1. Februar 1945
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| OKW situation map 1945/Februar | 
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I climbed into the dug-out I share with the arty observer. I got as little sleep as the men and am dog-tired. I’m sure the artillerymen see us with one eye crying and one laughing. Until now, they were alone in their bunker behind the front. But now they’ve got caught up in the HKL and still have to share their bunker with us. There are five of us in here. The artillery Leutnant with a radio operator and me with two messengers.
I have slept for two hours and now sit down at the small folding table to have breakfast. Since time immemorial I have once again been given white bread and good butter. I put these treasures on the table and start spreading the bread. I bite into the first slice with pleasure.
Then a dull booming starts in the distance. It is the firing of a rolling salvo[1]. The impacts, however, are far away. Then the hard thud of a Pak interferes. Crennng! This impact is close. The artilleryman already has his binoculars to his eyes, and the radio operator gets on the air. “They’re attacking!” the artillery Leutnant suddenly shouts. It was to be expected. Ivan wants to expand the breach he achieved yesterday.
I had just eaten two bites. Angrily, I put the breakfast away. Maybe I can finish it later in peace and quiet. I dash under cover of the barn to the positions of my platoon. The sentries in the front of the trench are on their guard. All is quiet in the terrain ahead. The attack comes from the breach location and is directed against the neighbouring sector on the right. Only a few shells explode near our farm. They belong to the curtain of fire that is supposed to seal us off from the attack area.
Craashsh – an impact lands in the middle of the courtyard. Splinters whirring. Broookh – another one. Now our courtyard is also under fire. Apparently the Russian is expanding his attack area. I can’t resist proving to the men that my entrenchment order was correct. Now, of course, they see it.
The Feldwebel, whom I had sent to Sili as squad leader, comes back with a completely meaningless report. I make it clear to him that the squad leader must stay with his squad and send a runner if necessary. I think about replacing this coward with a better man because this guy might infect the others. Now he’s muddling around in the yard.
1 Feb 45. Three hours after the squad leader, the deputy squad leader comes up from Sili with a Gefreiter. They fetch ammunition and immediately turn back. The Gefreiter is a splendid fellow. Only yesterday he saved the lives of the whole squad through a truly brave effort. That’s why just now, before they went back to Sili, I paid tribute to him in our bunker in front of everyone and praised him with the same words that Oberst Mann spoke to me the day before yesterday: “You can be sure that this will not be forgotten!” Ten fighters of this type outweigh a whole company. But it’s like everything else in life: The precious is rare. At the next possible appointment for awards, I will submit him first.
But I also had to remind him that the deputy squad leader also has to stay with the squad. It is impossible to leave the squad without a leader especially in a dicey situation. They have already become nervous again due to the shelling. This is the worst company I have ever led, apart from a few capable soldiers.
It has become quieter on the right. The Soviet advance has been stopped, albeit at the cost of a narrow strip of terrain.
Then the sentry calls me to the front: “Herr Leutnant, there are some people running towards Sili! I stand next to the sentry and look through the field-glasses. Yes, several figures were coming towards Sili from the right. 6 - 8 - 10 men. They were coming from the direction of the breach point. Are they Germans who want to give way to the Russian advance, or are they Russians who want to extend the breach to the side? They run crouched and disappear again and again in the bushes or the hollows of the stream bottom they follow. But now I recognise them. They are Russians! They are still a hundred metres away from Sili. Why don’t they shoot from there? I intervene: “Left MG – get ready. Range 600 – fire!” The machine-gun rattles off. I can’t quite catch the Ivans because they are covered by bushes and depressions in the ground, but I can draw the attention of the squad in Sili. Again and again the bursts of fire race over. Sometimes I only see the heads of the Russians. Damn it, don’t they notice anything in Sili? Is the sentry asleep or haven’t they posted one at all? After all, the Russian attacked here on the right, so they should be watching in that direction, especially since he’s sitting on their flank!
Another hundred metres and the Russian will be at the house. Does my squad want to let them get closer first? Now the Ivans have disappeared. The bottom of the stream and the bushes hide them. My machine-gunner stops firing. We look over tensely. Not a single shot is fired down there. And suddenly a line of men comes out of the house. They are unarmed and walk slowly towards the front in single file. Nine men. My squad! Sili has fallen! My whole squad taken by surprise and captured, and we’re standing here unable to help.
It’s always the same old song about the negligence of our sentries. Nine men are taken prisoner because a single sentry didn’t do his duty. Or because everyone was too lazy. It’s only right that dereliction of guard duty be punished severely and mercilessly.
And the Russian has once again shown us one of his strong points: The surprise attack.
