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![]() Mark Snell
riverhippie@sbcglobal.net “Houses all over the city were burning and at night their smoky glow filled the horizon. Day and night the earth was shaken by the thunder of the bombing and the artillery barrage. The wreckage of crashed bombers lay scattered in the streets and the air screamed with shells from the ack-ack, but not for a moment did the bombing stop. The besiegers were trying to turn Stalingrad into a hell on earth. But it was impossible to remain inactive—you had to fight, you had to defend the city amid the fire, the smoke and the blood. This was the only way you could live, the only way you had to live.” —Konstantin Simonov: Stalingrad, 1942. Logs in the Fire When the war started, I believed God wanted us to defeat the Slavs quickly, like we had the Poles and French. My whole life, the Church and State taught me that German intelligence and will destined our people to rule Europe. Moreover, that this was the will of God. But by the night of 17 October 1942, I had come to believe God had sided with the Godless and the bitter cold early winter wind, snow, and sleet that his beast—Nature—brought down from the heavens was his way of punishing us for our vanity. I felt God’s will and saw his light that night, during the heat of battle in a frozen world reminiscent of Dante’s imagined Hell: fire and ice, constant pain and suffering. If there had been a gate on the road to Stalingrad, the inscription above it should have read: “Through Me The Way To The Suffering City… Abandon Every Hope, Who Enter Here.” My reconnaissance platoon had led the ‘tip of the sword’ of Army Group South from the beginning of the war in the east, 22 June 1941. We punctured the Russian line and thrust deep into the heart of the Ukraine. The surrender of more than 600,000 Russians after the encirclement of Kiev in late September of ‘41 created reassurance that we were superior to the heathen Slavs and our domination was natural. After crossing the Don River and taking Rostov in October of ‘41, the harsh, early winter and Russian T-34 tanks, which we’d not seen before, drove us out of the city and back across the river. In the middle of the coldest winter in over a hundred years—colder than I imagined possible—the thought God had forsaken us first invaded my thoughts. Spring came late but welcome in ‘42, and we pushed the Russians back with ease. My spirits lifted, and the warm weather eased my tension about God’s intention. Then came Stalingrad. The wide Volga River protected the city from our usual tactic of encirclement and forced us into a vicious fight for the ruined city, constantly shelled by both sides and continually burning like the hell it was. The Russians dug into the rubble and cellars of burned out buildings, creating small fortresses connected by elaborate trenches and tunnels, the good defenses that is. They sacrificed thousands and thousands of men by forcing them to attack our main lines, protected by heavy MG 34 machine guns which mowed them down without remorse. But there seemed no end of Russian soldiers ready to sacrifice their lives for the Godless Bolsheviks. Between August and October, the fighting degraded to depths so brutal that life’s value continually deteriorated for both sides. The Russians sniped at us while we tried to recover our dead and wounded. Neither them nor us took prisoners or expected it from the other. The city reeked from rotting bodies left unattended until Nature unleashed another brutal winter again in early October. Even then, the cold couldn’t completely suppress the unforgettable smell of death and rotting bodies. Each night, my reconnaissance platoon probed the Russian defenses, searching for weak points which combat engineer companies would later assault with satchel charges, flamethrowers, and MP 40 submachine guns. We’d then set up ambushes to protect their flanks. The Russians would try to pinch off the base of the attack, so we always faced their counter. They would come and come. We would kill and kill, sometimes running out of ammo and fighting hand to hand with knives and entrenchment shovels. I saw so many men killed or, if they were lucky, have their arms or legs blown off by grenades or artillery rounds that it’d be impossible to come up with a number. This went on for almost two months, night after night. That I was alive on 17 October 1942 is a miracle in itself. That my faith in God was slipping and I began thinking all I’d been taught when a child was a lie isn’t such a miracle, more like a nightmare. Even though I didn’t understand the reasoning behind the Russians sacrificing men by the thousands, their sacrifice was often heroic and went against my beliefs about Russians in general. I saw them fight like mad, fanatic dogs until they were dead—never surrendering. They’d taken a resolve we’d not seen in them before. Sure, some ran and hid, but so did some Germans. Respect replaced disgust in my thoughts. Though I’d never spoken to a Russian, I started questioning my belief that Slavic people were inferior, like rats, and killing them was not a sin, but a noble and righteous thing. I felt sinful. How could I kill and see so many killed and maimed and not? The last thing I would’ve said was that I felt noble. My platoon spent the evening of 17 October 1942 searching for and finally finding a weak spot in the Russian lines for the engineer companies to assault later that night. We snuck back through the lines and returned to our dirty bunkers, resting for an hour before heading back out with the rest of the recon company and setting up an ambush to protect the assault. I sat and talked with my company commander, Hans Fricke, while I ate stale bread and weak, warm soup. “Do you really believe all Slavs are inferior?” “Of course they are, Martin.” “How can you be so sure? I’ve seen a lot of