At the upper Don, west of Serafimovich, Lt. Felice Bracci, who had come to Russia because he wanted to see the wondrous steppe country, now ran across it to save his life. He had been rudely awakened the day before by an aide shouting that most of his 3rd Bersaglieri Regiment had scattered to the south. Bracci thought he was dreaming, that the orderly was playing a joke on him, but the man’s terrified eyes quickly brought him to his senses.
Grabbing a rifle, he ran to the command post, where a bewildered officer ordered him to retreat thirty miles south to a place called Kalmikoff. The officer insisted that all heavy equipment except Bracci’s two antitank guns must be destroyed prior to departure.
The 5th Company of Bersaglieri moved out shortly and, after several hours, other nondescript units joined the column. Marching at the rear, Bracci personally commanded the two heavy guns. Behind him there was no one—nothing but snow and wind that cut into his back. When night came, with the temperature well below zero, Bracci’s guns became harder, to move. The men hauling them had deep red creases on their hands and Bracci himself felt terribly weary. But he continued to shout encouragement and helped haul, lift, or push the cannon through the drifting snow.
More and more men were losing hope. One Bersaglieri threw himself under a passing truck. Another sat down on a hump of snow and started to cry. Still clutching his submachine gun, he sobbed his torment to Bracci, who tried to get him on his feet. The man refused and sat there while the column continued on out of sight.
At nine A.M. on December 20, Bracci reached Kalmikoff, now the magnet for thousands of exhausted and frightened soldiers. The town was a tangle of guns, trucks, baggage, and excited soldiers who ran about, trying to find their friends.
Bracci soon received new orders. His regiment, now reformed, led the retreat to Meshkov, a key road junction on the road to Millerovo. The sounds of thousands of boots crunching the crisp snow lulled the marchers until the sudden roar of engines in the distance alerted them. Bracci and his men went to the front of the march and hid their guns behind some tall shrubs.
Minutes passed and Bracci felt hundreds of eyes staring at him, pleading for protection from the menacing sound. Then tanks, Soviet T-34s, appeared about a half mile ahead. Circling cautiously for a moment, as though focusing on Bracci, the tanks “sniffed the air” and finally turned away. The march to Meshkov continued.
Late that afternoon, Bracci saw the spires of a cathedral, “a fairy castle,” that dominated the skyline. Spreading out in skirmish lines, the Bersaglieri approached the outskirts of Meshkov. Then a mortar shell plopped into the snow; machine guns chattered. In despair, Bracci realized the Russians had gotten there ahead of the regiment, and blocked the road south.
The beautiful stone church in the middle of town was the rallying point of the Soviet defense. Its thick walls defied destruction. In the darkness, thousands of Italians ran toward it, hollering their battle cry: “Savoia! Savoia!” Tracer bullets scoured a deadly pattern through them and screams echoed around the churchyard.
With a clear field of fire, Bracci shot round after round at the building, but the Russian fire never slackened. In the unnatural light, the church’s basement glowed brightly from gunbursts and flames. But above the crescendo of combat, of orders being shouted and countermanded, Bracci also heard the moans and pitiful crying that marked the terrible cost of the battle.
The price was too high. Italian commanders finally called back their troops, and the Bersaglieri reformed and trudged back to Kalmikoff.
There, at a tense meeting the next morning, Bracci was told to dig in with his guns until support troops arrived; his commanding officer promised that a German task force was on the way. It was wishful thinking on his part. Mortar fire suddenly descended from surrounding hills and induced immediate panic among most of the Bersaglieri, who stampeded. Bracci crouched beside a house, which exploded and showered him with debris. Dazed but unhurt, the lieutenant staggered out to the road and jumped on the running board of a passing car, which plunged into a drift and bogged down.
At that moment, Russian horsemen appeared on the brow of the hill. While mortar shells kept exploding, the trapped Italians raised their hands in surrender. A colonel beside Bracci looked at his watch. “This is the end for us,” he said mournfully. “We are prisoners.”
It was 9:30 A.M. on the morning of December 21.
That same morning, intelligence officers of Manstein’s Army Group Don were entertaining an important guest.
German troops had intercepted the commander of the Russian Third Guards Army, Maj. Gen. Ivan Pavlovitch Krupennikov, in an ambush the night before and, after a running gunfight, he had surrendered with most of his staff. Treating Krupennikov with the honor due his rank, the Germans fed him generously, then asked him pertinent questions about his army. In turn, he inquired about his son, Yuri, who was missing after the firefight. The Germans promised to find him, sent soldiers to bring the lieutenant to his father, and the grateful Krupennikov began to talk.
