Our troops were no longer between the Don and the road. Do I need to wait for the commander's orders? Impossible, because we didn't know where he was. Balthazar returned from the hospital. I thought, "Let's wait." So I ordered all vehicles 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 send the guns into the entrance.

I sent observers forward along the road and with all the available people began to equip positions for close defensive combat, where I put two anti-aircraft machine guns removed from the vehicles. Then I sent Lieutenant Lochman and two radio operators ahead so that we could shoot at the enemy when dawn broke. The road remained empty. No one came from the front, no one came from the rear. In the open, we felt lonely and forgotten. We heard the growing fire of hand-held weapons. The fire of hand-held weapons was approaching, and finally our messenger ran towards us, shouting: "The Russians are coming!" We found ourselves in a delicate situation.

I gave instructions to the commanders of the guns to fire direct fire, distributed the carriers of the shells, 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 sleds remained in the hideout with the horses. They can flee if danger gets too close. When the first figures appeared on the road, silhouettes against the background of the morning sky, I hesitated, wanting to be absolutely sure that they were really Russians, and not our retreating soldiers. And he gave an order, which he had heard many times as a gun commander in Poland: "To gun commanders - a distance of a thousand meters - fire!"

The numbness subsided; the lump in my throat disappeared. Four shells came out of the four barrels tightly, like one shot. Even before they had time to reload, my riflemen and machine gunners opened fire. The Russians clearly did not expect to stumble upon our battery. They were taken aback and began to retreat, firing a furious return fire. On their right flank, there was clearly a shooting from personal weapons. These were most likely the remnants of the 11th battery. My shooters went on the attack, jumping out into the open and firing while standing at full height. Lochman ordered them to return. He spotted the retreating Russians and suppressed them - as well as the crossing - by firing from closed 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 received burns, however, already completely healed. He was in good spirits. The vehicles of the 11th battery and the headquarters battery were repulsed. They were still on the road with only minor injuries that were not worth talking about. 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.

A motorized rifle company from the 24th Panzer Division approached from the south for safety reasons. Balthazar thanked them for the offer, but rejected their help as he felt he was in control. I wasn't so sure, but I kept my mouth shut. I would gladly let the infantry comb through everything here instead of our improvisations. But the Russians quickly gained confidence as soon as it dawned on them that they were fleeing the amateur foot soldiers. They quickly regrouped and started the attack again, all we managed was to remove some of the cars from the road. While my battery was again preparing for direct fire, friendly infantry emerged 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 was practically invisible in the open, while a little earlier our people stood here and there in dense groups.

When my "riflemen" regained their courage and tried to join the infantry, they were turned back with a friendly wave of the arm of one of the company commanders. The artillery soldiers can handle the rifle without problems, but they have no tactical infantry training. As a result, we often have there were problems when close combat began, but to be honest, it is worth saying about my people that they always worked professionally with cannons, even under the strongest enemy fire.

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

I had a short talk with Peter Schmidt, who, enduring great pain, expressed his disappointment with Balthazar. He died at the dressing station. The commander of the rangefinder unit, a young but long-serving lieutenant Warenholz, was also killed. Other officers came out of this mess with wounds, while the non - commissioned officers and rank-and-file casualties were relatively few. The main reason for this was that our officers - inexperienced in the general sense of the word - ran back and forth too much time, leading their soldiers. Nobody really had any idea what to do. At first they ran forward in dense groups, shooting while standing, but then they got really scared. The soldiers began to crawl away, and then ran in panic.

Our 10th also had several losses. The Upper Silesian medic, who spoke better Polish than German, lunged forward, and the Russians cut him off as he walked towards the wounded soldier. This soldier has proven his bravery in many rework. He was sensitive and offended when others laughed at his slightly stuttering voice.

Now everything looked bad for our 4th battalion. Why the hell did Balthazar turn back the motorized infantry? Isn't it his business to send the infantry forward, even if no one knows the exact number of Russians who have crossed? Our losses were largely 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 the battery in which I did not know the soldiers. The spies and non-commissioned officers were loyal, but remained on their own minds and did not primarily think about the functionality of the entire battalion.

The deceased commander, a career officer, Chief Lieutenant Bartels, who was several years older than me, left a very good riding horse, powerful, black 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 conformation, but rather weak front legs. There were many things this beast could not do. He was weak for jumping. True, this was no longer important for me, since since the beginning of the Russian campaign in 1941 I have taken part in only a few equestrian competitions. Teufel was not with me for long. For several days I drove it with pleasure, and we would have gotten used to each other, if one day, he did not run away. Horses are always lost. But he was never found. Who would give up a good roaming horse? Maybe Teufel was even stolen. Horse stealing was a popular sport.

Kalach was taken by German troops. The bridgehead on the eastern bank of the Don is also quite 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 harsh 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. Skirmishes arose in different directions.

On sandy ground, it was difficult for the guns to turn around. Then rumors reached us that German tanks had already reached the Volga north of Stal Ingrad. We found several leaflets depicting Stalingrad already surrounded by German tanks. We did not notice anything of the kind, as the Russians fiercely resisted. We saw neither German nor Russian tanks. For the first time, we encountered a large number of Russian planes, even within one day. Their modern single-engine fighters dived at us from low altitudes, fired machine guns and fired missiles at our slowly moving convoy. They also threw bombs.

When the plane attacked us from the side, there was almost no damage. True, once, when two "butchers", firing cannons, entered the axis of our movement, I expected heavy losses. As I rolled off my horse to hug the ground, I felt noise, tears, puffs of dust, and confusion. After a few seconds it was over, nothing else happened. Some vehicles had shrapnel holes. The firebox of the field kitchen turned into a sieve. Fortunately, no one was hurt, the horses were safe too.

Later that day, during the midday rampart on a Soviet collective farm, our battery was badly battered when our own He-111 bombers began to drop bombs in an emergency. No one was paying attention to the slow, low-flying planes, when suddenly bombs began to fall, bursting between the densely packed cars and carts. I saw three pilots jump out of a falling plane, but their parachutes did not open in time. Then the plane hit the ground and exploded. No one paid attention to the burning debris. There we could not do anything. All our attention was taken by the amazed soldiers and horses. Several charges in the ammunition truck caught fire. Flames gushed from the caps of gunpowder like water from a broken hose. They had to be thrown out of the truck so that they would burn out calmly and not blow everything up. The most important thing was to remove them from the shells.

Our driver's forearm was blown off, he lost consciousness. The gruesome spectacles were so common on the Eastern Front that the soldiers gradually became accustomed to ignoring 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 tanker himself: a torn artery with my finger, I stepped on its stump, until someone finally applied a tourniquet and we stopped the blood. Several horses had to be shot.

Material losses were comparatively low. We directed all our anger at the pilots. Couldn't they have dropped their bombs sooner or later, if it really had to be done? And was there any point in dropping bombs, if their plane was already on the verge of collapse? When we examined the crash site, we found nothing but burnt debris. Three pilots were lying 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 garden of the collective farm. We took off their name tags, collected watches and other personal belongings and handed them in with a short report. Now I had the unenviable task of writing letters to RELATIVES. It had to be done, but finding the right words was not easy.

