After Stalingrad Read online

  THE FIRST STAGES: BARBUKIN, BOL-ROSSOSCHKA

  Going forward gradually became easier. I was far too numbed by all the experiences I had been through to think clearly. I moved along with the column like a sleepwalker. The road was bad, the darkness hiding the potholes, so I staggered on to the left and then to the right, pushed this way and that by the stumble of a comrade. I was covered in sweat from the irregular marching.

  How long had we been marching already? I did not know. In the distance ahead of us appeared a few isolated lights. I had no idea what they could be, but I heard someone say: ‘That must be Gumrak.’

  The sound of an approaching vehicle made us step aside. It was a heavy Josef-Stalin tractor with two heavy guns attached, the crews sitting on them despite the cold. No ostentation, no baggage, only ammunition, just as we should have done.

  We gradually came nearer to the lights. The presence of the railway line confirmed to me that this was Gumrak. Destroyed vehicles and guns had already been collected alongside the railway line. The traffic here was livelier. Here and there the door of a dugout opened and the light of the gleaming lamps shone out. Further on there was no light near us or in the distance. Only the long dark worm of the railway line accompanied us, and the firmament cast its cold pride over us as we struggled along. From time to time there was a brief halt as the guards waited for the column of prisoners to close up again. Like my comrades, I used these moments to lie down in the snow with my blanket under me. I was very tired. The lack of rest in the last two weeks was having an effect, but we could not stay lying down for long as our bodies cooled quickly in the biting cold, the relentless frost creeping over us, rising unceasingly from below. Only after walking for several hundred metres does the blood start to circulate again and the body to warm up.

  The night seems endless. My stomach demands attention and its rights, not having had any proper attention for days. But I still have nothing. When will I get something to eat again? I breathe out. I can see a narrow strip in the east heralding the approaching dawn. It will soon be day and the world will look somewhat different. The guards have also said that there will be something to eat in the foreseeable future. Some know this place. They think that we are marching to Barbukin and will be accommodated there.

  We have arrived in Barbukin. We stop in the valley, perhaps better described as a hollow. Scattered weapons and equipment indicate that there was a fight here once. The guards vanish into one of the holes in the ground. A solitary wooden house marks where a lively village had stood a few weeks ago. We look for some shelter from the wind, huddle together, freezing. Suddenly there comes: ‘Come and get your food!’ We join a group that takes two men at a time. There is a loaf of bread for every twenty men and half a salt herring each.

  What is wrong with the bread? It is as hard as stone! Someone says: ‘This bread is frozen!’ It has to be cut with a pointed instrument as we no longer have knives.

  I get my piece, which is ice-cold and hard. I try carefully to bite into it without success. Disappointed and with a hungry stomach, I stick it in my trouser pocket. Perhaps it will thaw a bit with time. I gulp the cold fish down with truly great hunger. My lips burn with the salt but I do nothing about it. The February sun looks down glaringly on us, but has no effect. But marching on we get warm again. When we stop for a moment we immediately become ice cold. It is better marching along on our new route. Snowploughs have been putting things in order here and metre-high walls of snow border the road.

  Several individuals are showing noticeable signs of fatigue. We have now been nearly a day and a half on our legs without proper rest, not to mention the ceaseless fighting of the past days. I too am tired, but I carry on.

  We finally come to a valley at noon. It is the Bol-Rossoschka valley. Our column stops and stands for a long time. A Russian officer who has suddenly appeared asks for German officers. Several step forward out of the column, those in camouflage uniforms having concealed their insignia. The Russian repeats his question. My men try to hold me back. I struggle with myself, not knowing what the Russians have in store for the officers. But should I deny being an officer? Might someone, if I was known to be an officer, say that I kept quiet about my rank out of fear? No! I said farewell to my comrades with a heavy heart and went to the already paraded and separate group. Where and when would we see each other again?

  Wherever we looked there were dugouts. We were led to one of them and had to crawl into it through the hole. There were about sixty of us, but movement ceased when barely half of us were inside the dugout. Muffled voices came from within saying that it was full and there was no more room. The Russians then helped with their rifle butts and several minutes later we were all in this hole in the earth.

  We stood pressed tightly together, as no one could sit down. Those who were at the end of their strength were unable to fall. The earthen walls were pitiless, dominating our area and allowing no expansion. The cries, groans and complaints were gradually followed by a pathetic silence. The only window hole was covered by a hanging tent preventing the icy snow from entering. The room was in complete darkness.

  Was it hours? Was it days? Who could estimate the time passed in such a situation when seconds became eternity! Suddenly the door was torn open and we were ordered to get out. If only there had not been the packs of some of the prisoners! So the getting out of this tight space took twice as long. We were led in rows to a cauldron in which something had been cooked for us. Fortunately I still had my mess tin. I saw some prisoners eating out of rusty tin cans. Romanian prisoners were the cooks here. They did not behave well. What had they put in the pot? Unpeeled potatoes, mostly rotten and completely black. Despite our hunger, we were forced to throw out most of them. The rest of the meal was a mixture of venison, unpeeled oats and other jumbled cereals. For the first time in three days our stomachs had something warm again.

