Stalingrad Heroes Read online

  Stalingrad Heroes

  Alan David

  © Alan David 1980

  Alan David has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1980 by Magread Limited.

  This edition published in 2018 by Lume Books.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter One

  Usually the Don was a quiet, gently flowing river, but with the German armies pounding eastwards in the late summer of 1942 it seemed like a torrent of blood. Beyond it lay Stalingrad and the Volga, and Stalingrad, bearing the name of the Russian leader, was the prize for which they fought — a symbol that had to be captured to rub defeat into the faces of the stubborn Ivans who fought tenaciously every inch of the way and would not surrender. Blood was everywhere, pouring from broken and torn bodies of Germans and Russians alike, soaking into the rich earth, dribbling into the water to turn it a delicate shade of pink. Bodies floated carelessly in the slack current, and battered assault boats drifted away from the inferno of all-out war.

  Oberleutnant Max Eckhardt of SS Division Vaterland lay on the west bank of the river and used his Zeiss field glasses to check the assault going in. They had thrown the Russians back yet again, cutting off pockets of resistance and annihilating them without mercy, keeping up the momentum of the advance with utter ruthlessness. Their orders, from the Führer himself, made it clear that Stalingrad had to be taken. That was sufficient for Max Eckhardt. He checked that the forward platoons were still moving and eased back from the bank to report to the Company Commander, Major Franz Dantine, who had been screaming himself hoarse because they were not maintaining their tight schedules of advance.

  Sergeant Major Fritz Leun appeared from a dugout, machine pistol in his hands, and grinned tightly as he saluted. He was a tough, stocky Berliner, about thirty-eight years old and irrepressibly cheerful, and he nodded as he studied his superior’s strained features, noting the fanatical light in Eckhardt’s pale blue eyes.

  ‘The Major wants to know if Company HQ can move across the river yet, sir,’ he said.

  ‘I’m on my way to report.’ Eckhardt nodded, his expression relaxing slightly as he eyed his father’s old friend. ‘You can get your people together and move them down to the river’s edge, Leun. It’s time to go across. We’re smashing them again, and once we’re over the river there’ll be nothing but beaten Russians between us and Stalingrad.’

  ‘The Russians aren’t beaten until they’re dead,’ Leun said.

  Eckhardt compressed his harsh lips, his eyes seeming to frost over as he nodded. His grey-green service tunic was dusty and he brushed at it, the sounds of war fading in his ears as he thought over the last two years since the fall of France and the routing of the British at Dunkirk. Those days of quick victory had been exhilarating. The Führer had been right against the advice of his top generals. But this war with the Russians was hell, worse than anything he could have imagined, even with the experience of the Blitzkrieg in the West still fresh in his mind.

  ‘Then we’ll kill them all,’ he retorted, ducking his head to enter the dugout. He sensed that Leun followed him but did not look around, and faced his immediate superior, Major Dantine, an intolerant, passionate Nazi Party member of medium height whose uniform, even in the midst of this gigantic battle, might have been taken off a tailor’s dummy within the past half hour.

  ‘What have you to report, Eckhardt?’ Dantine snapped, poring over his maps. ‘Are we across the river now?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We’re digging in on the far side.’

  ‘Digging in? What in God’s name for? Go forward and chase up those platoon commanders. I specifically ordered a continuous advance. At this rate we won’t reach Stalingrad before winter, and you know whose company is going to be out in front when we do take the city, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But the platoons are merely getting under cover until the bridgehead has been established. They’re ready to push forward as soon as the Panzers are across.’

  ‘Those damned tanks! They’re all right when there’s open country for them. They couldn’t help us around Dunkirk, could they? We had to do it the hard way against the Tommies. But we kicked them out, all the same. Get forward and tell the platoon commanders to keep pushing on. No one is to dig in unless I give the order personally. Have you got that?’