brave Russians.” “There are always braver Germans.” “Always?” “Martin, you’ve got to stop questioning. It will be our deaths. We’re here, and there’s nothing we can do but fight until we die or win. Hang in there. I need you. The company needs you.” “What for—to live longer so we can kill more? Do you really think some of us are going to survive?” “Yes Martin, I have faith the Lord protects the righteous.” “Herr Foustle wasn’t righteous? Is that what you’re saying? And the others?” “I’m saying we must fight on and all we have left is our faith.” “Faith in God or in our cause?” Captain Fricke said, “Both Martin, both.” “I’m not sure I’ve any left in either, Herr Fricke.” “Martin, I’ve known you for more than five years, and I don’t believe you could ever lose faith in God.” “I didn’t either, but these last few weeks of fighting have worn me to the point I’m not sure of anything except I’ll never leave this city alive.” “Martin, neither you nor I control fate. Death will come when it’s ready.” I didn’t reply, just packed my gear and rousted my platoon back to life. We led the rest of the company back through the Russian lines, crawling and slipping on the melting ice and snow caused by the city’s endless fires, trying to move as quietly as possible. All three platoons of the company then set up to protect the right flank of the engineers’ assault, my platoon positioned left and forward. We were ready an hour before the assault by the engineers. Waiting, tired and cold—so cold my fingers and toes were numb and so tired my mind kept drifting into thoughts of my wife and son mixed together with memories of violent deaths. Fifty minutes of lying in my small fighting position—freezing—lasted an eternity because I couldn’t silence my brain. The assault growing closer brought with it a release of adrenaline into my system, causing my body to warm and my thinking to clear. I asked God to reveal himself and explain what I’d been doing and what I should do now. No answer had come when the battle started at four in the morning. The sound of men screaming while their bodies were either blown apart by exploding satchel charges or burned by flamethrowers spitting scorching death seemed louder than the explosions or crackling fire. I crouched down deep and waited for the counter everyone knew would come. And come it did, without reservation. They came and died in a hail of fire from the back two platoons. My platoon held its fire. They were mostly seasoned veterans and only a few young kids. All of them were fully aware the Russians in the first line were sacrificial lambs, sent to expose the engineers’ flank protection. The next wave would be ours. Mortar rounds landed with loud pops in front of our positions, smoke rounds to cover the attackers’ movement. The men readied grenades. When dark shapes appeared, crouched and moving slowly toward us, the squads’ sergeants gave commands to fire. After hearing the grenades explode, the soldiers rose and fired into the shadowy outlines of Russian soldiers. Movement to the left! Captain Fricke showed up behind us with part of platoon A and told me to hold my position while they moved to block the Russian flanking maneuver. His company command team and five other men moved out toward the left. They disappeared from sight quickly, and I heard shooting and screaming close to where I’d last seen them. My five-man command team moved out after them. The three infantry squads stayed to protect the front. After only twenty meters, we fell into a deep, dark trench—full of Germans and Russians fighting hand to hand. Rising to my knees, I pulled up my MP 40 and shot a Russian just before he struck Captain Fricke with the butt of his rifle. Then I charged toward the captain, firing down the trench and screaming while I slipped forward in the slick mud and snow. I dove next to the captain, and we exchanged a quick glance before emptying our submachine guns down the trench, halting the advancing Russians. The intensity of the fighting behind us grew louder when more Russians jumped into the trench from the left. Captain Fricke patted me on the back and said, “Hold as long as you can.” Then he jumped up and charged back into the struggle for the trench behind us. The Russians charged again, and I ran out of MP 40 ammo stopping them. I threw two grenades, waited for them to explode, and then charged down the trench with my pistol. Just as I tried to jump a gaping shell hole in the trench, a Russian jumped on me from above, sending us sliding downward toward the dark putrid Stalingrad sewer, and grappling for ways to kill. We slid several meters before free-falling several more, ending up opposite each other in the main sewer, both without guns. The Russian pulled his knife and lunged. A flash of light showed me his swinging arm and allowed me to block the blow with my left forearm and then stab him in the chest with my own knife, twisting hard after sinking it deep. The Russian fell back to the ground against the circular wall of the sewer, wheezing. I leapt on him, pushed his head to the right, and brought my knife to his throat. Then the light of God struck me. Not a bright beam like often described, but a faint flicker caused by the flash of an artillery round’s explosion penetrating the hole in the sewer and reflecting off of a cross worn around the Russian’s neck. I stepped back and looked at the outline of the still wheezing soldier, who wore a cross! My head began spinning, and I sat against the wall to catch my breath and gather my senses. The sounds of the fight for the trench slowed. Even if they hadn’t, there was no way back through the hole because it was too steep, long, and slick. I opened my pack and took out a bandage, approached and searched the wounded Russian, and then applied a field dressing to his chest—allowing his lungs to take some air. Shocked about the fact he wore a