  Then it was back to the hole in the earth. As we scrambled to get in, I noticed some prisoners hacking away at horse carcases. Once inside, the same complaining, pushing and jostling led again to the same apathetic silence. Some of those standing seemed already alarmingly in need of attention. I wondered where my comrades had been put.

  Could hours become such an agonising eternity? Previously I would have thought it impossible but it was happening. I was almost indifferent. I had done my duty and what would happen now only heaven knew.

  THE ROAD OF DEATH

  If I am not mistaken, today is the 6th of February. A Red Army soldier orders us to fall in. It is still early in the morning. There are already about three hundred men paraded outside. The appearance of some of them shows that they have already suffered a lot. Some individuals display hunger and weakened bodies. We are given some pieces of hard bread, plus a small glass jar of preserved meat. I can hardly believe my eyes. Meat, but for eight men! There is not enough for one! As the hard bread is issued, we can see how the really hungry are out of control and behave badly and in an undisciplined way. We fall in. A prisoner translates one of the guard’s orders. It is a warning: Anyone who tries to escape will be shot! We march off further to the west. I will make my way along whatever happens. We are lucky that the god of the weather is being kind to us: the sun is shining and there is no wind.

  We have been marching directly westwards for three hours without a break. Then a plan occurs to me. Hopefully we will be crossing the Don. I lie down on my blanket for a nap and take my eighth of a scrap of preserved meat. Wonderfully tasty but laughably little!

  Again we are ordered to fall in. I get up, sling the blanket over my shoulder and turn round. Could it be possible? In front of me is the old accountant of the 5th Company of Infantry Regiment 24 from Preussisch Eylau, Franz Neumann. His eyes too widen with astonishment, having recognised me immediately.

  ‘So Franz, how did you get here?’

  ‘I could ask you the same question!’

  ‘I was taken prisoner in the northern part of Stalingrad on the morning of the 2nd February.’
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  ‘And I was with my division as Senior Paymaster right on the Volga.’

  ‘This is a surprise. We last saw each other in August 1939 before marching into Poland. You were a senior NCO and I was still a corporal.’

  We now march on together, the column having long since started off. Franz and I did not notice the time passing. We talked about the old days and what had happened in the time we were apart. He had attended the paymaster school in Hannover and I had done a training course at Döberitz. This was how each of us had got his job. Captivity was hard luck but now we could deal with this uncertainty together, through a lucky chance that had brought us together years later. Unfortunately Franz had a sick stomach, but we would manage. We would cope somehow.

  It was already getting dark as we entered an unknown village. Red Army soldiers were still looking for watches, rings, cigarette lighters and similar items to exchange for worthwhile articles for themselves.

  A repulsive sight for me is the women in uniform. There is nothing noticeably feminine about them, the war having also left them colourless. I avoided going near them. The village children, covered in rags, joined in with some of the soldiers in calling out: ‘Gitler Kaput! Gitler Kaput!’

  Our chief guard has already gone several times looking for accommodation for us. He does not want to lose us during the night. His efforts are unsuccessful. After more than an hour’s waiting we were driven on westwards. Dear God, how much longer will this go on? The guards themselves apparently have no idea of the way. Always on and on. Many of the men are tottering not marching, for they are completely exhausted. But always, when the last ones get a bit behind, the guard covering the rear calls ‘Dawai!’ and some indiscriminate blows with a rifle butt ensure that the one fighting exhaustion quickly goes a few steps further on. I keep going at the regular pace I learnt as an infantryman. I have been linking arms with Franz for a long time already. The previous days have left him in a very bad way. If only those at the head of the column were not going so fast it would be easier for those at the back and the Russian guards would not harry them so much.

  ‘Go slower in front!’ My voice rang out loudly, but without success. This is enough to make me sick! Several of the young ones begin to complain about those marching in front. If it goes on like this there will be a catastrophe! The guard in front is urging haste in order to reach a village, the weak ones thus straggling behind. The whole group is being torn apart, and the guards behind mercilessly strike those unable to keep up with the pace.

  I have already seen several bodies lying on the road, naked and stiff, completely stripped, like signposts on the road of death. The further west we go, the more we see of those who slipped away.

  Ah, they have stopped in front. The last of the prisoners come staggering in. We are standing before a long auxiliary bridge. Next thing we are standing on the bank of the Don. I am pleased. The further west we go, the closer I am to the front line and the easier my escape attempt.

  The guards on the wooden bridge make it clear that we have to cross it. We move on. It occurs to me that four and a half months ago I crossed this river in the opposite direction filled with a victorious feeling. If I had only known where were being taken and how long the way still was!

  Meanwhile we climbed up the Don Heights on the west bank, but our column had already extended to a few hundred yards.

  One of the weakest appeared to have given up. I can still hear him saying to the guard: ‘I can’t go on any more!’ The guard said something in Russian and hit him with his rifle butt, but to no avail. A shot tore through the quiet of the night. A soldier’s life ended on the endless road of captivity, the road of death.

