Bob Carruthers - Into the Gates of Hell - Stug Command '41

“The entire nation should be awakened as to what these animals have done here. This is a fight to the death and we owe those who will carry that fight the right to know what absolute evil they face. We cannot allow the people of this country to sleepwalk into annihilation. Your job is to waken the nation and rouse them on, to victory.”

Korsak’s look immediately betrayed the fact that he had no intention of leaving the fortress, but, before he could utter a word, Gavrilov continued.

“Time is short, comrade. I will not repeat myself again. That is an order. Now, change out of that commissar uniform and into this.” A dusty private’s uniform was produced. Gavrilov then turned to a soldier who waited with a notepad. “Take down what I say. When I have finished, Comrade Korsak will assume the heroic task of delivering our last despatch.”

Gavrilov, speaking hesitantly at first, began to dictate his dispatch.

A few hundred metres away, in the ruins of the citadel, Zubachyov was still trying to rouse Yefim Fomin.

“Comrade! Comrade!”

When Fomin at last stirred, it is probable that it was the effect of this intervention by his commander, but whether it could be said that Fomin in any understandable way actually heard what Zubachyov was saying is doubtful. When all is gone, only reflex remains.

It was when Fomin turned slowly towards him that Zubachyov noticed his injuries. Blood was dripping from one of his ears and bone was protruding from his left arm. Zubachyov sighed and looked around. It was as if the explosion had expunged all life from the immediate area. What kind of devil’s shell or bomb could wreak such havoc! Through the still-swirling dusk, all that he could make out was the staggering number of bodies, broken and without breath, littering the room. One man over in the far corner was trying to get to his feet, but how long would it take him, and for what purpose? Then he heard the shouts outside.

Dimitri Korsak woke as if from a nightmare. For once, the reality made him wish to go back. Three soldiers stood peering out of the wrecked mouth of the tunnel where Karl had done its deadly work. They held sharpened spades in their hands.

“Raus! Raus! It is over! Raus! Raus!”

Zubachyov tried to think clearly, but the notion had no meaning at a time like this. Worse, such an event not only destroys the body and the mind, it attacks the spirit. If there was no will to fight or resist, how could the mind respond with anything approaching clarity?

Such was the nature of Zubachyov’s surrender. It was not a decision. It was the last step in a forced march. Coughing violently, he motioned to the struggling soldier to follow him out the door. He then helped Fomin to his feet.

“Jews! Commissars! Jews! Commissars!” shouted Oscar Dirlewanger, strutting about the ground in front of the building. Prodding the wounded as they staggered out of the building, he continued shouting at the dazed and wounded Soviet troops. “Ivans, Ivans, bring me your Jews and commissars! Ivans, you shall be treated well. Extra rations and water if you point out the Jews and commissars!”

However, no man even looked at him. Then Dirlewanger took off his cap and started to pour water over himself. Tilting his head, he poured it down his throat, gargling and making exaggerated slurps of pleasure.

Just then a boy of about six ran up to him. He pulled at his trousers and begged, “Water, water, please.” His lips were cracked and bleeding from thirst.

“Young man, you look as if you badly need to drink. Of course you can. I shall give you all the water you need. Enough to slake your thirst… enough even to shower!” He then knelt and put his arm around the young boy. “Yes, look. Water, mmmm… Smell the beautiful water… have a taste…” He wet his finger and ran it salaciously round the young boy’s lips. He then moved his mouth right next to the boy’s ear and started whispering.

“Now, young man, you can have this water, all of this water, all that you can drink, for only one tiny little favour in return. This is all yours. All you have to do is let me know who the commissar is, or any Jewish person. I need to talk to them in order to organize water for all the wounded men first. Please, for their sake, just one Jew or commissar.”

Beyond himself with thirst and taken in by Dirlewanger’s weasel words, the boy turned and pointed at Yefim Fomin.

“Him!” Dirlewanger shouted to his men. “Put him against that wall and shoot him!” He then turned to the young boy, gave him some water, and said, “That is enough for now, my brave young man. Stay by my side and you can have all the liquid you need.”

Zubachyov looked on helplessly as Fomin was dragged in agony and forced at bayonet point by Dirlewanger’s men to stand against the nearest wall.

“Form a line, men. Quickly. We do not have all day!”

Michael Knispel had reached the ruins of the citadel. He was still carrying the Sauer hunting rifle with the impressive sporting sight. He crawled among the ruins to the top of a wall overlooking the courtyard and settled into a firing position. He was content to wait for events to unfold and was prepared to wait as long as required, but it proved to be a short span of time as he soon saw the familiar figure Hans von Schroif, striding purposefully towards Dirlewanger.

“Dirlewanger, what is happening here?”

“Pest control,” replied Dirlewanger airily, “just exterminating some vermin.”

“Are you insane?” replied von Schroif. “This man is badly wounded. By the commonly agreed rules of engagement, I order you to see that this man gets immediate medical help.”

“Order? You order me? Ha! This is not some training ground exercise, von Schroif.” Turning to his men, he yelled, “Aim!”

Knispel lifted the rifle into a firing position. Through the high powered sight, Dirlewanger’s head was magnified. The target was not one that he was likely to miss. He was about to pull the trigger, but then he hesitated as an infuriated Hans von Schroif pulled out his pistol and pointed it at Dirlewanger’s head. His small movement blotted out Dirlewanger entirely and placed himself in the line of the shot. Knispel was forced to look away from his scope in order to understand what was happening in the courtyard.

“This is my last warning, Dirlewanger. Do not think I will not shoot. I am ordering you to desist. Now! That is an order!”

Dirlewanger turned slowly and smiled haughtily at von Schroif.

“Orders… Whose orders am I supposed to follow? Am I to follow the orders of the Führer himself, or those of my former commander? I will always◦— even unto death itself◦— follow the orders of the Führer. There is no higher authority. His will is my will.”

“How dare you drag the Führer into it!” replied von Schroif.

“The order comes directly from the Führer. There is no question of dragging the Führer into it,” retorted Dirlewanger.

“Which order?” shouted von Schroif, his patience running out.

“You may not be familiar with the Führer’s decree of 14th May regarding military jurisdiction in the Barbarossa zone,” replied Dirlewanger, a look of smugness in his eyes. “Order number 44822/41. When fighting bolshevism, one cannot count on the enemy acting in accordance with the principles of humanity or international law. In particular, it must be expected that the treatment of our prisoners by political commissars of all types, who are the true pillars of resistance, will be cruel, inhuman and dictated by hate.”

From his perch amongst the rubble, Knispel could only look on in frustration. Unless the two men shifted their positions, he could not hope to get a shot in between them. Down below, in the courtyard, Dirlewanger paused to ensure the von Schroif was following him.