Bloody Stalingrad Page 3

  In the trench, Hase slowly and carefully raised his rifle, aware that any sound would alert any other hidden enemies. He was wary that this man would not pose a difficult shot at this distance, that the shot would alert nearby units to the potential danger if there were more Russian soldiers approaching. He slowly leant his head into the rifle to look down the sight…his mouth was dry and he could almost hear his heart beating...it seemed so strong and loud, pounding in his chest with the nervousness and adrenalin.

  The Russian helmet had moved slightly towards the bushes as the man struggled to clear the area surrounding him. The Russian was older than others, in his early forties, and slower due to an old injury he had sustained in his right leg, but this was of no interest to the commissars. He was now working hard, wary the light of day was approaching and that he was running late in his duties, that most of his countrymen were further forward than his position. This had made him careless in his urgency to catch up and avoid any further penalty or discipline.

  Looking down the rifle sights, Hase could clearly see the Russian helmet was shaking as the man worked feverishly to clear the frozen snow. He began to deliberately breathe deeply to compose himself and moved his finger slowly to the trigger, preparing to take the shot.

  As his gloved finger touched the trigger, a muffled shout from the left distracted him. He glanced towards where the northern Romanian position would be to hear a short crack as the flare was launched into the air. Hase looked back down the sight to take the shot but the helmet was gone, the Russian now lying flat on his back in the snow having reacted to the shout.

  Both men looked up, watching as the flare began to fall from high in the sky, its glow pulsing in the darkness, mesmerising in its sinister beauty. The light seeming to drift and curl in the cold air before being enveloped into the mist, shadows flickering within the shroud as the light died.

  The nervous Romanian sentry was taking no chances at what he believed he had glimpsed and pulled the bolt on the machine gun he was manning, the loud crack echoing across the German trench in the still early morning. Hase glanced back down the rifle sight to see if he had a shot, but it was now too late.

  He jumped as tracer bullets flew across the snow to his left and disappeared into the night, the rattling of the firing sweeping across the positions. The Romanian soldier hesitated briefly, shouted for assistance and then reapplied pressure to the trigger. His fear intoxicating as the lone sentries were in a vulnerable position if an attack was to be launched from this close to their positions.

  Discounting the shot, Hase moved his head upright, glancing right as he heard the machine gun to the south begin to fire in unison with its counterpart, the Romanian soldiers taking no chances and firing wildly into the misty darkness.

  The Russian penal battalion was now caught in the open field, closer to the German position than their own with approaching light. They had no option but to await discovery or attack before more German and Romanian soldiers were alerted and manned their positions. Instinctively, together, they rose up from the snow in unison with a shout of ‘Hurrah’, their officer cocking his pistol as he struggled from the snow, readying himself for any signs of retreat or cowardice.

  Hase tensed and moved his head to squint down the sights of his rifle towards the bushes again, attempting to gain a further sight of the helmet. His eyes widened in shock as the Russians rose up in front of his position, making him jump. The soldiers were only some 20 metres away, with most wearing white camouflage uniforms. Biting his lip beneath his scarf, he realised now he had spotted one of the most distant and had simply presumed he was the nearest. He gasped in surprise when he realised how close the Russians had got to their position, shocking him into inaction for a second.

  A Russian soldier directly in front of him, some 15 metres away, saw the German helmet and raised his rifle…this reality and danger shook him from his inaction, he spun his rifle to the right and the weapon jolted into his shoulder as he pulled the trigger, the Russian dropping his rifle and falling backwards into the snow, the bullet hitting him mid chest and shattering his ribcage.

  Shaking, he fumbled with the bolt of the rifle in his thick gloves, finally grasping it tightly and pulling it back. Raising the weapon, he fired again, hitting another Russian that was waving a pistol directly to his front. The bullet hitting the man in the arm, spinning the soldier around and knocking him backwards into the deep snow with the ferocity of the impact.

