Heinrich Gerlach - Breakout at Stalingrad

Lakosch pulled a face.

‘What, those old nags there? No thank you! Haven’t you got anything else, then? No tinned meat? We’ve still got two lorryloads of the stuff, just for the Staff HQ! Herrings in gravy, and goulash and tuna and sardines in oil and grade-A pork, all the stuff from France still!’

He grew quite drunk on his own eloquence. The sentry licked his lips. His hand started trembling so much that he dropped his cigarette butt into the snow. Lakosch handed him the case again. The two of them sat down on the rim of a snow hole.

‘Tell me, mate,’ the sentry began, ‘what are the chances of you getting… I mean, a tin of that tuna, for instance… I’m not expecting to get it for nothing, mind!’

From the depths of his greatcoat, he fished out a pocket knife with a mother-of-pearl handle. ‘There you go, it’s got two blades, a screwdriver and a tin opener, it’s really something! All genuine stainless steel.’

Lakosch, feigning real interest, opened and closed the various blades. ‘Hmm,’ he pondered, ‘it’s not that simple! Our sergeant major, see…’

The sentry shifted about uncomfortably, his eyes now blank and staring. He rummaged through his pockets to try to find anything else to swap. In the process, he failed to notice that a lorry had stopped about two hundred metres along the road. He also didn’t spot that two soldiers had jumped down and were grappling with one of the ponies. Only the shouts of alarm from the auxiliaries caused him to look up. Cursing, he sprang to his feet and levelled his rifle at the rustlers. But he was already too late. The two men were jumping back onto the moving lorry. The pony, which had had a tow rope lashed around its hind legs, was pulled to the ground. The truck picked up speed, dragging the pony behind it. It lifted its head a couple of times and opened its mouth to utter a pitiful cry. The sentry fired two shots in vain at the disappearing lorry. Their report did not even startle the grazing ponies, who hardly even pinned back their ears. ‘God damn it!’ cursed the soldier. ‘That’s the second time that’s happened on my watch… now I’ll really cop it from my CO!—’

All of a sudden, he paused and directed a curious look at Lakosch, who now thought it prudent to beat as hasty a retreat as possible, and not to pause to offer the guard his condolences. He whistled to Senta to follow him, and wandered off in the direction of the camp. As he departed, the sentry shot him an impotent look of growing realization…

By the time Lakosch got back to the kitchen, the pony had already been eviscerated.

That evening, roasted horse’s liver was served in the Intelligence Section’s bunker. Everyone was amazed at how generous the cook had been. Lakosch had chosen not to divulge that this was the payoff for the part he’d played in the rustling escapade. For three days, the whole Staff HQ indulged in horse goulash and horse rissoles, while Unold even had a horse schnitzel. Then all that was left of the scrawny pony was the skeleton. The bared teeth in the beast’s mangy rotting head kept grinning up from the rubbish pit for many days thereafter.

The great grey bird stands alone on the white expanse of snow. It’s a Junkers Ju 52, the good old ‘Auntie Ju’. It must have come down just short of the Russian lines. When the regiment gets word of the forced landing, people are beside themselves with frustration. We could have… should have… It’s amazing how wise everyone is after the event about what they might have done to prevent this catastrophe. Two tons of food, or ammunition, or fuel lost to the encircled army! But at least the Russians won’t get to enjoy their ill-gotten gains. Two tons of cargo aren’t exactly easy to unload, when you’re forced to work within range of enemy artillery. During the day, there’s no Russian to be seen anywhere near the aircraft. Most of the cargo might well still be inside! The heavy machine guns fire a couple of bursts into the fuselage – and nothing happens. So, it’s definitely not fuel. After much deliberation, the division allows the artillery three rounds to try to blow the plane to smithereens. The third shell lands quite close, but it will take a direct hit to destroy such a large aircraft. Ultimately, the order comes from the regiment that a commando squad will be sent in to blow up the plane. Sergeant Major Harras goes to see the Arse.

‘Lieutenant, sir, I’d like to volunteer to be part of the commando unit!’

The company commander looks him up and down.

‘You? Okay, then! But think what you’re letting yourself in for! The operation won’t be without its dangers. If anything goes wrong, we can’t give you covering fire!’

‘I’ve weighed up all the dangers!’ replies Harras. And that was certainly true; he had considered things carefully: in a few days, the whole hullabaloo of the attempted breakout would erupt. Compared with that, this business here, executed under cover of darkness, would be a picnic. After all, the aircraft wasn’t behind enemy lines. This was just the opportunity he’d been waiting for.

‘Fine – as you wish,’ says the Arse. ‘I’m putting you in charge of the squad, then. I can spare you four men. And make sure you get the job done!’

The operation gets underway that same night. Overcast skies shroud the scene in total darkness. The men are carrying hand grenades, machine-pistols and an explosive charge with a time fuse. They are wearing white camouflage suits, with their faces, weapons and equipment all whitewashed, too. After only a few metres, the uniform grey of the landscape has swallowed them up. Crawling, separated from one another by some distance, they inch their way forward. Sergeant Major Harras is at the head, while a few metres behind him is the man with the explosives. The front is quiet. Every so often some yellowish flares are sent up over the enemy lines, forcing the men to lie motionless, face-down in the snow. In these enforced pauses, they can clearly make out their target, which looms ever larger out of the snow. Crawling along like this is tiring. Snow gets into their boots and their sleeves; their hands are cramped and the coarse steppe grass scratches their faces; hoar frost forms around their mouths and noses from their hot exhalations. Suddenly, a machine gun opens up somewhere in front of them and to the right, and is answered by another further to the left. The burst of fire buzzes over their heads. They’ve been spotted! Damn it – what now? An uninterrupted cascade of flares suddenly goes up, bathing the open expanse of ground in glaring brightness. And then, from the dark curtain of the enemy lines, come three or four brief flashes in quick succession, and shells burble over, tearing up the ground with an ear-splitting boom. Chunks of frozen earth, big as children’s heads, fly through the air. They’ve no shortage of ammunition over there, that’s for sure! They can afford to bombard a party of five men with artillery! A second salvo drones towards them, landing almost plumb in the area where the demolition squad is lying prone. Someone behind Harras screams. The piercing, drawn-out shriek drowns out the sound of the shells exploding, and chills the others to the bone. Harras has pressed his face into the snow and clasped his hands to his ears. His back is heaving and sinking with wild gasps of breath, and he is trembling in the last fibres of his being. Escape! Enough! Make it stop… somehow… is his only thought. But he cannot move a muscle. His supine body is racked by a terrible shaking that lifts it momentarily from the ground. Then Harras takes a violent blow to the head, and everything goes black.

After several hours, two men from the demolition squad make it back to their own lines. They are dropping from exhaustion and completely unresponsive. The dreadful screaming of the wounded man slowly ebbs to an increasingly intermittent whimpering groan, which lasts for the rest of the night and the whole of the following day. As darkness falls once more, stretcher-bearers manage to make it to the man. But after many arduous hours spent getting him back to their own lines, he is found to be dead. The bodies of Sergeant Major Harras and Private Seliger, formerly a mess orderly at divisional HQ, are not found.