The Sniper from Stalingrad E-Book

W.T. Wallenda

• Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 322

Beschreibung

Stalingrad 1942 - 19-year-old Alfred Miller is a member of the 100th Panzer Division and learns to know and hate the cruel horrors of war during the fierce and costly battles for the "Red October" factory. Thanks to his marksmanship, he becomes a sniper. After the encirclement of the 6th Army, the young Austrian wanders through the ruins of the dying city on the Volga in the coldest winter for years, both hunter and hunted. Hunger, cold, misery, death and fear are his constant companions. The war hits hard and merciless every day. The soldiers are brutalized, the hope of salvation dies. Ultimately, there are only two ways to escape suffering and a grim fate: either get on one of the planes out of the cauldron, or die. - realistic, unsparing novel - Information about the sniper system of the Wehrmacht - Original photos from WW II

Leseprobe

"The average German soldier in the Second World War ... did not normally fight believing in the National Socialist ideology - in fact, in In many cases, the opposite is probably closer to the truth."

Dr. van Creveld, Professor of History at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem in his book "Kampfkraft"

"Shocked, our people stand before the downfall of the men of Stalingrad."

Kurt Huber, (1893-1943) German professor of musicology and psychology, folk song researcher and member of the "White Rose" resistance group about the Battle of Stalingrad, in the last, VI. Leaflet of the "White Rose"

Contents

Introduction

Preface:

Start of Text

Picture Gallery

Glossary for the novel:

List of sources and references

Introduction

When one reads about "Stalingrad" and "snipers", one inevitably thinks of a legendary story, namely the duel between the Russian sniper Vasily Grigoryevich Saizev and the imaginary figure of the German officer Major König.

However, in this book this legend is not further questioned or presented in a new version. However, in order not to ignore "the duel", the following article provides some clarification.

Vasily Grigoryevich Saizev

Vasily Grigoryevich Saizev (Russian Василий Григорьевич Зайцев, wiss. Transliteration Vasilij Grigor'evič Zajcev; * March 23, 1915 in Jeleninskoye, Orenburg Governorate; † December 15, 1991 in Kiev) was a Soviet sniper during the Second World War. He particularly distinguished himself during the Battle of Stalingrad and was the subject of several books, films and computer games.

Life

Saizev grew up as the son of a shepherd in the Urals. He learned to use a rifle at an early age while hunting. After the German attack on the Soviet Union began, Saizev joined the Soviet army, where he was assigned to administration.

In the late summer of 1942, he volunteered for service at the front and was assigned to the 1047th Rifle Regiment of the 284th Rifle Division. This was part of the 62nd Army at Stalingrad. According to Soviet sources, Saizev killed a total of 225 German soldiers as a sniper during the Battle of Stalingrad between November 10 and December 17, 1942. According to Saizev's own statements, 27 more were added to this number by January 1943.

Saizev grew up as the son of a shepherd in the Urals. He learned to use a rifle at an early age while hunting. After the German attack on the Soviet Union began, Saizev joined the Soviet army, where he was assigned to administration.

In the late summer of 1942, he volunteered for service at the front and was assigned to the 1047th Rifle Regiment of the 284th Rifle Division. This was part of the 62nd Army at Stalingrad. According to Soviet sources, Saizev killed a total of 225 German soldiers as a sniper during the Battle of Stalingrad between November 10 and December 17, 1942. According to Saizev's own statements, 27 more were added to this number by January 1943.

Soviet war correspondents reported that Saizev killed 40 Germans with precision marksmanship in the first ten days after his unit landed on the west bank of the Volga,[1] and that he ran a sniper school[2] in the ruins of the "Lazur" chemical factory, where he trained 28 soldiers who in turn allegedly killed 3,000 German soldiers.

Saizev was wounded by a land mine. He was made a Hero of the Soviet Union on February 22, 1943, for his actions.

After his recovery, Saizev continued to serve at the front. He reached the rank of captain by 1945 and was also awarded the Order of Lenin, the Order of the Red Banner, the Order of Patriotic War (1st class), the Medal "For the Defense of Stalingrad" and the Medal "Victory over Germany". After the war, he managed a factory in Kiev until his death on December 15, 1991, at the age of 76.

Quote

Saizev's famous quote about the situation of the Soviet defenders in Stalingrad:

"There is no land for us beyond the Volga[4]."

