I found an old English language Russian magazine called 'Sputnik' (uninspiredly) from 1968 in a charity shop recently and bought it for this article which is so interesting and unique that I thought I would post it in full. Most people who visit this site are interested in history, recent and current. The events described here (the magazine was marking the 25th anniversary of the battle) are direct from the diary and notes of Wilhelm Adam (on right in picture), aide to Fieldmarshal Friedrich Paulus (left), the German commander of the 6th Army.'I was pacing my little room nervously, three steps forward three steps back. I couldn't get that map with all its markings out of my head. The red arrows indicating the advance of the Russians from the North and South haunted me. I could almost see them closing in at Kalach. My God. What would happen then. Would the panzers arrive in time to prevent the encirclement of the sixth army? What would the next few hours bring? The answer came sooner than I expected. Paulus summoned me to his room. It was thick with tobacco smoke and the ash tray on the table was overflowing. Next to it stood an unfinished cup of black coffee. The Commander-in-Chief was lighting another cigarette. 'As you know, Adam, the 14th Armoured Division suffered heavy losses in the defence fighting. The Russians have almost wiped out the Artillery Regiment. Now the Divisional Commander, General Bessler, has reported sick. Looks like his old heart trouble again. He asked me to help get him sent back home. I agreed. I've no time for a commander who reports sick at a time like this. He'd only be in the way. ' But it's desertion' I said. 'He's a coward. I don't believe he's ill. Afraid of parting with his precious life.' 'That's the concern of the Army operations group. I've sent them a report. General Bessler was in such a hurry that he'll soon be there.
Death Road
I was summoned by HQ Commander Major-General Schmidt. 'Adam, set up the command post in the new position.' I ordered the car to be got ready. On January 13th, just before 9.00 in the morning, I set out. We were still in control of a short stretch of highway. On it was an endless stream of retreating soldiers and before I had covered even one kilometre my car was filled with wounded. Two stood on the running board. 'Drive slower' I told the driver who was afraid the springs might break under the load. I decided to make a small detour to deliver the wounded to hospital. Though my car was packed, we stopped to pick up one more wounded soldier. I had already noticed him from a distance. He was standing by the road, his blanket-wrapped arm raised in entreaty. As we approached I was struck by his child-like eyes, which expressed utter despair. Tears were running down his cheeks. I thought of my son and ordered the car to halt. The poor boy stumbled towards us with great difficulty. ' I beg you, sir' he said, ' take me to Stalingrad'. I moved closer to the driver and sat the soldier next to me. The lad wasn't yet nineteen. His hands and feet were frostbitten. He had been standing on the road for nearly an hour but nobody had taken any pity on him. He didn't know how to thank me and several times tried to shake my hand. To him Stalingrad meant safety and life. I unloaded the wounded at the hospital in the western part of the city. The young fellow had to be carried in.
The highway was covered with bodies. While walking to the city the wounded and the sick would become exhausted, sit down on the road, fall asleep and freeze to death. No one removed the bodies. Tanks and trucks rode over them, rolling them into shapeless, flat cakes. Drivers and passers-by looked at them stupidly and with indifference. This stretch was called 'Death Road'. Here also was the wreckage of hundred upon hundred of cars, trucks and buses that had been destroyed by bombs. Among them were wrecked tanks and artillery pieces. Here and there were blackened fragments of burned bombers. Along the road were countless numbers of undamaged cars standing motionless, needing only one thing - fuel.
Meeting The Victors
January 31, 1943 - 7.00 a.m.
It was still dark but day was dawning almost imperceptibly. Paulus was asleep. It was some time before I could break out of the maze of thoughts and strange dreams that depressed me so greatly. But I don't think I remained in this state for very long. I was going to get up quietly when someone knocked at the door. Paulus awoke and sat up. It was the HQ Commander. He handed the Colonel General a piece of paper and said:
'Congratulations. The rank of Field-Marshall has been conferred upon you. The dispatch came early this morning - it was the last one.'
'One can't help feeling it's and invitation to suicide. However I'm not going to do them such a favour.' said Paulus after reading the dispatch. Schmidt continued:
'At the same time I have to inform you that the Russians are at the door.' with these words he opened the door and a Soviet General and his interpreter entered the room. The General announced that we were his prisoners. I placed my revolver on the table.
'Prepare yourself for departure. We shall be back for you at 9.00. You will go in your personal car.' said the Soviet General through his interpreter. Then they left the room.
I had the official seal with me. I prepared for my last official duty. I recorded Paulus's new rank in his military document, stamped it with the seal then threw the seal into the glowing fire.
The main entrance to the cellar was closed and guarded by the Soviet soldiers. An officer, the head of the guards, allowed me and the driver to go out and get the car ready. Climbing out of the cellar, I stood dumbfounded. Soviet and German soldiers, who just a few hours earlier had been shooting at one another, now stood quietly together in the yard. They were all armed, some with weapons in their hands, some with them over their shoulders.
My God, what a contrast between the two sides! The German soldiers, ragged and in light coats, looked like ghosts with hollow, unshaven cheeks. The Red Army fighters looked fresh and wore warm winter uniforms. Involuntarily I remembered the chain of unfortunate events which had prevented me from sleeping for so many nights.
The appearance of the Red Army soldiers seemed symbolic. At 9.00 sharp the HQ Commander of the 64th Army arrived to take the Commander of the vanquished German 6th Army and its staff towards the rear. The march towards the Volga had ended.
What a great find. Thanks for sharing.
ReplyDeleteMy father was on the Eastern front. He was in the Wehrmacht. He was captured by the Russians. His big claim to fame was that they saw the lights of Moscow. He ended up walking back to Germany.
IMO Goering was incompetent. He was more worried about his next fix, than the logistics for his troops. Speer came along too late.
Stalingrad was the decider.
You must have some great stories from your father, RZ, although it must have been a harrowing experience. My dad and my two uncles fought in different theatres in the war but never talked about it much. When they did it was clear that they had each had a horrific war. All were wounded but strangely, as far as I could see, psychologically intact for all their experiences. They made people harder in those days. The stories of the retreating German army are eerily reminiscent of the accounts of Napoleon's soldiers retreating from Russia after Borodino. Same horror, same fruits of war.
ReplyDeleteHe would only talk about it when he was very, very drunk. Even then it was very limited.
ReplyDeleteHis mother did not recognize him when he came home.
Stubbornness, stupidity, and ego by Hitler and the German command was the down fall of the Eastern campaign. If they would have by passed Stalingrad and gone straight to Moscow. Things would have been different.
Just as Napoleon, Germany could not beat the bear of winter.