  Eckhardt saluted and turned to depart. The Vaterland cuff title on his left sleeve was working loose, for the thread had been damaged, and he made a mental note to get it fixed at the first opportunity. Leun went out ahead of him, ducking as a salvo of Russian shells crashed into the area, raising dust and throwing shrapnel through the air. A soldier twenty yards away was picked up by a vortex of explosions and hurled, dismembered, across the line of vehicles stretching back down the rutted dirt road.

  Two men carrying ammunition boxes were ripped apart when splinters caught them as Eckhardt emerged from the dugout and hurried back towards the river, followed by an alert, eager Leun.

  Several squads of assault engineers were already trying to put a pontoon bridge across the river despite the shelling, and Eckhardt saw numbers of them being killed as air bursts threw wicked slivers of steel into their midst. But there was a constant stream of men hurrying forward, all intent upon crossing the Don. Everywhere there was death and destruction, a nightmarish hell of drifting smoke and incessant noise. Overhead, usually unseen in the smoke of countless explosions, the Luftwaffe roared and screeched, hurling themselves at targets in order to ease the way for the spearhead hammering through the dust of the battlefield.

  The heat from the unseen sun was terrific, and Eckhardt sweated as he slithered down the riverbank and sprang into one of the small assault boats. Leun joined him, gripping his machine pistol. Leun’s face seemed to have aged ten years since France in 1940. Two long years had passed since those heady days of easy victories against the Western Allies. But it was over a year now since the Führer had unleashed the might of Germany against Russia, and most of them had experienced the hell of that first winter in Russia. Now they wanted to take Stalingrad and then sweep northwards to encircle Moscow, aware that if both cities fell the Russians might cave in and sue for peace as they had done in the Great War.

  Mortar bombs exploded in the river, throwing up fountains of water and slivers of steel. Black smoke drifted, and some of the assault boats disappeared without trace. Eckhardt’s craft swung crazily. He ducked as he heard the whine of shrapnel around him. Something struck his steel helmet with a clang and his head jerked, but he paid no heed, his slitted eyes on the farther bank, which was slowly drawing nearer.

  Artillery fire from behind was sullen and never-ending, and the whirring shriek of large shells passing overhead formed a fiendish arch of horror which was practically unnoticed by the veterans on the ground. Russian artillery was firing, and gouts of earth and smoke marked their target area — the massed vehicles and men waiting for the river crossing to be repaired.

  Heavy machine guns were firing steadily, their targets out of sight, somewhere ahead in the smoke and dust. Eckhardt kept moving, wanting to contact the company’s forward platoons. A loud explosion and a yellow flash forced him to dive headlong to the ground, and a geyser of stones and dirt rose in the dusty air to a height of thirty feet. He waited for the storm to subside, aware that Leun was still at his side, then got up and ran forward again.

&nbs
p; The eternal stress of forcing eastwards against the seemingly endless reserves of the Russians was beginning to tell on Eckhardt, although he was not aware of the fact. But he was aware in his subconscious mind that the Russians had succeeded in doing what no other army in the world had managed. Aided by the bitter Russian winter, they had halted the Nazi war machine at Moscow and Leningrad. But now that machine was on the move again in a two-pronged thrust into southern Russia. The Sixth Army was making for Stalingrad while other armies were smashing farther south into the Caucasus. It was a move which had surprised the Russians, but now there was stiffening resistance against the Germans, and the pounding from both sides went on, forming a witch’s cauldron around the Don, the natural barrier in front of Stalingrad.

  A brutal burst of machine gun fire showered earth over Eckhardt as he dived into a depression and turned his head quickly to see if Leun had reached cover. He found the stolid sergeant major at his side and nodded. It was impossible to communicate by talking, and he shook his head and lifted a hand in a gesture of frustration.

  They both raised up to look for the forward platoons while the ground shook beneath them.

