Heinrich Gerlach - Breakout at Stalingrad

Little by little he calms down, until finally there is nothing left except an infinite expanse of emptiness. It is as if all the hopes and yearnings that were rekindled over the preceding hours – indeed, as if everything that once existed – have flown away for ever with that last aircraft. What does he actually want? He knows the truth – yes, deep in his heart he’s known it for a long time: there’s no way back now! The only way is forward. Who can say where that road leads? Into darkness, into the unknown. And maybe also into humiliation and self-sacrifice. And perhaps also – no, definitely – to death. But what did that matter? Let the twenty-fourth of the month claim its victim after all! To him that’s not the bogeyman it once was; its sting has been drawn. And even his death here in the killing fields around Stalingrad will ultimately have a point: a fitting conclusion to a misguided life. And what if he doesn’t die? Well, that would also have a purpose that would one day become apparent… Breuer firmly believes that his fate will have a meaning one way or another.

Darkness is already falling. Shells are falling on the airfield with increasing frequency. To the north, the reddish glow of the barrage, shot through every now and then with bright flashes and accompanied by the faint noise of fighting, swells up ever more clearly and ominously. The dispatch officer is nowhere to be seen. Yet the throng of waiting men keeps pushing and shoving amid sporadic yells and outbreaks of violent anger. Breuer stumbles over a kitbag half-buried in the snow. He picks it up. It contains nothing edible, only socks and some other clothes. Breuer takes it all the same. These things have a purpose once more. He walks unconcernedly past the seething mob. As he passes, he picks up snatches of conversation.

‘Of course!’ – ‘He said so!’ – ‘Nothing else is coming! It’s a load of bollocks, as usual!’ – ‘What if I tell you fifty Ju 52s are supposed to be arriving this evening?’ – ‘Then you don’t need to keep pushing like that, do you?’

Someone tumbles over in front of Breuer. He grabs hold of the fallen man to pull him to his feet. Someone else comes over to help.

‘Lieutenant, sir!’ the other soldier urges the man who’s tripped. ‘Don’t give up, Lieutenant! Not now we’ve made it so far!’

Breuer’s gaze is transfixed by the lieutenant’s felt boots; slowly he raises his eyes to the man’s face. My God, yes, it really is him!

‘Dierk!’ he shouts, grabbing the officer’s shoulders.

‘Dierk, lad, it’s me!

But his young comrade is all in. His head is lolling helplessly this way and that and he seems incapable of speaking. ‘Come on!’ Breuer quietly tells the man who seems to know the lieutenant. ‘There’s no point hanging round here any more… We need to get to Stalingrad!’

The man looks at him, dumbfounded.

‘But… you mean…’

‘See for yourself!’ Breuer jerks his head in the direction of the red glow of the artillery barrage to the north.

They carry the lieutenant under his armpits and drag him towards the road. On the right stands the truck with the airdropped supplies. At that moment, someone rushes up and whispers something to the two sentries guarding it. They shoulder their rifles and disappear at the double, leaving the lorry and its cargo unattended.

The other soldier assisting Dierk wastes no time in clambering up into the lorry, where he starts throwing down tins of food and wrapped loaves of bread. Breuer stuffs the kitbag and his wide greatcoat pockets full of provisions. It’s clear that Dierk is really out of it. He’s dragging his legs like a cripple. The main road lies just ahead; they can hear the sound of passing cars and lorries. Breuer casts one final glance back at the airfield. It has vanished, swallowed up in the darkness. The only thing still visible, in the far distance, is the noisy, churning mob of waiting men, sharply silhouetted against the blood-red, flickering skyline. What are they waiting for? For a miracle! Their own personal miracle – the fifty Ju 52s that are rumoured to be on their way.

It’s less of a troop detachment and more of a ragtag bunch of helpless, destitute individuals that has found its way to the village of Gumrak from the abandoned airfield there. Anyone still motivated by fear or hope has tagged along – men from the pioneer battalion, from Fackelmann’s task force and various other troops who have become separated from their units or been wounded. The others have stayed behind, including the old major who’d once been a technical college professor.

‘No, no, you go on!’ he’d told Fröhlich, on the verge of tears. ‘Anyone who’s able to should get out now. I’m stopping here. I’ve had enough, come what may. It’s a damned disgrace! To go and betray us like that! Oh, that devil, that bloody devil!’

The little group disperses in Gumrak, merging into the general stream of retreating troops. Fröhlich’s sense of responsibility and leadership urge have quickly evaporated, and only a grim, unfocused rage drives him on. With his collar turned up, Breuer’s machine-pistol slung over his back, and his head lowered like a bull’s against the driving snowflakes, he tramps ahead; scarcely noticed by him, Herbert and Geibel trot along in his wake like loyal dogs. In his determined stride they can scent a purpose that he himself is unaware of.

Muzzle flares from artillery fire can be seen all around. Mysterious shadows flit sideways through the grey mist. Occasionally there comes the sound of gunfire; no one knows who’s shooting, or at whom. Here and there, one of the retreating troops drops silently and unnoticed into the snow. Sometimes shells land nearby, spraying out blood and flame, and with each impact a handful of men are swept from the road. Stolidly, the rest press on through the screaming, moaning and gurgling of the mortally wounded. No one bothers throwing themselves to the ground any more as the projectiles come whistling in. It’s no longer worth the trouble.

Geibel has been limping for a while. He stops and clings on to Herbert’s arm. His face is a dirty yellow hue.

‘Herbert, mate… I think I’ve copped one!’

He wipes his hand on his trousers, and looks at the blood on his fingers with childlike wonder. His lower lip trembles. Together they squat down at the roadside and Fröhlich takes a look at the private’s injuries. A bullet wound in the upper thigh. Herbert pulls out a grubby handkerchief and ties it round the wound with a bootlace. There’s nothing more he can do.

After just a few steps, it’s obvious that he can’t continue on foot any more. Just ahead of them are the trailers of a signals unit. Maybe he can hitch a ride with them. Suddenly, very close at hand, thunderous blasts rend the air. ‘Tanks! Tanks!’ Vehicles sound their horns in alarm and crash into one another as a crazy chorus of shouts goes up. Everyone is energized by the warning cry of ‘Tanks!’ The road becomes a raging, roaring, tumbling torrent. The signals troops, their faces frozen in fear, throw away their rifles and ammunition belts, tear off their bulky fur jackets and run for all they’re worth. Their CO shouts himself hoarse trying to call them back, but all in vain.

Clanking shadows appear in the foggy dusk. Fröhlich has crawled beneath one of the abandoned trucks on the road. He is beside himself with fury. He’d like nothing better than to settle scores with Nasarov and with the Russians in general. He’s a Baltic German, after all…

A tank rumbles up, a T-34. It doesn’t open fire. A figure in white winter camouflage is standing up in the turret, waving his cap and calling, ‘Churman soldier, come, come!’

Fröhlich yanks the machine-pistol into firing position, takes careful aim and with gritted teeth pulls the trigger. Bratatatatat … the man in the turret stiffens, his voice dies in his throat and he sinks slowly down through the hatch. As the tank rattles by, only his limp hand is still sticking out, waving to and fro as if in farewell. The cap falls from his hand and rolls into the road.