  Yes, it is a road of death. We cannot escape from our route any more, passing the dark dead that lie ghostlike in the snow’s white surface. At times they are half-covered in whiteness as the wind blows snow over them. They lie stretched out, most stripped down to their shirts. Does the sight of the dead affect the guards?

  A second shot startles the night out of its ghostly silence. Something must have happened! The head of the column is no longer in sight so big is the gap. Those shits at the front are afraid of the guards! My strength is also flagging. For some time now my task has been to get moving again those who stumble out of the group and sink up to their hips in the snow. If we leave them stuck there, a shot in the night will finish them. Some of our younger comrades who still have sufficient initiative also lend a hand. It is endless - just when one has got a completely exhausted man back on his legs and walked along with him for a bit, another one sits down suddenly in the snow and the whole thing has to be gone over again.

  I no longer think about the many corpses lying on the roadside. By increasing my marching speed I get to the head of the bulk of the marching column; setting a quieter pace, I no longer concern myself about those marching in front who are no longer in sight. Some of the more anxious ones try to speed up the pace again but I confront them: ‘I am setting the pace now!’

  What time can it be? No one knows. Time seems to be standing still. After a while something dark appears before us. It is the head of the marching column. They must have already taken a rest for a few minutes. The guard stands up as soon as I arrive and orders us to march on. I refuse. Most of my comrades that came with me have already sunk down. They simply cannot go on and must have a rest.

  Those who have already had a rest have immediately stood up as ordered by the guards. I cannot explain what has come over me. I turn to the guard and tell him that we have to rest for a while. He is apparently not agreeable to this, as he loads his submachine-gun and aims it at me. I become angry and shout at him: ‘Then shoot, you stupid idiot!’ As the guard realises that his threats have no effect, he swears wildly, which I do not understand, but eventually agrees to a five minute rest. Had he fired then it would have been all the same to me. The black spots along the route indicate that death will come at some time or other. I was scornful of those marching in front who thought only of going on, whether their own comrades kept up or not.

  We went on. How much longer? Day was dawning in the east. How good the world looks by day even if it is so dreary. Franz, who has been plodding along without help for some time, is considerably exhausted. I take his pack along with mine and we link arms together.

  Some recognise the place and say: ‘It leads to Kissel-Jakov.’ It cannot be too far off, only another 4 kilometres. A few kilometres is quite a strain on this road, but we have to do it. From a hill we get a glimpse of the valley beyond and can see various buildings: Kissel-Jakov. However, will it be our destination?

  We reach the village towards midday. There is endless standing around and speculation, then we are led through the village past some holes in the ground. At the far end of the village stand two wooden houses. We are driven into them and so have a roof over our heads.

  IN KISSEL-JAKOV TRANSIT CAMP

  The room in which we find ourselves could have been a schoolroom. Now it is full of people all concerned with finding a good place to rest. Such a crowd is like a herd of sheep without a shepherd! Despite our exhaustion, there is noise and shouting until eventually everything becomes quiet.

  Franz and I have obtained a place to sleep directly under a window opposite the entrance. We are glad to have the wall to support our backs, unlike most of the men who have to sit in the middle of the room. The window is not very thick and leans inwards but that is the least problem. The room is overcrowded. Some try to stretch themselves out, but that is impossible. If one man stretches himself out, immediately his neighbour complains of being cramped. Is this going to be permanent? And who is going to be the first in the night?

  It has become dark, and fatigue lies heavily on the dead-tired prisoners. Everyone now tries to find a sleeping position and even the stove has to be used. There is not a square centimetre of space not in use. The air is stuffy and moist breath freezes on the windows.

  Some stupid ones fight over their places. Apparently their nerve
s are no longer under control. Franz and I agree that one of us will sleep for two hours, while the other stands against the wall. There is no better solution. At least one of us can stretch out for a short time. On the whole things are quieter in our immediate surroundings than in other places.

  The night is endless, especially when Franz wakes me up and I have to stand for two hours at the wall. But there is no better way. The dawn is greeted with a general breathing out. It is somewhat more bearable by day than in the night when everyone tries to stretch out in their sleep. There is no proper rest here.

  We have already been in this accommodation for several days and it gets more unbearable by the day. The many speeches by the camp commandant that he delivers when we are driven from the buildings for our ‘morning toilet’ do not change. While we are gone the rooms are searched for ‘forbidden items’: in other words the guards steal everything from us that they can take. Our physical condition gets worse from day to day. We cannot exist permanently on two slices of hard bread and a cup of soup, mainly gruel. Several comrades have only one topic of conversation and, because of the constant feeling of hunger, that is food. I too dream of every lovely dish that I could eat and picture them immediately available before my eyes. Franz has exchanged his boots for a loaf and a small piece of tinned meat, and I was able to exchange my wristwatch, which now only works for minutes at a time, for a loaf. This way we obtained something extra to eat for two days. But it is better this way than in other cases in which the Russians take the boots by force and beat one with a rifle butt in exchange.

  Thoughts of escape occupy me most. From various conversations I gather that the front line is still 200–300 kilometres from here. It is important for me that we have already crossed the Don, but an exceptional difficulty arises from the bad condition of the roads. I will be obliged to keep to the roads, and these are watched. And how can I obtain food?