Kastle watched him out of sight.
Pvt. Ekkehart Brunnert was already at the main line of resistance. Ever since he had de-trained from Germany, he had walked back and forth across the steppe: standing guard duty, lining up for inspections, sitting on buses which never broke out of the
When he first saw the body, Brunnert had felt a brief spasm of compassion. The man must have suffered indescribable tortures trying to escape the flames. Still, Brunnert reasoned, the same thing had happened countless times to Germans in the war and that thought helped him forget the gruesome sight in front of his foxhole.
His life followed a strict pattern. He stood watch every four hours and at 5:00 P.M. every day, he crawled back to the company kitchen for rations. Otherwise he read and reread Soviet propaganda leaflets that showered down from the sky. Brunnert never once thought of defecting, but the pictures on the literature haunted him: a beautiful Christmas tree, beneath which a woman buried her face in a handkerchief. Beside her a little child sobbed her grief as they both stared at their present, the body of a soldier father. In another leaflet, a woman sang carols with her children while the figure of the dead father hovered over them like a ghost.
For over a week, Brunnert and his friend Gunter Gehlert had shared a bunker and adjusted to the presence of the enemy nearby. On January 7, just as Gunter came to relieve Brunnert at the machine gun, a shell burst only yards away. Brunnert screamed and fell face down into the trench. He stared dumbly at one of his fingers, split open like a blossoming rosebud.
His legs were hit, too, and he lay in a spreading pool of blood but remained conscious while Gunter brought a medic. In shock, Brunnert watched wordlessly as they frantically fashioned a dressing. When darkness came, Gunter put Brunnert on a sled, pressed money into his hand and asked him to give it to his own parents when he got home.
The sled rocked gently through the snow and except for his freezing feet, Brunnert enjoyed the ride to Gumrak Airfield hospital. In an operating room suffused with bright lights, he relaxed as his clothing, that filth-caked armor, was taken off. After receiving a local anesthetic, he began to dream of good food and sleep without worrying about Russians creeping up on him during the night. That thought brought back the image of poor Gunter alone at the bunker, watching now for the enemy until his eyes watered and he saw mirages on the snow. Brunnert suddenly felt very sorry for his comrade.
Still on the operating table, he turned his head. Only a few feet away, on another table, he saw the convoluted windings of a man’s brain. Fascinated, he carefully examined the various folds, some pink, others grayish blue, while doctors probed his own body for pieces of metal. Shortly afterward, Ekkehart Brunnert left the
“Every seven seconds, a German dies in Russia. Stalingrad is a mass grave. Every seven seconds, a German dies….”
The loudspeaker’s words assaulted Gunter Gehlert, alone now in his bunker without Brunnert. They assailed Gottlieb Slotta and Hubert Wirkner as they crouched in their icy holes on the steppe. The message twanged taut the nerves of two hundred thousand men trapped on the steppe. Hour by hour, the
Capt. Gerhard Meunch learned this when a commissar engaged him in a personal war. Near the Red October Plant, the loudspeakers blared over and over: “German soldiers, drop your weapons. It makes no sense to continue. Your Captain Meunch will also realize one day what is going on. What this ‘super-Fascist’ tells you isn’t right anyway. He will recognize it. One day we’ll seize him.”
Every time the enemy mentioned his name, Meunch immediately went out and spent time with his troops. Joking about the personal comments, he watched closely for any adverse reactions from the men. But though the tactic was meant to be unnerving, they never seemed intimidated by the Russian ploy.
Less than two miles southwest of Meunch’s outpost in the Red October Plant, Ignacy Changar gulped down a full ration of vodka and wondered where he could find another. The commando captain had been relying more and more on liquor to forget the daily nightmare in which he lived. His awful memories of the past had not faded and with dynamite, rifle, and knife he had blown up, shot, or stabbed more than two hundred of the enemy. Still he was not satisfied.
As a result, his one-man war had taken its toll on him. His face was drawn, the eyes haunted. His hands trembled. His only relief from inner tension was alcohol and, after finishing his vodka ration on the night of January 7, he led his men up the eastern slope of Mamaev Hill, carefully threading a path through Russian trenches and minefields to the final rolls of barbed wire. Crawling into no-man’s-land, Changar tried to gauge whether the Germans sensed his approach, but the crown of Mamaev Hill remained tranquil. Reaching an open stretch where shellbursts had blown away the snow, he stood up and waited for his unit to gather around him.
Several brilliant white flares quickly popped overhead. As he screamed, “Drop!” a German shell exploded a few feet away. Changar felt a terrible pain in the right side of his head, then crumpled to the ground. His men carried him back down the slope to an aid station, where doctors worked carefully to extract the metal fragment lodged against the brain. Evacuated quickly for further surgery, the still unconscious Changar was not expected to live.
West of Mamaev Hill, at Gumrak Airfield, Paulus learned that three Red Army representatives planned to enter German lines with an ultimatum for Sixth Army. The Russians proposed a rendezvous at 10:00 A.M. Moscow time, on January 8. Though Paulus ignored the request, at the appointed hour the Russian parliamentarians walked under a white flag into German lines and delivered Marshal Rokossovsky’s offer to an astonished but polite Captain Willig.
Rokossovsky offered guarantees of safety to all who “ceased to resist,” plus their return at the end of the war to Germany. He also assured Paulus that all personnel might retain their “belongings and valuables, and in the case of high-ranking officers, their swords.” The general went on to offer a most tempting argument to soldiers about to starve to death, “All officers… and men who surrender will immediately receive normal rations… [the] wounded, sick or frostbitten will be given medical treatment.” The Red Army ultimatum demanded an affirmative answer within twenty-four hours, or else the Germans would suffer total “destruction.”
Friedrich von Paulus submitted the proposal to Hitler and asked for “freedom of action.”
Rokossovsky’s offer of good treatment and guarantees of safety had been voiced earlier in January by the Soviet government. In a document extraordinary for its seeming compassion during a brutal war, guidelines were laid down for the proper care of enemy captives.
TREATMENT OF POW IN THE SOVIET UNION:
ORDER OF THE PEOPLES COMMISSARIAT FOR THE DEFENCE OF THE USSR
The manner of return-conveyance and security of POW on the front and on the way to the collection camp
The POW remain too long inside the units of the Red Army. From the time of capture to the loading the prisoners have to cover 200–300 km on foot. Often they receive no food. Therefore they arrive quite exhausted and sick….
In order to energetically discontinue such shortcomings while taking care of POW and to make them available as work forces… the following order [is issued]… to the commanders at the front: …according to POW regulations, give timely medical attention to wounded or sick POW….