He said he was only the acting commander; his superior, General Lelyushenko, had been sick for ten days. Because he knew the Germans would soon learn it from documents captured in his briefcase, he also revealed other information: His troop strength was approximately ninety-seven thousand men. His army mustered 274 tanks and more than five hundred artillery pieces heavier than .75 caliber. But when his interrogators pressed him for other information, such as new units at the front, their makeup and purpose, he balked and cited his soldier’s honor.
The interrogators switched tactics, asking the general about conditions on the Russian home front. Krupennikov told them that food shortages did exist, due mostly to transportation problems. In parts of Siberia and Central Asia, he said, surplus crops had been harvested, but the government left them there in order to keep the railroads free to carry troops and heavy equipment to the fronts.
Gratuitously, Krupennikov offered the opinion that, at one point, he had thought Russia would lose the war. However, when he had seen the pitiful condition of German prisoners near Moscow, he no longer considered the Nazis to be “supermen.” Now he did not think much of German expectations of victory.
Meanwhile, his hosts had checked his son’s whereabouts. Soldiers who combed the surrounding fields reported no trace of the officer, and felt he must have succumbed to wounds somewhere on the snowfields. The interrogators went back and lied to Krupennikov, telling him that Yuri was wounded, could not be transported, but was not in danger of losing his life. Greatly relieved, the Russian general continued the question and answer period.
He was explicit about Russian plans. The main Soviet strategy was to thrust to Rostov and cut off the Germans in the Caucasus. Their first attacks on November 19 and 20, between Serafimovich and Kletskaya and south of Stalingrad, had served only a limited objective, trapping the Sixth Army at the Volga. The second phase, the current attack, was intended to “break through the front of the Italian Eighth Army west of Serafimovich at the Don and fall on the back of the German troops at Morozovskaya.…”
The final order, to drive due south from the Don to Rostov, had not been issued as of the day Krupennikov was captured. But he believed that “due to slight losses in rolling up the Italian part of the front,” such an operation was possible. This final bit of information was important enough to rush to Field Marshal von Manstein at Novocherkassk, and a typist began to write up a statement on Krupennikov’s disclosures.
The interrogation room was filled with gloom. German intelligence officers could only assume that what they had learned was bound to produce an adverse effect on Army Group Don’s plan to reach the Sixth Army at Stalingrad.
That plan was already in jeopardy. While the Germans questioned Krupennikov, Russian soldiers were blocking further passage to the Kessel by the 6th Panzer Division. Unable to move beyond Vassilevska, only forty miles south of Stalingrad, the German tankers tenaciously held to their bridgehead on the northern bank even though their supply problems had become truly desperate. They had run out of drinking water as well as gasoline. Now, almost crazed with thirst, they crammed dirty snow into their mouths while they huddled inside their immobilized Mark IV panzers. Unable to move, they were easy targets for enemy gunners and Russian infantrymen, who probed to within fifty feet of Colonel Hunersdorff’s command post before he personally led a counterattack that drove them away.
So many wounded Germans lay unattended, officers wondered where they could put them in case an order came for retreat. While shells whined overhead, some of the less seriously hurt men suddenly stopped moaning and died. The subzero temperature had claimed them.
Teletype conversation General Schmidt-General Schulz:
21 Dec. 42–1605 hrs. to 1705 hrs.
+ + + Here General Schmidt.
+ + + Here Schulz.
[The general had vital questions for Sixth Army:] 1. What is your present fuel supply? Give the amounts of Diesel and Auto separately.
2. How many kilometers does that mean? Does this amount of fuel suffice to extend the pocket toward the south while still holding the remaining fronts?
3. If the fuel situation permits you to advance that far, can you do it in view of the available troops?
4. How much fuel is used up daily for the most urgent supply trips within the pocket? Can you answer these questions right away?
[Schmidt had the answers within minutes:] + + + 1. The presently available amount is about 130 cubic meters Auto and 10 Diesel, including today’s air supply and the amounts needed for supply trips during the next few days.
