An Artilleryman in Stalingrad by Wigand Wüster

Author:Wigand Wüster
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Stackpole Books
Published: 2021-05-21T00:00:00+00:00

“What would it matter?” I asked, fully expecting no answer.

Then, the aircraft was rolling along the ground. Once again the Russians had sneaked in between us and were dropping bombs on the runway. Our flak guns were firing between us. In the end, everything worked out fine.

I had made my “happy arrival” in the Stalingrad pocket! The plane taxied to the edge of the airfield. The loading hatches were opened and the crew pushed the fuel drums out of the plane themselves. I climbed out on to the wing, said good-bye and started to look around. Stumbling toward us across the runway were ragged, poorly equipped wounded soldiers. They were desperate to get aboard the aircraft and be flown out. The pilots, however, had already closed the hatches and all three engines were roaring. Shouting, commands, loud words: “We’re not going to let ourselves get pounded here!” was the last thing I heard from the airmen.

The engines howled and the plane moved off. They headed off on their own initiative, without having had any instructions or contact with ground control whatsoever. The plane disappeared into the darkness and the screaming wounded, who in some cases had tried to hold on to the plane, also disappeared. Only a few of them crawled around in the snow on all fours, cursing and whimpering. They were filthy, unkempt, bearded, emaciated, with blood-encrusted bandages, wrapped up like gypsies, and extremely undisciplined.

There were no MPs or medics as far as the eye could see. I had never encountered this kind of chaos before in our Wehrmacht. Napoleon’s defeated army must have looked like this at the Beresina. A mixture of horror and compassion arose in me. I felt left behind and thought: “It would have been better if you stayed outside, instead of insisting on coming here.” If I had gone to the replacement unit in Göttingen, I could have waited to see what would happen.

I wandered around and finally found a deep bunker whose entrance was covered by a tent-quarter. Anti-aircraft fire flashed and bombs detonated. I crawled into this bunker and was met by an indescribable stench of body odour and food scraps. I was greeted by a hostile reception.

“Where from? Where to?” They laughed at me when I described my adventurous trip. “You must be totally bonkers, Herr Oberleutnant. Now, like the rest of us, you’re in deep shit – right up to your ears in it. Return tickets are only given to the wounded – head off, leg off, or something like that, and then you still have to find yourself an aircraft!” said an older Stabsgefreiter. He said this without any trace of insubordination, rather, with a pitying tone.

This really seemed like an apocalyptic conclusion to my furlough. As nice as it had been in the beginning, it ended just as devastatingly for me now. In Pitomnik, at least, there was absolute chaos. No clear orders where given to anyone and helpless and desperate wounded soldiers were lying or walking about everywhere.

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