Heinrich Gerlach - Breakout at Stalingrad

During this period, Lakosch found another opportunity to improve the food situation. Admittedly, however, this time the enterprise did not pass off without repercussions for him in many regards. Lieutenant Colonel Unold had insisted that a new bunker be built for himself and the commander. Grumbling, the starving troops of the divisional staff set about the backbreaking task of digging – work they thought was utterly pointless. They only made very slow progress in the hard, frozen ground; sometimes they even had to resort to explosives. It was highly doubtful whether the building would be finished before Christmas. One day, Lakosch was assigned to a work party that was ordered to fetch timber for building and window glass from Stalingrad. Gearbox damage to their lorry forced them to spend an uncomfortable few days in the bomb- and artillery-ravaged city. While the others holed up in the deep cellar of a derelict house, Lakosch roamed around the ruins. On his travels, he ran across an NCO he knew from before, who had an interesting tale to tell. Food? They had some top-notch stuff to eat in their unit, claimed the NCO. There was a half-sunken barge full of flour and grain frozen fast into the Volga, which they’d been helping themselves to for a while. This wasn’t a simple task, though. It was in direct contravention of a ban imposed by the division, and because the Russians kept the barge under constant fire, a few men had already bought it. Also, there was an ongoing feud with the neighbouring division, in whose sector the barge was located. The lily-livered bastards didn’t have the guts to raid the barge themselves, Lakosch’s friend told him, but they were determined no one else should get at the spoils either. ‘Anyhow, we’re going out there again tonight,’ concluded the NCO. ‘It’s my turn again. I’ve got some good lads in my group, too. If we pull it off, that’s a fortnight’s supply of white bread in the bag!’

Lakosch was raring to go. He could see all kinds of possibilities for such provisions.

‘Hey, count me in!’ he said. ‘If anything goes wrong, just say I was someone from the other division, and you had nothing to do with me!’

After a protracted spell of bargaining, the NCO eventually agreed, given that he and Lakosch were old mates. But the undertaking proved more tricky than they’d anticipated. To reach the barge, you had to traverse about three hundred metres of ground, crawling on your stomach and picking your way over ice floes and around holes in the ice. The Russians soon spotted that something was afoot, and before they knew it the raiding party had come under heavy mortar fire. The cracking river ice swayed and shuddered like in an earthquake. One of the men was hit, and lay there whimpering in pain. But eventually the rest made it to the barge, which had been peppered with bomb splinters and machine-gun rounds. It took all the effort they could muster to work their way back with their haul of grain and their wounded comrade. When Lakosch finally collapsed in a bunker, drenched in sweat despite the intense cold, he was the proud owner of a sack of wheat flour and a can of syrup.

But a nasty shock lay in store for him when he got back to divisional HQ. Senta was nowhere to be seen! Geibel, in whose care Lakosch had entrusted the dog on pain of death, was a gibbering wreck. He’d searched high and low and asked everyone he met, but all to no avail. In a fit of rage, Lakosch punched the big private hard in the face; conscious that it was all his fault, Geibel forebore to retaliate. He accompanied Geibel around the camp searching tirelessly for the dog, rooting around in other units’ bunkers under all sorts of pretences – but all in vain! Senta had vanished for good.

With the addition of saccharin, a pinch of bicarbonate of soda and some of the syrup, plus all the coffee grounds he could lay his hands on, Herbert used the fine white flour to bake wonderful cookies in the mess tin. Geibel, with his usual penchant for trying to brighten up his life with illusions, went so far as to compare them to macaroons. Another time, Herbert appeared beaming from ear to ear and clutching three round loaves of bread, which a Russian woman from one of the houses below the camp had baked for him in return for a portion of the white flour. For two days they dined sumptuously on this bread, spread liberally with the contents of Lakosch’s pilfered can. The ‘syrup’ turned out to be an engineering lubricant, based on benzine or petroleum. They all contracted terrible diarrhoea, which not only used up the two rolls of toilet paper they’d been issued with but also expended the few extra calories they’d eaten. Their raging hunger also thwarted the good intentions they’d had of saving some of the flour for Christmas.

Lieutenant Dierk had positioned his two 20-millimetre, four-barrelled anti-aircraft guns in some old Russian machine-gun nests a few hundred yards away from the Staff HQ bunkers. He was only permitted to fire in the event that the bunkers came under a low-level attack by Russian planes. Up until now, the enemy hadn’t obliged him in this, so he and his men idly sat out the long days and nights frustratedly observing the high-altitude aerial dogfights they were unable to take part in. It was an engrossing spectacle when the long lines of transport planes, escorted by a handful of fighters, would circle above the airfield, gradually gaining height until, one by one, the aircraft were swallowed up in the protecting blanket of cloud, or when Russian fighters suddenly burst out of the grey shroud and, twisting and turning around one another with siren-like howls from their engines, began mixing it with the German Messerschmitts. The soldiers on the ground craned their necks to follow every move of the dogfights like they were some sporting contest.

‘There, over there! See how he’s getting stuck in! You wait, he’s going to get him!’

‘You’ve turned too sharply. Told you, you pulled out of that far too early! You’ll never hit him like that!’

‘Look at that bastard! He’s bottled it, the coward!’

‘Yes, now… now… oh, so close! He’s got some guts, that guy! Want to bet he downs another one?’

‘Look, they’re hightailing it out of here now. Yeah, see, Franz? They’ve gone! Vanished into the clouds! Nah, that’s our lot, they won’t be coming out of there again. What shitty luck!’

No sooner had the paltry German force of three fighters, which flew sorties round the clock, touched down to refuel and re-arm than the Russian bombers were overhead. They moved steadily across the skies, gleaming silver, and those watching from below could clearly see small shapes dropping from their bellies. Soon after, the dark mushroom clouds of explosions rose up from the ground; a thick black column of smoke indicated that a fuel dump had taken a hit.

One time, though, they arrive prematurely, while two German fighters are still in the air. The Russian planes weave about uncertainly, firing wildly with all guns blazing. But the two Messerschmitts stick doggedly to their task, attacking the formation time and again. There – a thick plume of smoke trails from one of the bombers, it’s on fire! Two small objects detach themselves from the stricken aircraft; one plummets to earth, gaining in velocity as it falls, while above the other a white ball suddenly blossoms. Swaying gently to and fro, it drifts straight towards Dierk’s flak position. Soldiers rush from all sides. The parachute is dropping faster and faster, and now they can clearly make out the head and limbs of the man dangling beneath it. As they look up, without warning several flashes appear in rapid succession.

‘Hey, the bloke’s taking potshots at us!’ The soldiers reach for their rifles.