2. This amount would permit the combat troops to advance 20 km including assembly for attack.
3. Even considering the troop situation we could make 20 km, but we cannot hold the breakthrough front [south] and the fortress for any length of time without the troops committed in the attack and, in particular, not without the armored vehicles. On the contrary, we need replacements in the fortress in the very near future, if we are supposed to hold it. Any sortie with the inevitable casualties involved will jeopardize the defense of the fortress itself.
4. The daily amount used for supply trips is 30 cubic meters.
[Schulz countered with bad news:] + + + The Supreme Command of the Army still has not given approval for Donnerschlag [“Thunderclap,” the complete evacuation of the Kessel].…
In view of the number of troops committed by the enemy, it is doubtful whether a speedy advance toward the north [by Hoth’s relief force] is possible, as long as the enemy does not feel the counterpressure against his forces from the pocket of the Sixth Army. It is therefore necessary that the Sixth Army starts Wintergewitter [“Winter Storm,” the physical linkup of the relief force with the Sixth Army] as soon as possible. When can you form up for the attack?
The question was almost impossible to answer. Sixth Army was trying to form up for the attack, but Paulus’s uncertainty about an actual date for the breakout, plus his worries about the lack of gasoline, caused confusion among his troops. The new recruit from Boblingen, Pvt. Ekkehart Brunnert, suffered from one of these command failures.
When his regiment was chosen to lead the attack to the south, all unneeded cars, trucks and motorcycles were quickly destroyed. For his part, Brunnert was delighted. The destruction of cumbersome equipment signaled a decisive attempt to break out, and he had noticed one special truck, filled with warm clothing sent by German civilians to men at the front. The vehicle would have to be burned, but its contents—fur boots, warm gloves, and scarfs—obviously would be distributed among the soldiers. Standing in line at the door of a huge convoy bus, Brunnert ogled the gift-filled vehicle, until a soldier poured gasoline on it and set it afire.
Brunnert could not even scream his rage as the precious cargo was consumed in the blaze. Instead, he boarded the bus, sat down heavily on his assigned seat and began to cry. Suddenly bitter, he fumed: “As long as our superiors are well clothed, nothing else seems to matter.”
Outside the bus, seven Russian Hiwis waited for seats. When four of them found they were to be left behind, they rushed to a senior sergeant and begged for a ride. He refused. Wailing in terror, they got down on their knees and pleaded with him. The sergeant kicked one in the groin and walked away, leaving the distraught Hiwis huddled together at the side of the road. Their heads lowered, they tried to ignore their three comrades happily packing for the trip out of the Kessel.
Inside the bus, Brunnert had regained his composure and was ready to go. With his rations lying under the seat, he dismissed a momentary fear of Russian sniping and was relaxing for the first time in weeks. Suddenly an officer stuck his head inside the door and shouted: “Unpack everything!” Paulus had changed his mind again.
The disgusted Brunnert picked up his rations and walked slowly out of the bus. He had lost all hope of being saved.
Still not totally aware of the dangers posed by the collapse of the Italian Eighth Army, General Schmidt continued his teleprinter dialogue with Schulz.
+ + + If we are to form up regardless of whether the fortress can be held or not, the earliest date for such an attack would be 24 December. By then we hope to have received the necessary fuel to have the re-grouping for the assembly of the attack forces completed. However, the General [Paulus] is of the opinion that the fortress cannot be held if the breakthrough involves major casualties and loss of armored vehicles. If there is no prospect of relief in the near future, it would be more advisable to refrain from the sortie and, instead, to bring in sufficient supplies by air, so that the men may regain their strength and we may have sufficient ammunition for defensive operations over a longer period. In that case we believe we can hold the fortress for some time even without relief.
[Schulz replied:] + + + I shall immediately report your opinion to the Fieldmarshal and it will also be submitted to the Supreme Command of the Army. Have you any other questions regarding the situation?
[Schmidt answered:] + + + Of the forces considered for the attack, we were already compelled to commit one battalion on the west front, since there were heavy casualties in that section during the recent days and there were already some gaps. One of these days we must also move up another battalion to the city of Stalingrad, because the units committed there are also constantly decreasing in number and, since the Volga is covered by solid ice, that front must be manned more closely. The Russians engage in lively combat activities in the city, which cost us numerous casualties. This decrease of fighting capacity is the main reason why the General [Paulus] considers a sortie extremely dangerous, unless contact is established immediately after the breakthrough and the fortress is reinforced by additional troops. We believe that the breakthrough is more promising if Winter Storm is immediately followed by Thunderclap since, in that case, we can withdraw the troops from the other fronts. However, on the whole, we are of the opinion that Thunderclap is an emergency solution, which, if possible, should be avoided, unless the general situation requires such a solution. It must also be kept in mind that in view of the present physical condition of the men, long marches or major attacks would be extremely difficult.