  Hase became aware that the Russians were struggling in the deep frosted snow, having to make high steps to progress through it, the iced surface resistant to their movement. They were advancing slowly and clumsily towards his position, but they now knew where he was and targeted his position. He ducked instinctively as bullets flew in his direction, splattering on the side of the trench and throwing snow and dirt over his back.

  He turned and ran desperately at a crouch from the position, back towards the dugout…to defend it and get his comrades out to safety. A grenade exploded behind him and he briefly glanced over his shoulder, realising that the explosion had occurred where he had been standing. He swallowed hard, understanding that he must have stepped over the grenade or it landed just after he turned to run. The thought propelling him forward, bullets splattering around him on the tops and sides of the trench.

  The Russian infantry were struggling where they faced the Romanian machine guns, but had managed to get behind the arc of the guns in front of the German position and were now reaching the barbed wire below the front of the emplacement and trenches.

  Hase ran half crouched, half stumbling along the short trench and into the emplacement as a grenade exploded just behind the emplacement wall to his right. He lunged towards the doorway of the dugout, tripping and falling forwards as Hausser stepped through the tarpaulin curtain. The young commander’s MP40 (Maschinenpistole 40) submachine gun was rising as he fired a burst over Hase’s head, towards the wall of the emplacement, toppling two Russian soldiers into the wire.

  Udet and Meino emerged from the dugout behind him with a rifle and MP40 respectively. Udet instinctively stooped and grabbed Hase’s arm, pulling him to his feet, ‘Kommen sie, Hase,’ Udet exclaimed, his voice shaking.

  As he scrambled upwards from the ground, their eyes met and he stared briefly into Udet’s face. He saw the concern for him…but also fear, the link was broken by Hausser’s shouting. ‘Get the machine gun up…drive them back!’ The officer turned to them abruptly, barking his orders, ‘You two! Get anyone who gets through!’ The commander fired another burst of his MP40 felling two more Russians emerging from the southern trench.

  Hase looked round as Meino fired his MP40 over to the right, the target unseen to him as he rose from the ground. Grabbing the bolt of his rifle, he reloaded and raised it to fire as the Russians began to come up over the side of the emplacement. Pulling the trigger, a Russian fell backwards off the emplacement wall, the bullet hitting him in the throat. Behind them Gunther and Raynor burst through the tarpaulin with the unit’s large machine gun, an MG34.

  ‘Get that up on the wall you two!’ Hausser shouted frantically, turning to Raynor, ‘Udet…go with Meino and clear the right trench! Hase with me, we will go left!’ He fired again at the Russians struggling in the wire and felled three more. ‘Move quickly before they use grenades! We are too close together! This is it, men!’

  Hase glimpsed Meino grab Udet’s shoulder as they approached the right trench, the Austrian firing into it, hitting an approaching Russian in the stomach as the youngster followed. Udet advanced to Meino’s side, half crouched, his rifle raised nervously. Hase turned and cautiously approached the left trench, seeing it was empty up to the bend. Grasping his rifle more tightly as he advanced cautiously, the fear and nausea rising through his stomach.

  At his side, Hausser rose briefly and fired over the emplacement wall, hitting two Russians in the wire, forcing the others to drop back down the slope. Hase glanced back, seeing Gunther pull the empty ammunition
box from the sandbagged wall that was used to cover the firing position, Raynor lifting the MG34 into the gap, in the same instance pulling the trigger, the flashing muzzle sending tracers into the advancing Russians. Gunther dropped to his knees and began vigorously opening an ammunition box with his bayonet.

  Hausser slapped his shoulder, refocussing him forward, ‘Come Hase, let’s go hunting, I feel these Russians were not ready to attack else we would be gone now. Cover my back as I clear them out of our position.’ The commander advanced half-crouched into the trench with his submachine gun pointing menacingly at waist height.

  They neared the bend in the trench, the rattle of machine guns from the north and south a comforting sound, providing extra courage. Hausser peered around the corner and then stole a glance above the top of the damaged trench. Crouching down again, he turned to him, his face close, ‘They seem to be heading back now Hase, I think…have a look if you like.’