A more objective picture of what had happened only partially owned me. What can be demanded of pilots in trouble? What were they supposed to do when the plane was not in the air? They could try to make a belly landing, but only after getting rid of the cocked bombs. Leftover 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 towards Stalingrad, which was pierced by tank divisions. Along the road we saw German columns smashed into pieces, with many bodies not yet buried. From the flashes of gunfire to the right and left of us, it was clear that the corridor could not be wide. The explosions of enemy shells did not approach us. It was probably only a disturbing fire.

At a close halt, we found a seriously wounded Russian - he was half burned and constantly trembling - in a destroyed tank. He must have come to himself from the cold of the night, but he made no 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 a voice. "Get it over with!" 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 could not have done it myself, even though my mind told me that it would be more humane to finish it off.

One early morning we were driving across a beam. These are very 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 "fox holes" of the telephone operator and radio operator, and several times I had to look for cover there. The general situation was confusing, 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 to the right. and to our left. From time to time I received conflicting orders for march and fighting, which only exacerbated the confusion. As a precaution, I set up an observation post at the nearest height and put a telephone line there from the battery.

From the 1st August, when we were fighting on the road near the Don River, events raced with dizzying speed. The battles began to take their toll from the 4th battalion. We were constantly suffering losses. As strange as it may sound, I was able to sleep peacefully. Despite this, I did not feel as relaxed and confident as others thought. Since my school years, I have learned not to show my feelings. The bruise on my arm was still aching, Hv I did not want to receive an injury badge, 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 vantage point, overlooking the western edge of the sprawling Stalingrad.

A little closer, in front and to the left, was 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 every day. Will our increasingly thinning division be able to meet these expectations? The observation posts and firing positions were refined, 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 positions. We were deeply impressed by this weapon system. The terrible noise produced during their fire had an acoustic effect comparable to the sirens on our "pieces", In the dust, earth and fire, raised into the air after the salvo of the "Stalin's Organ", it seemed that no one could survive. distinguish numerous bunkers of earth and wood on the outskirts of Stalingrad Our infantry slowly and carefully made their way through this line of fortifications.

When they got close enough, assault guns appeared, driving up to the bunkers and grinding their embrasures. The Sturmgeshütz III, heavily armored at the front, no turret, so they had a low profile, were armed with a powerful 75mm cannon. The assault guns were also successful tank destroyers. Therefore, it was wrong to use them instead of tanks. The assault guns silenced most of the bunkers. Where this did not succeed, the work was completed by the infantry with flamethrowers and explosive charges.

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

It was an indestructible fighting spirit, without excessive patriotism with flags. Chauvinism was a rare feeling for us during that war. After all, it was hardly worth expecting from us. 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 it is not so historically true when all the blame for that war and its horrors is placed solely on Hitler.

This time, a common soldier at the front believed in the need for this war. Accustomed to the constant risk and mercenary mindset, he still believed that the best chance of survival came from a minor injury, because he could hardly expect to remain safe and sound for long. Soon I received a request to become a spotter in the forward units, to contact the infantry and try to provide them with fire support in street battles. Nothing else could be seen from the main observation post. We moved towards the city through the flight school. Left and right were damaged aircraft hangars and modern, rustic-style barracks. In front of me, but at a safe distance, endless explosions of "Stalin's organs" flashed.

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

A terrible noise made us take cover. Then a volley of "Stalin's organs" fell on the road. The van disappeared into a cloud of fire. HE was in the very middle of it. "Direct hit," the radio operator said with compassion in his voice, a tone that betrayed relief from having survived the attack. It was reminiscent of the principle of St. Florian - "save my house, burn others." To our absolute surprise, nothing happened. The people, horses, and the wagon remained intact. Taking a breath, the soldier choked 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 the last time for Adolf Hitler, a man who chose to sacrifice an entire army, but not surrender the city. With the loss of Stalin's hail, 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 pretty skeptical person. I never considered any of those who had to follow unconditionally to be "superman".

Of course, it is much easier and simpler to go with the "spirit of the times", even if it is done out of opportunism. On a ghostly morning, lit by fires, our spirits remained vigorous. Towards evening, Roske's regiment made its first dash to the Volga, right through the city center. This position was held until the last day. Our losses were comparatively low.

The neighboring divisions did not want to remain on the tail of the retreating Russians, exceeding the tasks of the day. The divisions to the south withstood the hardest fighting before they could eventually reach the Volga, while the divisions adjacent to us to the north never made it to the river, despite the increasingly violent attacks. To begin with, the 71st Infantry Division held a relatively narrow corridor to the Volga, with mostly undefended flanks. T-34s drove across the streets, and various residential buildings were still occupied by Russians.

Early in the morning we followed the messengers, who had already scouted fairly safe routes among the ruins. Most importantly, they knew which streets the Russians were watching. These streets had to be run in one go, 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 runner alone, the soldier had already crossed the street and disappeared 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 break through to the Volga. I had to move the observation post, and in the area of ​​solid 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. Heavy physical labor was performed by the Khivi (volunteers, mostly Russians). Nearby, desperately trying to survive, lived several Russian families without men of conscription age.

They suffered terribly from the continuous Russian shelling. It was always hard to see them killed or wounded. We tried to help them as much as we could. Our doctors and orderlies tried their best. Thus, 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 basements. Despite this, it took some time until 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 reinforce with railway sleepers. It was a high ground that was difficult to climb. The dark basement looked strange, and few people liked to go there. The Khivi avoided the basement and suffered casualties. 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. They, of course, offered us their service voluntarily, but not because they loved us very much. If they took such a risk, they did it only to avoid the grim fate of the prisoner - a fate that 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 hivis, they were in a sense "semi-free", got enough food from the field kitchens to fill their stomachs, and were well supplied in other respects. They didn't live so badly among us. Some of them must have considered running. There were many opportunities to do this, but few disappeared from the location. Most were friendly, hardworking and loyal to us beyond expectations.

Our artillery support helped the neighboring division. We couldn't get involved in street fighting. There, all the work was done by grenades and machine guns, from one side of the street to the other, from floor to floor, and even from room to room. The Russians fought hard for the ruins of the city - with a tenacity that surpassed their already impressive fighting spirit. They did it so successfully that we could hardly move forward. It is unlikely that it was a matter of their system of political leadership. How would it help them in hand-to-hand combat?

Only now we realized how lucky we were to penetrate deeply into the city center from the first blow and take a wide piece of the Volga coast. I was finally able to direct shells at a large industrial complex in the sector of our neighbor. After carefully aiming the projectiles, our 15-centimeters dug holes in the brick walls. Nevertheless, it was not possible to demolish the building. With only a few attempts, our neighbors were able to break into the plant - before the Russian defenders counterattacked after the artillery barrage. The hand-to-hand combat at the factory complex dragged on for days, but the artillery support had to be reduced - our troops were already inside.

Things were worse in other batteries. Their positions were on the western outskirts of the city. The Russians suspected that they were there and subjected them to continuous shelling. Wood for the construction of dugouts had to be looked for 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 on my arrival to my new commander, I came across a young Hauptmann who had previously served in the Z1st Artillery Regiment.

He greeted me warmly. His battalion command post was located at the vodka factory. The production was mostly destroyed. Apart from the empty vodka bottles, mostly fused into ingots of glass, there was nothing else here that reminded of alcohol. But here, too, there were strong cellars allowing safe cover.