On my three farmsteads, which form the backbone of the 2nd line, there is savage fire. Paks and heavy mortars have been pounding the farmsteads for hours. From time to time they cease firing, only to come in again at full tilt. I have retreated to the dug-out and am listening to the arty observer’s radio traffic. Craaash! – a flash – a shake – the bunker shakes. A shell had struck close to the entrance. The radio operator pulls in his antenna. It is undamaged. Hesitantly he puts it back through the crack in the door, because he needs it for his heavy Berta set[2].
Every time the fire eases a little, I get out of the bunker and run to my machine-gun positions, talk to the sentries and watch the other two farmsteads. Now there is heavy fire on the farm on the right. Plumes of grey-black smoke rise as the heavy mortar shells burst. They are 12-cm calibres. In between, the harsh firing of the Soviet Paks resounds. I estimate six guns.
A messenger comes dashing in from the right. He brings bad news. A direct hit has destroyed one of my MG nests and killed the entire crew. Among them is the tall Danziger. I had deliberately left him here in the 2nd line so as not to endanger this towering fellow too much. Now it has got him after all. It’s like this: We can’t determine our own fate or that of others. We are in God’s hands. Whoever is to be hit, will be hit after all.
My company suffers further losses in the course of the afternoon. There are no lifethreatening wounds, but the losses reduce my manpower.
The Soviet advance in the right sector was to be repulsed in a counterattack. A pioneer company has just started to attack. It is supported by assault guns. I see them advancing in open order across the snowy plain. But no sooner have the assault guns also left their cover and rolled out onto the open ground than they are caught in a terrible storm of steel[3]. The Russians employ a 15cm battery that had not yet appeared. High, black fountains of smoke shoot steeply into the air, and the thunder of the explosions temporarily drowns out the rattling track noises of the attacking assault guns. The company is horribly shot up. The attack soon stalls. Now I also receive the order to attack, but I refuse. Firstly, the attack target is completely unclear to me without any briefing. Secondly, I cannot rally my company at the necessary speed. Thirdly, it is already so decimated by the previous losses that it is not strong enough. Fourthly, it would now be gunned down in the same way as the pioneer company. With these melted-down squads, which can barely hold their own positions, it is not possible to conduct a promising attack in broad daylight over an open expanse of snow under such fire. What I did not say and kept to myself was my concern: if the pioneer company could not do it, then my bunch would certainly not succeed. The dead and wounded would have fallen in vain. They obviously accepted my arguments, because the attack is called off and, amazingly, they also leave me unscathed, despite this borderline insubordination.
I am called to the battalion commander for a meeting. It’s about a new mission. But first he receives me with a gentle rebuke for not having dispatched the squad intended to reinforce the front trench. At first I had deliberately not done so because I did not want to send the men forward at night through an unknown terrain. These rookies would have run right through the already thinly manned line to the Ivans. Besides, as the battalion commander admitted, the terrain was not entirely free of enemies. And then later, however, I forgot. In his calm voice, the Hauptmann then says to me: “When I give an order to an officer, I must have the certainty that it will be carried out.” He is absolutely right about that, and I am also quite meek and somewhat ashamed.
In the meantime, the other officers have arrived and the briefing begins. It’s about the recapture of Sili. This is supposed to be the first stage of a larger operation. The Hauptmann relates: A new battalion, which will arrive shortly, is to make another counter-attack from our positions in order to clear the Russian breach. To give this attack a better starting position, Sili is to be recaptured, and in fact it is me who is to do it. To reinforce my heavily-reduced company, twelve more pioneers are to be placed under my command. In addition, three assault guns are to support my attack.
I am back at my farmstead and start preparing for the attack. I discuss the attack plan, structure, procedure, etc. with the platoon and squad leaders. It is afternoon. The attack is to begin at dusk. Our farmstead is again under heavy harassing fire. The pioneers are already coming. They seem to be good fellows. I explain my plan of attack to them. In the meantime, the assault guns are humming towards us. The Soviet fire on our farm immediately intensifies. The courtyard can no longer be crossed without first listening into the air and over to the Ivan to hear whether another round is rushing in. The assault guns have taken cover. The Red Pak has shifted its fire to the right, but the 12-cm mortar shells are constantly hurtling down on our farmstead. We are not safe from this high-angle weapon even behind the buildings. The assault guns are parked close to the walls of the houses. The courtyard is like a beehive. The assault gun crews are fiddling with their vehicles, my infantrymen and the pioneers are getting ready. The arty observer looks for a better location. The running back and forth cannot be avoided. In between, the impacts of the enemy’s mortars keep shredding. Brenng – the artillery Leutnant crosses his legs convulsively, falls with his shoulder against the wall of the house and then slowly slides to the ground. Shell splinters in his foot. He had been standing by the assault gun, talking to the gun commander. Tsenng – a hard metallic crashing. A shell had exploded close to the assault gun. The man who was working on it falls down, hit. That’s how it goes even during the preparations.
