Heinrich Gerlach - Breakout at Stalingrad

‘Bravo, lads!’ yelled the little general. ‘Let ’em have it!’

He gesticulated wildly, but a bullet that whistled close by caused him to duck. Warily, he looked around to see if he could spot his erstwhile companion. With a sudden shock, he saw General von Hermann standing upright on the crest of the embankment, with his carbine raised to his shoulder, bold as brass like he was at a country house shooting party. He was loosing off shot after shot. As soon as he emptied one magazine, his batman lying behind him passed him a newly loaded gun.

‘Have you lost your mind?’ bellowed the little general. ‘Lie down, for God’s sake, or you’re a goner!’

But his words fell on deaf ears. He realized with horror that the general was on a suicide mission. Appalled, he buried his head in the snow to avoid seeing any more.

General von Hermann stayed on his feet and kept firing. He stood on the embankment for what seemed like an eternity. It was as though death was intent on mocking him. But then, as if some unseen hand had shoved him over, he was abruptly poleaxed onto his back, straight as a die, and slipped without a sound down the steep bank.

When they retrieved his body, they found a single bullet hole right in the middle of his forehead.

‘A hero!’ sobbed the little general. He found it deeply upsetting that a general should have suffered the same fate that had befallen hundreds of thousands of ordinary soldiers, like it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘A hero!’ he lamented, drunk on his own emotion, as General von Hermann’s batman silently closed his superior’s eyes. ‘The Hero of Stalingrad!’

And doubtless only the dead man, lying there on his back with his marble-white face, knew that this ‘heroism’ was nothing but the hopeless despair of a broken heart.

One morning, a young officer dressed in a fur cap and coat appeared in Eichert’s bunker, with a machine-pistol slung across his shoulders. He’d come to pick up Lieutenant Bonte. He was the son of a general who was commanding an infantry division in the southern sector of Stalingrad. On being asked about his father, he shrugged his shoulders and his face registered no emotion.

‘No idea. He said goodbye to me yesterday,’ he said. ‘I expect he’s already dead by now.’

‘Dead?’

‘Yes, he’s either shot himself or swallowed poison. I don’t know which. Half his staff have taken their own lives: the regimental commanders, the head doctor… The others were planning on breaking out. There’s nothing else to be done in the current circumstances.’

‘And what about his division?’

‘I’m sure it’s still fighting – well, part of it, at least. But I can’t say for sure. It’s one big ball of confusion there.’

In the meantime, Captain Gedig had also collected his belongings.

‘Don’t tell me you’re going too?’ a shocked Breuer asked him. ‘It’s utter insanity!’

‘I have to, Breuer! I must do something! I can’t just sit around here and wait. I can’t stand it any longer. And then… well, I’ve got a girl back home waiting for me. Perhaps we’ll strike lucky and make it through.’

‘The whole of Germany’s waiting for us, Gedig. But we won’t get to see it the way you’re planning!’

‘It has to be this way, Breuer! Goodbye – and good luck!’

The captain was a changed man. His eyes shone with a spirit of enterprise and youthful exuberance. He was also harbouring a secret. Engelhard had confided it to him shortly before his death. A radio message had come from General Hube, which had secretly been shown to a chosen few at the Army High Command. It said that Stalingrad was now a lost cause. Troops attempting to break out should lie on the ground and make signs for planes to spot; they would be supplied with air-drops. So that was the extent of Hitler’s help for the Sixth Army! And relying on this assistance, the captain was preparing to embark on a journey of almost three hundred kilometres through the Russian winter.

When the three officers went to take their leave of Eichert, the captain sprang to his feet. ‘Hang it all, lads!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m coming with you! Who knows? We might just pull it off! But there’s nothing lost even if we don’t. At least it’ll be a soldierly way to go. Paymaster, let’s have some of those tins of yours, enough to last us a fortnight!’

‘Bravo, Captain, sir!’ cried Lieutenant Bonte. ‘At last! With you on board, I’d be surprised if we don’t make it!’

‘If only I could move a bit better,’ snarled First Lieutenant Schmid, ‘I’d come with you, no question!’

The rest stood as if rooted to the spot. Lieutenant Dierk stared, silently and with expressionless eyes.

‘You’re really going?’ asked Breuer, distraught. ‘What… What about your men? Only yesterday you were willing to lay your life down for them, and now… Is that what you call responsibility?’

‘Responsibility, my arse!’ snapped the captain, reaching for his coat. ‘You said yourself that all bets are now off!’

‘Unfortunately, that’s true, right enough… even so, some things are still sacrosanct, surely! These gentlemen here can do what they like. They’re free agents. But you aren’t! You can’t just leave your men in the lurch now!’

‘What utter bilge – you and your qualms, Breuer! Come on, Paymaster, break out those tins, will you!’

Jankuhn was reluctant to oblige, however.

‘No, Captain, sir, I can’t give you anything!’ he said adamantly. ‘You do what you like. But these supplies are for the men!’

Eichert put down his coat. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before.

‘Do you really want to desert your post like Unold?’ Breuer pressed him. ‘Leave your men up shit creek like that general who abandoned his front-line division? Look, no one would ever hold you to account if you tried breaking out, you can be sure! On the contrary, you’ll be a hero if you pull it off. But you’d still be a deserter – nothing more, nothing less. And you’re better than that, Eichert!’

Eichert sank back into his chair.

‘You’re right,’ he said in a flat voice. ‘You’re dead right. There’s more to life than written orders… Damn it, the lessons you’re forced to learn in this shithole. Okay. Off you go, lads!’

He gave the departing men one final wave. Frustrated and crestfallen, they went on their way. An embarrassed silence settled over the rest. It was as though their final hope had now been dashed. But there was no more talk of people shooting themselves. Even the Romanian general had given up that idea, it seemed. In any event, First Lieutenant Schulz, who looked in on them now and again, reacted with astonishment when he was asked about it. ‘Shoot himself? Why on earth would he do that? He’s going to be taken prisoner – like the rest of us.’

Because the divisional staff no longer existed and no orders were being received from elsewhere either, Eichert decided to place himself and his men under the command of the Romanian general, who was the ranking officer in the building. Deserted by their own top brass, German soldiers chose a Romanian to be their commander. The foxholes and cellars of the apartment block were home to five hundred severely wounded men and around three hundred with more minor injuries. And the general had the courage to do the right thing. He ordered his men not to defend the block and instructed that Red Cross flags should be flown when the Russians approached. Acting on his own authority, this Romanian commander, who had been abused and betrayed by the Germans and whose downtrodden troops had been left to starve in misery in the Cauldron after their horses were requisitioned and eaten, took it upon himself to save the lives of hundreds of Wehrmacht soldiers. His name was General Brătescu, commander of the First Romanian Cavalry Division.