Heinrich Gerlach - Breakout at Stalingrad

Around the same time, the new divisional commander was just arriving at Businovka. He immediately let it be known that he wanted to meet the staff officers, and those attached to the subsidiary units, at an informal gathering in the mess. Captain Fackelmann, the commandant of the headquarters, was instructed to lay on a substantial dinner for around forty people. The little reserve captain, though not terribly au fait in military matters, was adept at producing a hearty style of cooking and performed the task keenly and skilfully, ably assisted by three orderlies who were eager to keep their positions. On the appointed evening, the village church vestry, which had been designated as the officers’ mess, was resplendent in the festive glow of many candelabra and spotless white tablecloths. The general, a bulky figure with a rubicund, pudgy face, made his entrance in the company of Lieutenant Colonel Unold, who, in honour of the occasion, had put on his stylish black tank commander’s uniform. The general greeted all the assembled officers individually, enquired after their name and rank, and fixed each of them with a brief stare from his watery blue eyes, into which he tried in vain to inject some ardour. Then he asked the higher ranks to join him at the head of the long table, while the more junior officers took their places at the remaining seats. One striking feature was the large number of young captains present. The straw-blond, freckled Captain Siebel – who had sacrificed his left arm for the Fatherland at Volkhov and had in the interim resignedly accepted a clacking prosthesis, the award of the Knight’s Cross, a quartermaster’s position on the divisional staff, and the prospect of the nation’s gratitude in the glorious time that was coming – was twenty-seven years old. The first orderly officer, Captain Engelhard, and the divisional adjutant Captain Gedig, a jolly Berliner with brown squirrel’s eyes, weren’t even in their mid-twenties yet.

Under the influence of the white Bordeaux, the conversation soon became animated. It turned primarily on the dishes that Captain Fackelmann had surprised them with. The main course had been liver dumplings with boiled potatoes.

‘Quite exquisite, my dear Fackelmann,’ said Captain Siebel patronizingly.

‘Truly the crème de la crème, eh?’

‘Steady on now, gentlemen. I wouldn’t go that far,’ the chubby Fackelmann was quick to interject.

‘You treated us to a real speciality there, though. Didn’t you know that horses’ livers are considered a great delicacy? One of the main ingredients for the famous Brunswick liver sausage is foals’ livers.’

Uncertain, amused glances were cast in the speaker’s direction. His tendency to boast was well-known. Captain Endrigkeit, the head of the military police, a burly East Prussian with a thick moustache, passed the orderly his plate for a second helping of potatoes, and turned to the paymaster across the table.

‘So, if you’re going into Tchir tomorrow to get provisions, Herr Zimmermann, don’t forget to bring back half a dozen steppe ponies with you! Then we can have a real sausage-fest here.’

The dinner guests’ discussion of further culinary possibilities was abruptly curtailed. The general clinked his knife on his glass, rose with some effort to his feet, cleared his throat and addressed them in his tinny bleat of a voice.

‘Gentlemen! The Führer in his wisdom has entrusted me with command of this division, which under the experienced leadership of my predecessor gained a host of battle honours. I shall endeavour to live up to the trust that has been placed in me and to the traditions of the division. I expect each and every one of you to display obedience, to fulfil your duty with the utmost loyalty, and to come down hard on yourself, on your men, and on the enemy. The name of our division must become the epitome of absolute terror to the global Bolshevist foe. In this holy war against the Asiatic race of subhumans, victory must and will be ours! No sacrifice is too great to secure it, and failure to do so would make life no longer worth living. Let’s set to our task in this spirit! I ask you to raise your glasses to our beloved German Fatherland and to Adolf Hitler, our supreme commander and peerless Führer!’

The toast was followed by an awkward silence. Breuer glanced at the officer opposite him, the pale Lieutenant Wiese, who was sitting there with tensed lips, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.

‘Cheers, then!’ Captain Siebel chimed in, then added under his breath, so that only his immediate neighbour could hear it. ‘No doubt great times are just around the corner.’

First Lieutenant von Horn, the tank regiment’s adjutant, flashed a look towards the top end of the table with his monocle.

‘I bet a case of champagne,’ he proclaimed in his nasal voice, ‘that he’s never seen the inside of a tank.’

‘Tank?’ butted in Captain Eichert, commander of the tank destroyer battalion and an old stager who’d signed up for twelve years’ service. ‘I’ll eat my hat if he’s even seen anything of Russia before. Smells like an SS man or a policeman to me!’

Captain Fackelmann tittered softly to himself and mopped his shining bald pate with a napkin.

‘If I’m honest with you, gentlemen,’ he whispered, ‘I’d like that head of his better if it was nicely roasted on a silver platter with a lemon in its mouth!’

This was greeted with a gale of raucous laughter, which attracted disconcerted looks from some of the other guests. Captain Engelhard was embarrassed.

‘Gentlemen, I really must object! The general was in command of an artillery regiment from early ’42 on and has been commanding a division here in Russia for the past few months!’

‘Keep your hair on, Engelhard,’ said Fackelmann soothingly. ‘We’ll see how he fares… and besides, he’ll be good enough for France.’

The others pricked up their ears at this. France?

‘Yes, didn’t you know, gentlemen?’ Fackelmann beamed at them, puffed up with self-importance. ‘Have you really not heard yet? The division’s being sent to France after all. To the Le Havre region, just a stone’s throw from Paris!’

‘To France?’

‘I’d love to know,’ growled Captain Eichert, ‘what latrine you dug that shit up from.’

Fackelmann splayed his plump hands disarmingly.

‘No, honestly, gentlemen. I swear it’s true! I’ve got my contacts. I have it from a totally reliable source.’

‘Hasn’t operational headquarters got something to say about it?’ Captain Engelhard asked, still sceptical. ‘Mind you, I suppose nothing’s impossible,’ he continued. Old Endrigkeit stretched his legs under the table and puffed like a walrus.

‘Heigh-ho, Gedig,’ he said to the adjutant, who was due to go off on a course the next day, ‘you’d better get the destination on your return ticket changed pronto, then! And don’t forget to ask Unold what his favourite brothel in Paris is, ha ha! Otherwise you might never find any of us again!’

The young captain laughed. Sonderführer Fröhlich, meanwhile, turned to his right-hand neighbour to celebrate the news.

‘See, Padre, what did I say? The big attack on England’s coming! How strong must we be if Hitler can afford to withdraw a whole division from Stalingrad and send it to the West? You mark my words, the war’ll be over by the spring!’

Johannes Peters, the Protestant chaplain to the division, smiled indulgently; his peaceable demeanour was at variance with the Iron Cross First Class that adorned his chest.

‘The opposite could just as well be the case, Herr Fröhlich. Perhaps Hitler’s been forced to withdraw the division to try to counter the threat of a Second Front.’ The Sonderführer reached for the cigars and, without responding, shrouded himself in a thick cloud of smoke. He was mightily put out.