Stalingrad in the crosshairs E-Book

W.T. Wallenda

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

Seitenzahl: 522

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

In the midst of the inhuman and brutal battle for Stalingrad, German and Russian snipers roam the ruins like angels of death, spreading fear and terror. Katja Kalikova lost her husband to German bombs and her youngest son, Boris, to a Soviet bullet. Since then, she and her 8-year-old son, Grisha, have been fighting for their daily survival. Major Erwin Koenig is an officer in the Wehrmacht and was stationed in Stalingrad. When his son Rolf is also sent to Stalingrad and falls victim to Russian snipers, Koenig has only one goal left. To avenge his son's death, the former sniper instructor sets his sights on living Russian sniper legend Vasily Saizev. Koenig blazes a bloody trail through dying Stalingrad, quickly turning from hunter to hunted. When Katja and Major Koenig's paths fatefully cross, they make a pact to defeat Saizew. The fate of the soldiers fighting in Stalingrad, as well as that of the Russian civilians forced to remain in the city, is portrayed bleakly, coldly, and without pathos. A few exemplary original photos from the Second World War and accompanying drawings illustrate the Battle of Stalingrad and the legendary sniper duel between Saizev and Koenig.

Leseprobe

In the noise of arms, laws are silent.

Marcus Tullius Cicero

If all men went to war only out of conviction, there would be no war.

Leo N. Tolstoy

This story is based on the legend of the duel between the Russian sniper Wassili Grigorjewitsch Saizev (*23.03.1915 - †15.12.1991), who was declared a hero of Stalingrad, and the probably fictional character of the German sniper instructor Major Erwin Koenig.

The German officer is given a biography and his fictional story is told very realistically against the background of the Battle of Stalingrad.

The plot and the protagonists are fictitious, with the exception of historical figures.

Drawing of PA-0060-Landser vor dem Einsatz Landser before combat deployment© W.T. Wallenda – Original Photo Privatarchiv Author

TABLE OF CONTENTS

NOTES

ABOUT THE BOOK

FURTHER INFORMATION

PROLOGUE

STALINGRAD IN THE CROSSHAIRS - THE DUEL THE SNIPER

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

EPILOGUE

GLOSSARY AND CREDITS:

STALINGRAD

VASSILY GRIGORYEVICH SAIZEV

MAJOR ERWIN KOENIG

GLOSSARY FOR THE NOVEL:

FROM THE GENERAL LANDSER JARGON:

BOOK RECOMMENDATIONS

PROLOGUE

The twelve-year-old boy had been lurking in the undergrowth for almost two hours, tirelessly observing the large clearing. The settlement of Yeleninka in the Agapovka district, where his parents' farm was located, was more than an hour's walk away. It was snowing. He felt at home in the silence of the forest. He was free here. It was his kingdom.

Hunting had always been his passion. He mastered both types of hunting. The stalking and the lurking. He could startle his prey and kill it quickly, but he could also wait for hours to aim and shoot at the right moment. The qualities that characterized him were perseverance, patience, and an irrepressible will to hunt down his target.

No doubt they were waiting impatiently for him at home, but he didn't want to return home without a kill. He had to finally shoot the wild goat he had been after for so long and bring its meat home to feed his family. Nothing could stop him, let alone frighten him. He wasn't even afraid of the approaching darkness. Why should he be? The bears were hibernating, and he would keep the wolves away with his shotgun. If necessary, he could make a torch. Wolves feared fire.

"I want to shoot this goat before the wolves get it," he had said to his brother and left.

"You must be back before it gets dark," he was told.

With a broad grin, he turned and replied: "Don't worry. I'm only in the forest."

Now the silence of the forest surrounded him. The rifle lay calmly in his hand. In the distance he heard the howling of the wolves.

They are far away. That's good!

In the middle of the clearing was some hay. He had brought it from the barn and used it as bait. It must have smelled heavenly to the grass eaters. He looked up to the sky.

Soon the sun will be gone.

