Heinrich Gerlach - Breakout at Stalingrad

‘Go ahead and smoke!’ he said. ‘Nothing’ll happen tonight, and tomorrow you’ll have lived to tell the tale.’

Then he turned away and headed diagonally across the square towards the High Command bunker. No, he wasn’t going to shoot himself. He’d defend his modus operandi and pull no punches. He’d give full vent to his anger. Then they could do what they wanted to him for all he cared. Let them shoot him. He really couldn’t give a shit any more.

The chief of staff’s room was ablaze with light. Schmidt and General Rostek were sitting at a card table. Rostek had stretched out his legs and he blinked lazily at the newcomer. Schmidt rose and with a friendly smile extended his hand to the colonel.

‘Please take a seat, my dear Lunitz!’ he said with superficial suaveness. Only his vulpine eyes told a different story.

‘Glass of wine? Cigar? Hmm, now – you made radio contact with the Russians from your command post, I believe?’

‘No, General, sir, that’s not true!’ said the colonel sharply.

He was on his guard. He knew from experience that this suspect friendliness was often just a trap. In the blink of an eye it could flip over into the ice-cold sharpness of a razor blade or the violent uncontrollability of a street-fighting yob. Calmly, lucidly and succinctly, he recounted the events of the last few hours. He spoke about the German delegation to the Russians, about the impossibility of fulfilling his assignment, and finally – his heart was beating thirteen to the dozen as he broached this – his agreement with the Russians. He concealed nothing. Yet the explosion occurred nonetheless. The general leaped up from his chair, his face a puce colour.

‘I’ve no idea what’s going on!’ he shouted, slamming his fist down on to the table. ‘Delegations always come to you… but no one ever comes to speak to us!’

The colonel’s jaw dropped. For a moment he thought he’d misheard the general. It took a little while for him to regain his composure.

‘What, General, sir,’ he finally managed to say, ‘that’s the issue that’s concerning you? Well, if that ’s the problem, then I guarantee that a Russian delegation will be waiting outside the department store here at eight o’clock sharp tomorrow morning!’

General Rostek chewed on his lower lip and shot occasional glances up at the ceiling. Schmidt, seemingly bored, studied his fingernails intently.

‘Very well, agreed!’ he said curtly.

The colonel still couldn’t fully grasp the situation. It made no sense! Schmidt’s previous orders had been unequivocal: ‘Fight to the bitter end… delegations are to be shot at…’ He’d read that with his own eyes! Yet now… What had happened to change matters? Unbeknown to the colonel, on the twenty-fourth of January General Schmidt had finally received the order he’d been longing to hear with every fibre of his being, instructing him to report to the Führer’s headquarters and to bring all the relevant documentation with him. Trouble was, the order had come twenty-four hours too late. By then, the last airfield had fallen into Russian hands. Nothing was getting out of the Stalingrad Cauldron any more, not even so much as a mouse, let alone an army commander. And from that point on, things took on a very different complexion. Yet, knowing nothing of all this, Lunitz could only interpret the general’s extraordinary behaviour as a ruse, some as yet unfathomable attempt to entrap him.

‘General, sir, I reiterate,’ he said slowly, stressing every word, ‘just to avoid any misunderstanding – I plan to cease hostilities at four o’clock tomorrow morning and to lead my men into Russian captivity! And at eight o’clock a Russian delegation will be outside this building.’

The general nodded almost imperceptibly.

‘Yes, yes, right you are!’ he said. ‘Agreed!’

Colonel Lunitz thought he saw the ghost of a scornful smile play around the corners of Schmidt’s mouth.

‘Right you are!’ How wonderfully clear and simple and self-evident everything was… now! All of a sudden! And for that, hundreds of thousands of men had to…? The colonel felt his head start to spin. Like a drunkard, he tottered over debris and past shell holes back to his command post. He tripped and fell to his knees but picked himself up. ‘One Führer, One People, One Theatre!’ Step right this way, ladies and gentlemen, for a once-in-a-lifetime experience! A farce the like of which you’ve never seen! A cynical, shameless, bloody farce! But no cause for alarm, ladies and gentlemen, you won’t faint at the sight! Only the bit-part players will come to grief, the poor little cheap extras! The leading lights will survive, rest assured! They are indispensable, we still need them for the next show!

‘Ha ha ha…’ laughed the colonel into the cold, clear night, and the sound, now multiplied, reverberated from the hollow walls of the ruined buildings: ‘Ha ha ha ha ha… ha ha ha ha ha ha.’

That same night, the officers in the building on the corner of the square packed up their belongings and slept soundly and peacefully in a way they had not done for months.

On the thirty-first of January, at around seven in the morning, when the Sixth Army’s chief of staff General Schmidt entered the room of the supreme commander, he was still asleep. The general approached the camp bed, looked at the sleeping C-in-C for a few seconds and then shook his shoulder. Paulus woke with a start.

‘Yes?’ he stammered. ‘Yes, what’s up? Is it time?’

General Schmidt gave a slight bow.

‘Good morning, Field Marshal, sir!’ he said, stressing the rank. ‘Permit me to offer my congratulations on your promotion. The news just came through from the Führer’s HQ!’

With some effort, Paulus raised his eyebrows to try to banish the last vestiges of sleepiness from his face. He had sat up long into the night.

‘Ah,’ he said, shaking his chief of staff’s proffered hand, ‘many thanks! Any other news?’

General Schmidt’s face remained inscrutable.

‘At the same time, I have to report that the Russians are at the door!’

‘Mm, hmm,’ replied the field marshal, rubbing his forehead. He gave Schmidt an uncertain look. A smile flitted across the latter’s face. Distrusting Lunitz’s promises and not being one to take half measures, he had sent his interpreter out at first light with the instruction: ‘Make sure no fighting breaks out around Paulus’s command post!’

And so his interpreter, a former ensign in the Tsar’s army, asked the first Red Army officer he came across: ‘Do you want to earn yourself the Order of Lenin? Or maybe even be made a Hero of the Soviet Union? Then come with me, and you’ll be able to take Field Marshal Paulus prisoner!’

This Russian officer was currently waiting outside, alongside the negotiators whom Colonel Lunitz’s message had set in motion.

‘In ten minutes, we’ll commence negotiations for the handover,’ said Schmidt with brisk formality. ‘Does the Field Marshal wish to personally conduct…?’

Almost in shock, Paulus waved his hand dismissively.

‘No, no, my dear Schmidt, spare me that, please! You can conduct the negotiations on my behalf. You can do that better on your own!’

Once more, the ghost of a smile crossed Schmidt’s face. Hadn’t he been doing everything on his own for weeks now? Shortly before, he had sent a final radio message to the outside world:

‘Russians at the gate! Will destroy everything!’

That had been a very diplomatic transmission. It remained unclear what precisely was going to be destroyed: the Wehrmacht’s confidential files, the Sixth Army’s equipment, or the last remaining men? Or maybe even the Russians? Or had the top brass of the Sixth Army fallen on their swords by heroically blowing themselves up on the ruins of Stalingrad? Everything remained open-ended, all things were possible. Hitler could use this message as he saw fit. General Schmidt was content he’d done his part.