At the Barrikady and tractor factories, the slag heaps lay under a thick blanket of snow that masked the ugly scars of war. Rusted gun barrels, twisted girders, and railroad tracks had also disappeared, along with the frozen corpses of the unburied and forgotten.
Inside the cavernous rooms, German soldiers lived as best they could. For warmth, they ripped up wood flooring and lit tiny fires. The oil-soaked wood produced a sooty smoke that turned everyone’s face black.
In Tool Hall 3C at the Barrikady, an ordinary turner’s lathe began to attract unusual attention from lonely Germans after someone discovered that the machine had been manufactured in a town southeast of Stuttgart. Men slipped quietly into the room to stand beside it and read the small name plate: “Gustav Wagner, Reutlingen.” Former machinists softly caressed the metal created by German hands. Others just stared at the machine, and through it were transported home in their fantasy world of memories.
They wondered openly whether the lathe could still be used. “Would it work again for the Russians if? …” Or, “Where is Reutlingen?” asked those from the Rhineland and further north.
Gustav Wagner’s lathe became a shrine.
Thirteen hundred miles to the northwest, at the Wolf’s Lair in East Prussia, a tragic war of nerves was being played out. Chief of Staff Gen. Kurt Zeitzler had dropped his role of sycophant as he desperately sought approval for Operation Thunderclap. Deeply committed to saving the Sixth Army, Zeitzler even insisted on reducing rations at the officers’ mess as both a tribute to the beleaguered men in the Kessel and a reminder that it was OKW’s responsibility to bring them out alive. In his daily conferences with the Führer, Zeitzler began acting like his predecessor, Franz Halder, badgering Hitler to endorse Thunderclap. When the annoyed dictator waved his entreaties aside, the frustrated Zeitzler often walked back to his office in a towering rage.
He and Manstein, at least, were of one mind on the issue, and he had promised the field marshal that Hitler would eventually relent. But when Gen. Arthur Schmidt’s figures on auto and diesel supplies landed on Hitler’s desk, Kurt Zeitzler lost his battle. Schmidt’s report of Sixth Army’s having only about 140 cubic meters of fuel, which he had given to General Schulz in the teleprinter conversation of December 21, had been forwarded quickly to East Prussia. And his statement that the Sixth Army could only move twenty kilometers (twelve miles) toward a linkup with the German relief force created a negative reaction to Zeitzler’s argument for Thunderclap. For if the Führer had ever entertained any thoughts of granting Paulus permission to pull back with his entire army, Schmidt’s report swept them away.
Facing the stubborn Zeitzler with the report in his hand, Hitler scornfully asked: “But what exactly do you wish me to do? Paulus can’t break out and you know it!”
Zeitzler had no rebuttal. The evidence was too damning and as he left the room, he thought about the tragedy that was developing. Now, at this very moment, Hitler was correct about Sixth Army’s inability to break out. But his earlier mistakes and adamant refusal to let Paulus escape when the Kessel was first formed thirty days earlier had created this disaster.
At Army Group Don Headquarters in Novocherkassk, Erich von Manstein prepared a final summation in hopes of changing Hitler’s mind.
Document Army Group Don 39694/5
Teletype
22 Dec. 42
TOP SECRET, “Chefsache,” transmittal by officers only
TO: Chief of General Staff of the Army
1. The development of the situation on the left flank [Italian sector] of the Army Group makes it necessary to move up forces there very soon.…
2. This measure means that the Sixth Army cannot be relieved for some time and that, as a consequence, the Army must be adequately provided with supplies for a long time. In order to maintain the physical strength of the Army through adequate nutrition and to enable the Army to engage in defensive operations, an average daily supply of at least 550 tons is required.… According to the opinion of Richthofen [the Luftwaffe general] in this area we can but expect an average of 200 tons, considering the long distance to be covered by the aircraft.… Unless adequate aerial supplies can be ensured … the only remaining alternative is the earliest possible breakout of the Sixth Army.