Some sources erroneously attribute this quote to the commander of the 13th Guards Rifle Division, Alexander Ilyich Rodimtsev.

Reception

Saizev was already celebrated by Soviet propaganda during the war. An encounter in Stalingrad with an unknown but "very capable sniper," as Saizev noted in his biography, was glorified by Soviet propaganda of the time as a duel lasting several days.

According to this, a certain Major Koenig, head of a German sniper school in Zossen, was sent to Stalingrad by superior orders to find and liquidate Saizev. Colonel Batyuk, commander of the 284th Rifle Division, then personally ordered Saizev to study Major König's working methods, camouflage, and shooting habits in order to target him.[2] The alleged duel between Saizev and Major König was presented as a kind of personalized individual warfare in the midst of the mass battle of Stalingrad. Using binoculars and telescopes, Saizev, his observer and group sniper Nikolai Kulikov, and the agitprop political commissar Danilov spent days searching the battlefield for traces and any changes in Major Koenig's terrain.

Only when Danilov left his cover and was wounded in the shoulder by an enemy sniper did Major Koenig reveal himself. Saizev is said to have suspected König either in a dugout with taped observation slits, a piece of sheet iron, or a pile of bricks. Kulikov fired a blind shot to trick König into revealing his position. In order to deceive them, Kulikov lifted his steel helmet from the trench position and imitated a cry of pain after König's shot. Major Koenig then rose from his hiding place and was killed by Saizev with a shot to the head.

This duel was mentioned only by Soviet sources,[6] there is no mention of Major Erwin König in the records of the German Wehrmacht. In addition, the job of sniper in the German army was considered "unworthy" of an officer and was usually performed by enlisted men. Even the most successful and highly decorated snipers in the Wehrmacht, Matthäus Hetzenauer and Friedrich Pein, never rose above the rank of corporal and sergeant, respectively.

As early as 1973, the author William Craig (1929-1997) published a description of the sniper duel in the West in his book Enemy at the Gates - The Battle for Stalingrad. Saizev himself finally published his memoirs in 1981,[7] and after Saizev's story was first told in the movie Ангелы Смерти (Angel of Death),[8] the Western media began to take up the subject again. In 1998, author Antony Beevor concluded in his book Stalingrad that the story was essentially fictional, despite some real-life references,[9] but a year later the novel War of the Rats by David L. Robbins was published, in which the duel was again a central motif,[10] which in turn formed the basis for the 2001 film Duel - Enemy at the Gates by Jean-Jacques Annaud, in which Saizev's role was played by Jude Law.

In 2006, in accordance with his last wishes, Saizev's remains were reburied on Mamayev Hill next to the Stalingrad Memorial in Volgograd. His Mosin Nagant rifle, which bears a patriotic inscription, is also on display in a state museum there.

Individual references

Major John Plaster: The Ultimate Sniper, in

www.snipersparadise.com/history/vasili.htm

William E. Craig: The Battle of Stalingrad, Factual Report. 8th edition. Heyne, Munich 1991 (original title: Enemy at the gates, The Battle for Stalingrad, translated by Ursula Gmelin and Heinrich Graf von Einsiedel), ISBN 3-453-00787-5, p. 114.

http://www.spiritus-temporis.com/vasily-grigoryevich-zaitsev/

Nikolai Krylov: Stalingrad. Die entscheidende Schlacht des Zweiten Weltkriegs, Paul Rugenstein Verlag, Cologne 1981, ISBN 3-7609-0624-9, p. 174.

William E. Craig: The Battle of Stalingrad. Factual report, 8th edition. Heyne, Munich 1991 (original title: Enemy at the gates, The Battle for Stalingrad, translated by Ursula Gmelin and Heinrich Graf von Einsiedel), ISBN 3-453-00787-5, pp. 119122.

http://www.russian-mosin-nagant.com/

В. Г. Зайцев: За Волгой земли для нас не было - Записки снайпера, Современник, Москва 1981.

Ангелы Смерти, Russia/ France 1993, Director: Yuri Ozerov

Antony Beevor: Stalingrad, Penguin Books, London 1998. ISBN 0-14-024985-0.

David L. Robbins: War of the Rats, Bantam Books, 1999. ISBN 0-553-58135-X.

