After Stalingrad Read online




  First published in Great Britain in 2016 by

  PEN AND SWORD MILITARY

  an imprint of

  Pen and Sword Books Ltd

  47 Church Street

  Barnsley

  South Yorkshire S70 2AS

  Copyright German text © Adelbert Holl, 1965

  Copyright English translation © Tony Le Tissier, 2016

  ISBN: 978 1 47385 611 0

  PDF ISBN: 978 1 47385 614 1

  EPUB ISBN: 978 1 47385 612 7

  PRC ISBN: 978 1 47385 613 4

  The right of Adelbert Holl to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the Publisher in writing.

  Printed and bound in England by

  CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  Typeset in Times by CHIC GRAPHICS

  Pen & Sword Books Ltd incorporates the imprints of

  Archaeology, Atlas, Aviation, Battleground, Discovery, Family History, History, Maritime, Military, Naval, Politics, Railways, Select, Social History, Transport, True Crime, Claymore Press, Frontline Books, Leo Cooper, Praetorian Press, Remember When, Seaforth Publishing and Wharncliffe.

  For a complete list of Pen and Sword titles please contact

  Pen and Sword Books Limited

  47 Church Street, Barnsley, South Yorkshire, S70 2AS, England

  E-mail: [email protected]

  Website: www.pen-and-sword.co.uk

  Contents

  Preface

  1. Prisoner!

  Gorodischtsche: the collecting point for prisoners from the northern cauldron

  The First Stages: Barbukin, Bol-Rossoschka

  The Road of Death

  In Kissel-Jakov Transit Camp

  A Second Death March

  A Ravine of Death

  Back in Stalingrad

  In the Beketovka Club

  From Beketovka to Kissner

  A Third March of Death

  The Monastery Camp at Jelabuga

  Typhus

  2. The Emigrants and the National Committee Freies Deutschland

  Arrested as Leader of a Band of Conspirators

  Further as ‘Conspiracy Leader’

  From Nunnery Camp to Kama Camp

  Block II

  Block VI

  The First Hunger Strike

  A Spy is Exposed

  A Summer in Isolation

  The Dispute in the Church

  Back in Block VI

  Under the Terror of the League of German Officers

  The Announcement of Germany’s Unconditional Surrender at Nunnery Camp in Jelabuga

  3. A White Slave of the Twentieth Century

  The Woodland Camp of Xiltau (Kosiltau)

  The Flour and Brick Trip

  Winter in Xiltau Woodland Camp, 1945/6

  Back to the Main Camp

  In Seloni-Dolsk Camp

  On a Collective Farm

  On the Volga Ice

  Christmas 1946 and its Consequences

  Via the Main Camp from Seloni-Dolsk to Muni Camp

  From Seloni-Dolsk to Saporoschje

  In the Punishment Section of Camp 7100/2

  The Heroes’ Cellar

  The Sawod Komunar

  In Camp 7100/6: the assembling of the ‘Black Sheep’

  4. Under Investigation for Refusing to Work

  Before the War Tribunal

  In the Rayon Prison of Saporoschje

  In Charkov Transit Prison

  On the Way to Siberian Banishment

  In the Banishment Camps of the ‘Angarlag’ west of Lake Baikal

  Under False Suspicion

  In the 205th Column

  Strange Encounter in the Taiga

  A Friend Falls by the Roadside

  An Unsuccessful Escape Attempt

  There is No Exploitation of People by People in the Soviet Union

  58 Degrees Cold

  As Factotum in the Ambulatorium

  5. The Journey Home

  Is This Really the Journey Home?

  The Big Leap!

  The Last Stage

  On German Soil

  ‘Tell the truth’

  Preface

  When I became a prisoner of war of the Russians twenty-two years ago in Stalingrad, as a young soldier I was full of confidence and belief in our leadership at the time.

  I served my time as a prisoner of this establishment and wrote the following unvarnished report immediately after my return home.