This goat had challenged him, but it had run deeper and deeper into the forest. He had accepted the challenge and followed it stubbornly. The goat's trump card was time, his trump card was his old rifle and his almost inexhaustible endurance.

A muffled cracking sound in the underbrush told him that something was approaching the clearing. His senses were heightened. His right hand slipped from the warm glove. The butt of the rifle was pressed against his shoulder, his right finger pressed into the trigger guard.

Cautiously, as if sensing him, the wild goat moved toward the hay.

Breathing shallowly, he aimed as he had been taught. His forefinger reached the pressure point. He was on target. Exhale, hold your breath. The shot cracked, the butt slammed into his shoulder. The bullet tore through the goat's heart and it collapsed. The snow around them turned blood red.

"Yes!" rejoiced Vasily Saizev, shouting his joy into the silence of the forest. "I chased them and I won! Papa will be proud of me, and everyone will eat their fill."

Little did the boy know that fifteen years later he would be hunting again. But not in his home forest in the Chelyabinsk region, but in faraway Stalingrad on the Volga. He would wear the uniform of the Red Army, and his prey would not be wild goats, but German soldiers.

This young boy, named Vasily Grigoryevich Saizev, would become the most feared sniper in the Red Army.

German snipers were also used at Stalingrad, but only one man had the skill and tenacity to take down Saizev. Major Erwin Koenig.

On the day a Russian sniper shot Major Koenig's son, fate took its course and the German officer began hunting Saizev.

The two most skilled sharpshooters of the armies fighting in Stalingrad roamed the ruined city to find each other.

The hunt ended in a duel between two equal opponents, after which neither of them ever fired at another human being again.

While the Soviet propaganda machine stylized Saizev as an icon and advertising figure of the Red Army, cleverly concealing the fact that the hero of Stalingrad did not fire a single shot after the duel with Major Koenig, the German officer covered his tracks to turn his back on the insane battle forever. All that remained was the myth of the sniper Major Erwin Koenig.

Sophia Wallenda - Stalingrad 1 © W. T. Wallenda all rights reserved by the author

STALINGRAD IN THE CROSSHAIRS - THE DUEL THE SNIPER

1

"If you think you've seen everything there is to see in war, you haven't been here!" the company commander shouted to the beardless lieutenant lying next to him in the trench.

The young officer nodded silently and tied an aftershave-soaked handkerchief to his nose. It was an ineffectual attempt to mask the disgusting, sweetly foul smell of rotting flesh that the wind carried over to them.

The company commander kept staring at his wristwatch. It wouldn't be long before the signal to attack. His heart was racing, his pulse was pounding. How many times had he raised his fist and shouted the order to charge? How many times had he jumped up with his men and charged forward? And how many times did he have to write hard words on white paper after the battles to tell the bereaved at home that their sons, husbands, brothers or fathers had fought bravely before they died a soldier's heroic death and gave their lives for the German people and the final victory?

What bloody nonsense! That's not heroism, that's mass slaughter! You mothers and fathers at home, be glad you can't see us die here, were the next thoughts that crept through the captain's mind.

The officer's palms grew damp. The reporter lying to his right fiddled with the radio. Finally, he tapped the shoulder of the 20-kilogram device and raised his thumb to indicate that all was well. "The switch is fixed," he shouted to drown out the wailing Jericho sirens of the attacking Stukas.

For days there had been a fierce battle in Stalingrad for Mamai Hill, known militarily as Hill 102. It stood like a monstrous watchtower between the southern city center and the large factories in the north. Whoever owned it controlled the city with their artillery. They had a clear view of the city center, the railway station, the factories and Stalingrad's lifeline, the Volga River.

Dramatic scenes took place on the river. Red Army soldiers were ferried across on ships and barges of all kinds, and had to sail through the deadly fire of German artillery. In places, burning oil slicks floated on the water. Black smoke robbed them not only of their sight, but also of their breath. If you sucked it in, it burned your lungs.

NCOs in earthy brown uniforms led the men, while officers shouted orders. The banks on both sides of the river resembled ant hills, swarming with insects.

