Excerpt from Chapter 24:
While we were at headquarters a request had come
in from an SS platoon pinned down by snipers in
a farm building on the western outskirts who
were suffering heavy losses and needed one of
our guns to flush out the snipers holed up in
front of them. Wehrt and his guns had come in
but they had orders to proceed to the Chelm
junction to support the embattled Pioneers. That
left Holder and us to take on the snipers.
It was reported that a Russian tank formation
was on the road coming from Vladimir Volynskiy
and as the farm with the trapped SS platoon was
in close proximity to that road it was decided
to use our vehicle to transport a substantial
quantity of heavy anti-tank mines to the
infantry dug in there. So it was just Wilfried
and I, Holder and the driver, and on our way we
picked up three sappers and their gear - two
dozen large plate mines.
We certainly hoped the sappers knew all about
mines. They assured us they did and not to
worry, that they were perfectly safe and I was
sure they meant it... They sat right on top of
them. I couldn't help contemplating if such a
mine could put a mighty dent in a 60-ton tank
what would happen if a stray bullet hit the load
we were carrying! I felt a bit uneasy if not
scared to death and noticed Wilfried lit up a
Juno and was puffing with gusto. He would never
admit to being scared but the way he handled his
fags was a sure giveaway. I hoped he was being
careful with his matches. The faces of our
passengers didn't give much away either. One
would have thought they were completely unaware
of the dangerous cargo they were sitting on, but
all three were puffing away too. The crouched
figure of our driver up front grasped the
steering wheel (something to hang on to in case
we blew?) and as for our intrepid Kapo Holder
sitting next to him one might say all his
worries were behind him...
We got as far as the exit road to Vladimir
Volinskiy and inched our way slowly to the end
row of the houses. Heavy shooting was going on,
on either side of the road between Russian
machine guns and German rifles. This was the
road our payload was destined for. A mortar
grenade had just come in two houses to our left
and ripped half the roof off. Holder directed
our driver to take the vehicle to the lee side
of the house in front of us, already in ruins,
and told the sappers to get the verfluchten
Minen (damned mines) off-loaded as quickly as
possible. Just then two Russian fighters zoomed
in at low level and we were lucky they took no
notice of us but were making for the town centre
instead.
There was increased air activity over Kovel this
particular day, all Russian, and we figured the
Luftwaffe must be battling somewhere else. A few
slower planes circled around dropping what
looked like bundles of tinfoil but when they
floated down we saw it wasn't tinfoil but
leaflets, the sky was full of them. A message
from Marshal Zhukov or General Vatutin inviting
us for breakfast tomorrow? Caviar and vodka,
served by half naked waitresses, Flinten Weiber
and Nachthexen?
To our right was an open field and beyond that
stood the farm buildings on two shallow slopes,
divided by a small stream. To get to them we
first had to drive to a large wooden structure,
probably a disused windmill, from where a field
track lined with trees led off. We reached the
first shed on the northern slope and were
stopped by an Oberscharfuhrer (S S rank
equivalent to Oberfeldwebel) manning an
observation post who told us to remain there,
well out of sight behind the shed or the snipers
would get us. He told Holder that that morning
he had lost no fewer than eight of his own men
to sniper bullets and pointed to two lying a
short distance away.
The Oberscharfuhrer pointed to the buildings on
the opposite slope. "That's where they are" he
told Holder. "Incendiary grenades should burn
them down easily and take the snipers too." It
sounded simple. The buildings were all wooden,
shingle roofs and plenty of straw inside. Our
problem was those snipers were highly trained
and efficient marksmen; they didn't give you a
second chance. Wilfried would sure have to be
accurate in his aiming or it was a hole in the
head for us all.
Guided by Holder our driver slowly backed the
carrier up to the corner of the building in
front of us until the gun barrel barely cleared
it. I had a magazine of incendiaries locked in
the block and another ready at my feet and
Wilfried's feet were on the pedal. The moment he
stopped firing our driver pulled us back behind
the wall. We watched the smoke rise up and
waited until the first barn was well alight then
put two more rounds into the remaining sheds
across the water course, making sure each round
was delivered from a different position in case
the sharpshooters were waiting for our barrel to
emerge from the same corner.
Somewhere along the Vladimir Volynskiy road the
mortar crews must have got wise to us and were
trying to get our range. A shell hit the ground
in front of us, followed by another
uncomfortably close and spewed shrapnel over our
heads and into the walls of the building. Holder
decided it was time for us to clear out before
the next arrived on top of us so he and our
driver edged the vehicle back on to the lane
behind the shelter of the trees and Wilfried and
I cautiously followed on foot. Behind us all
three barns were well alight and it looked like
Wilfried had again done his job well.