Duell - Enemy at the Gates, USA/ UK/ FRG/ Ireland/ Poland 2001, Director: Jean-Jacques Annaud.

Source:https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wassili_Grigorjewitsch_Saizew

License:https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wikipedia:Lizenzbestimmungen_Creative_Commons_Attribution-ShareAlike_3.0_Unported

Preface:

I have already presented the sniper system of the Wehrmacht and the Waffen-SS in my books: "Scharfschützen der Waffen-SS an der Ostfront" and "Scharfschützeneinsatz in Voronezh".

To give readers who are not familiar with my other two books some background information on the subject, I have included some excerpts at the end of this book.

Note:

This is a fictional story embedded in traditions from various sources. Actual individual fates have been woven into this book to keep it close to reality.

The protagonist is fictional. However, his story, pieced together from many real experiences, could have happened in exactly the same way.

With the exception of historical figures, all names are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.

The sniper from Stalingrad

Black clouds of smoke hung over the city and mingled with the slowly falling darkness. An acrid stench crept through the streets. Sometimes thick and opaque, at other times thin, dark, black veils of fog. It was a mixture of gunpowder smoke and the fumes of smoldering fires. If you caught too much of it, it scratched your throat and burned your lungs.

We heard the constant rumble of artillery. Every now and then there was a rumble. When heavy shells exploded near us, some lime and dust trickled down from the cellar ceiling.

"That's the Russians."

"No, it's our own fat suitcases. I guess they'll hit over at Mamai Hill."

"Three weeks ago they said Stalingrad would fall quickly. Now the Russians are still sending division after division across the Volga. I don't like it. It seems to be a cursed nest, this Stalingrad."

I listened attentively to the conversation between Sergeant Kremer and Obergefreiter Zerberich, whom everyone called Zerbi. They spoke in muffled voices that sounded strangely rough and dry.

We could neither go forward nor retreat. We had been trapped for almost 24 hours. We took shelter in the basement of a half-destroyed house.

"Someone had been here before," we realized, as we found a working carboy lamp and a lot of garbage. Mostly empty tin cans and Oberst and Juno cigarette butts.

Our group consisted of seven people. Half an hour ago there were nine of us. In Stalingrad death comes quickly and strikes mercilessly. Our situation was fatal. Our canteens were empty. Thirst plagued us.

I wondered how we had gotten into this situation and why it had taken so long for the rest of the company to follow and for us to clear the entire road of Russians and finally push them all the way across the Volga. Thoughts raced through my mind. The order was to take the workers' settlement and push the Russians across the Volga.

Damn, it can't be that hard. We are the most powerful army in the world. Why do Russian soldiers fight so hard for every house? How did it come to this? The attack had gone well at first.

"Finally, the order was given: "Hold your position!

That's exactly what we did. Our platoon, or what was left of it, had taken the first house on the street. We were in the basement, a group somewhere upstairs. Our lieutenant was there with the rest of the platoon. There were two machine gun nests in the house next door and they controlled the street. There were also a couple of sappers squatting in one of the neighboring houses. I couldn't tell where exactly. Every now and then the shells of one of our anti-tank guns, which had also taken up position near us, would die on the Russians over there. Either the sappers or the crew of the Pak had shot down two T-34s yesterday. The wreckage of the two tanks blocked the road and made it impossible for other vehicles to move forward.

"You need heavy equipment to remove them," said Sergeant Kremer.

A stalemate had developed between the brown-uniformed Russians and us. We were squatting here, diagonally opposite the Ivan. The fatal thing about our position was that we stuck out like the tip of a lance into the territory occupied by the Russians. Only a narrow strip, visible to the enemy, connected us with the company.

The Ivan had tried to advance several times, but each attack was immediately stopped by heavy fire from our two MG 42s and a few grenades from the Pak. In addition, the engineers had laid a few booby traps during the night, which the Russians promptly walked into. There were still five or six bodies in the street and in the rubble of the ruined houses.

When I asked Meier this morning why the Russians didn't send a parliamentarian with a white flag to retrieve the fallen, he just laughed briefly and whispered to me: "There has been no mercy since the Feodosia massacres! The war on the Eastern Front has become hard and cold. We kill the Russians, the Russians take revenge and kill us. Then we take revenge again. Everything is building up. Humanity is long dead. This war is about survival. I saw things during the advance that I should never have seen."

