unfamiliar even in the panzer force. Nor was elastic defense a panacea. Its success depended on an obliging enemy, making the right mistakes at the right time. The Red Army of 1943 was less and less obliging.
Manstein made his case to the army’s chief of staff, Kurt Zeitzler, on March 7–8, 1943. Zeitzler had held the post since September 1942, replacing the dismissed Franz Halder. Although no lapdog, he had deliberately sought closer contact with Hitler in order to improve the eroding relationships among policy, planning, and command. Also, like many interwar-trained staff officers, he was more in the model of a troop staff officer than a traditional general staffer. It is an overlooked irony that the often criticized Versailles Treaty, by abolishing the general staff in its historic form, may have contributed significantly to the tunnel vision so characteristic of the German high command. Certainly Zeitzler was more concerned with resting the mobile troops than with long-term strategic planning. Manstein responded by explaining that he could not defend a 450-mile front with twenty-five divisions. It was either sustain the initiative and attack or be forced back again, sacrificing any material and moral gains made since Stalingrad’s surrender.
Manstein had a chance to make his case in person when Hitler visited his headquarters on March 10. On one level it was propaganda theater, with sixteen senior generals present as a chorus line to celebrate the latest achievements of “the greatest warlord of all time.” The Fuhrer was in a correspondingly mellow mood and listened when Manstein reiterated the importance of resuming mobile operations. Another “backhand,” frustrating and then rolling back a Soviet attack, was a possibility. A better option was a “forehand stroke” to eliminate what Manstein called the Kursk “balcony.”
Elastic defense was for Manstein a temporary expedient, to wear down Soviet forces and prepare for a grander design. The backhand solution promised the greatest results. But what if the Soviets did not cooperate by attacking? Or if the Red Army chose a different sector, not graced with Manstein’s presence? What if the British and Americans were somehow inspired to seize the operational initiative in the West and deplete the reserves Manstein considered necessary for an effective backhand stroke? Manstein’s compromise concept was a combined general offensive by his Army Group South and Army Group Center against the Kursk salient. A large-scale double penetration would not only cut off Soviet forces in the salient, but draw Soviet reserves in the entire region onto a German anvil in the fashion of 1941. With the Russians significantly weakened, and with the front shortened by 150 miles, German reserves could more readily be deployed for further operations against the Soviet flanks and rear.
The long-range prospects of such operations were above the field marshal’s pay grade—or perhaps his professional horizons. What he did insist on was that something must be done quickly, before Soviet material power grew overwhelming and while the Germans could take advantage of the dry season. And before the Western Allies could establish themselves on the continent.
Hitler’s distrust of his generals had in no way lessened. He made no secret of his belief that they deceived him at every opportunity. But on March 13, he issued Operations Order No. 5. It called for a spring offensive to regain the initiative, but its objectives remained vague. Manstein repeatedly informed Zeitzler that Kursk was within the Germans’ immediate grasp. Clearing the salient, however, would require the participation of Army Group Center. It was correspondingly disconcerting when Gunther von Kluge’s Army Group Center replied that it lacked the strength to participate in the kind of assault Manstein projected. That refusal made Manstein’s commitment to the Kursk operation even firmer. It was a high-risk window of opportunity that must be seized even with limited resources.
Adolf Hitler once described his field marshals’ horizons as “the size of a toilet seat.” Manstein’s version of that plumbing item, however, seems to have been too large for the Fuhrer’s comfort. On March 21, Hitler took Kursk off the table. Was he concerned for the still-continuing muddy season, the
The question became temporarily moot when Manstein’s eye problems compelled his return to Germany for treatment on March 30. He kept in touch with his headquarters, but recovery absorbed his energy. The fifty- seven-year-old Manstein had pushed himself hard since 1940, and minor surgery—in this case sick leave for treatment of a developing cataract—kept him away. Manstein’s absence cleared Zeitzler’s field. He was also attracted by the prospects of eliminating the Kursk salient, albeit for less ambitious reasons than those of his subordinate. He considered weakening the Russians in the southern sector and shortening the front quite enough to be going on with—particularly given the increasing Russian concentration in and on the salient. On April 11, he submitted a recommendation to Hitler. It called for a pincer attack, utilizing a reinforced army from the north and Manstein’s army group from the south. They would meet at Kursk.