Half of the batteries facing the Volga were well located in the ruins of tall buildings along the steep bank of the river. The command was led by a non-commissioned officer who lived with his men in the basement. The forward observer's post stood not far from us, on the stairwell of an apartment building. We had to be extremely careful, because the Russians with sniper rifles or even anti-tank rifles dived here and there, shooting down many lone soldiers.

It was only when you knew which areas the Russians were watching that you felt relatively safe in the ruins. Over time, much was done to improve safety - warning signs appeared, screens were hung, blocking the snipers' field of view. Sometimes they even dug deep trenches to cross certain streets under surveillance. Nevertheless, it was necessary to navigate with caution, or - even better - to have soldiers with them who were well versed in the terrain.

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

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

During the firefight, the crew did not hear the enemy, because they themselves were making a lot of noise. If enemy mortars were accurately targeted, the calculations noticed it too late. In general, there was little we could do with our light howitzers. When firing at thick brick walls, even our rounds with a delayed action fuse did not penetrate them. The shells with the fuse set on strike only knocked the plaster off the walls.

We fired half and half - with instant detonation and delayed projectiles. When we were lucky, we hit the embrasure or sent a projectile 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 round, 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 asked for artillery support, and we all knew we were safer than they were. I think that's why our bosses agreed to help, even if our help made little difference. Why shouldn't the infantry regiments use much more powerful 15 cm infantry guns, which gave significantly more results, even when firing from closed positions? In my opinion, the infantry did not have the imagination to properly engage their heavy artillery.

When, under cover of darkness, I went to the forward positions of our cannons, I found the soldier 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 had to take part in the action, and went to study the target area. I was looking for the safest position for the weapon. I found a garage with a concrete roof. A gun could be rolled from the side. Then it was possible to shoot through the hole in the place of the door. Lots of all kinds of debris hung and stood along the road, masking our position, but also interfering with the flight of the shells. Yet the position seemed promising to me.

The next morning I tried to categorically dissuade my new commander from using guns in battles for every house. He agreed - in principle - but worried 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, and unsuccessfully tried to persuade the infantry to use their own heavy cannons. But, oddly enough, the infantry tended to use their guns as an artillery battery, rather than concentrating it to engage individual targets. This, in theory, was her main business, to support her shelves during independent actions.

Every now and then receiving the nickname "gypsy artillery", the infantry artillery did not understand its main purpose - to suppress pinpoint 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 don’t 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 the first operation as a novice commander, I really want to be seen there on the front lines. I pointed out that the preparations for the future attack had been done very well.

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

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

The meeting with the commander worked. We reached the garage. Everything was quiet. All the preparations had also been made, but now I had an unpleasant feeling in my stomach. An infantry assault group stood ready to capture the designated home. 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 to prevent the implement from rolling over the concrete floor. Otherwise, every shot would have turned into hard labor. Because of the danger of getting a collapse of debris on the first shot, we lengthened the trigger cord with a piece of rope.

“Okay, come on,” I shouted. - Fire!" A shot - and a burst of dust rose, everything else was in order. The gun stood still. While it was being reloaded, I looked at the panorama again. After that, we started fast shooting. Because of all this dust and explosions in the building we were shooting at, I saw almost nothing. The nose and eyes were clogged with dust. After a few shells, the Russians responded with mortar fire, but for us it was not a threat due to the concrete ceiling. The hellish rumble we created diluted the dry bursts of the mines. “Come on, no use,” said the Hauptmann. - Why? - asked the commander of the gun. We have never fired 40 shells faster than today. Our fire didn't actually damage the building very much. “Let's finish what we came here for,” I said. And we did just that.

After firing the last round, we pulled the howitzer out of the building to another safe position. The Russians now know where we are shooting from and will definitely destroy this position tomorrow. We were finally able to rest, take a sip of vodka and smoke under the protection of the basement. I almost did not smoke, did not get any pleasure from 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 hurriedly prepared attack without artillery preparation was more successful. For us, this was the last time we used a howitzer in street battles in Stalingrad. Now we needed to pull the howitzer back to the position at the bathhouse. At night, a front end, harnessed by six horses, will be hooked up to it. The Russians, if they succeed, will not be allowed to find out anything. The first thing we did was put the gun behind the houses so that we could attach the front end by the light of the 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 dealt with this problem soon, but it cost us precious time. A much more clumsy heavy howitzer would have to be fiddled with a lot more. The experience of all the getting stuck, gained during my service in the 10th battery, was now justified: now the soldiers saw me as an expert. After the depot, the terrain sharply went uphill, and the horses lacked strength. We had to take short breaks, prop up the wheels and start harnessing the cables. By the first rays of dawn, we finally finished the climb and left the cannon on a hill among the houses out of sight of the Russians, so that later we could finally put it in position. If we had not been able to do all this the first time, the weapon would have to be abandoned. Finally the front, the horses and the soldiers left to come again the next night. Of course, if the Russians do not find our weapon in the meantime and destroy it with artillery fire. In war, you have to hope for luck.

Two of my Russian cannons near the Volga have earned a clear point to their account. Almost every day at sunset, the Russians sent down the river a gunboat equipped with two towers from the T-34 to quickly fill our positions with shells. Although it did not do much damage, it was a source of concern. My gunners fired at her many times. This time we took aim 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 stopped at the Volga island and was able to return fire. The cannons responded instantly. The boat sank quickly.

Because of the remarkableness 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, were delighted. The soldier also needs luck - and only success counts. The achievements of the unlucky do not count. While the situation in our division's sector gradually improved when the last buildings and streets with high casualties were taken, to the north of us everything looked much paler.

In particular, the Russians fought mercilessly for large industrial complexes - the Dzerzhinsky tractor plant, the Krasnye barrikady arms plant and the Krasny Oktyabr steel plant and others - the Russians fought mercilessly, and they could not take them. Both the attackers and the defenders were hopelessly locked together in ruined workshops, where the Russians, who knew the situation better, had the advantage. Even the special sapper units put into operation could not turn the tide.

However, Hitler had already boasted: Stalingrad was taken. To take the whole city, we needed a large fresh force, but we no longer had such. We bit off more than we could chew. On the Caucasian front, events also did not go as we planned. Germany had reached the limit of its capabilities, and the enemy had not yet weakened - on the contrary, thanks to American and allied assistance, 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 fresh parts would replace us in the coming year. It was obvious that our small divisions needed a break and reorganization. Everyone who was still alive was cheerful and dreamed of spending the summer in France. The vacation system, suspended for the duration of the campaign, is working again. Why didn't he curry favor with the big ranks? there was something wrong with that. I wasn’t so sure about the spies. He was a professional soldier who knows 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 a thing or two while serving under the command of Kulman, whose cunning spy tried to get me around and Kulman 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 are 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 rations of an ordinary soldier on a battery. The same was true for groceries. Front-line soldiers had the opportunity to supplement their diet - personal or group - whenever they wanted. And this despite the fact that in the steppe around Stalingrad nothing could be found, except for a couple of melons, and even then not at this time of year.

Many Russian houses had a large brick stove in the center, running through several floors, heating the adjoining rooms and used for cooking. Windows, equipped with additional glass for the winter, did not open. Sawdust was poured between the layers of glass for thermal insulation. Only faint daylight entered the rooms. There were also problems with hygiene. In extreme cold there was little water.