In pointing out the patent impossibility of meeting the required air supply, Manstein was reminding Hitler once again that the total withdrawal of Sixth Army from the Kessel was the only alternative left.
Convinced he had made the options clear, the choice obvious, the field marshal ordered the message sent to East Prussia and turned to his other problems.
Meanwhile, the teleprinter from Novocherkassk to Stalingrad kept up a steady chatter. Its stark vocabulary failed to underline the fact that the hours left for deliverance had vanished.
Teletype: General Schmidt-General Schulz
22 Dec 42–1710 hrs. to 1945 hrs.
Here is General Schulz. Hello, Schmidt. I want to report on the situation:
Hoth’s 6th and 17th Armored Divisions at Vassilevska [on the Mishkova south of the Kessel] were engaged all day today in repulsing strong enemy attacks from the southeast, east and north, so that the armored divisions were not able to make the intended thrust toward the north.
It is planned to make this thrust as soon as the impetus of the Russian attacks has been stopped. Developments will show whether that will already be possible tomorrow.… Unfortunately, during the last 24 hours weather conditions were such that no air supplies were made because of the danger of icing and fog. No air reconnaissance was possible either. We must hope for an improvement of weather conditions in the near future. The 175 “Ju” aircraft for an increase of air supplies are on their way. This much on the situation.
The field marshal requests that the following question, which is of importance for an estimate of the Army’s supply situation, be clarified. According to the report of the quartermaster Sixth Army, there are still about 40,000 horses in the pocket. This report is contradicted by Major Eismann, who reported that the divisions had only about 800 horses left. Can you tell me the exact number of existing horses; if possible state number of ponies [Panjes] and normal-sized horses separately? This is very important, and have steps been taken on your side to ensure that the horse meat is used sparingly for the provision of the troops? …
Schmidt had slightly more than 23,000 horses left, only enough to feed the Army until mid-January. The general soon gave Schulz this total. He had been giving other statistics to higher headquarters all day.
… Ration strength on 18 December: 249,600 (including 13 thousand Rumanians) 19,300 auxiliary volunteers [Russian Hiwi laborers] and approximately 6,000 wounded.
… Battle strength: In front line … infantry 25,000, engineers, 3,200.…
… Ammunition: Stocks in Army reserve are low and include 3,000 rounds for light field howitzers, 900 rounds for heavy field howitzers, and 600 rounds for other guns.…
… Health: Men have been on half rations since 26 November.… Under present conditions they are incapable of undertaking long marches or engaging in offensive action without a large number falling out.…
End
At 6:30 A.M. on December 23, the 6th Panzer Division renewed its offensive to widen the bridgehead at Vassilevska on the Mishkova River south of the Kessel. Six hours later, at 12:30 P.M., 57th Corps commander, General Kirchner, arrived in the area “to obtain firsthand information …” on what was going wrong. For in the intervening time, 6th Panzer Division had been unable to move any closer to Stalingrad.
A short time later, at 1:05 P.M., the teleprinter clicked out a message from OKW in Rastenburg. Field Marshal Manstein expected it to be the answer to his plea for giving the code word Thunderclap. It was not.
PERSONAL AND IMMEDIATE
Following from Führer begins: The railway junction Morosovskaya and the two air bases at Morosovsk and Tatsinskaya will be held and kept in operation at all costs.… Führer agrees that units of 57th Panzer Corps be transferred across the Don.… Army Group Don will report measures being taken.…
Zeitzler
Hitler was ignoring Manstein’s carefully worded warning of the dangers of leaving Paulus inside the Kessel. In fact, Hitler had not even alluded to Operation Thunderclap. Instead he was telling Manstein to strip combat units from Hoth’s relief force and save the situation at the threatened Italian front.
Astonished that Hitler had never given Paulus a chance to escape, Manstein dispatched a fateful order to 6th Panzer Division at the Mishkova River: “The division will be taken out of the bridgehead tonight. Trail guards will be left behind.…”
The order spread gloom among the staff officers of the 6th Panzer Division, but they had to agree with its logic. It had become clear that “it would be impossible to break through to Stalingrad without the assistance of added troops which were not available.…”
One-hundred-fifty miles northwest of Gumrak, the steppe lay under two feet of snow. The sun, reflecting off its frozen wavy crust, cast a shimmering haze. Across the bleak landscape wound a black column of prisoners, the Italian survivors of Kalmikov, Meshkov, and the Don River approaches. They shuffled painfully, haltingly through the subzero wilderness.