Ships were hit, their hulls ripped open, planks burst, water entered and capsized them. Soldiers swam for their lives. The lucky ones were able to cling to a piece of driftwood. Most of them drowned. Bodies were floating around. Their lifeless bodies floated on the waves of the Volga, whose spray broke on the bows of the ships. The Soviet soldiers were in agony. They were helplessly exposed to the enemy's fire and the Volga's water. The shells whizzed incessantly, lowered their flight path and exploded. However, not only the river was targeted by the German artillery, but also the part of Mamai Hill occupied by the Russians.

Huuiiit - Wham

Splinters and shrapnel whirled through the air, digging into positions, trenches, bunker ceilings, and the flesh and bones of Red Army soldiers digging in to fight.

Once the height of 102 was taken, one would inevitably be the master of Stalingrad.

With this knowledge, the 295th Infantry Division had been storming the Red Army positions for days. Yesterday evening they had almost succeeded, taking the lead with heavy losses. But the Russians had kept pumping new soldiers into the battle through the Volga lifeline, and after a counterattack in the morning, they had pushed the Germans back. Now the next counterattack was imminent.

At first, the corpses were removed during lulls in the fighting. This chivalrous last service was withheld for some time. The fighting became more intense and bitter. With great difficulty, the medics were able to rescue the wounded from the field of death. The fallen remained lying. Since the last Russian attack, the corpses had piled up.

The captain closed his eyes. He suspected what was waiting for him. The shells from the howitzers not only crashed into the barbed wire and the occupied Russian trenches, they also exploded en masse among the piles of corpses, shredding what was left of the human appearance of the dead.

The company commander knew that they would have to wade through a mixture of stinking blood and bones to reach their objective. He had seen the piles of corpses between them and the Russian trench through his binoculars, and it was clear what the explosive force of the shells that had detonated between them had done.

A chill ran through him. Goose bumps spread over his entire body. The officer's stomach rumbled. He swallowed the nausea and looked at the young lieutenant who lay trembling next to him.

That's not a bad idea with the scarf, he thought to himself.

Squadron after squadron of Stukas thundered over them. They dipped their noses and the deafening wail of their sirens sounded. For the German soldiers, it was liberating music; for the Red Army soldiers still holding the eastern slope of Mamai Hill, it was nothing more than the nerve-wracking announcement of death.

The pilots took aim at their targets, released the bombs, fired from their guns and pulled up the noses of their Ju 87s.

The air raid was the second wave of the attack. It was preceded by a heavy artillery barrage. The third and decisive wave was the infantry attack.

The captain clutched his submachine gun. A stick grenade was in the belt. He would lead his men to victory or go down with them. He had too many letters to write in his short time as company commander. The 295th Infantry Division was a top division and always on the front lines. Hard on the enemy. The price was human life.

His thoughts drifted home to beautiful Saxony-Anhalt. His son Rolf had graduated from high school last year. The captain knew that the Wehrmacht would come for him, since Rolf had long since been drafted. He went on the offensive, advising him to volunteer and choose an officer's career. This might have prevented him from being drafted and sent somewhere.

"If you do that, then try this way," he had advised him, and Rolf had listened. "As an officer, you might be able to stay here in Germany. Or you could come to France. That would be good too."

Rolf finally received his call to the Reich Labor Service and did his six months of compulsory service in East Prussia. His application was then accepted and he began his training as a flag officer.

They should transfer you anywhere but to Russia! I want to spare you that, my son. Damn war! What's happened to the world? I hate it! How did it come to this?

One of the bombs exploded very close to their positions. The detonation was loud and made the earth tremble. They pressed themselves firmly to the ground. The air pressure not only threw up dust, stones, and earth, but also tossed around shredded human parts. When a piece of stinking intestines and a rib with a flap of skin next to it landed in front of the lieutenant, he lifted the handkerchief he had tied to his mouth and threw up.

The requested group of assault engineers was getting ready. They would blast their way through the Russian wire tangles.

"Oh God, if you exist, help us survive this," the captain pressed his lips together.

