Len Gilbert - The Furred Reich

“Today, our difficulties are immense,” Jochen told them.

“The system in which we more or less believe is every bit as good as the slogans on the other side. Even if we don’t always approve of what we have to do, we must carry out our orders for the sake of our country, our comrades, and our families, against whom the other half of the world is fighting in the name of ‘justice’ and ‘liberty.’ All of you are old enough to understand that.”

“As a people, we are fortunate enough in being somewhat less indolent than they. If someone tells us to examine ourselves, we at least have the courage to do it. Our condition is not perfect, but at least we agree to look at other things, and take chances. We are now embarked on a risky enterprise, with no assurance of safety.”

“We are advancing an idea of a Europe that fights together; an idea which is not easily digested. We are trying to change the face of the world, hoping to revive the ancient virtues buried under the layers of filth bequeathed to us. We can expect no reward for this effort. We are loathed everywhere: If we should lose tomorrow those of us still alive after so much suffering will be judged without justice. We’ll be accused of an infinity of murder, as if everywhere, and at all times, men at war did not behave in the same way. Those who have an interest of putting an end to our ideals will ridicule everything we believe in. We shall be spared nothing. Future generations will speak only of an idiotic, unqualified sacrifice.”

Slowly but surely, the blank stares among the company became steely ones.

“Whether you wanted it or not, you are now part of this undertaking, and nothing which follows can equal your efforts here. No doubt the skies are quieter on the other side, but if you must sleep under those skies tomorrow you will never be forgiven for having survived. To other men you will be as cats are to dogs. And you will never have any real friends. Is that the end you wish for yourselves?”

A few heads shook.

“Please know that I understand your suffering. I feel the cold and fear as you do, and I fire at the enemy just like you do, because I know that my duty as an officer requires at least as much from me as your duty does of you. I wish to stay alive even if it’s only to struggle on somewhere else.

“Once the fighting here begins, I will not tolerate defeatism. You can feel certain of the same from me, and certain that I will not expose you to any unnecessary dangers.”

Those last two words were pregnant with meaning. Just one month ago the 6th Army surrendered at Stalingrad. Due to being exposed to unnecessary dangers. Jochen hoped those listening to him would understand what he meant. He certainly wasn’t in command of divisions or armies, but Jochen knew that those who were in charge of his division wouldn’t leave them all to stand and die here.

“I would burn and destroy entire villages if by doing so I could prevent even one of us from dying of hunger. Here in the vastness of the steppe we are surrounded by hatred and death, and in these circumstances our group must be as one, and our thoughts must be identical. If we achieve that, and maintain it, we shall be victors even in death…

“So be brave. We’re all nothing more than animals on the defensive, even when we’re ordered on the offensive. Life is war, war is life. Liberty doesn’t exist.”

After one night of shaky sleep, Jochen and his adjutant Otto Dinse stepped out into the swirling snow and began firing the halftrack vehicle’s engine, which hadn’t yet frozen solid. In the pitch night he could hear engines coughing all along the German side of that creek.

At 04:30 sharp, Jochen switched on his command radio and gave the order. From his lead car, Jochen watched frozen chunks of earth fly up and hurtle back to the ground as Pak artillery fired into the silent village on the other side. The response was almost non-existent. One by one, the halftracks made their way across the planks of that shaky bridge. Peiper’s vehicle led the way. He stood up and looked out into the unknown.

As his halftrack touched down on the other side, Peiper ducked into the cabin, expecting some combination of mines, mortar or machine guns. Yet, all he heard was the deep hum of his and dozens of motors behind him. Into the waning night, the battalion, with its brand new halftracks and ambulances, slinked past the Soviet lines toward Zmiev and the wounded men who were no doubt left hurt on the frozen ground.

Generalmajor Postel had a bad feeling when the 320th Infantrie Division was pulled from its sleepy position in France a few months ago, and thrown in to reinforce the collapsing Eastern Front. Now he was stranded by the Wehrmacht on the wrong side of a little town south of Kharkov. Just as the 6th Army in Stalingrad was just a few months ago, Postel and the 320th were now encircled.

All around Kharkov, Postel saw the German army buckle under the awesome firepower of the Soviet offensive: A white wall of never-ending rocket fire which showered men under yards and yards of earth; and menacing attacks from T-34s, which often simply ground Landsers under their treads. Both had taken their toll on those still clinging to hold on.

The retreat from Kharkov left Postel’s division with just one road back to the retreating German line. Unlike the rest, the 320th held against the tidal wave of Red attacks. When it was Postel’s turn to withdraw, the battalions supposed to be covering the only road back had also retreated. As a result, the 320th was now well behind Red Army lines, with some 1,000 of their own men injured and lying frostbitten on sleds in the crackling cold.

There was only one hope for Postel, his division, and all those wounded men: A telegraph sheet instructing him to wait for an SS Panzer Grenadier battalion under Sturmbannfuehrer Peiper, which would somehow cross the Udy creek, break through the Russian line, into enemy territory, cross the Donetz river, and pull them all out, wounded and all. There was no way this Peiper could pull of such a miracle, and Postel knew it. Needless to say, the Generalmajor had gotten no rest this evening: He was used to being a bit further back behind the line. Never this close.

From his transport wagon he could hear the attempt to rescue his stranded division: The distant thunder of assault guns. Then nothing. After just twenty minutes, the Leibstandarte’s rescue attempt was over. He couldn’t blame the Leibstandarte SS for trying. They were notorious for always giving everything they had. If the Leibstandarte couldn’t break Postel out, then no one could.

Postel sighed to himself as morning rays began pushing onto the gloomy horizon. The rest of his life, in a labor gulag no doubt, would be short and brutal. To say nothing of the fate of the rest of the 320th.

“Herr Generalmajor!”

The radio officer came running to the door. Postel opened it into the biting cold to see the young man’s excited face.

“Herr Generalmajor! It’s Peiper. He… He’s made it! He’s asking to meet you at the bridge! He has ambulances! Peiper made it through!”

Postel turned the key of his Volkswagen, and it chugged along the dirt path to their rendezvous. Somehow, miraculously, there they were. The Leibstandarte, and Major Peiper. He looked dapper despite the bulky winter camouflage. Almost 6’ tall, wiry and with steely eyes. How he got here, Postel did not know. The young man looked to be in his late twenties, very young for a battalion commander.

“Why haven’t your men crossed the river?” Striding up to the half track, Postel looked upset.

“The ice isn’t strong enough to hold the vehicles, Herr Generalmajor,” Peiper replied.