On our return to the Command post we picked up a
few of the leaflets that had been dropped
earlier and were lying around everywhere. They
were addressed to the defenders of the Kovel
garrison and said:
'Hitler and his friend Gille (SS Gruppenfuhrer
General Gille), Commander of the SS Division
Wiking, leads you to destruction. You will never
see your parents, your brothers and sisters,
your girlfriends, your wives or your children
again unless you lay down your arms and give up
the fight. Our guns will be silent from 6
o'clock tonight until 6 o'clock tomorrow
morning. This is the time for you to surrender
to the victorious Red Army. You will be treated
as heroes. Should you ignore this notice the
Russian steamroller will crush you'.
The leaflet ended with the usual 'carrot' -
'Bring your canteen and we will feed you good
food and plenty of women will be waiting for
you'. Oh no, not more Flinten Weiber!
Headquarters ordered us to take up new positions
near the railway junction where the line from
Chelm joined the main one. The crew from the
ill-fated Panzerzug was dug in there and one of
our guns was already positioned a bit further to
our right. We made use of what must have been a
railway building but was now gutted. The brick
walls still stood and provided reasonably good
protection. The food carrier came and we settled
down to enjoy lukewarm and half-cooked potatoes
and, what could have been anything, but they
assured us it was goulash. We sometimes wondered
what happened to Oberleutnant Hahn's horse,
though it had probably been eaten by now. Good
job there were still a few more of them trotting
around in town.
The night was reasonably quiet. True to their
leaflet, the Russian heavy artillery kept away
that night. We started digging our foxholes in
anticipation of what tomorrow would have in
store, knowing that perhaps for some of us it
would be 'curtains'. There was sporadic rifle
fire and the occasional mortar shell and every
now and then the sky was lit up by magnesium
flares with their hissing flicker slowly
drifting to the ground on their tiny parachutes.
Ivan was waiting for the Garrison's mass
surrender but it looked like he was waiting in
vain. Anybody toying with the idea of taking up
his 'generous' offer needed only to consider the
leaflet's postscript. That was good enough
reason to remain where you were and put up with
the present predicament.
Precisely 6 o'clock next morning the surrounding
hills of Kovel came alive with the fury of a
heavy thunderstorm. Yellow- red fingers stabbed
the sky, followed by an enormous rumble. Moments
later the grenades and missiles shrieked in,
hitting the frozen ground like a giant plough,
then a deafening crash and thunderous
explosions. We dived into our holes to sweat it
out. There must have been hundreds of guns in
those hills - light artillery, self-propelled
gun carriers and heavy 152 and 172mm field
howitzers as well as untold numbers of rocket
launchers and Katyushas, (black death, Stalin
orgels), all loaded and primed for this
morning's 'show'. The vodka would be flowing
freely up there today!
Just then another round of shells howled in,
another long wailing screech as if the sky were
split in half. It came in with a horrible,
furious whistle, the explosion shaking the earth
around us and really scared the hell and last
spark of heroism out of me. I gasped for air -
and there was none momentarily - the thunderous
explosion had sucked it all up. Shrapnel whirled
and pinged through the air, hitting the ground
and the wall in front with thuds of vicious
decibels. The wall came crushing down all around
us, luckily most of it falling to the other
side. I jumped out of the trench and dashed for
the nearest crater and dived in. It was still
warm and wafts of cordite rose from it.
We were told once that no two shells fall on the
exact same spot but I wouldn't bet on it.
Anyhow, the advice was 'de trop'as the French
would say; sheer fear was the only motivation
and I'm sure everybody was as petrified as I
was. The cordite made me cough violently but I
didn't hear myself as my ears were ringing like
jack hammers and when I stuck my finger into my
left ear I discovered it was bleeding. I stayed
in the crater trembling all over. Maybe we
should have... But then the thought of those
'Amazons', what they were capable of doing, was
enough to dismiss the idea and almost made me
stop shaking.
When I got out I saw our gun was still there but
half the wall was leaning on it. The early
morning light had gone, blacked out by a heavy
blanket of smoke from the exploding shells.
Acrid smelling cordite fumes hung in the air,
making breathing very difficult. Through the
haze I could see our other gun, misshapen and
twisted. They'd been hit. One of the crew was
flat on his back, his life ripped from him by
that last shell and their Kapo was obviously
badly wounded. Two others were trying to carry
him away before the next salvo but only managed
a few metres before it crashed into the ground.
