Heinrich Gerlach - Breakout at Stalingrad

‘What’s this lot here, then?’ asked Herbert, pointing at a pile of boxes and tins.

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Geibel, ‘forgot about them. There’s a tin of boot polish and a tube of toothpaste per person!’

‘Toothpaste? When we don’t even have any water to wash with?’

‘And what’s this I see?’ cried Herbert, holding up two large rolls against the light. Printed on the packaging were the words ‘Premium toilet tissue’. The men stood and gawped in disbelief at one another.

‘Oh, that’s really bloody priceless!’ Breuer exploded. ‘They send us fuck-all to eat, but they manage to fly us in bog paper – bog paper, for Christ’s sake! Maybe they’ll follow it up tomorrow with a collapsible flushing toilet!’

In his fury, he grabbed the rolls of tissue and booted them into the corner.

‘The forager told me,’ Geibel went on, ‘that the Corps got a load of other stuff, too. Toothbrushes, combs, razor blades and… and…’

Realizing he’d said too much, his face was flushed with embarrassment. Once more, it was plain to see he hadn’t been a soldier for very long. ‘No doubt some nice galoshes too,’ Lakosch said in a stage whisper to Herbert, ‘as winter wear so they don’t go catching a nasty cold.’

Herbert kicked his shin to shut him up.

‘They’ve lost their minds,’ said Breuer, perfectly calmly. ‘Don’t you reckon, Wiese? Well, either it’s the case that the top brass has gone crazy, or—’

Fröhlich broke into a nervous laugh.

‘Come, come, Lieutenant,’ he giggled hysterically. ‘Don’t you see that’s fantastic, wonderful news? It’s the best possible indication that the encirclement’s about to be broken!’

The phone rang. Breuer snatched up the receiver and gestured for everyone to pipe down. On the other end of the line was Cavalry Captain Willms, the tank regiment’s intelligence officer. The men caught the sound of his nasal, always rather sleepy-sounding voice buzzing faintly from the earpiece.

‘Hello, Breuer. Yes… Just wanted to give you a quick update. Thing is… Manstein started his push to relieve the Cauldron two days ago… No, no, not from the west! From the south… What’s that? Yes, absolutely… so far it’s going well, he’s made good progress…’

At a stroke, the mood in the bunker changed. All their cares were suddenly forgotten. There was a hubbub of excited chatter. Even Senta emerged from under the table and dashed about whimpering and barking from one person to the next, celebrating the news in her own doggy way.

‘See? What did I tell you!’ crowed Fröhlich. ‘It was absurd to think that the Führer could have just left us to rot here, just absurd! We’ll be out of here within a week or so, and they’ll give us a Stalingrad campaign flash to sew on our shoulders, and then it’s off home to mother to celebrate Christmas!’

And this time, even Herbert said nothing and did nothing to signal his disagreement.

When the Russians broke through in November, what remained of the two grenadier regiments from the tank division had been withdrawn from Stalingrad and placed under the command of one of the two regimental COs to form a combat group. This new unit was ordered south with all dispatch to close the breach in the defensive line there. And that was where they still remained, having in the meantime been incorporated into a motorized infantry division. Sergeant Major Harras had been with this ‘Combat Group Riedel’ for the past eight days. When, dressed in his stylish fur jacket, he reported to the CO and clicked his heels, the lieutenant colonel had peered down his long nose and looked Harras up and down.

‘Hmm… so, you’re Harras from the divisional HQ, are you? You can start by taking off that ballet costume and getting hold of a camouflage suit! Then at least you’ll look halfway like a soldier!’

Together with the ten men from all the other sections of Staff HQ who had been ‘sifted out’ as superfluous to requirements, Harras was assigned to a company. Up to now, he’d had no reason to regret his change of unit. The southern sector was now quiet. The front line ran along the high railway embankment, an effective barrier above all against tanks. Behind this, flanked along parts of its course by water meadows, elms and scrub, wound the Karpovka River. Their positions were well developed and protected by minefields. The Russians showed little desire to attack here. Through the binocular periscope, they could observe them doing square-bashing and field training. When Harras walked through the bunkers here for the first time, he couldn’t believe his eyes. Wooden shuttering, lamps, tables, proper doors and windows! And the blokes here were loafing about on beds with spring mattresses.

‘Pah, this place looks like a brothel!’ he said resentfully, though when he called to mind the wooden shack that had been his billet in Dubininsky, he rejoiced inwardly at his good fortune. ‘Where did you conjure all this stuff up from?’ he enquired.

‘From Stalingrad,’ the private who was showing him round said proudly. ‘We brought it down the railway line on a handcar. If we’re all going to hell in a handbasket, better do it in style, eh, Sergeant Major?’

Harras seethed. Next thing you knew, the bloke would be slapping him on the back! Harras hadn’t really got the measure of the men here yet. At first, he’d tried taking the authoritarian approach he’d employed hitherto. ‘Click your heels together properly, you shithead! Are you off your rocker, you sad specimen? You’ve no idea who you’re dealing with here!’ First the men looked at him stupidly, then later took to grinning slyly at one another, and finally played a couple of practical jokes on him so as to make it crystal clear to him, the newcomer, that he was dependent upon them here – not the opposite. Thereafter, Harras tried now and then to mimic the crude, blokeish tone that the company commander had adopted to get in with the men. The result was a crass, patently insincere familiarity, and this only reinforced the somewhat contemptuous reticence with which the men in the trenches customarily regarded a superior whose only decoration was the ribbon of the war service cross. As a result, he was really happy when he picked up a minor head wound during an air raid, which entitled him to pin the official black-metal medal worn by wounded soldiers on his chest. At a suitable opportunity he exchanged it for an old, worn one that shone like dull gold from a distance. But even this didn’t help much.

On the other hand, after a few initial clashes that helped clear the air, Harras now got on much better with the leader of the company. The first lieutenant was in his thirties. He had a rather brutal face, furrowed with deep duelling scars, and the protruding backside of a prize stallion, which had earned him the nickname ‘the Arse’ among the troops. During the fighting around the tractor factory in Stalingrad, he had been awarded the Knight’s Cross. Skilled in ingratiating himself with superiors who might be useful to him, Harras soon discovered this officer’s weaknesses and learned how best to exploit them. He often made up the third in marathon games of Skat in the CO’s bunker; he eagerly helped drain the bottles of wine and cognac, listened intently and patiently as the Arse regaled them with his tales of drinking and womanizing in France or during his brief spell as a student, and knew the right moment at which to crack a subtly racy joke. In this way, he earned himself a kind of condescending tolerance on the part of his CO. Yet Sergeant Major Harras was particularly pleasantly surprised by the favourable state of the food supplies at his new unit. Here there was four hundred grams of bread per person each day, while the CO also got fried potatoes and chicken. The first time they were served cabbage soup with plenty of meat in it, Harras remarked: