21. Dezember 1943
Today is the third day after the first attack on Boshidar. The Reds have launched another attack on the sector of our left neighbour and have had better luck there. They have pushed the front several kilometres deep here and now stand menacingly in the flank of our battalion. Several T-34s promptly appear far behind us from the left today, driving in our rear towards Kitaigorodka, the regiment’s headquarters.[1] We count four of them. With the naked eye they are still easily recognisable as large dark dots creeping across the white snowy surface. They are about four kilometres away. It’s a feast for our Hornisse, which has pulled up next to the battalion command post. The barrel swings around, the men aim. I stand diagonally behind the gun and watch the process intently. Then the discharge crashes, and a tremendous gust of air tore the cap from my head, swept it through the front door and the anteroom into the horse stables, where I picked it up out of the muck. I did not see the impact of this shot. I now stand at a slightly safer distance and continue to watch.
A few Landsers approach and stand in front of the gun. The barrel soars high above them, for the armoured vehicle has a considerable height. But the gun crew sends the men away, explaining that the air pressure of the discharge will rip the lungs out of anyone standing within 30 metres of the gun.
The third shot rings out and a black fountain bursts in front of one of the tanks. It immediately turns away and the others follow. That was the third and last day of tank fighting. They have given up.
There is a bit of trouble when the firing figures are determined. The ambitious Chef of 14. (Panzerjäger) Kompanie, called Russian Müller, complains to the commander that a shot from his Pak had been credited to the Hornisse. He measured the diameter of the entry hole and it was exactly the same calibre as his Pak. Whether there were other entry holes and whether his objection was successful is beyond my knowledge.
The knocked-out tank on the village road is to be blown up. It is the one that had steamrolled our Landsers in the field. The combat engineers tasked with the demolition first take the dead commander out of the turret. He is completely burnt and looks like a black-brown mummy the size of a child. Then a combat engineer climbs into the turret, but comes jumping out again with all the signs of the greatest fright. Inside there is a groan in horrible tones. It must be the tank driver. What to do? The Bolshevists are not to be trusted. Too many Germans have already succumbed to Russian treachery. Who can be sure that the severely wounded man - if he is - will not pull the trigger on the rescuer with his last ounce of strength, out of fear and half-conscious defensive instinct, out of hatred or revenge? We have seen it before. No one wants to enter the tank. The mistrust is too great. So the combat engineers prepare two anti-personnel mines, lower them into the tank on a wire, take cover and blow up the wreck.
The Soviet tank mass attack was not entirely unsuccessful after all. They hadn’t gained much ground in our area, except for the neighbouring village on the left. But in the neighbouring sector on the left, they had broken through. So now our front line makes a right-angled bend backwards at the top of the plateau and runs parallel to the village right along the edge of the plateau. We can see the Landsers up there from the battalion command post, and they are looking down into the village. But since no new positions have been dug out there yet, the men are standing in the open tonight. Grouped together in small clusters, they form a thin security line, into which the two assault guns have slipped as reinforcements and for moral support. In addition, the infantry gun platoon is providing another group of eight men, and I have the task of leading these men to the heights as further reinforcement.
It is already dark when we start walking. We cross the stream bed and then trudge up the snowy slope. Fog has gathered and makes visibility even worse. You can barely see ten metres ahead. A few figures appear in front of me, coming down the slope and walking straight towards us. When I call out to them, I get no answer. The shadows duck silently, those behind turn around and they have all disappeared into the milky darkness. I kneel for a moment to listen, then have my men swarm out and pursue those who have retreated. But the silhouetted shadows have disappeared. When I reach the top of the slope and ask the sentries if they have seen anything, they answer in the negative with astonished faces. Now I’m no longer sure whether they were own or enemy men. We now have many folks among us who are not infantrymen and therefore don’t always behave properly. Besides, they are all a bit nervous at the moment. So you can’t shoot straight away either. And they would not admit that they had been those. But I would like to believe that it was Russians who got lost.
It is dark. A shot is fired outside. That is nothing special these days and I take no notice of it. Shortly afterwards a brief gunfight starts, which immediately dies down again . There must be something going on, though. I go out and meet a messenger who reports that an Unteroffizier has just been shot. It was the driver of the supply vehicle for the security posts at the top of the hill. When he had just passed the small bridge over the stream behind the gardens with his farmer’s cart, he was killed by a shot from ambush. The Unteroffizier was a bearer of the Silver Close Combat Badge (20 close combats!) and the EK I.
I go to the battalion to hear if any measures are to be taken. There they already bring in a very young Red Army soldier. The guy is about 18 years old, strong and sturdily built, with round, red chubby cheeks and little piggy eyes. A real beefy, Russian bonehead. While the O.O. (Orderly Officer) is looking through his papers, a Landser tells how he caught him: When they heard the first shot, they grabbed their weapons and ran out. In the garden they came upon a Russian patrol, which immediately took flight. The Germans shot after them, mortally wounded three Russians and dragged the lifeless ones back into the garden, where they left them lying next to each other for the time being and then returned to the house. After some time, one of the Landsers felt a human stirring. He left the room and squatted down in the garden next to the dead. While he sat there squatting so quietly, he clearly heard that one of the dead was breathing. He called out to his comrades, who examined the lifeless once more. They discovered that one of them, this young man, was very much alive. He had only pretended to be dead.
Now this fellow is standing here. He had sneaked through our thin security line with the patrol, hid in the garden and watched. Then the Unteroffizier drove up with the supply vehicle. He was alone and made a handy target. That’s when they shot him. We were boiling with rage, but in the end we could do nothing. The O.O. showed us the prisoner’s pay book. It contains an entry about the lad’s membership in the Komsomol. That is nothing special. But one of the men present is enraged by it. He jumps at the Bolshevik and punches him in the face so that he falls on the bed. But the Red is not in the least shaken.
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- ↑ KTB PzAOK 1, NARA T-313 Roll 62 Frame 7297722