The last group of Stukas finished the attack and the artillery shifted its fire to the Volga. A red flare shot up. That was the signal. He took another deep breath, then jumped up and shouted: "Attaaaack! Forward!"

At the same time, the stormtroopers jumped to their feet and rushed forward. Machine guns rattled, trying to stifle any possible resistance on the Russian side.

Rrrrrrrrrr rrrrrrrrr

The captain gasped. He was close behind the engineers. His men followed with a loud "Hurraaaa!" on their lips. They screamed their fears from their souls.

Mamai Hill began to come alive. Soldiers rose and ran up. At the top and on the occupied flanks, Red Army soldiers crawled out of cover and took up defensive fire. Russian artillery joined in. Machine guns rattled and tore the first holes in the attacking ranks. Again and again, hit soldiers fell to the ground. Some lay motionless, others writhed in pain.

The way up was difficult. There was no cover. The reality was worse than the captain had imagined. The terrain was littered with body parts. Shrapnel of various sizes had to be walked around or through. A mixture of blood, human parts and bones collected in them like in a soup kettle. You had to try, but you couldn't avoid everything that was disgusting. Again and again, boots sank into this blood soup, or the chest of a fallen man was stepped on, crushed, and stinking foul gases were expelled with muffled noises reminiscent of gasps.

The company commander saw one of the sappers fall. Shot in the head, he registered.

The soldier collapsed like a wet sack. Immediately after, the next sapper fell to the ground, hit. The officer pointed his machine gun in the direction of the Russian trenches and fired two rounds, then raised his hand and waved it vigorously at the storm troopers.

"Cover the engineer attack! Barrage fire! The machine guns are supposed to protect them, damn it!" he shouted to his reporters, who both tried to keep up.

The howling of several Katyushas could be heard.

Huuuiiiiii huuiiiiii

"Full cover! Stalin organ!"

They threw themselves to the ground. The captain rushed into a larger shell hole. He smelled burning. He avoided looking around.

Wham wham wham

Impacts could be heard. The warheads of the missiles crashed into the ground again and again. Fortunately, most of them missed the lines of the attackers. The referees passed on the order they had received earlier. When the radio operator tried to repeat the order, he was shot in the head.

The second!

The captain suspected it. He raised his head in a flash and looked around. "Out! Run!"

They rose and ran toward their target. The machine-gun fire was shifted. The engineers only managed to fight their way close to the Russians' wire tangle with two more breaks in cover. The noise of battle raged. Men yelled, wounded men screamed. Medics rushed around, helping where they could, applying bandages or waving for their medics to carry the seriously wounded to safety on stretchers. The captain gave a tactical signal to the platoon leader of the second platoon. He acknowledged and was shot in the neck. Then the young lieutenant collapsed, mortally wounded.

This is the work of snipers! Those damn bastards!

Wham - wham

Two loud explosions were heard. The engineers had blown up an alley.

Where is that damned sniper?

He had to abandon the idea and keep running, leading his men through that alley.

Then come and get me, you damn sniper!

The officer raised his fist. "Forward!"

A machine gun hammered away, firing a barrage. A second and a third machine gun joined in. Soldiers trickled through the alley of the Drahtverhaus. The sappers blew open a second way. One of the men got his uniform caught in the wire mesh. He struggled for twenty seconds to free himself, cut the wire with a pair of pliers, and when he finally got free, a bullet shredded his lung.

More and more Landser poured into the Russian position. Bitter trench warfare ensued. On the left flank, a light machine gun was pushed over the edge of the trench. An attacking squad ran directly into the fire. Two men were killed instantly, two were seriously wounded, one slightly.

One of the storm troopers had gotten close enough to throw a hand grenade. Panting, he unscrewed the safety cap, then took a quick look. He grabbed the trigger, pulled the cord, lifted his torso, and hurled the grenade in the direction of the firing machine gun. Rolling in the air, the stick grenade flew relentlessly toward its target, descending, landing in the trench, and detonating just three meters from the machine gun.

Boom!

