Heinrich Gerlach - Breakout at Stalingrad

‘Yes, sir, Lieutenant Colonel!’ Wiese replied with all the martial zeal he could muster. I know why you’re acting so friendly all of a sudden, you old bastard, he thought to himself. It’s because you know you can’t give me an order to deploy without my CO’s direct say-so! Even so, he was actually delighted to be given such a golden opportunity to heap burning coals on Unold’s head.

A few minutes later, when, kitted out with his greatcoat, bayonet and machine-pistol, he entered the nearby bunker, he came face to face with a colonel who appeared somehow familiar. He was probably around forty-five years old, and was sitting at a desk and writing. His clean-shaven face was tilted slightly and his dark, well-groomed hair was combed back to reveal a domed and shiny forehead. His slim hand, on which he wore a signet ring with a reddish stone engraved with a coat of arms, calmly traced tall, well-formed letters onto the page in front of him. The lieutenant was struck by the comforting thought that, even after experiencing a month in the filth of the trenches here, this bloke would still look every bit as unruffled and pristine as he did right now. He announced himself.

‘Nice to make your acquaintance, dear chap!’ said the colonel. The warm timbre of his voice instantly forged a human link with his interlocutor. ‘So, you’re to accompany me today! We must go to Businovka again. I’ll be with you in just a moment!’

He began writing again. Wiese took the opportunity to look round the room. On the desk, neatly arranged, lay a few books, a sponge bag and a pile of freshly laundered hand towels. Next to them was a photograph in a matt silver frame, a head-and-shoulders portrait of a young serviceman in a pilot’s uniform. The lieutenant leaned forward to take a closer look.

‘But that… that’s old Ferdi! Ferdi Hermann!’ he blurted out in astonishment. The colonel looked up.

‘My son, Ferdinand!’ he said, equally surprised. ‘You know him, then?’

Now it dawned on Wiese why the colonel had seemed so familiar to him. In his delight, he forgot all military protocol.

‘Of course I do, he was my old school friend! He was a couple of years below me, but we used to go walking a lot together and became great friends – though we were like chalk and cheese. Even back then, he was mad keen on soldiering!’

‘Well, I very much hope you are too!’ laughed the colonel.

Wiese was embarrassed by his gaffe. ‘I make every effort to fulfil my duty as an officer in wartime, Colonel, sir,’ he said, ‘but it wouldn’t be a lifetime’s calling for me.’

‘Ah well,’ replied the colonel, ‘not everyone can be a soldier, it’s true. But you’re quite right: Ferdi was obsessed with the military even as a small boy, and with flying in particular.’ He gazed fondly at the framed picture. ‘His only concern was that he hadn’t been assigned to a fighter squadron. In his last letter home, he wrote indignantly that they were going to make him fly transports. Oh well, he’ll just have to learn that they need able people in that role too, and that a good soldier needs to do his duty no matter where he’s sent.’

He’s even got a slight lisp, Wiese thought to himself, just like Ferdi! A lisping colonel seemed something of a miracle to him, but it was a miracle that pleased him.

‘Right, then, let’s be on our way!’ said the colonel, getting to his feet.

The faint scent of some brand of cologne wafted over to Wiese. He helped his new divisional commander into his greatcoat, which was still missing the proper epaulettes.

Already waiting outside were the half-tracked troop carrier, which the colonel had requested they drive in, and the two armoured scout cars escorting them. The road to Businovka, whose snowy surface had been packed hard by the columns of vehicles travelling along it overnight, was almost empty. They encountered a handful of stragglers, mostly on foot, while here and there they passed the odd driver tinkering with his vehicle’s engine or motorbikes roaring past. Because contact with the enemy couldn’t be ruled out, the scout cars ranged far ahead and kept a lookout for trouble from the high points along the route. The colonel stopped a group of wounded soldiers, enquired about the nature and extent of their injuries and asked them what unit they belonged to. The troops, mistrustful of this unknown officer, hesitated before replying.

‘You can tell me,’ the colonel reassured them. ‘I’m your new divisional CO, Colonel Hermann.’

On learning this, the men grew animated. How were things in Businovka? All in very good order there, sir, no chance of the Russians taking it! The colonel had a pensive look about him as they moved on.

‘It’s no picnic having to assume command of a division that’s in such a shambles,’ he confided to the lieutenant. ‘But things will improve, believe me.’ As they proceeded, he pointed to the scores of burned-out Russian tanks covered in mantles of snow that littered the flat land beside the road like so many mushrooms.

‘See those? They’re the remnants of our advance last summer. My regiment and I accounted for most of them. I’d never have dreamed then that I’d be passing this same way again, but in very different circumstances…’

While all this was going on, Lieutenant Colonel Unold was pacing up and down in his bunker. His unkempt hair, the stubble on his ashen-grey face and his unbuttoned, grimy uniform jacket all hinted depressingly at the man’s impending mental disintegration.

‘Appointing a greenhorn like that over my head… Disgraceful!’ he muttered, partly to himself and partly for the benefit of Captain Engelhard, who served as a lightning rod for Unold’s chronic anger. ‘Ahead of me, a man with years of service in the Army High Command! Like I wouldn’t be capable of leading this miserable rump of a division on my own! Who’s led them up to now, then? I’ll tell you: me and me alone! It’s all just petty jealousy, that’s what it is! Schmidt’s having his revenge against me for stymieing his nephew’s chances of promotion that time. I know what’s going on all right! It’s down to him that my commendation to receive the “German Cross” was blocked, too. I’m telling you, I’m going to chuck this whole thing in! A man of my calibre doesn’t belong here anyhow!’

Engelhard maintained a worried silence. He alone among the staff officers had gained an insight into the cruel fate of this man. An ethnic German born in Russia, Unold had lost his family as a young boy and been forced to flee his homeland; as an orphan he’d worked his way up from the poorest of circumstances. How could a man like that let himself go so badly to pieces now?

Colonel Hermann’s small column reached Businovka without incident. Despite incurring some heavy damage, the village, which just the day before had still been in the grip of panic, had by now returned to a semblance of orderly calm. The level of traffic on the streets was light once more, with people driving sensibly. The ongoing artillery barrage, which started new fires here and there, was no longer causing much alarm and had become part of the fabric of the place. A work detachment was busy cleaning up the burned-out supply depot.

The crews of the two armoured scout cars, the special nature of whose missions had made them accustomed to fending for themselves, requested and received permission from the colonel to forage in the charred ruins for provisions. They soon fell into conversation with the clearance squad.

‘What bollocks,’ said the corporal supervising the operation, ‘to go and burn down the depot when our own troops were still occupying this area for days. Goes without saying that this stunt was the handiwork of one of those little pipsqueaks whose business it is to prolong this war. Can you imagine, the man stood right here holding a checklist to make sure that everything went up in flames! And brandishing a revolver to stop the ordinary troops from salvaging anything. If I could just get my hands on the little shithead…’