  Hase quickly popped his head up over the trench wall, seeing several Russian soldiers wading away through the snow as quickly as they could away from their positions…now some 30 metres away. Darkened figures were beginning to disappear into the thick mist as it swirled around them, seeming to pull them forward into the shroud. He noticed visibility was better now with the dawn now nearly upon them, he was now able to see the bushes and trees faintly to the south through the haze.

  The older Russian, having crawled to hide amongst the bushes, observed the young helmeted soldier glance out over the trench. He recognised that this was the young man who had injured the commissar as he urged the penal battalion on. He smiled to himself…a good soldier perhaps, his aim inaccurate with the stress of battle. It had left the job of finishing the hated commissar off to himself in the confusion. He looked over to the dead Russian official some 4 feet away. He had dragged him there, with the commissar thinking he was to be saved, placing both his legs over the commissar’s arms to reduce any struggle. Looking into the hated man’s face, he had slowly inserted his bayonet into the man’s neck just in front of his spine, watching the terror in the man’s eyes as he purposefully hesitated, then tearing the blade forward. This inflicted the death he had planned for the miserable bully all along, one he had learnt in the gangs of Kiev as a younger man during the revolution, the German’s shot had simply created the opportunity. He smiled and stroked his greying beard, now stained with streaks of blood. This weak, cowardly man could bully him no more and hide behind a uniform using the excuse of the Party’s will or orders. He had inflicted a well-deserved end to him, his life forfeit for his crimes.

  Shrugging, he turned cautiously in the snow and crawled back slowly towards the Russian line, wiping the commissar’s blood off as he went. This day was to be a very long one and many more would die, no one would notice this wretch once the number of corpses had risen.

  Chapter Three: The Descent

  Hase looked round, the area in front of their position now quiet, the machine guns to either side silent. Both he and Hausser were still at the bend in the trench north of their emplacement, every so often hearing a wounded man moan from the field to the east as he lay dying in the snow. These desperate pleas for help seemed to tear at his soul in his willingness to provide comfort and mercy, but it was too dangerous to go out and try to help in this light, the Russians would also have snipers posted. He considered that the action had taken perhaps all of 10 minutes, but it had seemed longer…much longer.

  Hausser inserted a new magazine into his MP40 and turned to him, ‘Well young Hase, we drove them off…but I don’t think their hearts were really in it.’ The young officer turned and grinned at him, tapping his friends helmet, ‘Let’s go and check on our neighbours shall we?’

  With this, Hausser glanced around the bend in the trench warily and shouted across to the Romanian position, advising them a friend was coming from the south. The reply was welcoming as per the units’ prior arrangements for the day, Hausser immediately bolting half-crouched out of the trench towards the safety of the Romanian line. Once there the officer turned and indicated for Hase to follow.

  He held his breath as he prepared to run across the gap, wary that Hausser’s actions may have alerted a Russian sniper in the snow of his forthcoming appearance. He drew a deep breath and lunged forward, half crouched, holding his rifle in his right hand, his other hand on his helmet. Gasping as he reached the Romanian trench, sliding against the eastern wall, he was greeted by a young Romanian soldier grinning at him. The man crouched next to Hausser and was possibly in his early twenties, winking mischievously at Hase’s fear.

  The officer turned to face him, a warm smile forming on his lips upon observing the relief on the man’s face, ‘I will go and speak to the commander here. See if you can find Tatu and if the old fool is still alive with his friend. Maybe he will have a late breakfast ready?’ Hausser turned and darted off along the trench, leaving him alone with the Romanian soldier.

  ‘Tatu, da!’ The grinning Romanian soldier exclaimed, giving directions with an outstretched right arm and hand and gesturing for him to follow the trench and fork off to the left. Hase nodded and proceeded along the trench, wary that the Romanians had placed seemingly sporadic log sided fire points in the right side of their defences which differed from his own group’s smaller emplacements.