Laundry and personal hygiene were kept to a minimum. Nevertheless, the inhabitants of the house seemed to us clean. They did their best for us and were friendly. They made delicious food from our supplies, so that was enough for themselves. They were mainly interested in our "commisbrot" And canned food. We won the trust of Russian children with chocolates 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 bugs - the one who slept on the table. We decided that this is fair - he already took the best place.

The life of a soldier was not the most important thing for Hitler when he thought about the future. Goering was largely to blame for the catastrophe in Stalin's castle. He could not fulfill his promise to airlift as many supplies as was needed - and HE knew this even before he promised. He degenerated into a pompous, drug-drugged babble. Climbing with Bode into the Ju-52 transport plane at the Rostov airfield, I was forced to squeeze past a large, securely fastened box with a paper sticker "Christmas greetings to the commander of the Stalingrad fortress, General Oberst Paulus." I found the inscription tasteless and inappropriate. To me, the fortress is a carefully constructed defensive position with safe havens and adequate defensive weaponry, as well as ample supplies. None of this happened in Stalingrad! In general, Stalingrad was a mess, which should have been put in order as soon as possible. I think there was booze and a high-ranking snack in the drawer ... for good reason. Now, when the surrounded troops were starving, this broad gesture was out of place, was impermissible, and even provoked disobedience.

Several hours passed in anticipation, seasoned with cautious curiosity. The Junkers flew over the snow-covered fields, slowly gaining altitude, then falling down like an elevator, repeating it all over and over. I can't say my stomach liked it. I'm not used to flying an airplane. On my 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 Tatsi. The Russians recently rolled us out with their damned tanks — the entire airfield and everything around us. But now we have recaptured it. " Soon we landed at Morozovsky, at another supply airfield. The Russians were close here too. Artillery fire and the barking of tank guns could be heard. On the airfield, bombs were hung from bombers and fighters. I heard someone say: "They will quickly jump up and unload over there, on Ivan." In the distance, tears were heard. 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 that, especially after seeing these confident troops. My belief that we would overcome this crisis grew stronger. The truth, unknown to me at the time, would have plunged me into despondency and, most likely, would have kept me from flying to Stalin's city. I expected the 6th Panzer Division, with its excellent weapons, to join the Panzer Group of Gotha for the attack on Stalingrad. But they were soon turned into a "fire brigade" in order to eliminate the breakthroughs of the Russians in the Tatsinskaya area, aimed at Rostov.

Desperate battles were raging along the Chir. The Panzer Corps of Colonel General Hoth, with comparatively weak armored 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 6th Army's last hope for liberation was lost. Death became imminent. Goth's tanks were all needed on the menacing southwestern front. In fact, Stalingrad would have surrendered already before Christmas. My confidence at the time may seem naive, and it probably was - 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 lunch, we tried to fly out again: this time, in the composition of three Xe-111s, we flew under cover of varnishes to the Don. Over the river, the clouds suddenly disappeared, and Russian fighters immediately fell on us. “Back to the clouds, and - to Morozovskaya, that's enough for today!” - said the pilot. That day another opportunity to fly to Stalingrad was discovered: refueling and reloading of a large group of He-111 with supply containers under its belly began. This time the flight went smoothly. I saw Don, flares were occasionally raised here and there. Because of the artillery fire, it was perfectly visible where the front line was 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.

The Russian plane slipped between the descending Heinkels and dropped bombs on the runway. The left wheel of my "Heinkel" fell into a crater in the frozen ground, and the pilot could hardly lift the car into the air again. Now it was about belly landing, but not here, at the local airfield Nursery inside the encirclement ring, but in Morozovskaya. Who knows what will happen if you try to sit here. The other wheel, or rather its strut, is jammed.

It was not produced manually. - Heck! - said the pilot. - Better to jump with a parachute! - They discussed the possibility of skydiving. As a passenger, I 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 sat down in Morozovskaya, it already seemed to me that everything was in order and that the precautions were just reinsurance. “Clean the lower gondola, put on the steel helmet, rest your back against the outer wall.” Then the plane tilted to the left, hit the ground and broke.

I sat in a daze until I felt a jet of cold air going into the fuselage from outside, and I heard a voice: “Is everything all right? Come out! " The entire left fender, including the engine, was torn off, the lower nacelle was crumpled, and the front glass dome was shattered. I grabbed my belongings, including the courier mail bag, and got out. A fire engine and an ambulance flew up, but we were unharmed, and the plane did not catch fire.

As expected, the Heinkel slid on the ice and then broke. On soft ground, this would not have happened. 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. I was just tired and went to sleep on the table in the room adjacent to the flight 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 my sleep. Anxiety, shouts, slamming doors, the noise of engines: “Morozovskaya is being evacuated! The Russians are on the way! " A frenzied activity boiled outside. Everything that could be tied up and thrown into the bodies of trucks. I picked up some delicacies, including French cognac, and started asking about the next flight to Stalingrad.

Stalingrad? Fuck you with your Stalingrad. Nobody else will fly from here. We have enough anxiety here already. What the hell do you want in Stalingrad? one officer asked. - And what should I do now? - Either jump into a truck, or look for a plane, but planes are all for pilots, so you probably won't get lucky. Someone else yelled at me: - Where? It doesn't matter where! Get out of here - or do you want to arrange a grand reception for the Russians? I ran aimlessly here and there, did not recognize anyone and did not find a single clear answer. Another pilot reported at the flight control point. - 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 am flying on the "terminal", he has an open cabin.

We landed in Rostov; Rostov again. How to get to Stalingrad now? When passes were now delivered via Salsk. Where is this Salsk located? How to get there? An antique Ju-86 with engines converted from diesel fuel to gasoline was carrying spare parts to Salsk and could take me too. Where did Bode go? Did he fly to Stalingrad? Has he returned to the battery? Is the battery still in the old place? In Salsk, squadrons of Ju-52 were based. 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 the bag with the courier mail made my words persuasive.

When I was trying to find a place in the big barracks to keep warm, one pilot informed me that he wanted to take me to the Nursery. A large group of Ju-52 was going to break through into the encirclement after dark. In one of them, full of fuel barrels, I found a seating place behind a transparent hood, to the side of the radio operator's seat. I threw my grocery bag next to me, which contained the messenger bag. Chta has long lost all relation to the latest news. Don appeared below us. We began our descent to the Nursery airfield.

The radio operator was nervous and pointed to a small hole in the fuselage: Two-centimeter anti-aircraft gun, ours. ... ... damn ... damn !!! he shouted to the pilot. - One such in a barrel of fuel, and we will fry! he replied. - Now what? I asked, not hoping that they would answer me. The plane rolled along the ground. Again the Russians slipped through our formation and dropped bombs on the runway. Our anti-aircraft guns fired into the spaces between us. But in the end everything went around. I finally "arrived happily" in the Stalingrad "cauldron." The plane ran to the edge of the airfield. The hatches were opened, and the crew began to push the barrels of fuel out of the plane. I climbed onto the wing, said goodbye to them and looked around. Ragged, poorly dressed wounded soldiers stumbled across the strip towards us. 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 forever!" were the last that I heard from the pilots. The engines whined and the plane started to move. They took off on their own initiative, without any instructions or contacting the flight control center. The plane disappeared into the darkness, and the screaming wounded, who more than once tried to grab onto the plane, also disappeared. Several of them crawled on all fours in the snow, swearing and whimpering. They were dirty, unkempt, overgrown with beards, emaciated, in blood-soaked headbands, wrapped in rags like gypsies and completely forgot about discipline.