  I have been able to study extensively the failure of those who wanted to be our examples since my return home and have come to the bitter realisation of their shameful misuse of our most sacred feelings.

  This account is not intended to give rise to any false myths, nor to arouse any false hatred, but rather to serve as an explanation. My wish is for the youth of the world to be spared such a senseless war through wise statesmanship.

  My quiet thoughts are for the families of all the dead who lost their lives in this frightful war.

  Adelbert Holl

  Duisburg, June 1965

  Chapter 1

  Prisoner!

  ‘Captain, they are coming!’ With these words the sentry burst into the long dugout.

  Everything was quiet for a moment. Now the time had come that I would never have believed possible but which in the last three days had become an irrefutable certainty.

  My thoughts returned to the moment when I had stood before my sector commander and, in a last burst of defiance, refused the order to withdraw with my last remaining combat capable men. The wounded were to be left behind in the old position, which went against our code of ‘All for one and one for all’.

  Second-Lieutenant Augst was now leading to our sector commander’s command post the last combat capable men: about a hundred of them, scraped out of the rear services, some of whom had had no infantry training. I myself had gone back to the shelter, to my wounded comrades, escorted by twelve of my older men. We were not ashamed of our tears as I explained to the wounded, of whom there were about forty, that we were going into an unknown fate. We had done our duty as soldiers, but fate had been stronger than us. I told them of their country’s gratitude for their service in Stalingrad, and shook their hands. Most of these men had been with the division since the beginning of the war. I was certain of one thing: if the Russians so much as bent a hair of one of the wounded in my presence, he would learn something! I had with me my 08-Pistol with two full magazines and a bullet in the breach – 17 rounds of ammunition, 16 for Ivan and the last one for me. In addition, I still had two hand-grenades in my possession.

  It had been a hot time for us defending the north-western corner of ‘Fortress Stalingrad’. The main front line ran in an east–west direction directly past us to the right-hand corner in the south, enabling the Russians to attack us from three sides. Nevertheless all their attempts to break through had been unsuccessful.

  Some seconds passed full of stress. What would the Russians do? I sat on the extreme corner of the dugout on the edge of the slope in which the dugout was located. It was Second-Lieutenant Augst’s command post and simultaneously served as the collecting point for the sick and wounded. Nevertheless for days now the hospital had been not accepting any more patients, as it was completely full, so the wounded had had to remain forward on the front line.

  I was not identifiable as an officer in my camouflage
uniform. The pistol was secured to my knee. Now must I decide whether it would be a short final fight, or captivity? What is that? I did not know, and gave myself no time as something nagged at my nerves. Ivan would soon come and he would be sorry if he mishandled my wounded comrades!

  There was movement in the front part of the room. ‘They are here!’ I sat motionless and noted what was going on around me. There were seconds of high concentration and stress. Suddenly I heard Russian voices and saw a Red Army soldier with a cocked submachine gun in his hands. His face was that of a normal Russian: broad, bloated, unimpressive. He issued orders that my Company Sergeant-Major Josef Pawellek immediately translated. Pawellek was from Upper Silesia and had learned some Russian during the months of the Russian campaign. The orders went: ‘Lay down your weapons immediately! Abandon all resistance! Fall in outside in front of the dugout!’

  My attitude in front of the enemy soldiers was somewhat hostile. I asked Pawellek to ask what would happen to the wounded. ‘They remain here if they cannot move themselves. They will be looked after.’ We had to line up in front of the bunker. I got up from my seat and wanted to go outside, but Pawellek’s voice stopped me: ‘Captain, take these two bread bags with you, I have got them extra for you. We could well need them!’ Almost mechanically I took what was handed to me without noticing what was in them. It was as if I was in a dream. I followed the others, seeing as I was going out the distress of those left lying on the stretchers – and I was outside.