With the detonation, the soldiers jumped up and covered the last few meters to the trench. The machine gun was blown away. The two gunmen were lying on the ground in pieces. Three Red Army soldiers ran into the trench. The first soldier opened fire from his PPSch 41, shooting from the hip as he ran. Most of the bullets hit the trench wall, but three or four hit a fellow soldier in the chest.

"He got Willi! Ivan's coming from the left!"

Panic was in his voice. The young private, who had warned of the impending danger, knelt down, raised his 98 carbine and fired a shot. At the same moment, the Russian with the Shpagin stumbled over a dead man. He lost his submachine gun. Now the other Germans also fired, killing the other two Russians. The stumbling man remained lying. He slowly raised his head and looked into the young corporal's eyes. He had fired and was pointing at him with trembling hands. The Red Army soldier waited for the fatal shot and looked at his enemy. He looked deeply into the eyes of the corporal. The barrel of the carbine wobbled considerably. Up and down, left and right.

The corporal whined nervously: "Ruki vverkh! Hands up, damn it!"

"Shoot him down!" they shouted.

"Get your fucking hands up," the innkeeper slobbered, more than excited.

The Russian wondered for a moment if he should try to grab his submachine gun and kill as many Germans as possible. The PPSch 41 lay on the ground not a meter away from him. He squinted at it for a moment. Pictures of his children flashed through his mind. His wife smiled at him. It was then that he decided to surrender. He knew this young German soldier would not pull the trigger. Otherwise, he would have done so long ago. The decision for death or captivity, for death or life, was made in a split second. He had made his and slowly raised his hands. He knew that here and now he had no other choice.

"I have a prisoner!"

Meanwhile, the trench warfare continued. The defenders fought tenaciously, not retreating a single meter voluntarily. A Red Army soldier emptied his carbine, hit a Landser in the abdomen, turned the rifle around and hit the attacker in the face with the butt. You could hear bones breaking. The eyes took on an unnatural color. The look was broken. It was the look of a dead man. The soldier fell backwards and lay twisted.

The man behind the fallen man fired, but in mortal fear missed his target. As he fired, the Russian shattered his shoulder with the butt of his rifle. Only the third German was able to stop the Red Army soldier with a shot to the chest. He staggered, spitting blood, but raised his Mosin Nagant carbine again to strike. Before he could bring the weapon forward, the compatriot's next shot pierced the Soviet's neck. Blood gushed from the wound with every heartbeat. The Russian dropped the carbine and grabbed his neck with both hands. A minute later he had lost the battle.

"Medic! Over here!" yelled the shooter, kneeling beside his comrade with the shattered shoulder. "Hang in there, Heinz. They'll get you out of here in a minute!"

A sergeant ran up to the captain. His uniform was covered with blood.

"Captain, we need reinforcements. The Russians are counterattacking on the right flank. We may have knocked them out of the trenches, but we can't hold this position for long!"

The next volley from a Stalin organ whizzed in and plowed the ground. This time the strikes were dangerously close.

Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu ... wham wham wham wham

"Get down!" was shouted.

Another volley came roaring in. The sergeant squinted up, ducked even lower, but knew that this volley would pass over them without danger.

The captain had a similar reaction. "How many men have you lost, Mueller?"

"The platoon has shrunk to group size! We need support immediately or we'll all die," he added vehemently.

The veteran soldier's expression worried the officer. Mueller was not one to give up easily or to complain without cause. The Twelve could be counted on blindly. The company commander recognized fear and panic.

The reporter fumbled with the knapsack radio. The radio, which weighed about 20 kilograms, had a range of up to 25 kilometers with its 2 watts of power. He raised his hand and shouted to the captain, "I've got the battalion's battle staff on it. Tell them to hold the line!"

The officer nodded and turned to the dispatcher. "Run to Sergeant Brückmann immediately. Have the grenade launchers move to the right flank immediately! Now!"

"Understood, Captain!" the young soldier shouted and ran off, crouching.