I wandered around and finally found a deep dugout with an entrance covered with a raincoat. 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 remnants of food. They greeted me with hostility. "Where? Where?" When I described my adventures, they laughed at me.

You must be completely nuts, Herr Oberleutenant. Now, like the rest of us, you are up to your ears in shit - up to your ears. Return tickets are allowed only for the wounded - without a head, without a leg, and so on, and at the same time, we still need to find a plane for ourselves! - said one staff - corporal. There was no violation of command in his words - rather, regret. It was just a disastrous end to the vacation. As good as it was in the beginning, so bad it was in the end. At least the Nursery was in total chaos. No one gave clear orders to anyone, and the helpless, desperate wounded lay and wandered anywhere.

How are our tanks, have they already made their way? “It was in the early morning of December 29, 1942. Our tanks had gotten into 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 did not have enough strength to achieve what they wanted. Despite this, the disaffected soldiers in the bunker did not expect the 6th Army to fall. Bombs exploded incessantly outside.

I asked myself over and over again if it was smart to return to Stalingrad. I tried to get rid of 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 into the light from the dark dugout, I could hardly open my eyes. The eerie night is over. There were German fighters in the sky, but no Russian planes were to be seen. I said goodbye to the owners and went to the control room. There, everything was moving the axis at a run.

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 general hubbub - heels clicked, hands were thrown up sharply, saluting. The mail was accepted - but I think it was of no value. I was told to wait. Listening to snatches of telephone conversations, I realized that now they are trying to create new "alarmmenhauten" out of nothing.

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

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 bathhouse, naturally, I was greeted with many cheers. Bode arrived many days before me. He did everything on the first try and told the others that if “Old” didn’t arrive soon, he wouldn’t appear at all. This means that he is 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 brought back had long been divided and eaten. They were honestly divided, 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 was “resurrected,” everything was returned to me through the orderly. I was grateful to them. In war, people think and act more practical. In any case, I was even glad to be in a "familiar environment."

Soon I went to the observation post, taking my pack of groceries, because there they had not received anything from Bode’s knapsacks. The reason for this was called the fact that since my absence there, and so they received special rations, allegedly for being in greater danger. They eat a lot more in the front line, I thought, before the food gets to 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 huskies to the observation post - and therefore to himself.

During normal hostilities, soldiers at an observation post are required more than at firing positions or even in a train. But here, in Stalingrad, my NP lived more comfortably. To avoid dissatisfaction, you should not have pets, especially when supplies are severely limited. Despite the fact that I put on weight during the holidays, from the first day I was surrounded by the local hungry ration. The soldiers on the battery had been living like this for a month. I didn’t let go of the bag of food, because I had to think carefully about how to separate it.

My first order was absolutely equal food for all the soldiers of the battery. Then I reported on my assumption of duties to the battalion commander and also notified the regiment commander of my engagement. Although they greeted me with joy, the regimental commander wanted to know why I had not turned to 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 indicated that I did not know about it, and besides, going on vacation, 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 became a little kinder and listened to my story. I told about the family of my future wife and promised that I would turn to him for permission to marry when the day of marriage was planned.

The situation at 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 the 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 was standing far to the east, in safe positions in the city. Most of the horses and sleds were not even inside the "cauldron." They were sent far, west of the Don, to the area for keeping horses, because they were not needed for trench warfare. Last winter we had a lot of bad experiences with horses. Now they were well looked after and fed on the collective farm.

On the western side of the city, in a gully, our wagon train is located, with a spis, a field kitchen and a treasurer. Few of the horses available here were used to carry ammunition or move guns. After being well fed on vacation, I now suffered from hunger all the time - like everyone else. I donated my bag of food for the benefit of the spontaneously gathered New Year celebration, each on the battery got a little bit. This gesture was well received, although each got so little. All those who were not on duty 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 this is not all. Since there were not enough shells, we did not answer, but the evening was ruined anyway. On January 1, the battalion commander gave the officers a reception with schnapps. There was no other drink at these festivities. I was the only one from our battery at the reception, because after the invitation the lieutenant received other tasks.

The drunkenness was terrible. In the end I was just drunk on a sausage. Usually I can fit a lot. And much harder than drinking, it was in the morning to communicate with the adjutant - my soldiers in the morning brought me to him on a hand sled. They've never seen me like this. But the first annoyance was soon replaced by sadness when a bomb hit the staircase at the distillery 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 were killed.

The next day, the battalion received 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 heimatshus (injury that warrants sending home), but it was only a scratch. I didn't even have to go to the doctor. The new Hauptmann was a pleasant guy, smooth and friendly, if a little naive, perhaps. When he soon visited me at my wonderful CP, he complained that he was hungry, and without embarrassment asked for something for breakfast along with the portion of vodka that I offered him. I was stunned: although under normal circumstances it was quite normal, in an environment where everyone was starving, this was out of the question.

From a niche near my sleeping place I took out a piece of sausage and a piece of bread for him and ordered the messenger to set the table for us. It wasn't much. Hauptmann ate it all quickly and with a healthy appetite, and when we drank some more vodka, he asked why I didn’t eat with him. "You eat my daily ration - and what do I have after that?" was my rather impolite answer. There were no guest rations on the second battery. For diplomatic reasons, I couldn't eat with him anyway. The soldiers waited to see how the case would end.

Our new commander was not rude. He did not react in any way and ate what lay in front of him. We talked a little about this and that and parted in pretty good spirits. That same night, the messenger brought some food from him - exactly as much as he ate in the morning. Since then, he has never eaten on batteries, which had 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 well.

The post office was still working. I wrote letters many and often and received letters from home. Suddenly, unrest broke out on the battery. Until now, there was 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 or ammunition. And yet 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, field kitchens and basic communications equipment. We even got some shells with them, so now there were 40 shells per gun. More shells were not expected to be delivered. One hundred and sixty shells were better than nothing, but with that many you couldn't conquer Stalingrad.

We had the following rule: according to proven guidelines, 120 rounds 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 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 in the front lines began long ago, but the mixing of different types of troops and different weapons more likely weakened our ability to resist than strengthened. When it comes to a fight, you need reliable neighbors who will not leave you.

The strenuous 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 said 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. And yet it was better than waiting for the weather by the sea 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 disintegration. The improvised "fire brigades" had to be transported to the steppe in trucks.

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

The front was an imaginary line just across the snow. It has been declared the "main line of defense" on which forward infantry units can lean when needed. Most of the soldiers did not have winter clothing. They wore thin greatcoats and leather boots, in which every bone was frozen. They dug holes in the snow and, where possible, built snow huts to keep warm.

Officers - helpless and mostly unharmed - were rarely assigned to them. The soldiers did not know each other, did not have personal relations with each other, and all confidence in their neighbor disappeared. As soon as the advancing Russian soldiers encountered serious resistance, they simply called in their T-34s and fired at the hastily built fortified points, blowing them to pieces. Those who survived were ground by tank tracks. The scattered remains stained 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 put out in the cold, they had no bullets, and - for better or worse - they depended on the mercy of the superior Russian forces. 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 of the fired infantrymen 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 carts, all without command, in small and large groups, were striving for Stalingrad. They were looking for salvation in the basements of destroyed houses. There were already hundreds of wounded and sick soldiers there. There was no way for the military police to pull those fit for battle out of this mixed mass and send them back to the front. Only in order to find food, these so-called "rats" left their holes.