  He followed the young soldier’s directions and these proved accurate. The left fork in the trench twisted back and forth for about twenty metres and then descended a gradual slope, finally opening up into a large emplacement, set before a small wood on the western edge, the trees heavily laden with snow. The Romanians had obviously considered their quartermaster valuable and in need of a regular supply of wood to keep them nourished with warmly cooked food.

  On his journey, he passed soldiers coming from the quartermaster’s kitchen a couple of times. Both were laden with mess tins full of steaming stew, indicating the cooking had not stopped in the face of an enemy attack. In the narrow trench, the obstacle of another soldier had only been overcome by both parties passing each other whilst moving sideways, the Romanian soldiers grinning at his obvious discomfort. The close proximity to food making him now aware how hungry he had become after the stress of the attack.

  The quartermaster’s emplacement had a dugout in its northern wall and a large roaring fire in its centre. Hase stopped by the fire to seek warmth and felt the heat emanating from the flames across his face, the steam beginning to rise from the scarf across his mouth as the frost melted further. His outstretched hands also began to emanate steam from the frost on the gloves, his feet beginning to tingle as warmer blood returned to them, the flames spitting as moisture fell into the heat.

  ‘Ah, young Hase!’ The exclamation was clearly Tatu’s voice and he spun round, startled. The stout quartermaster stood at the entrance to the dugout with his hands on his hips, legs apart, beaming at his new guest, ‘Not perturbed by our Russian friends trying to come for breakfast then?’ Tatu let out a short laugh, ‘I have some food for you if you are hungry…’

  Hase nodded, smiling, realising his hunger further now that the cold was subsiding. He grinned at Tatu’s joviality, the robust Romanian a pleasing sight seemingly wrapped head to foot in some sort of elaborate fur jacket, with thick felt boots. The older Romanian seemed to glide across the snow as he moved to stoke the fire, indicating behind, ‘We store rations and supplies in the bunker and in other areas of the trench system…it avoids a direct hit from artillery…’

  Tatu’s suddenly froze, and turned to look directly at him, his eyes a piercing stare, the Romanian’s face immediately becoming very serious, his eyes narrowing and a frown appearing on his lips. He raised his hand as if to silence the young soldier, the Romanian quartermaster seemed to be sensing the air as if breathing it in. There was a number of distant thuds and Tatu broke his stare, glancing towards the dugout entrance. Realising the door to the dugout was now beyond reach, the Romanian looked back at him, his features stern, ‘I think our Russian friends are perh
aps unamused.’ Tatu exclaimed, ‘Get down!’

  The whoosh of shells filled the air, both men dropping to the ground, thrusting their faces into the snow. The crump of shells around the emplacement threw snow and earth over them as they lay face down with their hands over their heads. The trees cracked as a shell landed in the small copse sending branches and snow flying into the emplacement, scattering sparks from the fire onto the two prone figures.

  Hase could hear the explosions all around their positions and some screams from the forward defences. The noise was deafening as the whooshing and crumps of the explosions in snow merged to form a seeming wall of noise washing over them like a wave.

  Then as soon as it had started…the wall of noise stopped. Both men lay there in anticipation, slowly and cautiously raising their snow covered heads to look at each other. Tatu seemed to be sniffing the air, the smell of the scorched explosions filled their nostrils, almost overpowering their senses…but the Romanian was straining to use a different sense.

  Petru poked his head out of the dugout curiously, ‘Have they finished?’ He stammered, clearly shaken by the ordeal, forcing a smile as he glimpsed Hase.

  ‘Shush’ Tatu scolded his friend, turning his head in disdain to look at the dugout entrance.

  The silence was almost complete when a crack from the wood on the fire broke the three men’s concentration, making them physically jerk in surprise. Then the sounds of a slight squealing noise, distant yet distinct.

  Tatu’s eyes widened in horror, his voice broken, ‘Russkie Tanks!’ Both men scrambled to their feet, looking at each other in confusion. Tatu was the first to react, turning to address his countryman, ‘Get the guns and the brandy, Petru, we are going to show these Russian pigs how Romanians fight!’