Heinrich Gerlach - Breakout at Stalingrad

Captain Gedig was able to add his own anecdote. ‘Yesterday, Colonel Fuchs received a radio message from Pliquet. In it, he said the division should continue fighting courageously – to the bitter end. The creation of a new flak division with the same illustrious title was already underway, “in a spirit of revenge for Stalingrad”.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ announced Lieutenant Bonte. ‘The man’s got all the sensitivity of an attack dog!’

‘For God’s sake!’ groaned Captain Eichert. ‘These are the people who were our tutors at military academy. Tell me Gedig, is that the gospel truth?’

‘Eichert, please; would I lie to you? Colonel Fuchs reacted much like you when he got the message. And his reply didn’t mince any words, I can tell you: “As a new flak division is already being assembled,” he wired, “I should like to know what those sections of the old division that are still fighting in Stalingrad should call themselves from now on.” Just wait till this whole shebang is over! Then you’ll really see some fireworks!’

‘God fucking damn it all to hell!’ yelled Eichert, slamming his fist down on the table. ‘Fourteen years I’ve been soldiering, body and soul. Things were never like this in the old days! Back then, we believed in things like loyalty, doing one’s duty and honour – has that all gone out the window now?’

A violent coughing fit robbed him of breath and turned his face blue. Breuer had grown more and more furious listening to this account, too. He thought of Wiese, who’d had to die like an animal in a foxhole, his spirit broken; of the orderly from the records office who’d shot himself; of Fackelmann and Endrigkeit and of all the misery they’d endured over the past few months. And of the general who, not long after the encirclement and despite much fighting talk, had taken himself off to a sanatorium in Vienna. That had been the start of this exodus of top brass. A surge of blind fury welled up in him.

‘Loyalty, doing your duty, honour!’ he shouted. ‘That’s still true of the poor trusting bastards out there. But it’s long since ceased to hold good for their lords and masters! To them, they’re just cheap words: clichés they use to keep us all stupefied and turn us into willing tools for their grubby plans. And what about us? We went along with it all like the idiots we were, just played along meekly and unthinkingly! Everything in the garden was rosy! We hid behind the broad backs of others… And now that it’s our necks on the line and those others are laughing up their sleeves, we finally wake up and look all dumb and innocent and start wailing and complaining… Some soldiers we are! We’ve been nothing but mercenaries – stupid bought-and-paid-for mercenaries – for far too long, ten years now! It’s high time we came to our senses!’

The others maintained a shamefaced silence; they were clearly moved and embarrassed by what Breuer had said. Eventually, First Lieutenant Schmid said frostily: ‘Why are you subjecting us to these unfair and tactless outbursts, Breuer? We’re in the shit, too, you know. Ultimately it’s all about the Wehrmacht, which we’re all members of. People like Unold and this flak general are still the exceptions, thank God. There are still plenty of decent officers and generals around!’

Breuer had recovered his composure.

‘Look, I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings,’ he said quietly, ‘but if we were to survive Stalingrad and yet still learned nothing from the experience, then we wouldn’t have deserved to go on living… It’s not about the individual here; it’s about the system, about the very Wehrmacht you’ve just mentioned. Colonel von Hermann once said that the German Army had lost face at Stalingrad. There’s some truth in that, except… maybe it’s just that its true face is emerging from behind a mask of tradition and empty forms. At least, the face it’s been forced to wear over the last ten years. Just think of Beck, Fritsch, Blaskowitz, Hoepner [6] ‘Beck, Fritsch, Blaskowitz, etc. – the names of German Wehrmacht generals who were openly critical of the Nazi leadership, and in some cases of atrocities carried out by the SS, but who were sidelined, killed or forced to recant their position. and all the others! Anyone who showed a bit of gumption and fight either had their spirit broken or were forced to quit. What’s left isn’t the Wehrmacht of old times. As far as its leadership goes, it’s rotten to the core. As long as everything was going well, that was all papered over with grandiose rhetoric. It took Stalingrad to open our eyes. It tore the mask off our face, of us and our ideals! Now it’s clear for all to see: nothing we believed in is valid any more – not the people or their ideas! It’s no good clinging to the old ways in times like this. You can’t prop up something that’s already collapsing.’

A massive explosion rocked the cellar. Snow and dirt blew in through the shattered window. The officers leaped to their feet.

‘God damn it!’ cursed First Lieutenant Schmid when he saw that the coffee pot on the stove had been covered with a layer of plaster dust. First Lieutenant Findeisen cast a wary eye up at the ceiling. ‘Seems to moy,’ he muttered through his swollen cheeks, ‘if thot lot came down, wuh wouldn’t hove much chance of holding it up.’

Everyone laughed.

‘Tell me, Breuer,’ Captain Eichert said a little later, attempting a smile, ‘you were always such a quiet, unassuming young man. I hope you won’t mind me saying, but there was a time when you scarcely opened your mouth. I know that Unold thought very highly of you for that. And now, all of a sudden, you’re sounding off like some rabble-rouser. What’s happened to you?’

‘There was also a time,’ Breuer replied, rubbing his forehead, ‘when you were different too, Captain! If I’d said to you then what I’ve said today, you’d have had me arrested, no question! None of us are like our former selves any more. And that’s a good thing.’

On the orders of the Army High Command, the building that formerly housed the Divisional Commander, Central Stalingrad is to be made ready to receive and provide care for the countless casualties of the battle. A senior doctor is charged with organizing this. In no time, he finds himself despairing at this impossible task.

The morning of the twenty-sixth of January sees the arrival of various remnants of medical companies. Some of them are leading long crocodiles of wounded men. They descend like a swarm of locusts on the already overstuffed building, increasing its population at a stroke to around seventeen or eighteen hundred men. They lie beside and on top of one another in the rooms and on the ice-cold corridors and staircases: the wounded, the emaciated, the dead, the yellow-fever patients, all lumped together with no rhyme or reason. There is a constant coming and going in the building, a hustle and bustle and push and shove like on a station concourse – aimless and ceaseless.

The medical personnel set up shop in the basement. The military police have moved out; they have been ordered to defend the city’s Red Square. They appear to have departed in haste and in some anxiety, as their quarters have been left in a state of total chaos. Field caps, suitcases, police badges, and rolls of fabric lie all over the place, together with packages with addresses already written on them, which they were meaning to send home. Some of these contain wheat flour. The floor is strewn with torn-off sleeve insignia. In addition, the general appointed as the city commandant of Stalingrad has remained behind. He has barricaded himself in his suite of rooms and later announces that he wishes to be taken into custody under the protection of the Red Cross. The doctors throw him out.