The commanders of the intact units — like me — were ordered over and over to send men into the infantry. We couldn't refuse. And all we could do was to send not the best, but, on the contrary, the weak and undisciplined, which are in any part. I felt sorry for them, of course, but my duty was to keep the battery operational for as long as possible. A successful breakout from the encirclement was no longer possible. The Russians were constantly squeezing a ring around us. The Russians tirelessly 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, at 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 madmen who volunteered to escape the daily hunger on the battery. These were true mercenaries - they were difficult to kill. They were good guys and almost always succeeded. They even knew how to get a little benefit out of a big catastrophe.

In the confusion of retreat, they often managed to find food and drink. They picked up many useful things from the broken equipment, abandoned on the roadside. Unlike "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 held out in battles longer than others. Our inexperienced soldiers went to the Volga - where nothing happened - for carefree service. The officers and soldiers tested in battle gathered and went west to meet the Russian onslaught. Thus, our division commander was able to save the division and prevent it from starting to crumble. All this raised our morale and prevented unnecessary losses, as was often the case in hastily assembled Alarmenheiten.

We lost the airfield near the Nursery on January 14, 1943. This practically stopped the already inadequately meager supply. There was no more fighter escort of transport aircraft. The skies over Stalingrad were controlled by Russian aircraft. We were dumped supply containers with ammunition, food and medicine. Naturally, this minuscule was not nearly enough to supply the army with the minimum amount of food so as not to starve to death. Many of the containers dropped by parachutes missed their targets and fell next to the Russians - a common case. Others that could be found did not surrender as ordered, and those who found them kept them with them.

The "cauldron" was now shrinking every day. The Army leadership has tried to keep our morale alive with quick promotions and medals. Despite all the superiority of the enemy, the army in these days of destruction made a simply inhuman effort. Every day we could hear how one or another 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 multitude of leaflets dropped on us that the Russians had offered the army to surrender. Dependent on von Manstein and Hitler for his decisions, Paulus refused - as expected. What he felt and what he thought personally remained unknown. We did not have the feeling that we were being led in every way by a superior army commander, although everyone felt that we now needed energetic leadership.

In the bitter cold of the steppes around Stalin's castle, 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 “centerboard posts”. Maybe we ourselves had to dig in the ruins of the city in order to get the best protection from shelling and from the enemy. In my opinion, too little could be done to protect our "citadel". the encircled army now had three options: 1) to break through as soon as possible; 2) resist with all concentration as much as necessary to weaken the opponent; 3) surrender as soon as resistance becomes useless.

Paulus chose none of these three, although he, as the commander of the army, was in charge of his soldiers. When I went to visit my half-battery on the Volga for the last time, I looked into the basement of a department store on Red Square, where in September the battalion headquarters 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 bit. He believed that the air in the "hero's basement" was not suitable for us. For me, there was something unreal about running around the department store.

The strangest rumors still roamed the remains of the city: a German armored fist was preparing to break through the encirclement from the outside. This was the reason for the feverish attacks of the Russians and their proposals for surrender. All we had to do was hold out for a few more days. Where were these tanks supposed to come from, if in December they could not even open the "cauldron"? Everyone rushed between hope and despair. At this time, the last airfield at Gumrak was lost. From the steppe and from Gumrak, endless carts 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 service departments, gave the impression that bus routes had started up in the city. Columns of trucks were carrying food, alcohol, cans of gasoline and cartridges to the city basements - obviously some kind of unregistered exchange funds. Well-fed treasurers in neat uniform kept a keen eye on their treasures and disappeared only when a Russian plane appeared over the traffic stream. “Where did they get all this and why are they just taking it all now?” - the soldiers wondered with a mixture of envy and bitterness, because they hadn't had anything for weeks. Housing in the city was becoming a rarity. In a spacious basement under my command post we have there was still a place to receive several 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, with sunken cheeks, filthy and infested with lice, the soldiers waddled slowly in the city. Some did not carry weapons, although they looked combat-ready. The collapse of the army was clearly not far off. The Russians fought their way from the south to the Tsarina. Despite the order not to surrender, there have already been several local surrenders. Mostly frightened headquarters - but there were also enough remnants of combat units that surrendered without resistance. There were cases when division commanders surrendered their sectors. Our resistance no longer made sense. Paulus hardly managed anything at all. He stayed in his department store basement, sat and waited.

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

To the south of the Queen, he climbed a railroad embankment and took a loaded rifle from the soldier accompanying him. Standing up to his full height, like a target on a shooting range, he fired at the attacking Russians. Von Hartmann continued to shoot for a while, until an enemy bullet overtook him. He was lucky, and he was not wounded, which would have turned the 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, other officers fired their pistols. Nobody believed that he would survive in a Russian prisoner of war 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 wildfire throughout the division. What he did was perceived from two positions. But regardless of the point of view, it was an impressive way of leaving. His successor over the past few days can credit himself with the fact that the division did not fall apart from top to bottom like the others. In the short term, he even somehow managed to raise our morale.

The battery was now flooded with replenishments, but it was difficult to feed them. The heavy batteries of the 4th battalion, primarily the remnants of the 1st battery, in which I served for a long time, were looking for a haven with us. They were scattered by the Russians as they tried unsuccessfully to defend the western edge of the city. Spies had to get into the merchandise from our hotel business, a second horse was hammered, and God knows where the two sacks of grain came from. The troops now had no supplies.

Something could be obtained, but very rarely, at the army distribution points. Rare supply containers and sacks of bread that fell from the sky remained with those who found them. We could only get angry when they found toilet paper or even condoms. In the current situation, we obviously 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 separately. There were still a few Russian Khivis in our positions, they were fed the same way as we were. We hadn't watched them for a long time, and they had many opportunities to escape. In the face of the Russian divisions that surrounded us, at least one of them disappeared to merge with the Red Army.

Perhaps they expected a more sad fate for themselves. In the Stalinist army, human life meant practically nothing. Now, in the final stages of the battle, the Russian civilians emerged from their hideouts. The old men, women and children whom we tried to evacuate at the beginning of the battle somehow miraculously survived. They wandered the streets and begged without success. We had nothing to give them.

Even our soldiers were on the brink 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 Russians deserting to our "cauldron". What did they expect from the Germans? The fighting was clearly so fierce for them that they did not believe in an imminent victory or fled from the brutal treatment of their superiors. Conversely, the German soldiers fled to the Russians, convinced by leaflets and so-called passes. Nobody expected anything good from the Russian captivity.

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

Surrender was strictly forbidden, but who listened to orders in this turmoil? Unlikely! The power of the army commander was no longer taken seriously. This is probably what made Paulus make a decision. Nothing happened. Horse meat soup, which was distributed on my battery, drove the "rats" out of their holes. At night, they tried to attack the kitchen staff. We drove them out under the threat of weapons and since then have posted a sentry at our "goulash-cannon" (field kitchen). We ate only part of the second horse, and the third loitered around the first floor of the bathhouse like a ghost.

From fatigue and hunger, she often fell. Soldiers who lagged behind their own were poured a cup of soup only if they had rifles with them and they showed the will to fight. On January 29, I again went to the Volga. My "Russian half-battery" was included in the infantry company. The people were in good spirits, the command took care of everything - but they, of course, saw the inevitable come. Someone talked about escaping on the Volga ice in order to get a roundabout way to the German positions. But where are 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 on the ice unnoticed - but then what? Probably 100 kilometers of travel through deep snow - weakened, no food, no roads.

