Heinrich Gerlach - Breakout at Stalingrad

Herbert and Fröhlich were marking crosses on scraps of paper they kept shielded from one another’s view with their hands; they were playing the game ‘battleships’, which only required a pencil and a piece of paper. You could while away whole days like this. Herbert fired a new salvo: ‘A3… D7… G5’ and Fröhlich announced the result: ‘Miss… Miss… Hit on a battleship.’

‘Aha,’ growled Herbert, ‘so that’s where the beast’s lurking! Right, next go I’ll finish him off!’

From outside came a droning sound, growing in intensity. Fröhlich sat up and listened. ‘Great – they’ve got the supply flights up and running again! That means tomorrow’s food in the bag!’

Herbert, too, raised his head for an instant. ‘Nah, it’s a sewing machine!’ he said.

‘Crap,’ replied Fröhlich dismissively. ‘They’re Ju 52s, [1] Ju 52s – the Junkers 52, a large tri-motored monoplane, was originally designed as a passenger plane for Lufthansa but at the outbreak of war became the Luftwaffe’s standard transport workhorse, deployed in all theatres of the conflict. Dating from 1931, it was already an obsolescent type by the 1940s and its rather quaint appearance, with its three engines and its corrugated metal skin, earned it the affectionate nickname Tante Ju (‘Auntie Ju’) among troops. no question! You’re always hearing sewing machines, Mr Misery-Guts!’

‘I’m telling you it’s a sewing machine!’ shouted Herbert. ‘Even a child could tell that! Why do you always have to be such a smart-arse?’

He threw down his pencil and stood up. As if to prove him right, from the distance came two thuds, in quick succession. The bunker walls shook slightly and bits of clay showered down from the roof.

‘Calm down now, gents!’ Breuer intervened. ‘What’s up with you two?’

‘It’s true though, Lieutenant! He always has to have the last word. You can’t say anything now without being gainsaid and insulted. It’s getting on my wick, it really is!’

Herbert was on the verge of tears.

‘Pull yourself together, for heaven’s sake!’ said Breuer. ‘Do you think it’s easy for any of us, just sitting around here and waiting?’

In his heart of hearts, he had to concede the corporal was right. With his desperate optimism, which he’d wrapped around himself like protective armour, Fröhlich could sometimes be truly insufferable. And his absurd air of superiority even managed to rile people far less touchy than Herbert.

When the argument began, Lieutenant Wiese had clapped his book shut and left the bunker. Breuer now followed suit. These incessant little tiffs were very wearing. Outside, he found the lieutenant gazing up at the black sky, which was filled with the steady drone of transport planes. Breuer went up to him but did not disturb his reverie. Above the airfield, a flare went up, showering a cluster of red stars to earth as it burst.

Suddenly Wiese spoke, as if to himself. ‘It’s so desolate. This wilderness… no trees, no bushes, not a house or a hill, just this endless white expanse… it’s like a shroud. The only thing for your eye to light on is a horse’s cadaver here and there… We’re imprisoned in a coffin of ice and snow, surrounded by the unknown… I can’t take it any more. The stench of death about this place will be the end of me.’

‘Not you as well, Wiese, surely?’

Breuer was genuinely shocked. Time and again, it had been his much younger comrade’s aura of calm, cheerful equanimity that had pulled him out of the slough of despond.

‘Wiese!’ he said. ‘You can’t go giving up on us now, lad! What’ll become of the rest of us if even you lose heart? Why do you think old Endrigkeit likes to come and smoke his pipe around us? And the same goes for Fackelmann, and Engelhard and Peters… Even Dierk, who makes out he can’t stand you, eh? It’s because they’re looking for a bit of home in our company. Because they want to forget the war for a few minutes, that’s why! In this whole sorry mess, our bunker’s become a haven of peace. And that – you can take my word for it – that’s all down to you. You’re our keeper of the flame, Wiese. It mustn’t go out.’

Wiese threw up his hands in despair.

‘The flame, hmm…,’ he said sadly. ‘It’s the last glowing ember of coal, about to go out. We’re dying, Breuer, slowly but surely. The war, this primitive existence, is devouring us. The filth, the lice, our pitiful scratching around for a bite of food – and then there’s the homesickness, Breuer! We’re two thousand kilometres from home. We can’t cope with it any more – psychologically, I mean. This fighting’s pointless. Just go and take a look down in the bunker at how everything’s slowly falling apart on your wonderful “island of peace” – comradeship, altruism… More and more we’re ceasing to behave like human beings, whether we want to or not.’ His voice grew bitter. ‘Schiller called war a gift, you know? A beautiful gift! What’s the use of a test if you know right from the outset that you’re going to fail? Christ, if only we knew what the point of it all was!’

Breuer laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

‘You know when you read to us recently,’ he told him, ‘that passage out of Goethe’s Faust : “He serves me, but still serves me in confusion/ I will soon lead him into clarity”. That was really well chosen. It gave us new heart. One day we’ll know what the point was, too.’

The lieutenant suddenly swung round to face Breuer.

‘Do you think we’ll ever get out of here?’

His voice was choked with emotion.

‘Of course we will, Wiese! No doubt about it! Just now, Unold was talking about the major relief operation that the High Command’s set in motion.’

The lieutenant shook his head.

‘No, we won’t get out of here; I know it. Even if we’re relieved one day – and I really believe it might happen – we won’t be the same people. We’ll never bring our best side home with us. That’s fallen victim to this war. It’s lying dead and buried under the snowy fields of Stalingrad.’

Stalingrad… the name fluttered out into the night, and the two men stood pondering it. From the far northwest came a dull rumble, and faint yellow flashes momentarily lit up the sky.

Then Wiese spoke again, this time clearly and calmly. ‘You’re right, Breuer. We mustn’t give up as long as we’re still able to fight. We should tend that glowing ember; maybe one day it’ll burst into flame again…’

They heard the sound of shuffling steps approaching. It was Geibel, who’d gone to fetch the next day’s provisions. The forager doled out rations as soon as he received them now; otherwise too much food got stolen overnight. The two officers followed Geibel into the bunker. By the time they got down there, he was already being mobbed by the others.

‘What delights do you have for us today, then?’

‘Cold dandruff with artificial honey, right?’

‘It’s not great,’ Geibel conceded glumly. ‘Two hundred and fifty grams of crispbread, thirty grams of tinned meat and three cigarettes each. There weren’t any supply drops today.’

The men’s faces had grown long. Less bread yet again… and the pathetic number of smokes, too! Even yesterday, they’d still had five, and the company sergeant major had assured them that would continue. Geibel put the little ration packets on the table, while Lieutenant Wiese glanced through the bundle of mail.

‘Newspapers, nothing but newspapers!’ he announced. ‘All dating back to October and November. Not a single letter, I’m afraid.’