  Numbed, I followed Sergeant-Major Pawellek, and we trailed behind our comrades, disappearing behind a hill. A Russian soldier, also armed with a submachine-gun, stopped us. He asked something. I heard again and again the words ‘Urr’ and ‘Chleb’, but understood nothing. Pawellek spoke to him. Suddenly he addressed me: ‘Captain, the Ivan wants a watch and will give us bread for it. I have two watches. Shall I give him one?’ It was all the same to me. Pawellek gave the Red Army soldier a wristwatch that he took from his jacket pocket. The Russian took it and put it on, then said something to Pawellek and indicated with his hand the direction in which the others had gone. Pawellek was furious, but the Russian scornfully pointed the muzzle of his submachine-gun at him. We went on without having obtained any bread.

  As we walked on I became aware of something hard in my trouser pockets. I immediately remembered the two hand-grenades and the pistol. Once I had established that there was nobody watching in the vicinity, I dismantled my old pistol and strewed the parts and the hand-grenades out of sight in the snow.

  The route led us back to our old sector, which lay to the left of that of Second-Lieutenant Augst and his men.

  Here we saw the column of prisoners gathering together. Men were coming out of all the holes. A peculiar feeling came over me as we assembled precisely over my old command post. I had still been there only nine hours ago. It was now between 9 and 10 o’clock in the morning. The bodies of those Russians who had fallen in our sector had already been removed. There had been a lot of them. What would the Russians have done if they had captured us here, in our old sector? The dugouts and foxholes in which we had been sitting only a short time before had been carefully combed through.

  A particularly large Russian, who wore a black emblem on his snow shirt and was apparently an officer, was making an announcement. I understood nothing of what he said, but the movements of the other prisoners indicated that we were to fall in. My few old comrades pressed around me. We wanted to stay together if possible. There were three men especially who had been with me for years: Sergeant Dr Alfred Rotter from the Sudetenland, Sergeant Josef Pawellek from Oppeln County in Upper Silesia and Sergeant Heinrich Grund from Erdmannsdorf in Saxony.

  GORODISCHTSCHE: THE COLLECTING POINT FOR PRISONERS FROM THE NORTHERN CAULDRON

  The columns slowly got under way. There were about two or three hundred men. Some of them were equipped with rucksacks, others had knapsacks or bread bags. We cautiously made our way down the icy slope until we came to the bottom of the Gorodischtsche valley. The head of the column stopped until the last prisoners caught up with them.

  Now it was easier going forward. We had already crossed the frozen stream and reached the point where the nose of the hill jutted out. I had always wondered what lay behind it, but I had never expected this. Behind the nose, some 10 to 20 metres apart, stood some super-heavy Russian mortars. I counted twelve of them only 400 metres from my former position.

  A path ran through the valley, leading us on in a westerly direction through the mortar position. Further away from us was another column of prisoners, to which we gradually made our way. Once we reached them, we stopped.

  Until then I had not spoken a word to my comrades. They too were silent. What was going on in their heads? I thought it must be just about nothing, being so numbed and dull. For me it was as if I had a plank in front of my head, as if there was a dark void inside my brain.

  A Russian asks a question and it is translated. He wants to know if there are any officers among us. As I go to step forward, my men hold me back. ‘Be quiet, Captain!’ Rotter whispered. ‘We want to stay together, otherwise we will be separated.’ He was right: I did not want to be separated from my comrades, especially on this journey into the unknown!

  Further ahead of us another German officer has stepped forward. He receives an order which is translated for him. Moving to the head of the column of prisoners, he gives the order to move on. The column starts off again towards the west. Wherever one looks there are columns of prisoners.

  How long we have been tramping through the snow, I do not know. Was it minutes? Was it seconds? It is all beyond my comprehension, so incredible. Until now we have been fighting, dishing out blows and naturally also receiving blows, and now we are trotting along in an apparently endless column of prisoners.