"Like what?"

Meier had looked around carefully, none of his comrades were listening to us. He came closer and almost breathed the words into my ear.

"We are not only soldiers, we are also tools of the devil. Thousands have been executed. I saw it with my own eyes during the advance, and I don't think it was only partisans who stood in front of the barrels of our machine guns. There were women and children! Comrade, we are no longer fighting to create a just world, we are fighting to prevent the enemy from coming into the Reich and doing the same to our civilian population.

I was shocked. Meier's words were harsh. He was a reasonable and righteous man. I knew he wasn't lying, and that made me think.

Meier had volunteered when Kremer asked who would take the canteens, go to the back and get water. "With a little luck, you'll bring the food carriers or reinforcements," the team leader had said goodbye to him.

Minutes later it happened. A single shot rang out. In a battle for a city, in a war of carnage, that in itself is nothing special, and yet that shot spread more fear and terror than thousands of shots fired during the battle for that street. That one shot ended the life of Private Herbert Meier.

"Sniper," Weinberger had blurted out more than he had said.

Goose bumps covered my body. Fear and sadness settled over me like a dark shadow. I was deeply affected. With Meier, I lost not only a comrade, but for the first time in this war, a friend. I knew the picture of his wife. He showed it to me with pride in his eyes, only to immediately hold up the picture of his daughter next to it. "And when I get leave for Christmas, we'll make sure we have a son," he laughed as he showed it to me for the last time last night in the light of the carbolamp.

Now he lay among the ruins of the dying Russian city whose name would become synonymous with fear, horror, hellish agony, and death.

Stalingrad.

"It wasn't necessarily a sniper. Maybe it was just an ordinary Ivan running in front of Meier's rifle," Zerbi reassured us.

Kremer immediately spoke up. "Without water, we'll die of thirst in two days. Lieutenant Huebner has ordered one of us to fetch water, and we will do it."

Silence.

"Who wants to try now? Anyone else volunteer?"

"I'll go," Richard raised his hand.

I didn't know Richard Wagner very well. He was quite introverted and regularly shut himself off. Without turning around, Wagner crawled out of the basement hole, crawled a few feet behind a pile of rubble, and paused for a moment. Then he jumped up and zigzagged through the rubble. The soldier skillfully used every opportunity for cover that presented itself. Like everyone else, I watched in awe.

"He's good. He can do it," Sergeant Kremer muttered into his stubbly beard.

There must have been more hope than faith in that sentence, because as soon as the soldier said it, he turned to me, looked at me for a while, and finally shook his head.

At first I couldn't interpret the gesture, but then I knew. Kremer was waiting for his next shot.

Getting water is a suicide mission, I thought.

"He made it to Meier," Weinberger whispered.

There was no need to tell us, because except for Kremer, everyone was still watching the scene unfold before our eyes.

Kremer had rolled a cigarette. A match was lit. The tobacco began to smolder. With the first strong puff, the head hunter's face lit up orange-red.

"He'll make it," he muttered again and blew out the smoke.

In the pale light of the carbide sparkler, a small, billowing cloud of bluish mist could be seen moving slowly toward the basement window.

A ball of light whizzed upward. The artificial magnesium light flickered, illuminating the ruins of destroyed Stalingrad.

Tsaritsyn was the name of the city that stretched along the mighty Volga River for about 40 kilometers until 1925. After the Russian Civil War, it was renamed Stalingrad in honor of Joseph Stalin.

To the north were the workers' settlements, bordering the mighty industrial district with its large factories. A range of hills to the west and the Volga River to the east formed a natural boundary. Numerous Balkas, deep erosion gorges, stretched from the steppe through Stalingrad to the Volga.

Due to its location between the Don and the Volga, the city had always been an important center of trade.

Now it had grotesquely become the center of the German-Soviet war. Hitler wanted to take it by force, Stalin wanted to hold it at all costs. We were caught in the middle.

On August 23, 1942, Stalingrad experienced the heaviest air raid in the history of the Soviet Union. The sky turned almost dark as the German Luftwaffe roared overhead with its He 111 and Ju 88 bombers, accompanied by Stukas, Messerschmidt and Focke-Wulff fighters. The roar of the heavy propeller engines heralded the inferno. Tons of bombs were unloaded. One carpet of bombs followed another. The sirens of the dive bombers also caused unforgettable psychological terror among the civilian population.

