William Craig - Enemy at the Gates

In the daily staff meetings with his “conscience,” the stubborn Gen. Franz Halder, Hitler bridled under repeated warnings about weak flanks and poor communications both at Stalingrad and in the Caucasus. He began to think about replacing Halder, too.

The situation deteriorated further on September 7, when Gen. Albert Jodi returned from a hurried trip to the Caucasus headquarters and heartily endorsed List’s idea of ending all attacks until Army Group A was resupplied with men and materiel. Hitler exploded at this defection by a trusted aide. He screamed at Jodl, who also lost his temper and shouted back stinging reminders of Hitler’s various directives that had brought the operation to its present sorry state.

His face blotched and his eyes feverish, the Führer stormed out of the meeting. From that moment on, the breach between him and the Wehrmacht generals widened irreparably. Until the end of the war, whenever he stayed at the OKW, Hitler took almost all his meals alone, except for the companionship of his dog, Blondi.

While the leader of the Third Reich sulked at Vinnitsa, his pawns in the Fourth Panzer Army were storming the southern outskirts of Stalingrad. After meeting Paulus’s Sixth Army on the steppe just outside the city, “Papa” Hoth wheeled his divisions eastward for a drive to the Volga that hopefully would split the Sixty-second and Sixty-fourth Soviet armies. But the moment his tanks rolled off the steppe into the congested, hilly suburban towns of Krasnoarmeysk and Kuperosnoye, Hoth faced a different kind of war.

Gone were the lightning ten-mile advances. Now Hoth settled for only a mile or two each day. When the panzers bogged down in narrow streets, Russian soldiers doused them with Molotov cocktails. From windows, enemy snipers picked off whole squads of unwary foot soldiers. Artillery, once used to decimate unseen targets miles away, was now employed to rip out the guts of buildings just fifty yards in front of stalled German divisions.

The cost was frightful. Werner Halle, a corporal in the 71st Regiment of the 29th Motorized Division later wrote in his diary, “During this period we were frequently without company commanders or even platoon leaders… each one of us, this may sound hard but this was the way it was, could easily guess that he might be the next to go…”

On the evening of September 9, Halle and his men received a warm meal, their first in many days. The next day, he stood on the slopes leading down to the Volga at Kuperosnoye and marveled that he had made it to this huge river. After sending word back of his triumph, he dug in quickly to await a violent Soviet reaction to his presence.

Halle’s arrival at the Volga marked the final isolation of the Russian Sixty-second Army. Already cut off in the north by the German Sixth Army’s push to the Volga on August 23, it was now penned into a salient around the suburb of Beketovka and was about to absorb the full weight of Friedrich von Paulus’s main body, drawn up at the western rim of Stalingrad. The Sixtysecond Army was now the only combat force left to deny Stalingrad to more than two hundred thousand invaders.

In the Tsaritsa Gorge, traffic around the Russian Military Council bunker was unusually light. Civilians who commented on the hushed atmosphere were unaware that Gen. Andrei Yeremenko had moved out, across the river to Yamy. Yeremenko’s reasons for leaving were legitimate. He had trouble communicating with his armies over phone wires, which were constantly being cut by enemy fire, and German mortars were shelling the Tsaritsa Gorge itself. Only a few days before, flames from a burning oil dump had poured down the gorge and almost incinerated the headquarters.

When Nikita Khrushchev phoned Stalin to explain why they wanted to leave, the premier fumed, “No, that’s impossible. If your troops find out that their commander had moved his headquarters out of Stalingrad, the city will fall.”

Khrushchev kept repeating the arguments until Stalin relented: “Well, all right. If you’re certain that the front will hold and our defenses won’t be broken, I’ll give you permission….”

The headquarters staff crossed the Volga on September 9, and before he left, Khrushchev called in bald-headed Gen. F. I. Golikov and told him to stay as liaison with Gen. Alexander Ivanovich Lopatin, commander of the sacrificial Sixty-second Army. Golikov turned “white as a sheet” and begged Khrushchev not to abandon him. “Stalingrad is doomed!” he begged. “Don’t leave me behind. Don’t destroy me. Let me go with you.”{Later, Golikov complained bitterly to Stalin about his treatment at Khrushchev’s and Yeremenko’s hands. The premier very nearly cashiered Yeremenko on the spot. Only when Khrushchev told Stalin about Golikov’s cowardly behavior was the situation clarified.}

Khrushchev brusquely ordered Golikov to pull himself together, then stalked out of the bunker to catch the ferry to the far shore.

General Golikov’s hysteria reflected the increasing tendency among Soviet personnel to quit the city. While Golikov was forced to remain because of a direct order from Khrushchev, thousands of Russian officers and men sought safety on the eastern shore of the Volga. Some forged false papers; others hid on the ferries. All were desperate enough to chance a fatal encounter with NKVD police. But even the Green Hats were now leaving.

At his nearly deserted bunker in the Tsaritsa Gorge, General Lopatin tried valiantly to rally his dispirited soldiers. But the Sixty-second Army he commanded existed in name only. Having been badly battered west of the Don, its survivors had straggled into Stalingrad to seek refuge, not combat. Its front extended from the tractor factory to the grain elevator and it was ill-prepared to withstand the full weight of the oncoming Germans. An armored brigade possessed just one tank. An infantry brigade counted exactly 666 soldiers, of whom only 200 were qualified riflemen. A regiment which should have mustered 3000 troops listed 100. The division next to it, normally 10,000 strong, had a total of 1500. On the southern fringe of the city, the once great 35th Guards Division carried 250 infantry on its rolls.

With these statistics confronting him, General Lopatin lost confidence in his ability to save Stalingrad. When he confided his fears to Yeremenko, he lost his job.

Across the Volga, in the woods at Yamy, Yeremenko and Khrushchev held a hurried conference to choose a successor. Sifting the names of candidates, they quickly agreed that one general, Vassili Ivanovich Chuikov, the deputy commander of the Sixtyfourth Army, was best qualified for the job. A peasant whose career included work as a bellhop and shop apprentice before the Bolshevik Revolution, Chuikov had joined the Communist party in 1919 and within months became leader of a regiment during the Civil War. Six years later, at the age of twenty-five, he graduated from the prestigious Frunze Military Academy and went on to command an army in the Russo-Finnish War of 1939-1940. When Hitler invaded the Soviet Union, Chuikov was stationed in Chungking, China, reporting the palace intrigues around the “Fascist” Chiang Kai-shek. Not until the spring of 1942 did he return to Russia, where, for the past six weeks, he had worked in General Shumilov’s Sixty-fourth Army as it fought the German Fourth Panzer Army on the steppe southwest of Stalingrad. Despite the constant retreats before the massed enemy tanks, Chuikov never succumbed to defeatism. Strong-willed, imbued with a belief in himself, he heaped scorn on those who lost heart. Argumentative to a fault, he readily chastised anyone who disagreed with his ideas about military matters.

His abrasive personality went hand in hand with his pugnacious appearance. Broad-shouldered, stocky, he had a jowly, seamed face. Tousled black hair fell into his eyes, and his smile revealed a row of gleaming gold teeth. Chuikov cared little about his dress, so ordinary and unkempt that he was frequently mistaken for the average foot soldier.