  Eckhardt knew he had to ask the platoon commanders to push on to achieve their predetermined goals despite the adverse conditions and at whatever the cost. No one heeded the price any longer. Human life was cheap. There were six and a half million invaders on Russian soil on a front extending for a thousand miles, and each one was prepared to make the absolute sacrifice. Objectives had to be taken, despite the fact that the long flanks of the German armies were exposed to counter-attack. But no one really believed that the Russians had the men or the material to mount such attacks.

  Whistles were being blown, informing Eckhardt that the platoon commanders were still trying to take the initiative, and he nodded to himself. A terrific howl filled the air as he prepared to move on, and he plunged back to the ground as an enormous explosion sucked the air from his lungs and earth splattered over him. He thought his eardrums would burst, and opened his mouth to gasp in the smoky air.

  Tanks were already on the eastern bank, preparing to hurl themselves at the Russians, and their 75-mm guns were blasting rapidly. Yet Eckhardt could see no sign of the enemy positions, and he stumbled into a platoon HQ to find Leutnant Rolf giving orders to the platoon sergeant, Dieter Meyer. This was the platoon Eckhardt himself had commanded before his promotion to 2 i/c of the company, and he waited until Meyer had departed before asking Rolf for a situation report.

  ‘We’re under very heavy pressure,’ came the taut reply. ‘But we’re beginning to push forward. I think the Russians are cracking.’

  ‘Let’s have maximum effort,’ Eckhardt rapped. ‘Major Dantine says we are behind schedule.’

  Rolf nodded. He was tall and thin, with blue eyes and hollow cheeks. His eyes seemed filled with an inexpressible fear, but he was doing his job normally, following the instincts of intensive training.

  ‘We’re running short of ammunition,’ Rolf added, ‘and the men haven’t eaten since before dawn.’

  ‘We’ll consolidate our gains in about two hours,’ Eckhardt told him. ‘Then food will be brought up. Until then you must keep up the pressure.’

  ‘I cannot get my wounded back from the front area.’ Rolf spoke in quiet desperation. ‘Some of them urgently need medical treatment.’

  ‘They’ll have to wait until we halt.’ Eckhardt brushed aside all thought of casualties. His only concern was to get those men still fit to fight moving forward to take their objectives. ‘If we’re close to a breakthrough then we’ve got to strive all the harder. Drive your men. They can do it.’

  He realized that he was sounding just like Major Dantine, but he had his orders to carry out, and this was a part of his job. He would rather have been a platoon commander, out in front with his men, but his duties were as important as any platoon commander’s, and he took his leave to visit the other forward platoon, commanded by Leutnant Weber, a medium-sized, stocky soldier with dark eyes and a fanatical attitude which almost matched Eckhardt’s own zeal.

  Weber was not in his command post. The platoon runner said he was with one of the forward sections. Eckhardt sneaked forward in the direction of the sound of rapid small arms fire and slid into a trench where the platoon commander was crouched beside the Spandau, which was chattering furiously. An attack was coming in, and Eckhardt lifted his Bergmann to join the attempt to stop it. Leun came to his side and they added the weight of their own weapons to the defence, shooting at the indistinct figures moving around in front.

  The reserve section moved forward. In the background Panzers were rumbling, 75-mms blasting and machine guns hammering. More men were crossing the river and getting into position, and Eckhardt knew the time was drawing near when they could advance.

  Dead and wounded lay around in profusion, but he did not even notice them. Parts of bodies, both German and Russian, were everywhere, some partially buried in the earth thrown up by shell bursts, and all around there were discarded weapons and equipment. Two stretcher-bearers came forward at a run, stretcher between them, and they bent and lifted a German soldier and carried him away, ducking and flinching at the nearer explosions.

  Then the Panzers rolled forward in concert, and artillery opened a fearsome barrage. Overhead the Luftwaffe joined in, and their coordinated efforts once again smashed organised Russian resistance. The forward platoons went in behind the tanks, and Eckhardt followed to gauge the extent of the breakthrough. Then it looked as if the Russians were falling back to hastily prepared defences farther east, and Eckhardt returned to Company HQ to report to Dantine.