The Kapo uttered an agonizing scream when they
dropped him and if his back had not been broken
before it surely was now. I crawled back into my
foxhole to wait for the fury to pass.
The artillery barrage eased off a bit and slowly
moved towards the centre of the town, where our
artillery was dug in in the town square not far
from the church. It was amazing how houses
turned into ruins and rubble, yet churches
seemed to keep their shape no matter how often
they were hit. Our artillery hadn't answered
back yet or maybe we hadn't noticed. They only
had four 105 mm field guns there on the square
and that was hardly a match for the hundreds of
spewing monsters Ivan had at his disposal up on
those hills.
We manned our gun again and surveyed the damage.
After clearing the debris and dust away we found
it was still in working order. While their mates
on the hill kept us pinned in our holes with
devastating fire the Russian infantry had used
the artillery barrage well to their advantage
and had managed to crawl to the German defences
and establish themselves in front of the trench
line. A few Maxims started up somewhere in front
with their slow tac-tac-tac delivering a
crossfire on to the trenches. The Russians rose
up with their assault machine pistols on their
hips, fired short bursts and yelled their
blood-curdling 'Ooorah Ooorah' and hit the snow
while others came up from behind doing the same,
only to run straight into a hail of bullets
delivered from the waiting German machine guns.
We too stood ready and Holder gave the order to
fire and our shells ripped into the snow in
front of the trench.
The Russians had got a foothold in part of the
trench and bayonets and pistols and the sharp
explosions of hand grenades added to the
confusion. Our second gun was out of action and
we were now on our own. I rammed another
magazine into the block and Wilfried pulled the
barrel back for a return sweep. Then a runner
from the Infantry Command Post came along urging
us to stop firing as our infantry were in danger
of being hit by our shells and we were ordered
to pull back towards the windmill tower.
The second gun had suffered two dead, their Kapo
was severely wounded and the rest of the crew
struggled to get him to a first aid station, if
they were lucky enough to find one. The gun was
a write-off and had to be abandoned though there
was still a fair bit of ammunition on board
which would have been valuable for us as we were
getting short. The Heinkels hadn't been able to
drop supplies for some days as it was impossible
for them to enter Kovel air space. The Russian
air force had the monopoly and the sky was full
of them.
It took us some time to reach the mill tower
which miraculously was still standing. A plane
was circling around at low altitude, a U2, a 'Nachthexen's
N„hmaschine' what they used on their nightly
outings. They obviously felt very confident to
fly such a contraption in broad daylight but
Kapo Holder was in no mind to let her get away
with what he called 'der H"hepunkt der Frechheit'
(the absolutely height of cheek) and, defying
standing instructions not to waste precious
ammunition on air targets, was determined to
send her into oblivion. We positioned our
vehicle on the lee side of the wall and waited
for the plane to complete its next circle to the
point where it's flight path was directed
towards our gun and appeared to be almost
motionless in the sky as it came closer. I had a
full load of phosphor explosives in the block
and Wilfried made sure he got the plane well in
his sight before pedaling the lever. The plane
swallowed our tracers like a hungry magnet and
smoke come from the fuselage almost immediately
the first shell hit. As it flew past it flipped
from one side to the other like a winged duck
and, out of control, spiralled and crashed
somewhere behind the Russian lines, sending up a
mushroom of smoke on impact. The whole action
was over in a few minutes, not enough time for
the Russians to find out where it came from
though Holder decided to get moving before any
fighters got wise. He would have some explaining
to do when we got to Headquarters why he had
wasted valuable ammunition on a couple of
Nachthexen. But it was some time before we could
move we were trapped for quite some time behind
the windmill tower by the exit road to Chelm.
We were not alone there but found ourselves in
the company of two PAK guns (anti tank) from the
SS Division Wiking who had dug themselves in on
the other side of the road. One of their gunners
darted across to tell us to stay where we are
and get out of sight and keep an eye on the top
of the road as he expected Russian tanks to come
rolling along anytime. They were in attack
position behind the railway ravine and the
wrecked Panzerzug and were just about ready to
move in. He didn't know how many, twenty or
thirty, what was the difference?
Up front and to our left the trench had changed
hands a few times since we pulled back. The
Russians took possession only to be driven out
again by our infantry with horrendous losses on
both sides and the trickle of wounded coming
back steadily increased. Some were making it on
their own, some were carried by their mates,
some just died on the end of a bayonet in the
bottom of the trench. An infantry Kapo went by
doubled over with a wounded mate on his back
whose belly was split open, obviously from a
bayonet, and his guts were oozing out. We were
told that the wounded was the Kapo's younger
brother, both serving in the same Company.
