Heinrich Gerlach - Breakout at Stalingrad

Eichert wearily dismissed the paymaster’s objections. ‘What’s the point in anything now! The war’s lost, I see that now. This madman’s going to make sure that the whole of Germany goes up in flames – And you still talk about going back and confronting these criminals with what we’ve gone through here? Breuer, I don’t think I have the strength to laugh any more—’

Breuer grasped the captain’s hand.

‘Yes, we’ve got to make it back!’ he said. ‘To ensure that what’s happened here can never, ever happen again! And to bring those responsible to book – that’s worth living for! Germany’s not going to perish. As sure as day follows night. And one day, maybe, we’ll learn to laugh again too… Hitler wants us to die. If we stay alive, then we’ve struck the first blow against him, the first blow for a new world of the future!’

In the cellar of the large, semicircular building on the southwestern corner of Stalingrad’s Red Square sat Colonel Lunitz, surrounded by his officers. His tanned, leathery face was scored with countless wrinkles and deep folds of skin, and the close-cropped curly hair on his angular skull shone as white as snow on a field in April. The colonel was not in the best of moods. After the divisional staff had been transformed overnight into the opaque ‘Unold Staff’ and then vanished without trace somewhere in the general collapse of the Sixth Army, Colonel Lunitz, commander of the artillery regiment, had faithfully led the remnants of the tank division (that is, the handful of men and vehicles that remained after the almost total ‘combing-out’ exercise had depleted it) through all the many perils of the Cauldron to Red Square in Stalingrad to await the end of hostilities. But in the event, his little band was not to be left to rest in peace. Colonel Rostek, the ‘strong man’ who, after the collapse in the southern sector of the city, went on to shore up resistance in the Zariza Gorge – for three days, at least – had assigned Colonel Lunitz the task of combing through the cellars of the bombed-out buildings and assembling fighting units from the soldiers he managed to winkle out there and his own men. These sad little detachments, cobbled together only through the prospect of getting something to eat, had been severely mauled by the first Russian assault on the Zariza front. The last dregs of this force were now stationed on the southern perimeter of Red Square – facing the Russians. The Gorky Theatre opposite, which had been full to the rafters with wounded men, had been cleared. And here on the street, directly in front of his command post, three Russian tanks had been standing immobile for over an hour, with their guns trained on the building. They surely wouldn’t remain there doing nothing for much longer. They couldn’t destroy them, as they had no armour-piercing rounds left. If only First Lieutenant von Horn were here with his last serviceable tank! But he was up at the railway station, to which Russian units had also advanced… And if that wasn’t all bad enough, Army High Command had to come along and saddle him with this impossible assignment! For several days, the army staff had been occupying the department store on the northern side of the square, under the command of Colonel Rostek (correction: his successful organizing of resistance on the Zariza had seen him promoted to general in the interim). And the Russians were positioned here on the southern side! Little wonder, then, that they’d started to get a bit jumpy over there. In any event, Lunitz had suddenly received a call from General Schmidt, chief of staff of the Sixth Army, in person.

‘Listen here, Lunitz,’ Schmidt had said, ‘the southern perimeter of Red Square must be held at all costs – at all costs, do you understand? I’m making you personally responsible for ensuring that we don’t all get hauled out of our beds and taken prisoner in the middle of the night.’

‘Yes, General, sir, but I’d like to know what forces—’

‘At all costs, whatever it takes! Understood?’

And with that, he’d hung up. It was a deuced easy business, issuing such an order – but quite another matter carrying it out.

‘What a heap of crap!’ said the colonel, looking round his assembled officers. In their faces, he could see they completely agreed with this assessment of their situation. All politeness had by now gone out the window. But that made it easier for them to communicate. A soldier came in. After making something of a meal of knocking the snow off his boots, he gave a perfunctory salute.

‘Colonel,’ he announced, ‘there was someone over at the theatre shouting across to us. Said we should clear the building immediately, or the tanks’ll open fire on us.’

‘There you go!’ said the colonel. ‘Nice of them to warn us in advance, mind. Well, if they’re so polite, they’ll be bound to contact us again. Very well, then,’ he said, turning to the soldier, ‘the next time anyone appears, call me!’

The soldier shuffled out.

‘So, what do we do now?’ the colonel mused, rubbing his nose. ‘We can’t evacuate the building. That’d be flouting High Command’s orders. But can we risk being bombarded? How many wounded do we have here?’

‘Four or five hundred, Colonel, sir,’ replied his adjutant, Captain Schulte.

‘Out of the question, then. So, what’s to be done?’

After a quarter of an hour, the colonel was called up to ground level. From a blasted window, he looked out over the three tanks towards the theatre. There, making no attempt to take cover, a German officer stood cupping his hands round his mouth like a megaphone.

‘Attention!’ he shouted. ‘Ultimatum from the Red Army to Colonel Lunitz! Attention! The Red Army orders you to clear the building opposite within ten minutes! Otherwise it will be blown to bits.’

The officer repeated this demand twice before withdrawing. By now, nothing fazed Colonel Lunitz – not the sight of a German officer acting as a mouthpiece for the Red Army, nor the fact that the man knew his name. Living in this madhouse had taught him not to be surprised by anything.

‘In ten minutes? You must be off your rocker!’ he muttered to himself.

‘Go over there, would you, Schulte, and persuade them to desist from this bloody nonsense. There’s just no point any more!’

Captain Schulte pulled out his handkerchief, but after giving it a quick once-over stuck it back in his pocket. Its indeterminate colour might be misleading, he decided. Instead, he held up a sheet of paper as a makeshift white flag and made his way across the street past the three stationary tanks to the theatre.

Twenty minutes later he reappeared.

‘There’s no talking to them! You’ll have to come and have a word with them yourself, Colonel, sir!’

‘Hmm – very well, then!’ said the colonel, and set off across the square with two of his staff officers. In the theatre foyer, they were received by Russians, who led them further into the building. They didn’t even think it necessary to blindfold them. The place was teeming with Red Army soldiers, sitting cosily round open wood fires like there wasn’t a war going on. And he and his pathetic handful of men were supposed to defend the Sixth Army High Command against this horde! Then a brainwave suddenly struck him – a truly Solomonic inspiration. Yes, he thought, if he could pull that off, everything would be hunky-dory!’

A Russian major received the German officers in a little wooden house that was still occupied by civilians. He switched on a radio transmitter, spoke a few words and then passed the handset to the colonel. Lunitz cleared his throat.

‘Colonel Lunitz here, commander of a tank division!’ he announced. ‘Putting on airs is half the battle,’ he thought to himself.