Nobody would have survived in this. The loners didn't have a chance. Several people have tried, but I have not heard of any who have succeeded. The commander of the 1st battery, Hauptmann Ziveke and the 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 downed Xe-111. Directly opposite him, in the basement of a department store called Univeggmag, sat Paulus and his headquarters. There was also the command post of our 71st Infantry Division. What were the generals thinking and doing in this basement? Probably they didn’t do anything. They just waited. Hitler forbade surrender, and the continued resistance by this hour became more and more useless.

I walked towards the liquor factory, where my battalion's command post was still. I passed the ruins of a theater, now only slightly reminiscent of the portico of a Greek temple. The old Russian barricades were rebuilt to defend against the Russians. The final battle was already raging in the city itself. A strange atmosphere reigned in the basement of a liquor factory. 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.

The miserable remnants of the first battalion remained, and the "homeless" soldiers found temporary shelter there. The tables were lined 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 fat accumulated on vacation. Others starved for a month and a half longer than me. I was invited to join the booze and I willingly agreed. - do you still have a battery or is it 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 defeated units, the construction of positions and the fact that now I 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 is better to salt your remaining battery, then you will have something left. Now it is such a rarity that it needs to be shown in a museum for posterity, such a cute 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 lovely Fraulein Bride? Does she know she's already a widow? Ha ha ha ... - Sit down! Everything, to the last drop - to the bottom, and three times "Sieg Heil" in honor of Adolf the Magnificent, the maker of widows and orphans, the greatest commander of all time! Head up! Let's drink, we will not see this youth again ...

I was already starting to wonder why their pistols are on the table next to the glasses. - As we all drink, and - bang, - the commander of the second battalion jabbed his right index finger in the forehead. Bang - and the end of the great thirst. Oberleite Nantes Wuester 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 warm.

The candles had consumed all the oxygen, and the basement stank of sweat. I was hungry. I wanted to get out of this hole! Gerd Hoffman intercepted me at the exit: - Come on, Wester, stay. We're not going to give up. We will die like that, even if the Russians don't knock us out of here. We promised each other that we would get it over with ourselves.

I tried to dissuade him and invited him to come to my battery. The drunks in the basement won't notice he's gone. As long as my battery could fight, I didn't make any decisions about the future. I still didn't know 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 a special heroism to blow your brains out, ”I told him, but Gerd stayed with his company. Unlike me, the opinion and behavior of his superiors has always been a holy revelation for him. Going out into the fresh air, I finally felt better. On the way to the battery, the thought flashed through my head: they would soon get too drunk to shoot themselves. But they were still able to commit suicide (Oberst von Strumpf shot himself on January 27, 1943, the rest of the officers were listed as 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 suppressed conversation on this topic with the guardmaster. 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 dependent on others. I had plans, goals, ideas, and I finally wanted to 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 gunner received a shrapnel in the stomach and was brought into the bathhouse. The doctors injected him with pain relievers. he had no chance to survive, not in these conditions. He would have died at the dressing station, with normal medical assistance. If only my gunner could die quickly and without suffering, I thought to myself. After lunch, the Russian shelling ended. Russian tanks attacked us from the west. To our right was a mound over one of the city's ponds; an infantry unit, which I did not know, settled there. There was no one to our left. They have already surrendered there. The Russian cannon drove out and took up position directly in front of us. We drove them off with several shells. A tank drove up and fired a cannon, the shell hit somewhere near the bathhouse. Not receiving any order, non-commissioned officer Fritze and his men jumped to the howitzer and opened fire on the tank.

Even the Russian Khivi worked as a loader. In a 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 round. I watched 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 from the cannon. Our direct hit did not pierce the armor. Armor-piercing shells ran out, and conventional high-explosive armor did not penetrate. 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 people have fought so far.

The victorious gunners rejoiced almost like children and for a while 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 losses on our side. 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 light howitzers LFH-16 had taken up position to our left. they also had a few shells left. I offered them to the soldiers who were not engaged in combat, a refuge in the bathhouse. Night fell and the fighting died down. During the day, we barely managed to survive. There were only 19 shells left, and as a precaution I ordered the destruction of two guns. One had already been damaged, although it could fire. We had kilogram explosive charges for each weapon, they had to be shoved 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 appeared in position, intent on stopping the second detonation. He was worried that the Russians would notice the destruction of the materiel and could take out their anger on 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 I need 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 were blown up.

He ordered me that same night to recapture the embankment near the pond. This hill dominated the entire district. So he took over my battery in order to have complete control over 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 fight off what the infantry could not hold back in battle. So I indifferently promised that we would take care of it. I gathered 60 people, looked for suitable non-commissioned officers and started.

“None of this will come of it,” said the spies, but did not refuse to volunteer. The full moon shone brightly from the cloudless sky. The snow that remained where there were no traces of Russian shells creaked under the boots and illuminated the area as 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 shelter, we decided to split into two groups to trick the Russians. So far, they have not paid any attention, although they clearly noticed something. Or were they not on top? "Well 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 the spies. When no one else followed us, we returned to the shelter. The whole crowd stood there, no one moved. All were silent. - What the ... didn’t have enough heart? 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? This morning we had no need to knock out Ivan's tanks, ”I objected. At that very moment, I felt that my authority was beginning to melt. Even threats could not convince anyone to crawl out from behind the bushes. - We will remain with the guns and will even shoot back, but we will no longer play infantry. Well, it's enough.

It was clear to everyone that January 31st would be the last day of "freedom" in the encirclement. After talking with the guardmaster, I handed out all the rest of the food to the soldiers and said that there would be nothing more. Everyone could do with their share as they saw fit. The last horse was still hobbling about the room above the basement, now and then falling and then getting back to its feet. It was too late to score it. The clatter of hooves on the floor made me uncomfortable. I ordered the destruction of all equipment except weapons and radios. Our wounded man moaned and screamed in pain because the medic had run out of pain medication. It would be better if this poor fellow died, it would be better if he were silent. Compassion dies when you feel helpless. The unknown was unbearable. Sleep was out of the question. We tried listlessly to play skat, but it didn't help. Then I did the same as the others - I sat down and ate as much of the food I got. This calmed me down. It seemed useless to distribute the rest of the food for the future.

At one point, the sentry brought three Russian officers. One of them, the captain, spoke decent German. Nobody knew where they came from. I was called upon to end the fighting. We must collect food, provide ourselves with water, and mark the positions with white flags before the light of day. The offer was reasonable, but we didn't make a decision. It was clearly useless to continue the resistance. I had to report to the lieutenant colonel and an unfamiliar battery in the neighborhood. The lieutenant colonel had clearly 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 thrown out the Russians without a grain of salt, if his infantry in the last battle showed itself as it should. 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,” did not leave me any other choice. This version also helped me save face in front of the soldiers. As usual, we tuned the radio to news from Germany, and besides that, we heard Goering's speech on January 30, on the tenth anniversary of the takeover of power by the National Socialists.