I am full of tension, with nerves and thoughts focused on the upcoming attack. My company already has some casualties again. The Bolsheviks shoot us up before the attack begins. The shelling doesn’t stop at all. What quantities of ammunition they must have over there! If only it would get dark at last! Another whole hour passes. An hour full of anxiety and nervous tension. Then finally dusk falls. I order the company to get ready. There are 17 men left, plus the 12 pioneers. Including me, that’s exactly 30 men, a quarter of the normal company strength!
The cowardly Luftwaffe Feldwebel is gone again. He had already left the squad in Sili on his own authority and in this way had escaped captivity. Then he had been loitering here on the farmstead. I saw him until a few minutes ago. Now, just as we are about to start, he has suddenly disappeared. I send out a search for him, but he can’t be found, and I don’t have any more time now. The attack must begin.
The attack on Sili begins. The assault guns have already left the farmstead and are now standing in the open at some distance. I jump to the lead tank to discuss the final details with the gun commander. He is looking down from his hatch while I am standing below next to the track. We have to shout to drown out the noise of the running engines and the shell impacts. Unfortunately, the assault guns don’t want to accompany the attack. They fear the Russian Pak and the 15cm battery. They do not want to unduly endanger the few precious panzers their assault gun battalion still has. That’s why they want to support me with their fire from up here. The fire from six hundred metres away is just as effective, of course, but the demoralising effect of the approaching tanks on the Russians will be lost for me. Well, it doesn’t help. In addition, we agree on some flare signals, then I dash back into the farmstead. I want to launch the attack from the left farmstead.
During a small lull in the enemy fire, I have the company move over to the farmstead on the left in widely dispersed groups. In the meantime the assault guns have taken up their firing positions. They are standing near my company command post, up on the edge of the flat valley slope. Arriving in the left farmstead, I leave the medic and an assistant in the sauna. This is where the wounded nest is supposed to be. Then I pass through the orchard behind the farmstead, let the men fan out and head for Sili. The terrain ahead slopes gently to a shallow hollow where Sili lies. Now the assault guns roar up. Brookh – brookh – brookh. The impacts are in front of and beside the house. I cheer my men on. We have to cross an open area. The snow is almost knee deep. We wade forward. The next salvo from our assault guns cracks. It is well placed. A shot lands in the middle of the courtyard. We trudge laboriously but swiftly through the snow. The pioneers are indeed splendid fellows. They are hard at it. Some of them walk ahead of me. Even some of my men with their platoon leader are ahead of me. Despite the evening twilight, they are clearly visible as dark figures on the light snow. We are already more than halfway there and are barely 300 m from Sili, which can also be seen clearly. The assault guns have stopped firing. Just under 200 metres to go. Suddenly a thin red line flashes on the right-hand corner of Sili’s house, and at the same time the rumble of a machine-gun burst echoes over. Splat - in the same second I feel a dull thud against my left thigh, as if a stone had hit it. The blow was not very strong. I don’t feel any pain either. Perhaps I was mistaken? So onwards! I take a few more steps, but then I notice that my pants are warm and wet and sticking to my leg. So hit for real! Right from the first burst and the only one. I drop into the snow. Should I go on? I don’t feel any pain, only the blood runs down my thigh. My leg goes numb, a bit insensitive. I lie there for a moment, a little indecisive, waiting for the wound to react. But then I realise that I can’t walk any further with the leg. I call to the Feldwebel kneeling in the snow 15 metres in front of me (Freitag or Harmann or?): “Feldwebel X, I’m wounded, take over the company and continue the attack!” Then my Sanitätsunteroffizier is already with me. I don’t think the Feldwebel gave any answer at all. Or was I already mentally absent?
Fourth Wound
My fourth wound. The medic grabs me under the arm and leads me back. I limp through the snow. The wound shock dissipates. Pain sets in. We reach the wounded nest in the sauna and I sink onto the straw bed. With the help of the medic, I unbuckle my belt and free myself from the thick winter clothing. Then he exposes the wound and takes a look at it.
This Sanitäts-Unteroffizier is a darkblond Rhinelander. He is several years older than me, married and has two children. Already in Jurmalciems he lay with me in the company command post, gave me some sensible advice and, when I was angry about something, calmed me down very gently and skilfully in his quiet manner. I gladly followed his wise advice.