Another one who would never see home again.
It was living hell and practically certain death
if one was severely wounded in such a place,
with very little emergency treatment or field
hospital to be taken to. One just expired in
some basement hastily converted into a
make-shift first aid place, and left to die,
with perhaps a shot of morphine to assist, if
there was any around. It was futile to think
that after the Russians captured the town they
would look after wounded German survivors. They
would shoot them as they shot their own wounded
if they couldn't walk anymore - 'Genickschuss'
(bullet through the neck) was the most likely
fate. A seriously wounded soviet soldier was of
no use to Generalissimo Stalin and a wounded
German was even less.
The heavy tank motors had started up and we
could hear the chains rumbling from out of the
ravine. They were moving to positions by the
ruins at the end of the road. Then came an
almighty 'whoosh' between us and the anti tank
cannons across the road and an almost
simultaneous ear-splitting crash the other end
of the road from the first shell from the
leading tank. Two more came in in rapid
succession. Invisible to the eye, but the shock
wave, heated by friction, told us that
supersonic death has just hurtled past, barely a
metre or so from our heads. Our anti-tank crews
made their final adjustments and fired a round
in quick succession. From our position we
couldn't see whether they scored a hit. The
tanks were behind the ruins and were probably
waiting for their infantry to roll up and deal
with our defence line then they would settle
down for a swig of vodka or Samachonka and
probably have another go in the morning.
Back at Headquarters things weren't going well
either. 'Black death' rolled over them -
Katyushas (Stalinorgels) from the countless
rocket launchers up on the hills. They had made
a mess out of the Command Post and some of the
staff. When we got there we found only
Ferdinand, our despatch driver, and a staff
Corporal. They'd been left behind to tell us the
Command Post had been shifted further up the
road but we got vague directions where they
were.
Ferdinand, an Austrian from near Wien, had been
the Battery dispatch rider but was now most
upset. He had just lost his pride and joy, his
BMW motorbike, and moaned he had nothing to live
for any more. "It doesn't matter," he kept
muttering to himself, "we'll all be dead shortly
anyhow." We couldn't blame him really; only a
short distance away was the mangled body of one
of his mates who never made it to his foxhole
before the Katushya barrage. A shell fragment
had sliced him almost in half.
A bit further away a couple of horses lay on
their backs, their entrails spilling all around
them, metres and metres of it. There would be a
good helping of goulash tonight, plus the usual
unpeeled and half cooked potatoes. Actually
horsemeat didn't taste so bad, if you were
hungry. It was the sweetness that could put one
off a bit. They didn't call it goulash any-
more. The German word for an old horse is Gaul,
so it was renamed 'Gaul Arsch' (horse arse).
We found the Command Post holed up in a fairly
large 'U'- shaped building at the bottom of a
short steep incline on the road leading to the
Chelm intersection. The house had been of brick
construction with a solid concrete basement. Now
the main section was badly damaged but two side
wings still stood and the Command Post was set
up in the basement of one of them. The basement
of the other wing housed civilians, some of the
very few who hadn't been evacuated. The house
had been badly hit only that afternoon when a
salvo of heavy 172 mm shells swept over, ripping
the main part to bits.
There wasn't much sleep that night. We spent
most of it digging trenches and foxholes under
the direction of a staff sergeant and shells
kept coming at irregular intervals. The food
carriers who had set out at the beginning of
darkness didn't arrive much before midnight,
having got lost, so the goulash and other
'mysteries' was cold.
The artillery was closing in on the area and
shells were more frequent. Then came a horrible
screech and ripping crash when one of the
heavies hit the house immediately behind us. The
roaring, deafening explosion and shock wave made
me shrink deeper into my still unfinished
foxhole. Shrapnel whirled and pinged before
smashing into the wall above me and any moment
one would surely find its way into my hole. A
fist-sized shrapnel with its rotating, razor
sharp edges, acts like a meat grinder on hitting
and one becomes hash.
There was a momentary lull in the barrage,
silence for a few moments and I called over to
Wilfried in his hole. He assured me he was all
right though he was probably puffing furiously
on his Junos. I told him I was staying where I
was until the barrage had passed over us and it
wasn't long before they opened up again. More
howling shrieks and breath-stopping crashes but
they were slowly drifting away and creeping
towards the church and town centre and giving
our artillery a good thrashing.