  The Major was pleased at last, and Eckhardt felt relieved. He sometimes feared for the sanity of his superior. Dantine was no more fanatical than himself, but the Company Commander had an inbuilt mental clock which seemed to tell him subconsciously when an attack was not going to schedule. He made promises to the Battalion Commander, Colonel Spaten, then killed his men trying to keep them.

  High in the air several Russian fighters appeared, diving over the immense battlefield to strafe the German advance, and the Luftwaffe pounced with Focke-Wulfs, machine gun fire rattling incessantly. Eckhardt saw two Russian Yaks spin down in flames, and his pale blue eyes glittered as he watched the opening Russian parachutes being shot up by the patrolling Focke-Wulfs. No prisoners to be taken! That was the grim watchword of SS Vaterland. They asked for no quarter and gave none.

  Mortar fire blasted the plain across which they travelled and machine guns hammered as the Russians tried to hold up the attack. Eckhardt, in close contact with the leading platoons, saw the wounded piling up in front of a strong point. Men were doubling up or spinning around as streams of bullets caught them, but still the survivors pushed forward with no thought to their own lives. Panzers arrived, guns blasting, and the strong point disintegrated into smoke and dust and dead Russians. The platoons got up and raced forward until they hit the next strong point. Then the whole horrendous action repeated itself.

  They reached a village which was burning fiercely, and the heat was oppressive. High above the smoke and dust the sun was blazing down upon the Russian plain, but the men on the ground could not see it. Eckhardt was sweating. Dust caked his face and through it fresh rivulets of sweat cut their tortuous paths. Moving behind their Panzers they made better time, for resistance was still crumbling. The Don was behind them now, Ahead lay Stalingrad and the Volga.

  When they halted for the day to consolidate their gains and await fresh supplies of ammunition and food, Eckhardt made a round of the platoons, checking on casualties and the state of readiness of the men. He discovered that morale was high. They were still advancing despite the pressures exerted by the enemy, and the Führer was already telling them that the Russians could not withstand the onslaughts being made. Stalingrad would fall as soon as they reached it.

  The night was not still. Fires burned everywhere and the guns continued to hammer. The darkness was uncertain. Patrols
went out, causing small arms to rattle. The Russians counter-attacked and the night was filled with horror. But the Germans held and turned the Russians back. In the lull that followed, the heart-rending cries of wounded men rang out ceaselessly.

  The darkness made the Russians bolder and they tried another counter-attack,. Every German available was thrown into defence as flashes split the shadows. Flares soared into the smoky air and threw stark brightness over the inferno. The horizons were lit up by sporadic artillery fire. The noise was overwhelming, battering against protesting eardrums.

  Eckhardt crouched in a foxhole, weapon ready, eyes strained to pick up movement out front. One fired first and asked questions afterwards in this type of situation, and his trigger finger itched as he fought against the strain upon his nerves. Then he heard a cry for help from the right and threw several hand grenades to his immediate front to forestall any unexpected rush. He slid out of the foxhole and ran to the nearest trench. A flare soared skywards and machine gun fire cut loose. By the light of the flare he saw several Russians in the trench, fighting hand to hand with members of his former platoon. He shot two Russians in the back, then saw Sergeant Meyer struggling to prevent a Russian cutting his throat with a knife. Eckhardt jumped into the trench and clubbed the Russian across the back of the neck with his Bergmann, felling him, and Meyer, gasping for breath, bent and stabbed the Russian several times in the chest.

  ‘Thank you, sir!’ Meyer wheezed, straightening. ‘These swine are infiltrating. What we need is a good counter-attack to clear them out completely.’

  ‘We’ll wait for orders,’ Eckhardt retorted. ‘Keep your eyes open, Sergeant. I’ll go back to my foxhole. If the Russians are trying to infiltrate then we’ve got to be on our toes.’

  He left the trench and slid back to his former position, and when a shadow moved he jerked up the muzzle of his Bergmann, but Leun’s harsh voice reached him and he held his fire.