6. August 1941
| GEO & MIL INFO | ||||
|---|---|---|---|---|
| Podwissokoje | 
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| Close combat day | ||||
The following morning (6 Aug 41) we return to the front in a curve, but into the neighbouring section. Here the Soviets had been able to occupy a village[1] and the surrounding heights in the rearguard action. We have to throw them back again. After a short regrouping and deployment, we once again step up to the attack on the heights. To support our attack, a battery of 10-cm field howitzers[2] had taken up position last night and were now taking the heights under fire. And while our shells explode up among the Russian positions (we would have wished for bigger fireworks), the attacking companies slowly advance on a broad front, cross a field and dive into a cornfield. Then, about thirty metres in front of me, an Ivan jumps up, shoots down the German soldier standing closest to him from five metres away, throws his rifle away and raises his hands. We are seized by a furious rage. We would have loved to shoot this beast. But no one dared, because it would have been against international law.[3] So he is lead off as a prisoner. The German is dead.
The attack continues. Four hundred metres wide and in several deeply echeloned waves, the battalion goes up the slope. The left wing is just crossing a cornfield. There, several 2-cm self-propelled anti-aircraft guns[4] accompany the attack. Between the dispersed groups of infantrymen, they look like fat bugs crawling along in a swarm of ants. We on the right wing trudge across a field of turnips. And while on the high ground the shells are still bursting and dark masses of earth are flinging into the air like jagged crowns, our waves of attack run up the flat slope. From now on we are without cover. The slope is covered only with grass. Tseeou... Tseeou... sssst... fffft... infantry shells whiz past us. But the Soviet defensive fire is weak. Only when the hissing becomes too threatening or a machine gun burst hisses past do we briefly throw ourselves to the ground. The attack rolls off like a drill on the parade ground.
I am between two of my heavy machine gun groups, which are advancing in bounding overwatch maneuver. While one of them is firing short bursts at the enemy positions, the other operating squad makes a few jumps forward, gets into position and starts firing. At this moment the one behind jumps past the one firing and moves into position again.
The battery has ceased firing. We are still more than a hundred metres from the enemy positions, but already the first Ivans are running back. Only one makes an exception. He comes racing down the slope like a sprinter, because he has to fear that his comrades are shooting after him. From time to time he raises both arms as he runs. Breathless but laughing, he reaches us and goes to the rear.
We reach the heights almost effortlessly. The Ivans have taken flight. Some dead Red Army soldiers are lying around. One is a political commissar. We search the positions. Every now and then a Landser, shouting warnings, jumps to the side as if he had stepped on a snake. They then spotted lvans still standing in their shoulder-deep, circular foxholes. You never know if they have surrendered to their fate and await capture, or if they are still firing from ambush. Some fight back to their last breath and are killed in their holes.
We occupy the high ground, which is actually only a high bump because it runs out again on the other side, towards the enemy, into a flat depression. This depression is a single, huge, mown grain field, whose stooks (elsewhere they are called sheaves) stretch in endless rows to the edge of a forest, which closes off the grain field like a dark wall about a kilometre away. The lvan has retreated into these woods. They are his last shelter. On the lower right, at the foot of the slope, there is a single house, seemingly abandoned. Our position is favourable. One can easily overlook the wide terrain all the way over to the edge of the forest.
We dig in because the height is bare and offers no other cover. Shoveling soldiers stand or kneel in a long line. Foxholes and makeshift machine gun emplacements are forming. Some Landser have already descended into the hollow to fetch up some sheaves of grain to cover and pad their holes with. I too have done the same with my hole. But there is no time to rest yet.
While the men lie down for a well-deserved rest after the day's toil, the platoon leader still walks around and checks on things. Are the men dug in properly? Are the machine gun emplacements camouflaged? Are the machine gun stands chosen so that they are not in someone else's field of fire? Are the side and range limits set correctly? (This is important for the night.) Have the machine guns established aiming points? Is there enough ammunition? And quite a few other things. Do the men have any requests or suggestions? Often the platoon leader is then called in for a briefing. Of course, many things can be left to the half-platoon leaders, but anyone who knows the inertia and imperfection of human nature knows that supervision is necessary. Trust, but verify.[5] For if something goes wrong, it will stick to the platoon leader. And so the (conscientious) platoon leader is still running around when his men are already snoring.