It was all the same exaggerated theatrical pout of cheeks with pompous phrases that did not seem 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 in the same way as these ancient Greeks! Stalingrad was turned into a myth even before the "heroes" were safely killed. “The general stands shoulder to shoulder with a simple soldier, both with rifles in their hands. They fight to the last bullet. They are dying for Germany to live. "

Turn off! This ass left us to die, and he will pour out cardboard phrases and fill his belly. He can't do anything himself, a fat, pompous parrot. In a rage, a lot of abuse was expressed, something even against Hitler. Yes - victims of irresponsible and thoughtless decisions, now we had to listen to eulogies addressed to us. It was impossible to imagine great tactlessness. Goering's promise to supply the "boiler" by air led to the rejection of the breakthrough. The entire army was sacrificed due to his stupid ignorance.

"Where a 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, but he staggered after only ten. At first we all fell under Hitler's charm. He wanted to unite all the German-speaking lands 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. I could not give him, and myself, not the slightest hope. This day will be the end of everything. This soldier was a well-mannered reservist with a serious education. Many were annoyed 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 pickaxes. All documents were burned. Our wounded man finally died. I put on boots, which were a little too big to put on more socks under them. Reluctantly, I parted with my felt boots, but it was easier to move that way. Then I fell asleep on a sheepskin under a leather coat that my parents 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 it were with me on vacation. Now it will surely fall into the hands of the Russians, just like the Leica camera. It's strange what trivial things you think about while struggling to survive. Ruth - well, nothing will come of it. I could be killed at any moment. Let death be as quick and painless as possible. My spis helped get rid of suicidal thoughts. I was too scared of it anyway - although suicide itself is considered a form of cowardice. I did not blame the gentlemen 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 him, I hit him. To 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 walked over to the side window to see better in the morning light. The Russians fled through our positions, and I opened fire. Now the gunners began to run out of the dugouts at the firing positions with their hands up. The old non-commissioned officer fired aimlessly into the air with a pistol. A short burst from a Soviet machine gun finished him off. Was it courage or despair? Who will say now.

The gun positions were lost. My gunners have been taken prisoner. The bathhouse, like a "fortress", will last a little longer. All she now had to offer was safety. The battery to our left was also captured. The battery commander, a fat man who had risen from a recruit to a Hauptmann, with several soldiers made his way to our bathhouse. The embrasures came in handy. We continuously fired at any movement outside. Some shooters made notches on the butts for every Russian killed. What were they thinking about? Or is it necessary to flatter your ego, remembering then old victories? What is this all for? There was no sense in that.

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

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

It was minus twenty, but the frost was not felt. In the basement, warmed-up machine guns and machine guns briefly revived, then cooled down and again refused. The infantry was rumored to have 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 was now pouring past us into the city. As everything calmed down, the cold began to pester again. I took people off the loopholes so that everyone could go down to the heated basement and warm up with strong coffee.

I still had some crumbs left for breakfast. I looked at the Khivi at some of the loopholes that were shooting at their fellow citizens. We paid no attention to them anymore. Khivi could have disappeared during the night. What is going on inside them? There are enough weapons and ammunition around. And yet they remained loyal to us, knowing full well that they had no chance of survival 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 came, began to show off, although he was only a guest in our bunker. He gave the impression of a person who wants to win the war. He wanted to break out of the bathhouse to join other German troops who were still fighting. I indifferently accepted his offer, although it was worth looking for the opposing units 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 my face painfully. We climbed back into the building, but not all were able to return. Several people lay outside, dead and wounded. Then several Russian tanks approached and began to hammer at the bathhouse. Thick walls withstood shelling. How long will they last? Time passed frighteningly slowly. The T-34s came closer and were now firing machine guns directly at the embrasures. It was the end. Whoever approached the loophole was instantly killed by a bullet in the head. Many died. In all this confusion, Russian envoys suddenly appeared at the building. Before us stood a lieutenant, a bugler and a soldier with a small white flag on a pole that reminded me of the Jungfolk flag in the Hitler Youth.

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

Probably the Hauptmann wanted to die a hero's death. But he would have dragged all of us with him. Bending down, the three of us jumped out and disappeared among the ruins. We needed time to catch our breath. I haven't even forgotten my leather coat. The Leica was in the tablet. I shot until the very end. The photographs would be of great documentary value. We looked back at the bathhouse. The fight ended there. The defenders went out in a chain through the cordon of the Russians. Nobody left for Valhalla just before the final. It would have been better for us to stay with the rest - because, despite the heavy losses, there was no trace of Russian cruelty to be seen.

We made our way carefully through the rubbish heaps into the city center. Time passed towards evening, and we did not know that at this time Field Marshal Paulus had already got into the car, which would take him prisoner, never once poking his nose out, without picking up a rifle. The "boiler" in the center of Stalingrad ceased to exist.

In the northern "cauldron" the carnage continued for two more days under the command of General Strecker. Running from house to house and crawling through the basements, we three fugitives could not go far. We were still in the vicinity of my convenient command post when, looking out of the basement, we came across two Russians with machine guns at the ready. Before I realized anything, the leather coat changed hands. I dropped the pistol and raised my hands. They were not interested in any of our things. When a white camouflage jacket was opened on me, while searching, I could see the Officer's buttonholes on the collar. A short curse was followed by a blow to the face.

They drove us back into a corner, and several Russians pointed their submachine 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 recalls it. Only a few Soviet soldiers are enough to escort a long column of German prisoners "Well, that's all," the thought flashed. a great uncertainty was approaching, I didn't know what to expect.

The question whether the Russians would shoot us remained unanswered - a passing T-34 stopped and distracted the soldiers. They talked. The junior lieutenant, soaked 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 shattered. He threw the footage into the snow. I felt sorry for my photos. All of them were filmed in vain, thinking. we, of course, took the watch from the very beginning. Despite my protests, the junior lieutenant took the leather coat.

He was not interested in either my leather tablet or the paper and watercolors in it. He liked my warm leather gloves, however, and, smiling, took them off me. Climbing into the tan, he threw me a pair of oil-stained fur mittens and a bag of Russian dried bread. 20-30 German prisoners passed by us. Laughing, we were pushed into their group. We were now heading west, along a narrow path leading out of town. We were in captivity and did not feel anything bad about it. The dangerous phase of the transition from a free soldier to a powerless prisoner - including our dangerous escape - was over.

With rare exceptions, I have not met anyone from our bath for a long time. Although the sun was shining from a clear sky, the temperature was extremely low. The desire to live returned to my body. I decided to do my best to get through what was to come and return. I expected to be loaded onto transport and taken to a camp - primitive, like everything in Russia, but quite tolerable. The first thing I did was the crackers, which I shared with the two escapees, were the most important. Soon there will be nothing more to share - hunger leads to selfishness and drives out humanity. Little remains of camaraderie and brotherly love. Only the strongest friendships withstood.

The fact that I was robbed so badly was no longer a tragedy for me. I even felt some kind of gratitude to the smiling tank commander who "paid" for the loot. The bread was more valuable than a rather useless leather coat or a camera that I wouldn't have lived for long. Large and small groups of prisoners were led through the ruins of the city. These heaps merged into one large column of prisoners, first from hundreds, then from thousands.

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

I walked light. All I have left is an empty knapsack, a raincoat, a blanket picked up on the way, a bowler hat, and a tablet. I had a can of canned meat and a bag of petrified bread crumbs from the emergency supply. My stomach was full after yesterday's gluttony and Russian bread. It was easy to walk in leather boots, and I stayed in the head of the column.