"Pass the word to the battalion staff that we urgently need replacements. The reserve company must come here immediately!" he shouted to the signalman, trying to drown out the noise of the renewed battle. Then he tapped a second signalman on the shoulder. "Run over to Lieutenant Funke. Tell him to cover the left flank with his men. I also want all machine guns in position immediately. The lightly wounded are to go with the medics through the ranks of the fallen and support them."

"Got it!"

He turned back to the reporter. "And now report to the battalion that we absolutely need artillery support. Tell them to keep the eastern slope under fire. The Russians are stubbornly holding out there."

The man at the radio immediately went to work, flipping switches and pressing buttons. At short, regular intervals, he pushed the button and tried again to reach the battalion's command staff. "This is Saturn Two .... This is Saturn Two .... the enemy is counterattacking ... strong infantry units are forming on the right wing in section four-one. .... We need backup and artillery support .... I repeat .... the enemy..."

The transmission impulses found their way through modern technology. The words crawled over coils and wire coils down copper cables to the antenna. The radio operator hoped that the man at the receiver would be able to pick them up on this wavelength, listen, take notes, and pass them on.

The artillery shells whizzed over their heads and crashed again into the eastern slope of Mamai Hill. They turned over the earth, burying corpses and bringing up parts of men that had already been buried. The smell of burnt flesh, powdery smoke, and warm blood filled the air. There was also the constant stench of decay. Many of the fallen had been lying around for days, and there was no hope of a humane burial at this time.

The dark veil of death hung over the city.

They lay in the trench, waiting for the counterattack. The captain peered through his binoculars. He looked at his wristwatch. The glass was dirty. He moistened his finger and wiped it, then ran the sleeve of his uniform over the glass again.

Damn Russians! Where are they hiding? They can't survive such Ari attacks! Where do they get their fighting spirit?

Reduced to the strength of barely two platoons, the men had pretty much reached the end of what was bearable.

"Any news from the battalion?" he asked the reporter.

A shake of the head. "Nothing."

The officer knew he wouldn't be able to hold the position for long without reinforcements. "Damn it! Where's the reserve?"

The enemy rose. Red Army soldiers ran toward their position like a brown, flaccid wall. The Russian machine-gun fire rattled incessantly and gave a barrage.

"Urääähhhh ..."

There it was again. That battle cry that cut to the bone. Whipped up by officers and fired up by political commissars, they crawled out of their shelters, gathered like a pack of wild animals and attacked, driven by hate, fear and rage. They shouted as loud as they could.

"Urääääähhhhh ..."

The defensive lines waited for the order to fire.

"Don't fire yet! Tell the grenade launchers to get ready!"

Nerves were on edge. Mortal fear spread and crept into the minds of the men. Some of the soldiers were shaking, some were wetting themselves, others were vomiting.

"Prepare to fire!"

More and more projectiles whizzed over them, piercing the earth or the corpses lying around. The first hits had to be taken.

"They're damn close already," Sergeant Mueller urged.

"Just a moment!"

The roar of the charging Russians became louder and louder: "Urääääähhhh ..."

The salvation: "Now!" was shouted.

The German soldiers opened fire. Machine guns fired volley after volley from their barrels. The first ranks of the attacking Red Army soldiers were seized and crushed as if by an invincible fist. Blood spurted, and men fell dead or wounded to the ground. The third rank threw themselves for cover. The screams and cries of the wounded mingled with the din of battle.

A squad leader of the light grenade launchers watched the impact of his explosives and directed the fire. "20 right - 40 short - open fire!"

Plop - plop - plop - wham wham wham

Grenade after grenade whirled through the air, lowered its trajectory, and died in the crowd of attacking Soviet soldiers.

After the fifth volley, he was shot in the head.

"I need more ammo!" yelled a machine gunner as his gunner II inserted the last belt.

Then he pressed the butt of the LMG 34 into his shoulder, aimed at the brown human mass rolling toward them, and pulled the trigger.

Rrrrrrt ... rrrt ... rrrrrrrt

The bullets were chased out of the barrel and flew toward their targets, piercing the attackers' kneecaps, thighs, stomachs, and chests.