We were lucky to get through the night. Darkness
gave way to dawn and on the eastern side of the
town wee could hear machine gun and rifle fire
and the odd sharp explosions of hand grenades.
The inevitable Russian dawn attack. They tried
different sectors every day and each time they
gained a little bit of ground.
The early glimmer of daylight revealed the
night's destruction. The house behind us, the
one that took the direct hit from a 172 mm
shell, was no more, just a heap of rubble. Two
bodies lay face down in the snow, infantry,
their torsos cut to pieces by shrapnel. As it
got a bit lighter and from behind the corner of
our building we looked across the road and got a
glimpse of the barracks with its wrecked main
building and drill yard facing us. Our troops
were unable to hold on to the complex and is now
again firmly in Russian hands. We could make out
a couple of vehicles stationed in the center.
There was a lot of activity around them, Russian
soldiers moving to and fro. The parked vehicles
must be their field kitchen. "They are dishing
out the early morning coffee," I remarked to
Wilfried who thought that must be a bit of a
joke. "They don't dish out coffee" he said,
"more likely vodka or Samachonka to keep them
reasonably drunk all day," he replied. Wilfried
was probably right. Ivan didn't drink coffee,
not if there was vodka around. All the same,
they made a perfect target over there and
Wilfried asked me to get Holder.
Holder was asleep in the basement and I wasn't
too popular when I woke him. He surveyed the
scene and decided we'd have to do something
about it before the sky filled with Russian
fighters. He asked for permission to open fire
on the barracks block and it was given. Our
driver backed up the vehicle to the corner so
the barrel protruded slightly past it to give
Wilfried enough space to execute a free sweep
over the whole of the drill yard and I loaded
the breech with two more magazines at my feet
for a quick changeover. Our range finder showed
the distance at 600 metres. Wilfried carefully
took aim then fired rapidly, sweeping the barrel
the full length of the yard and back again,
using up almost two full magazines. It took the
Russians completely by surprise, a bit like
disturbing an ant heap. Quite a few over there
wouldn't need vodka anymore.
Somewhere close by a mortar crew must have got
wise to where we were firing from and got their
range spot on. After a moment there came a
'whoosh' and a stunning crash, followed by three
more explosions in quick succession, each
creeping a bit closer, and shell fragments were
all round us. Our driver let go the clutch and
pulled out with full throttle. I jumped as soon
as he moved, closely followed by Wilfried who
this time made sure the lifting handle didn't
prevent his quick getaway. We dived into our
foxholes while the driver took off to a safer
place.
Mortars give no warning at all, unlike long
distance artillery that comes howling or
screeching, depending how near one is to the
point of impact. They are short distance weapons
and all one hears is a brief 'whoosh' and an
instant crash before being cut to ribbons by the
flying shrapnel. Mortar crews are able to home
in their grenades almost precisely to their
targets and often they are close enough to see
you and adjust their charges accordingly.
The shells kept coming all around us in a sort
of seek and destroy pattern. None had hit the
house yet but were concentrating on what was
behind it, knowing we were at the back of the
building. The barrage stopped briefly, probably
waiting for us to come out of our holes and
start shooting so they could smash those things
on us again.
A couple of Russian spotter planes appeared,
circling round like hawks looking for their
prey. They always circled in pairs, one watching
for possible ground fire, the other ready to
pounce on the target. They could detect rifle
shots the moment a trigger was pulled. But they
were pretty safe up there, knowing we couldn't
shoot at them, also that we were short of
supplies.
Our Heinkels hadn't come in for quite some time.
Instead they tried to send gliders pulled in by
Stukas at a great height and released over the
town centre. But it was not very successful. The
moment the gliders were unhooked and circling
down, the Russians opened up with everything
they had from all around the hills. They homed
in on to the plane like it was a routine target
shooting exercise. After making one or perhaps
two circles, the glider just broke up. The wings
came off, with bits of fuselage following, until
what was left disintegrated into the ground with
the payload and the pilot.
The hasty departure of our gun was almost the
demise of its driver. When he sped away from us
he didn't get very far before the mortars caught
up with him. One came in right behind the
vehicle and, had he stopped then it would have
dropped right on top of him. Shrapnel cut
through the rear axle had immobilized the
vehicle. Another fragment from a second mortar
went clean through the gun's loading block.
Miraculously the driver escaped injuries though
it gave him a hell of a fright. He had managed
to dive out of his seat and under the vehicle
before it was hit and was lucky the shell came
down on the right side of the vehicle and missed
him by a very small margin. I couldn't help
reflecting my fate had I been loading the gun...