Columns of smoke shot up. Factory and residential buildings collapsed. Death and destruction came to the city on the Volga. Even the hospital was hit by several bombs. Burning oil poured into the Volga. Incendiary bombs also caused a conflagration. The civilians thought they were in hell, but all this was just a bitter foretaste of the real hell. The hell of Stalingrad. An estimated 40,000 inhabitants died in the days of bombing. They were torn to pieces, crushed by rubble, burned to death or suffocated in the smoke of the fires.

At the same time, the front of the 6th Army, led by General Paulus, was rolling toward the city on the Volga. The young men smiled confidently for the cameras of their comrades or of Wehrmacht propaganda. Blond hair blew in the wind on the Don steppe. Tanks plowed through the countryside, dragging long clouds of dust in their wake. Infantrymen, seemingly in the best of moods, marched toward Stalingrad, the city that would be their cruel destiny. Hell made no exceptions. It tormented Russians and Germans, civilians and soldiers alike.

The Landser, in whom we had placed all our hopes for water, immediately threw himself to the ground.

"I saw him take all the water bottles from Meier," Weinberger said next.

"Meier was a good guy," the sergeant said. "It always gets the good guys."

"The Russian sniper must have been hiding. Otherwise he would have shot Wagner a long time ago," Hofer said.

Hofer was the youngest of us. He had joined the squad with me.

A machine gun rattled away. Tracer rounds showed the trajectory of the bullets. They crashed into the house where the Russian sniper was suspected.

"Looks like he pissed off more comrades."

"Weinberger, you're an asshole. He didn't upset anyone, he just shot our comrade Meier," I hissed angrily.

"Quiet!" warned our sergeant.

"If he's just teasing us, why don't you go get some water?" I added, emphasizing the "you" part. "You could have volunteered."

"What do you mean?"

"Shut up, damn it!" came the second admonition from Kremer.

Weinberger slipped away from the entrance and stood in front of me. "Tell me, you three-day soldier! What's that supposed to mean? I've been here since day one, and you? You've only been out here four or five weeks and you're already risking a fat lip!"

"Bloody hell! I told both of you to shut up!" Kremer yelled.

Weinberger took a step back. He glared at me, visibly angry. "This recruit doesn't have to talk to me like that, Robert. I don't have to take it."

I wondered if I should say something in response, but decided to remain silent.

"We're all going crazy in this cellar hole. We need water, and if our man doesn't make it back, one of you two will have to go!"

Weinberger winced. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. A quick look outside followed. The magnesium light of the flare was on its last legs. It would soon go out.

"Why don't we have snipers here?" I asked. "They could take out the Russian."

"See how smart he is?" Weinberger scolded.

At that moment I made a decision. I was going to take my fate into my own hands. I had always been good with a rifle. From the age of four, I spent summers with my grandfather in the foothills of the Alps. He was a hunter there and taught me how to set traps and follow tracks. Later, when I was ten, he taught me to shoot. Later, I was allowed to hunt rabbits alone with his old shotgun, or shoot deer and small game with him. I could spend hours stalking and wandering through the woods. I spent what seemed like eternities quiet as a mouse on the high stand. I felt free there.

My grandfather died when I was 17. After my apprenticeship as a locksmith, I volunteered for the Wehrmacht. I joined the Reich Labor Service and waited to be drafted. Finally I joined the mountain troops.

My father was a veteran of World War I and an ardent admirer of Adolf Hitler. While my mother had grave reservations, my father was proud of me. He thought I would do my part for the Fatherland and later tell of great heroic deeds. "You will begin your service as a simple hunter and soon return as a corporal or even a sergeant. I promise you that, my boy," he had said, patting me on the shoulder as I said goodbye and boarded the train at Graz Central Station.

But the real reason for my actions was much more mundane. It was love spurned. My Edeltraud had chosen another young man. I just wanted to get away from home and couldn't stand it any longer. So I became a soldier. I actually thought that as a mountain infantryman I would spend a lot of time in the countryside, but instead fate had led my division to Stalingrad.

On September 21, 1942, the staff of the 100th Infantry Division received the order to march. We were to support the German divisions fighting in the center of the city. My regiment reached the Stalingrad area on September 26. What we found no longer resembled a cityscape. We were in a huge field of rubble.