  Another halt. We have stopped in front of a staff headquarters. I don’t know what will happen now. I cannot believe my eyes: a woman, a Red Army soldier with a strongly painted face, vanishes into one of the offices. Around me comrades are trying with difficulty to get some food cans warmed up. The cans contain ready to eat meals. I wonder how they got the food. We have not seen such cans for a long time now. We look on with gnawing stomachs as the others eat. I think of yesterday evening when we shared among forty-eight men, including myself, 4 kilograms of bread, three-quarters of a can of Schokakola, and 3 grams of fat. Fortunately Pawellek had killed our bunker cat during the night and cooked it. The second back leg provided a small morsel for each of my faithful men this morning.

  Near me a senior corporal of artillery is bent over, weighed down by a plump haversack. I can see this haversack is full of crisp bread. How did that man get this crisp bread? The men standing around him ask him to give them some. He refuses. What a dog! Is there a soldier anywhere who does not know the moral duty of sharing? ‘Now give the others something!’ I tell him. A cheeky, impudent face looks at me. ‘What’s up with you? You can kiss my arse!’ I boil inside but control myself and turn away. Rotter says to the senior corporal: ‘Behave yourself! That is a captain.’ I hear his reply as I walk away: ‘That is nothing to me, we are all just prisoners of war now!’ I am ashamed; I had never experienced anything like it before and could never have believed it possible.

  We had already been standing there for an hour and a half, as the so-called control was proceeding very slowly. Those who had been through it called out to us that everything would be taken from us, especially attractive items such as rings, watches, fountain pens, propelling pencils and cigarette lighters. I have nothing apart from my wristwatch, which only goes by the minute. ‘Listen, we must try to join the others over there without going through the controls, and then we can get through quicker.’ By keeping a good look out we could run over to the already checked group, and if we pushed further forward we would soon be marching on. As I had meanwhile discovered, all the prisoner of war columns that had passed through the controls were going on towards Gorodischtsche without specific supervision.
/>   Our plan worked. At a suitable moment we ran across to the other group. Slowly, without anything unusual happening, we went on. Ahead of us the already checked troop of about 300 men was moving off. We hurried to join them. Thank goodness, at last we were making progress. The standing around had become a torment for me especially as I was the only man wearing standard Wehrmacht boots, there having been too few felt boots to go round the whole company.

  Our marching column was becoming fragmented, pulled apart by the poor state of the road. One man who had been lightly wounded tried to get on a passing Russian sledge but the driver hit him with his whip until he fell off. He managed to hold on for a short distance until his strength gave out and then lay unconscious in the road. A former medical orderly saw to the hapless man.

  The day was one of full sunshine. It must have been afternoon. The village of Gorodischtsche could be seen in the distance. Long columns of prisoners were converging on the village from all directions. We looked for a shortcut from the great bend in the track that we had already covered for 400 metres, hoping to save about 500 metres walking. If only we had not done this! When we parted from the crowd we were stopped on this stretch by a young lieutenant and his gang. A thorough search ensued. Anything that pleased them and caught their eye was taken from us.

  I was surprised that, despite the various checks, we still had something that the Red Army soldiers found useful. What did they really think of us? Every prisoner who had a water bottle was told to produce it. The lieutenant seemed drunk as he brandished his pistol and shouted: ‘Wodka jest?’ His comrades also sniffed at the water bottles and bellowed like oxen. I thus understood that they only wanted vodka. When had we last seen any alcohol? It was already weeks ago. Finally they let us go on.

  We reached the edge of the village of Gorodischtsche. Wherever I looked there were prisoners and more prisoners. How many there were it was impossible to say. I recalled having been here three months earlier as a soldier. There was nothing to eat, or to drink. There was no identifiable organisation or system for dealing with the prisoners, but there was talk about marching on to a specific camp. We let ourselves be swept along in the mass of humanity. We had already been here in the village for hours. It was dark when the almost endless stream of soldiers reached the western edge of Gorodischtsche. The village itself was stuffed full of benumbed prisoners.