The hundreds of thousands of Russian prisoners would be sent to Germany as slave labor in the overextended war industry. With the shortened Eastern Front line, Germany could reinforce the western theater against the inevitable invasion and free reserves for further operations in Russia. A dozen or so panzer divisions, the chief of staff suggested, should be enough to complete the job.
On April 15, Hitler responded. The opening paragraph of Operations Order No. 6 spoke of “decisive significance … a signal to all the world.” The attacking forces were to be concentrated on “the narrowest possible front” and “break through the enemy at one blow.” The earliest date for the attack was set at May 6. The code name was Operation Citadel.
In sharp contrast with the far-reaching objectives set in 1941 and 1942, Citadel’s operational geography was so limited that it requires a small-scale regional map to follow. Order No. 6 insisted on the sovereign importance of maintaining surprise through “camouflage, deception, and disinformation.” Success depended even more on preventing reserve-siphoning Soviet breakthroughs elsewhere. Army Groups South and Center must prepare as well for defensive battles on the remainder of their respective fronts. “All means” must be used to make all sectors secure. But recognizing that the shining times of 1940–41 were past did not make Kursk a limited offensive. Success offered a chance to damage the Red Army sufficiently to at least stabilize the Eastern Front and perhaps even develop a temporary political solution to a militarily unwinnable war.
In principle and in reality, the offensive was promising. Strategically, even a limited victory would remove a major threat to German flanks in the sector and limit prospects for a Red Army breakout toward the Dnieper. In Barbarossa and Blue, the Germans won their victories at the start of campaigns and ran down as they grew overextended. Citadel’s relatively modest objectives seemed insurance against that risk. This time, forward units would not be ranging far beyond the front in a race to nowhere in particular. There were no economic temptations like those the Ukraine offered in 1941 or the Caucasus in 1942. Kursk would be a straightforward soldiers’ battle. As for what would happen next, sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof. It was a line of thinking—perhaps a line of feeling—uncomfortably reminiscent of Erich Ludendorff’s approach to the great offensive of March 1918: Punch a hole and see what happens.
In its immediate contexts, Kursk nevertheless seemed eminently plausible: the kind of prepared offensive that had frustrated the Soviets from divisional to theater levels for eighteen months. Geographically, the sector was small enough to enable concentrating overstretched Luftwaffe assets on scales unseen since 1941. Logistically, the objectives were well within reach. Operationally, the double envelopment of a salient was a textbook exercise. Tactically, from company to corps, the panzer commanders were skilled and confident. Materially, for the first time since Barbarossa they would have tanks to match Soviet quality.
That last point calls for explanation, particularly since “Kursk” and “armor” are symbiotically linked in most accounts of World War II. German armor doctrine stressed avoiding tank-on-tank encounters; German tank designs emphasized mobility and reliability as opposed to protection and firepower. From Poland to North Africa, the system worked. In Russia, it faltered—not least because of the growing presence of the Soviet T-34 tank, which could do anything its German counterparts could do, was better armored, and carried a powerful 76 mm gun. Prior to Barbarossa, German tank crews and tank officers had been a significant, albeit intangible, force multiplier. But the technological discrepancy between the Mark III and IV panzers and the T-34 diminished it. In human terms, the German armored divisions were about as good as they were likely to get given the limits of flesh, blood, intelligence, and character. In numerical terms, every calculation demonstrated inability to outproduce the Soviets. Technically, the Panzer III, backbone of the armored force through 1942, could be upgunned no further.