cross, I sat across from him and took some cigarettes (my last) and matches from my pack. I lit one and saw the Russian’s pale face in the brief light of the match. To my complete dismay, the Russian asked for a cigarette in perfect German. “Maybe you’d better wait a bit.” I replied. In a quiet, weak, but clear voice, the Russian said, “It’ll probably be my last. I’d like it now while I’m able to think about how good it tastes.” “Your German is perfect. What’s your name?” I asked while lighting him a cigarette. The Russian took a puff and—coughing slightly—said, “Ahhh that’s good. I haven’t had a cigarette in two weeks.” “What’s your name?” I asked again. The Russian’s voice softened, “Do you name the logs you keep outside your house in the winter for your fireplace? That’s all we are, you and I and everyone else in this hell, just logs to keep this fire of madness burning. Four hundred years before the birth of Christ, Plato said, ‘Only the dead have seen the end of war.’ It will still be true four thousand years from now.” I lit another cigarette for myself and saw the face of the Russian again in the quick light of the match. He was a captain. I asked, “What’s a Russian captain who speaks fluent German doing in the front lines of Stalingrad?” “Well,” the Russian answered in an even weaker voice, “my grandfather was in the foreign service during the Imperial government before the revolution. I was born in Berlin and learned German there. That, along with the fact I’m Christian, makes the Bolsheviks not trust me, so they sent me here to fight and die.” “I thought all Russians were atheist?” The Russian half laughed and half coughed, “Son, just because the State says there is no religion doesn’t take away a man’s faith. There are many Christians in the Red Army.” The talking seemed to have made him weaker. He dropped the cigarette and struggled to take in more air, but his damaged lungs were failing. “Please,” the Russian whispered, “my pack, the box, please?” I opened the Russian’s pack, reached inside, and handed him an old lacquered box. The Russian opened it and removed a bible, three photographs, a candle, and a box of matches. He struck one of the matches with his trembling hands and lit the worn down candle. He held it so the pale light revealed the images of his wife and children and the old bible, “My faith that God will help my family is all that has kept me going in this wicked place.” His failing voice had grown weaker still, and the dim light from the candle revealed his fading condition. “Why would God bring us here?” I asked. Words boomed out of his body as if he’d not been stabbed, “God didn’t put me here. Don’t be deceived by the deceiver. He’s even more powerful in war than peace.” His voice faded rapidly, and his last words became only faintly audible, “Don’t worry, you’re my savior. Death is my release from Hell.” The candle dropped from the Russian captain’s right hand, but his left hand retained its grip on the photographs, and the bible still rested on his lap. The candle rolled into the water while the Russian officer died, holding the pictures of his family on the bible. The war sat silent above me. I sat in silence and cried, my face in my dirty hands, while fingers of sunlight stabbed into the sewer through its many wounds. I thought of writing a letter. Perhaps a farewell note to my wife explaining the circumstances of my fate. The thought drifted away when I realized her imagination couldn’t possibly be worse than reality. Near exhaustion, I struck another match, lit my own candle, and looked at the pictures of the dead Russian’s family. I took one picture and the cross from around his neck and put them in my pocket. I reached into my pack and grabbed a clean piece of paper and a pen, wrote a note declaring my intent to never kill again, pinned it above the dead Russian officer’s head with my knife, moved west down the sewer, and crawled out of the first usable opening. The sun rose bright for the first time in weeks. It hurt my eyes. I walked back through the wreckage of the burning city without a care, paying no attention to safety while stumbling past our lines. I knew in a short time I too would be dead. When I’d almost reached our bunker, God’s will struck me in the form of a sniper’s bullet, passing through my back and right lung. I remember crawling toward our bunker and Captain Fricke rushing toward me, then darkness and sweet dreams of my wife and son. I woke on an airplane, bandaged and groggy, wondering how I’d gotten there. I realized Captain Fricke must have taken me to the hospital at Gumrak Airfield. But it’s just a guess because I never spoke to a single member of the company again. They all died the bitter death I waited on but somehow avoided through whatever power God has in this world. I’ve spent the rest of my life questioning God’s ability to wield power on earth. Did Satan have so much strength he could create the horrors at Stalingrad unchecked by God, save the few fortunate souls—like me—plucked from the madness? Was the Russian right? Did God send me to save him, or him to save me? I’ll always wonder, but I’ll never forget looking out the plane’s open door at the frozen city burning and saying aloud in my own weak voice, “I’m just a lucky log, pulled from the fire only partially burned.” Epilogue: On November 19, 1942, the Russians launched a surprise winter offensive (Uranus) that surrounded the German 6th Army in Stalingrad, forcing its surrender on February 1, 1943. From August until February, over 150,000 German soldiers lay dead in the burning rubble. Of the more than 90,000 Germans that surrendered, less than 5,000 survived to see home again. The Russians claim 1.1 million casualties at Stalingrad, of which more than 480,000 were deaths. Last edited by KG_Soldier; 10-28-2006 at 02:17 PM.. |
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