The answer to the question how this could have happened was given to us immediately. As soon as we reached our starting positions, it began. The Russian air force and artillery had been pounding us nonstop since our arrival. There was hissing, howling, and rumbling everywhere. Our losses were enormous.

I didn't want to die like that. I didn't want the building we were hiding in to collapse from a direct hit, either from the shrapnel of a shell or from the falling basement ceiling. And I certainly didn't want to fall victim to a Russian sniper.

"Robert, can I borrow your binoculars?" I asked Sergeant Kremer.

He reached over and handed them to me. I checked my Karabiner 98, a good rifle. The sights were properly adjusted and I had inserted a fresh loading strip after the last cleaning.

"What are you up to?" Kremer wanted to know.

"Act," I replied and crawled outside.

It took me only a few feet to find a suitable spot. I raised the binoculars to my eyes and looked for Wagner. The experienced Lancer was still standing where he had thrown himself when the flare had shot up.

He is very level-headed. What would Grandpa do now? The bait is out, where will the hungry boar go to eat the tasty corn?

I simply imagined that I was hunting wild boar. Wagner was the decoy, the Russian my target. I swung the binoculars around and patiently observed the house where the sniper was suspected.

Nothing! Bloody hell!

No matter how hard I tried, there was absolutely nothing to see.

"Now he's moving on," I heard from behind me.

My heart started beating faster.

"Zigzag. Now he's crouching."

It was Sergeant Kremer's voice. He knew what I was doing and told me what Wagner was doing.

In any case, he must be sitting on one of the higher floors, because he has too little visibility from below. The tracer scars from the machine guns hit the top before. Maybe he's not sitting that high up. That must be it. He has changed his position. That's why he hasn't spotted Wagner yet, or hasn't had him in his sights.

I concentrated on the middle floor. In the pale light of the waning moon, I still had a reasonably good view. There was a big hole in the wall.

Would I stand there? Good field of fire. Perfect position, I thought immediately and stayed there for a moment.

No! No hunter would lie down there, because that's where the hunter is supposed to be.

I spotted a small window.

I would lie in wait behind it!

I raised my K 98 and aimed at the small window. My aim was shallow. My thoughts went back to my grandfather. I stood on the high stand and aimed my rifle at the boar.

"Wagner runs on!"

A shot rang out. I saw a flash from the muzzle. Exhaling, holding my breath, keeping my eye on the target and pulling the trigger was a combination often practiced on the hunt. A split second after the Russian fired, I pulled the trigger. The butt hit my shoulder. With a soldier's automatism, I repeated the action and pushed the next round into the chamber.

"Bloody hell! He's got Wagner!"

I didn't even hear the words at first. I was in a daze.

Since I joined the troops, my life has changed almost daily. I came as a soldier who wanted to die heroically at the front out of lovesickness. My goal was to impress the love of my life one last time. Instead, I got to know something else.

Comrades who, for various reasons, decided to join the Wehrmacht or were called up involuntarily. Men who stuck together and risked their lives for each other.

Lice that spread no matter how well you cared for your personal hygiene.

I also learned obedience and frugality. People looked forward to a piece of commissary bread and a cup of hot coffee more than they did during school vacations. Everything that was taken for granted at home was something special here at the front.

I quickly learned to sleep when the opportunity arose and to stay awake when the situation demanded it.

And I got to know the war. I saw my first dead body long before I arrived at the front.

It was at a freight station, we had an hour to stop and stretch our legs. The village wasn't very big and we left the station in groups to buy something in the village. Some of my comrades wanted wine or liquor, I was looking for fruit. In the village square there was a gallows. Two men and a woman had been hanged. The unpleasantly pungent, sweet smell of rotting flesh crept into my nose. Swarms of flies had gathered near the hanged men, sat down, crawled around, and flew away. There was a sign nailed to the gallows.

"Bandits."

It was written in both German and Cyrillic letters. At least I assumed that the Cyrillic word had the same meaning.

When I saw the bodies hanging, I immediately felt sick. The bodies were bloated and had been hanging there for some time. A passing gendarme had noticed how shocked we were staring at the corpses.

"Partisans. That's what happens to everyone who opposes us," he commented, pointing slightly toward the gallows.