When patrolling Russian guards shouted, “Davai bistre!” (“Hurry up!”), the prisoners tried to walk a little faster. But their pace was still slow, and the men groaned constantly as the biting cold froze fingers and toes.
Felice Brazzi walked in the middle of this ragged line. He staggered on, like an automaton, one foot in front of the other, again and again. Almost unconscious from the cold, he barely heard the hoarse commands of the guards and the grim croaking of black ravens that circled overhead. One sound always brought Bracci out of his reverie: single rifle shots, which cracked loudly in the clear air as guards shot men who stumbled out of the column to seek rest. For two days, Bracci had listened to this symphony of murder. And on the trail from Kalmikov, both sides of the path were now marked by two irregular patterns of corpses. Bracci had figured out that the Italians were marching north toward the Don, because evidence of harsh fighting was everywhere. Pieces of uniforms, cases of unused bullets, submachine guns, 210-millimeter artillery, arms, legs, the wreckage of his Eighth Army littered the steppe.
Another heavy snow began to fall and it slashed the faces of the bearded soldiers and froze on their eyebrows and chins. His head tucked in like a turtle, Bracci walked on toward a village sitting precariously on the crest of a hill. He hoped the Russians would stop there to feed their captives, none of whom had eaten in at least forty-eight hours.
At dusk the Russians did halt the column, and Bracci crawled into a stable to find a place to sleep. Across the room several Italians smashed their countrymen aside in order to lie in a feeding trough filled with fresh hay.
Other remnants of the Italian Army were trying to escape through a valley near the town of Abrusovka thirty miles to the west. But on the surrounding slopes, Russian gunners had installed the awesome Katusha rockets, which whooshed thousands of rounds of high explosives into the writhing gray masses on the valley floor.
A small German detachment trapped at one end of the cul-de-sac managed somehow to commandeer several trucks and enough fuel to make a run through the gauntlet. A few Italian soldiers attempted to jump on the running boards, but the Germans shot them. Other Italians who clung desperately to door handles had their fingers smashed by rifle butts. Having driven their allies back, the frantic Germans pulled away and disappeared in a southerly direction.
Dr. Cristoforo Capone had been running for several days. When he came to the valley, he saw mobs of Italians rushing back and forth at the bottom of the deep gorge. Behind Capone, a Russian tank fired into the crowd, and an officer beside him suddenly gurgled as a rifle bullet went through his neck.
Capone broke away but had no place to hide as machine guns and artillery raked the valley floor. Soldiers toppled, blew into fragments, or stood resignedly, awaiting the impact of a bullet. Some officers and men raised their hands in surrender. Others refused. A surgeon Capone recognized, screamed: “They’re going to kill all of us!” and ran at a Russian machine gun that cut him to pieces. For a fleeting moment, Capone thought of doing the same thing, but to his right, another group of Italians suddenly put up their hands. He joined them, and while he watched the enemy approach, several officers in the line changed their minds, pulled out pistols and shot themselves.
Another tense conversation had started between Erich von Man-stein and Friedrich von Paulus on the impersonal keys of the teleprinters:
23 Dec 42, 1740 hrs. to 1820 hrs.
Good evening, Paulus—Last night you submitted for the Supreme Command of the Army a report on available fuel that would permit a 20-km advance. Zeitzler requests that you check up on that again. I personally would like to say this: It appears that the enemy [south of the Kessel] has constantly received reinforcements so that Hoth is forced to take defensive measures. Moreover, the situation on the left flank of the Army Group [the Italian front] makes it necessary to withdraw forces from Hoth.… You will be able to draw your own conclusions as to how this will affect you. I would ask you therefore to examine whether, if there should be no other possibility, you are prepared for Thunderclap, [complete withdrawal of the Kessel] provided it is possible to bring in a limited supply of fuel and provisions during the next few days. If you don’t want to give me an answer right away, let’s have another conversation at 2100 hrs. I must point out to you too, that an adequate supply of the Army is a very difficult problem, in particular in view of the development of the situation on the left flank of the Army Group. Please reply.