Now he examines the wound with the second medic and then says: “Herr Leutnant, I will not bandage you at all, but take you straight to Battalion. There you can have a proper bandage put on right away.” Then they put me in an Akia. This is a spindle-shaped flat trough that is used like a sledge. It is pulled with a rope and its flat smooth bottom glides over the snow like a sledge. It is an ideal vehicle for transporting casualties in snowy terrain. They are common in Finland and Lapland.
I lie on my back in the Akia and look up at the night sky while the two medics pull it through the snow. They skirt the farmsteads, which are still under fire, in an arc. It has suddenly become warmer and the light snowfall has turned into a fine drizzle that falls damply on my face. The snow becomes sticky and they pull heavily and laboriously. Just outside the aid station, the Sanitäts- Unteroffizier asks me to walk tentatively with both of their help. Supported by both medics, I hobble to the medical bunker. The Sanitäts-Feldwebel immediately takes care of me. He exposes the wound, peeks at it and palpates the bloodied thigh and then exclaims happily: “Herr Leutnant, that’s an ideal Heimatschuss! A clean shot through the thigh and only soft tissue injuries!” He is beaming all over his face, as if he had received this home shot. Then he starts to put a bandage on me and is merry and happy. This is a good medic who – intentionally or unintentionally – knows how to cheer up the depressed wounded with his upbeat disposition.
Now they carry me onto a horse-drawn sleigh that’s waiting outside. There are already three wounded lying on it. As it’s now full, it can leave. I squeeze my medic’s hand. The horses pull away. The path leads up the slope first, but the horses have to trot it because it’s under Pak fire. Bupp-brookh-bupp-brookh. Shots and impacts occur almost simultaneously. A disgustingly hard and screeching launch, and then the flat-travelling shells come tearing in with a poisonous hiss. Now the salvo is over, the driver snaps his whip and the horses chase off at a gallop. Crack-brookh, crack-brookh. The impact of the next salvo is already behind us. The sledge has now reached the plateau, turns right and is now gliding steadily along a wide, smooth track.
Suddenly there is a howl. They come hissing up to us and explode to our right with an infernal crash. Katyushas! Stalinorgels! the dreaded Soviet salvo weapon. Twelve bursting phosphorus rockets spray their shower of sparks into the dark sky like a red, fiery fountain. The track is constantly under fire. It is, after all, the supply road for our fighting front. The driver spurs his horses on. Their clattering hooves drum dully on the snow and the sledge whizzes along. A new salvo, to the right and left of the road, in front and behind us. Within seconds, the glowing fountains shoot into the air, marvellous tufts of fire, like fiery bouquets of flowers. But deadly and of burning agony when they hit. Our sledge chases right through them. Further, faster, that’s our only thought. It’s a horrible feeling, lying there so helpless and powerless at the mercy of this hail of shells. All you can do is press yourself flat onto the sledge.
We leave the main road and turn left into a small country lane that leads to a farmstead. This is the main dressing station (clearing station). When the sledge stops in front of the house, some men come out of the door to unload us. Inside the house, they lay me down on a bunk. It’s pretty dark here. One of them comes up to me and leans down. Suddenly, he stops and an exclamation of surprise comes out of his mouth: “Herr Leutnant, you’re wounded?” I recognised him immediately: It’s my deserted air force sergeant! I immediately ask him where he stayed at the start of the attack. Plaintively, he fibs: “Herr Leutnant, just before the attack began, a grenade crashed so close to me that it gave me a terrible blow in the lungs. I thought I had a ruptured lung, so I travelled here to be examined.” I vacillate between anger and contempt for this coward. I then ask: “Why didn’t you report off? You were in my neighbourhood, weren’t you, and so were many of your comrades?” He doesn’t know an answer. I continue: “If you’d had a lung injury, you wouldn’t have got up here so easily. What did the doctor say?” - “Nothing.” I’m sure he didn’t go to the doctor at all. I want to see the doctor to get him to send the guy straight back to the front. But the doctor is so swamped with work that I can’t get to him, especially as I can’t go myself. As I’m already taken care of, I wait on my bunk to be taken away. Then the guy comes creeping up again and gives me a bar of chocolate. I take it and put it in my mouth straight away because I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday morning. Immediately afterwards, I’m so annoyed that I accepted something from this coward. But I’m limp and tired and lacking in energy.
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- ↑ combined fire from many guns firing together at a specific target in rapid succession, so that the individual shots and impacts can no longer be distinguished from each other, but only a single muffled roll can be heard (Slovopedia); e.g. like here as a sudden concentration at the beginning of a longer fire for effect (GenWiki).
- ↑ probably Tornisterempfänger Berta (Torn.E.b.) and not Tornisterfunkgerät Torn.Fu.b1
- ↑ The term quotes the title of the book “Storm of Steel” by Ernst Jünger.