"Why aren't they buried?" asked Hofer.

"As a deterrent, comrade. As a deterrent. Let the Bolsheviks know what they'll get if they turn on us. Those bastards cut the throat of one of our men. Then they broke into a camp and tried to steal food. Their bad luck was that the change of guard was earlier than usual due to a change in rhythm, and they got caught."

When I noticed the grin on the chain dog's face as he spoke, I was overcome with a feeling of disgust. I turned around and went back to the car. I realized at that moment that war was not the heroic fighting and dying we were taught in school and in the Hitler Youth. War was terrible, and I was on my way to becoming a part of it. It was a road without a turning point.

Later, in Stalingrad, I got used to the sight of the dead. I saw shot soldiers, burned bodies, mutilated people. Most of them were in uniform. But I also saw dead children and women. Victims of bombs and shells, victims of ricochets and shrapnel.

You get numb faster than you think.

"Wagner was hit. That Russian sniper has struck again," Weinberger thundered.

I was in a trance as I stood up and shouldered my rifle. Then I tied the leather strap of the binoculars around my neck and dangled them in front of my chest. "I've got him for sure," I groaned subconsciously and marched off. "I'm going to get some water," I added, swaying a little. My knees were weak. Probably for the first time in my life, I had deliberately shot and wounded or killed a human being. I felt neither satisfaction nor melancholy. I was empty. My thoughts did not allow a picture to form.

"Stop!" I heard, but I didn't pay attention to the order.

When I was level with Meier, I knelt down.

Shot in the head!

I opened my blouse and tore off the bottom half of the badge. Then I got up and walked over to Wagner. Again I knelt down, noticed that my head had been hit, pulled out the dog tag on the thin chain, broke it off and put it with the other one in the breast pocket of my blouse. Then I grabbed the canteens, grabbed the leather straps and ran.

Behind me, our two machine-gun crews fired a few rounds from their weapons. They were probably trying to set up some kind of barrage to give me at least a small chance of survival.

Without realizing it, I had started a race against death. I hurried through the ruins. My knucklebow cups searched for a secure grip in the tangle of stones, wooden beams, and pieces of iron. The short bursts of gunfire died down. I scurried into the next side street, stopped, and leaned against the wall of the house. My chest rose and fell rapidly. I was fighting for oxygen. At the same time, a slight feeling of euphoria spread.

I've made it! I can get water for my comrades.

After a short break, I walked along the street. I recognized the bombed-out office building. We had passed it during our advance. Now I knew I was going in the right direction. After about ten eternal minutes, I reached the half-ruined wall that I had memorized during the advance. No one was shooting at me anymore. I felt safe. Suddenly a cry. Out of nowhere came a "Halt!

Scared to death, I stood rooted to the spot.

"Who are you, show yourself!"

The caller shouted in an Austrian dialect.

My people!

I was glad I hadn't gone over to the neighboring division.

"Don't shoot! It's me. Hunter Miller of the Kremer Group."

Murmurs. Finally one: "Come here slowly."

I took a few steps forward, trying to see where my comrade was lying, but I couldn't see anything. Then something moved. Two steel helmets rose from the rubble. The soldiers' carbines were still pointed at me. Only when they recognized me as one of their own did they lower their guns.

"You've got a lot of nerve! Running towards us in the middle of the night. What's going on?"

I explained the situation in a few sentences. While one of the two Landsers listened with interest, the other rolled a cigarette.

"Comrade, I'm not surprised that you're in this situation and nothing's moving. The Ivan has really done a number on us."

The person who had rolled the cigarette lit it and then joined the conversation. Smoke billowed from his mouth as he spoke. "But you could almost have saved yourself the trip, I have it on good authority that we'll get support tomorrow and chase the Russians across the Volga for good!"

"We'll be dying of thirst by then," I replied, pointing to the canteens.

"If nothing has changed in the last few hours, you'll find the field kitchen, the supply train and the company command post all in one place."

The other spoke up. "If I were you, I'd give the old man a brief report on the situation before you fill the canteens."

"It's the middle of the night," I replied.

The smoker nodded. "Go to the company command post anyway. There's always someone there with something to say! If you don't, you're guaranteed to get a hell of an enema from Wohlleben!"

Sergeant Major Wohlleben was our sergeant, an old warhorse and very moody. He could make your life easier or incredibly difficult.