Paulus quickly pointed out the awful danger of his position:
+ + + [Thunderclap] has become difficult, since for several days the enemy has dug in opposite our southwest and south front and, according to radio information, six armored brigades are drawn up behind this defensive front. I estimate we now need a preparatory period of six days for Thunderclap.…
From here, of course, I can’t tell whether there’s the slightest chance of the Army being relieved in the fairly near future, or whether we shall have to try Thunderclap. If the latter—the sooner the better. But it must be clearly realized that it will be a very difficult operation, unless Hoth manages to tie down really strong enemy forces outside. Am I to take it that I am now authorized to initiate Operation Thunderclap? Once it’s launched, there’ll be no turning back. Over.
The climax had been reached. Paulus was asking Manstein to give the code word that would send Sixth Army on its way to freedom—or oblivion. Acutely aware that Adolf Hitler had not actually granted permission to leave the Kessel, Paulus now placed his own career and the lives of thousands of his men directly into Erich von Manstein’s hands. He was begging Manstein to relieve him of the onus of such a decision.
But Manstein brushed aside the plea. Unwilling to take responsibility for initiating Operation Thunderclap against Hitler’s express orders, he gave an indirect answer:
+ + + I can’t give you full authority today. But I hope to get permission tomorrow. The main point is—are you confident that Sixth Army could fight its way out [to the south] and through to Hoth … if we come to the conclusion that adequate supplies over a long period could not be gotten to you? What do you think? Over.
[Paulus replied:] + + + In that case, I’d have no option but to try. Question—is the envisaged withdrawal of forces from Kirchner’s area [the 6th Panzer Division at the Mishkova bridgehead south of the Kessel] going to take place? Over.
[Manstein:] + + + Yes—today. How much fuel and supplies would you require before launching Thunderclap and on the assumption that once the action began, further supplies to meet day-to-day requirements would reach you? Over.
[Paulus:] + + + 1,000 cubic meters [nearly 250,000 gallons of fuel] and 500 tons of food. If we get that, all my armor and motor vehicles will have enough.… [the fuel he needed was almost ten times what the airlift had brought him so far].
[Manstein:] + + + Well, that’s the lot. Good luck, Paulus.
[Paulus:] + + + Thank you, sir. And good luck to you, too.
Only a few hours later, the tanks of the 6th Panzer Division holding the bridgehead at Vassilevska wheeled about and began to recross the Mishkova River.
Hardbitten panzer crews brushed tears from their eyes as they turned their backs on countrymen waiting for them at Stalingrad. One officer stood in his turret hatch facing the northern horizon, snapped his right hand to his cap in salute, then ducked inside the Mark IV as it rumbled off to a new battle. By midnight the last panzer had left to try and save the Italian Army and stabilize Manstein’s left flank.
Meanwhile, German soldiers at the southern perimeter of the Kessel were straining to hear and see the vanguards of Manstein’s relief force. But the darkness remained impenetrable. The trapped troops shivered in their snowholes and tried to still the nagging fear that Manstein might never arrive.
Called to a meeting of 297th Division noncommissioned officers along the southern perimeter of the Kessel, Sgt. Albert Pflüger walked gingerly along an icy path. As he neared the command bunker, he suddenly sensed a dark form off to the right and then a rifle shot sounded. The bullet smashed into his right arm and broke it.
Knocked to the ground, Pflüger gasped, “Oh, mama, now they’ve got me.” Then he passed out.
Another NCO came along, wrapped him in a poncho, and started dragging him along the bumpy path. Regaining consciousness, Pflüger insisted on walking and staggered to an aid station, where a doctor quickly bandaged the wound and sent him on to a base hospital.
On this day, December 23, the sergeant was just one of 686 Germans killed or wounded while waiting for Hitler to approve Thunderclap.
At dawn on December 24, the great German airfield at Tatsinskaya, 180 miles west of Gumrak, came under artillery fire from the Soviet Third Guards Army. The attack had been expected ever since the Italian Army had dissolved along the Don. All week long, Generals Martin Fiebig and Freiherr von Richthofen implored Hitler for permission to move the transport planes stationed at the field out of danger. But he refused, telling them that German reserves in the area could contain the enemy.
The Führer had been wrong again, and now on this misty morning, Fiebig stood in the control tower and watched in horror as two Ju-52s blew up from enemy shellfire.
A colonel beside him begged: “Herr General, you must take action. You must give permission to take off.”
But Fiebig answered: “For that I need Luftflotte authority. In any case, it’s impossible to take off in this fog.”
Standing at rigid attention, the ashen-faced colonel replied: “Either you take that risk or every unit on the field will be wiped out. All the transport units for Stalingrad, Herr General. The last hope of the surrounded Sixth Army.”
