Heinrich Gerlach - Breakout at Stalingrad

‘Yes, yes, we know all about that!’ Göring interrupted, nervously drumming his gold-ringed fingers on the table. ‘That’s why we’re here! We need to tackle the problem from a totally different angle. – Morzik, let’s hear from you, please!’

Leafing through a pile of papers, Colonel Morzik, Head of Air Transport Operations (East), launched into his presentation on the condition, operational strength, stationing and potential for concentration of transport units. His forehead was beaded with sweat, and the slightest interruption seemed to throw him. Sitting diagonally opposite him was the quartermaster-general of the army, General Wagner. With his hands clasped in front of him on the table, he sat there without saying a word or moving a muscle. Every so often, he’d close his eyes and tilt his head up to the ceiling. A suppressed smile played around the corners of his mouth. The Luftwaffe – typical! It damn well served the air force right, and its fat C-in-C sitting over there! He could still recall every detail of the meeting that had taken place about a month ago around this very table and with almost the same cast list present. No punches had been pulled on that occasion, for it had long since become clear that the two fronts in the Caucasus and on the Don could not be properly supplied simultaneously. The barren nature of the land around the Don elbow meant that there was no chance of getting supplies by foraging there. Everything had to be brought in, including fodder for the horses. But they just didn’t have enough transport capacity at their disposal for that. Those in charge of operations had been told about this unequivocally, and shown the relevant figures. And at the same time, the only possible solution to the problem had been raised: shorten the supply lines – in other words, abandon Stalingrad, withdraw from the Don elbow and pull the front back to a line running, say, through Zemlyansk, Morozovsk and Veshenskaya.

‘If we don’t bite the bullet on this,’ the quartermaster-general responsible had said at the time, ‘then I see disaster looming for the Sixth Army.’

And everyone present had agreed, even Manstein, who always wanted to go at things like a bull in a china shop. For adopting this solution would mean that the threat of being outflanked in the north would also evaporate, without having to abandon the Caucasus. Even Hitler seemed to be in agreement. Then Göring had intervened, blithely guaranteeing that the Luftwaffe would be able to fly in ample supplies, and assuming full responsibility.

‘Then the front stays where it is!’ Hitler had cried triumphantly.

‘As of right now,’ Morzik was saying meanwhile, ‘the bulk of the transport units are under the command of the Director of Mediterranean Transport Operations. Of course, we could withdraw a few units from that theatre. Then again, the fuel situation is very touch-and-go for Rommel… I honestly don’t know how far we can go without causing a negative impact on the Africa front…’

‘That’s it: just keep twisting and turning, my friends!’ thought General Wagner. ‘Serves you right. You’ve really made fools of yourselves! If you hadn’t stuck your noses in, the Sixth Army wouldn’t be up shit creek now. And as usual it’s going to be the army that has to put things right.’

Hoth was due to launch his rescue mission within a few days. He’d dig the Sixth Army out of their hole. And then, having learned from bitter experience, they’d withdraw at last from the Don elbow and see out the rest of the winter without any further scares.

By now, Colonel Morzik had finished his presentation. An embarrassed silence fell over the room. The report had shown pretty conclusively that the necessary transport capacity didn’t exist for supplying the Sixth by air.

‘The forthcoming operation by Army Group Don,’ the chief of staff of the Luftwaffe, Colonel General Jeschonnek, declared in a cold, aloof tone, ‘will settle the matter once and for all.’

‘Nonsense!’ Göring interjected brusquely. ‘Let’s not count our chickens before they’re hatched. If Hoth manages to break through, it’ll bring some relief at best, nothing more. And who knows how long he can keep the pocket open? Come what may, the army will remain in Stalingrad. The Führer has not altered his decision.’

That wiped the smile off General Wagner’s face. The army’s staying in Stalingrad? He could feel himself being rudely jolted out of his preferred role of indifferent bystander. For Christ’s sake, it wasn’t just about inter-service rivalry any more – the whole shooting match was at stake here! Back in September, when all the lines of communication were still open, they’d all agreed that an army would starve to death there come winter. Yet now, now that things had turned out even worse than the gloomiest predications, they were still planning to…? The army needed six hundred tons of supplies every day to live and fight effectively, not the three hundred they’d all so glibly taken to be the bottom line. But it was undeniably the case that even that figure was out of the question. Uneasily, he scanned the others’ faces: Jeschonnek’s cold death mask, the piggy eyes of Field Marshal Milch. These were people who could see the situation for what it was, surely. No, reason must prevail, and would prevail.

At that moment, Milch stood up. He didn’t need to consult any papers. His head, pink and smooth and as harmless and genial-looking as that of a suckling pig, contained the production figures and capacities of the aircraft manufacturing industry of the whole of Europe. He could rattle off long calculations and statistics by heart. The list of all the official positions and titles he held, which was as long as the string of titles of a medieval prince – among other posts, he was Secretary of State for German Aviation, Head of the Air Ministry Planning Department, Chairman of the Board of Lufthansa, Inspector-General of the Air Force and Head of the Air Force Administration Office – underlined the breadth of his technical and commercial know-how. The bare minimum for the encircled army – in other words, what they needed in order to keep ticking over with no possibility of resupply or replacement of men and materiel – was, Milch explained, two hundred and eighty tons daily, of which one hundred and twenty tons would be ammunition, one hundred tons food and sixty tons fuel. On the basis that each Junkers Ju 52 could carry two tons, this would require an average of a hundred and fifty flights per day. His soft, sensuous mouth struggled to make these stark facts sound clipped and to the point. As he spoke, his pudgy hands described curiously jagged motions through the air. Only his little round eyes kept moving restlessly and ceaselessly around in circles. Milch played at being a military man. And did so very badly; he simply wasn’t cut out for the role. His uniform made him look like a character from light opera. He was less a general than a director-general. And the military honours that had been bestowed upon him (Knight’s Cross and the rank of Field Marshal) reeked of inauthenticity. In the Luftwaffe, people still laughed about Milch’s one and only spell of ‘front-line service’ during the Norway campaign. As commander of the Fifth Air Fleet, he had bombed the French expeditionary force out of Åndalsnes. With great success, apparently; for after the bombardment, not a single Frenchman could be found in the little town, which had taken a terrible pounding. But that, it turned out, was because the French had never been in Åndalsnes in the first place; instead, they had landed in a nearby fjord. In one respect, then, Milch most decidedly was a soldier – though in this instance it would have been better had this not been so – namely, even as a specialist, he obeyed orders from above unquestioningly.