"Can you tell me where I can find him?"

A flare whizzed up. The two helmets lowered. I took cover as well. Shots rang out. Two minutes later it was quiet again.

"Damn, Ivan, the Russian never needs to sleep!" the smoker grumbled and started to tell me the way. Then he handed me his canteen. "Drink!"

I took it greedily. I was so excited that I only now noticed how dry my throat was and how cracked my lips were. After emptying at least half of the bottle, I handed it back to him. "Thank you so much."

"That's all right," he replied, raising his hand in farewell.

Thank God it wasn't too far now, and another quarter of an hour later I reached the company's command post, which was housed in a reasonably intact building. The windows were covered with blankets. Some light shone in around the edges.

Despite the late hour, there was some activity. A few food carriers crossed my path. They were carrying full cooking utensils and commissary sandwiches. Two of them had large aluminum food containers strapped to their backs.

I must go there later, I thought.

I entered the house and immediately stepped aside. A detector ran toward me, squeezed past me, and hurried into the dark tangle of rubble. When I turned around, Sergeant Maracek was standing in front of me. He was part of the company.

"Where did you come from?" he asked me gruffly. The dark rings under his eyes spoke for themselves. Instead of his comfortable cap, he wore his steel helmet.

Again I explained our situation in a few words.

Maracek pondered. "Come with me. Before you tell everything three times, it's best to tell Captain Greiner right away.

Greiner was the company commander. We liked him because he had a fatherly manner, perhaps because he was a teacher in civilian life.

Maracek led me into a larger room. Captain Greiner was standing at a table with two other officers and a sergeant. In front of them was a large map. I recognized it as a map of the city of Stalingrad.

Greiner was crouched in a corner. He had a list of names in front of him and was making marks with a pencil behind various names. At second glance I noticed that in front of him were the broken pieces of identification tags. Instinctively, I reached into my field blouse, grabbed the IDs of my two comrades who had been shot, walked over to Sergeant Major Wohlleben's desk, and laid the IDs on the table in front of him.

He looked at me, then at the badges, then back at me. He narrowed his eyes. I knew that look and expected a scolding.

"Private Wagner and Private Herbert Meier from my group. Lieutenant Huebner sent me here to fetch water. Both comrades were shot by a Russian sniper. He had control of the route from our position to the rear. I shot him," I babbled confusedly, not realizing that the officers at the map table had stopped talking as well. I just kept talking, telling them what had happened and the situation we were in. Wohlleben's features relaxed a little. He took the two broken identification tags and put them with the others.

"Take it easy, boy," came the surprisingly calm reply.

"Who are you?" I heard the voice of the company commander.

I turned around. Greiner and the others looked at me. I swallowed. My Adam's apple was moving up and down. "Hunter Alfred Miller," I said, clicking my heels together like a barracks yard.

"Stand at ease and calmly tell us again what happened and what situation your platoon is in. Come over here. Show us on the map where Lieutenant Huebner is."

I took a few steps forward, looked at the map, and quickly found my way around. My finger wandered between the marked streets and finally stopped at the house where my people were in the basement. "This is where we've settled; these are the pioneers. I'm afraid I can't tell you where the Pak is. But the Russians are here, there and there," I said, pointing to the places. Then I told them about the two wrecked tanks blocking the road. At the end of my speech I had to tell them again about the Russian sniper and how I had taken him out.

Greiner, the officers, Captain Maracek and our Spitfire had been listening intently the whole time. The captain cleared his throat. "Wohlleben, do we have any more coffee?"

"Yes," replied Wohlleben, got up, went into an adjoining room and returned with a steaming cup in his hand. He handed it to me. "Drink, boy, it'll do you good!"

I gratefully accepted the cup and took my first sip. It actually felt good.

Greiner wrote a message on a piece of paper, folded it and handed it to me. "Give this to Lieutenant Huebner."

"Got it," I replied.

"You're going to the field kitchen now. Tell the cook to fill a large food container and give out extra cold food for your group."

The company commander now turned to Sergeant Maracek. "The medic and two men from the company will accompany this fighter."

Maracek nodded.

Then Greiner turned and bent over the map again. "Gentlemen, let's come to the end of our planning."

The kitchen bull screwed the container shut. "Ready! You can march!"