When another officer agreed, that was enough for General Fiebig. With Russian shells slamming through the fog onto the runways, he ordered an immediate evacuation.
At 0530 hours, only ten minutes after the attack began, the first lumbering Ju-52s roared to life and scrambled for the sky. Incredible confusion resulted. Planes took off from all directions; two Ju-52s collided in midfield and exploded. Others ripped off their wings and tails. In the midst of this holocaust, Russian tanks appeared on the runways as twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, and more planes skimmed low over them and climbed painfully into the murky sky.
When a Russian T-34 drove past Fiebig’s control tower, it prompted an aide to say: “Herr, General, it is time to go.”
But he was transfixed as he watched the terrible panorama outside the window, where the last Junkers were rolling down the field, crashing against other wreckage, skidding to a halt and catching fire.
At 0607, a German tank commander rushed in to say that the enemy had completely overrun Tatsinskaya and, eight minutes later, at 0615, the dejected Fiebig’s own plane lifted off the airfield and headed for Rostov.
On the ground below, fifty-six aircraft sorely needed for the Stalingrad shuttle, burned brightly through the haze. Only 124 of the airlift planes had gotten away safely.
Sixty miles north of the wreckage of Fiebig’s airfleet, Lt. Felice Bracci stirred in his stable and rose to the shouts of “Davai bistre!” from impatient Russian guards. Behind Bracci, in the feed trough packed with straw, some of the men who had fought for space in its warmth ignored the guttural demands. They were dead, turned marble-like from the cold.
Still without food, the huge column of prisoners stumbled into another freezing morning. On the horizon, a lifeless sun peeped out at the Italians. A strange sun, Bracci thought, for those who came from a warm country. His breath quickly congealed on his overcoat collar and turned into tiny, white crystals. Above the column a cloud of vapor floated along with the soldiers, as though they were chain-smoking cigarettes.
The march continued through the morning. Bracci and another officer, Franco Fusco from Naples, walked side-by-side, saying nothing. Men fell out, rifles cracked and bodies dropped into the snow; the two found comfort in each other’s presence.
In early afternoon, Bracci saw a church belfry, then a few huts. He walked over a bridge; the river underneath it had disappeared in countless snow storms. Someone called out that they had reached Boguchar, a former German headquarters, now a central assembly point for Russian divisions. Soviet cars and trucks careened past the prisoners, who halted abruptly before a large barracks. With the cold so intense that the Italians could not stand still, they jumped up and down and begged to be let inside. While they complained, a sullen crowd of Russian civilians gathered. Young, old, they muttered threats and spat on Bracci and his comrades. Some of them made gestures of beheading and strangling, then suddenly closed in and pounced on the prisoners. Like crazed wolves, the Russians stripped them of overcoats, shoes, caps, and blankets. Bracci was lucky when the Russians rejected his worn boots and ragged leggings in disgust.
The guards finally drove the villagers away, then called all doctors inside the building. Bracci was envious. He assumed the doctors’ miseries had ended and they would now take care of sick and wounded in more pleasant surroundings. He wished he had studied medicine at the university.
The doctors reappeared shortly, stripped of all medical supplies and warm clothing. After a lieutenant from Rome protested their treatment, the Russians took him inside, beat him viciously and threw him back into the street. Even then his misery had not ended. When his puppy, which had faithfully trotted beside him on the march, went to nuzzle the prostrate man, the Russians kicked it to death as he watched.
The Italian finally were crowded into barracks and, in pitch darkness, fell prostrate on the floor. Bracci was one of the last to get inside. Looking for a space to rest, he found a horizontal beam three feet off the floor and straddling it, tried to sleep. His body sagged, his head drooped. Several times he lost his balance and had to brace his feet on the ground for support. When his shoe hit a small box, he picked it up and thought it seemed full of butter. He dug greedily into it with his fingers and the greasy mixture went down easily. Only later did he find that he had eaten an automotive lubricant.
Outside the barracks, very far off, the lieutenant heard the sound of bells tolling, ringing out across the icy steppe. From a church somewhere, an organ played a solemn melody. Bracci knew what the sounds meant. He had known all day. Outside, where ordinary people lived, whether in Russia or in his beloved Rome, it was a time for happiness, for family and for love. It was Christmas Eve, 1942.