As darkness is already falling, there is another small excitement. The 2-cm self-propelled guns in our line suddenly start firing with tracers. Our mortars also rumble a few shots into the silence of the sinking day. The Landsers start up, but by then the announcement comes that they are both just sighting in for the night. Calmed down, everyone crawls back into their holes.
In the meantime, the train vehicles have arrived and are standing a few hundred metres behind the front in the hill's screen. Our food haulers are getting ready. I had hurriedly written a postcard to my parents in daylight and now give it to the food haulers. When they return, they tell me that the greybeard had been raving again because I hadn't sent back the empty ammunition boxes so that the train drivers could fill the empty belts again. Here we go! Neither the ammunition gunners, nor the rifle commander, nor the half platoon commander thought of it, but it sticks to the platoon commander!
Now it has become completely dark. The hot day has given way to a cool night. I shiver in my hole. The laundry sweated through during the day is now cold and uncomfortable. Soundless silence all around. The moonless night is so dark that you can't see your hand in front of your eyes. I try to fall asleep. The danger does not worry me. One is already used to it and the feeling of being superior to the enemy gives peace and security. We only have one line, but it is quite well manned and armed. What else is behind us, I don't know. Besides, all along the front, next to every sleeping soldier, sits a second who listens intently into no-man's-land, if he is conscientious. Post in front of the enemy. Only rarely does a flare rise up, illuminate the surroundings for a short time and then go out again, silently, as if not wanting to disturb the peace of those sleeping.
Suddenly a shrill "Oorraaa(y) - Oorrraaa(y)"[6] shatters the silence of the night, spreads over the whole field in front of us and fills the air with a reedy roar. There must be thousands of them rushing in! Thousands and thousands of people who have been encircled for many days, attacking with the courage of despair! And our front consists only of a single line of foxholes! Behind us are only the mortars!
I am immediately wide awake and automatically yell: "Alarm!". It is completely superfluous. To the right and left it comes alive. Nothing can be seen in this darkness, but I hear shouts and the metallic sounds of our devices. The first shots are fired. Then the machine gun next to me rattles off. A second one follows, and soon the frantic hammering of our machine guns drowns out the Oorraaa(y) of the attackers. Like glowing strings of pearls, our tracer rounds chase into the darkness. Now our mortars also intervene. Bloopp - bloopp - bloopbloopp... Their muffled shots mingle with the bright rattle of the machine guns. If only one could see more! No one takes the time to shoot flares. Everyone fires at random into the darkness. Now it pays off to have the fields of fire and aiming points fixed during the day. This clashing, rattling, clattering, droning, massed firepower, spewing death and destruction towards the enemy, gives an immensely reassuring feeling of security, even if it may be deceptive. I am not worried, just tense. No one can get through this fire!
The noise of the battle dies down. Individual machine guns, their barrels hot-fired, are changing barrels, others are only firing isolated bursts. Nothing more can be heard of the lvan in the forefield. It becomes quiet again, and soon the silence of the night settles over the dark land once more. The Soviet attempt to break out in front of our line has collapsed.
But not everywhere.••• im Original weiter ohne Zeilenumbruch •••
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- ↑ obviously Podwissokoje
- ↑ most likely leFH 18
- ↑ The The Geneva Convention on the Treatment of Prisoners of War of 1929, however, had not actually been signed by the Soviet Union themselves, so that they probably could not have insisted on its application.
- ↑ presumably Sd.Kfz. 10/4 with 2-cm Flak 30 of the 1st Battery/Fla-Bataillon 48, which was assigned to LII. Armeekorps
- ↑ Saying attributed to Lenin, cf. Wikipedia
- ↑ originally Urräää, common rendition of the Russian Battle cry in World War II, equivalent to our "Hurray". The modern form is "Ourah".