"Right!" the shooter heard. "Swing around now!"

Then there was a boom so loud he could not hear. At the same time, he felt a strong air pressure that ripped the gun away from him and threw him to the side. His entire body felt numb and warm. He lowered his eyes in shock and saw only blood, bones, and a torn uniform. Then he collapsed.

"Right machine gun taken out by hand grenade!"

Sergeant Mueller saw some Russians jump into the trench. He swung his submachine gun around and crooked his trigger finger. Again and again he swung the barrel around and fired bursts until the magazine was empty.

The captain was about to give the order to retreat when he heard a loud "Hurraaaaaaaa".

"They're here. The second company has arrived and is about to counterattack," the executioner shouted.

Two groups of men met. Field-gray uniforms against earthbrown. Bayonets flashed, spades with sharpened edges were swung. Melee broke out.

The captain knew what to do. "Forward, comrades! Attack!" he shouted this hated order as loud as he could, clambered over the edge of the trench and charged at the enemy.

"Forward!" he heard Mueller say, and he knew the men would follow him. They would run, shout, and fight. They would rush to the aid of their comrades in hand-to-hand combat and use this counterattack to beat back the enemy.

"Hurraaaaaaaa!"

He felt a bullet whiz past his head, raised the submachine gun and emptied the clip. Then he reached to his side, drew the 08 pistol from its holster and charged forward. A Red Army soldier ran toward him with his mouth open. He held the rifle out like a spear. The bayonet was in place. The captain fired two shots from the 08 and the attacker fell to the ground. Just as the officer turned, he received a blow to the shoulder from the butt of the rifle. A sharp pain shot through him. He dropped the pistol and dropped to his knees. A Russian soldier, his face contorted with rage, raised his carbine for the fatal second blow. Anticipating the fatal blow and unable to react, the captain closed his eyes. A loud scream, distorted with pain, brought him back from his seconds of lethargy. The Russian staggered. Blood spurted as a soldier pulled the bayonet from the Red Army soldier's neck. The soldier looked at the captain for a moment, then charged.

The officer fumbled for his pistol, took it in his fist, and rubbed the sore spot on his shoulder. He was about to get up when he felt a blow to his right knee. As he lay there, a bloodied Russian had kicked the German officer in the knee. The captain stumbled. The Russian got up and pounced on the German like a wounded panther. He grabbed the captain by the throat and squeezed. Again and again he uttered incomprehensible words. Only then did the officer realize that the Russian's jaw was broken.

The Soviet literally dug his fingers into the German's throat. While the captain's left hand grabbed the Russian's forearm and tried to pull him away, his right hand pointed the barrel of the .08 pistol at the attacker's body. The captain could not breathe. He had to act quickly and pull the trigger before everything went black before his eyes. He wanted to live!

The index finger curled. A shot rang out, then another. After the second crack, the chokehold loosened. The Russian gasped, collapsed lifelessly over the officer, burying him beneath him.

Breathe!

He struggled for oxygen. The weight of the Russian made it extremely difficult to breathe. He tried to roll the dead man off him, but it didn't work.

Screams, yells, wails. Gunshots, rattling metal, gurgling noises and shouted orders suddenly became muffled. Everything began to spin. Stars danced around. The Russian moved a little. The captain breathed deeply. He needed oxygen, too much to die and too little to live. The urge to breathe grew. Another feat of strength followed. With the strength of desperation, he finally managed to push himself out from under the corpse. Panting, he gasped for air. He was drenched in sweat. His shoulder hurt and it was getting dark. Breathing became gasping, stars flickered before his eyes. He succumbed to unconsciousness and fell over.

Example photo

PA-0-13 Fliegerangriff / Air raid Privatarchiv Author

all rights reserved by the author

2

Until well into August 1942, there was little sign of war in Stalingrad. Although the Germans were advancing rapidly, the Russian troops were not in the city but in the surrounding countryside. The construction of defensive positions was also slow. As a result, life in Stalingrad was almost as it had been in peacetime.

Life in the city on the Volga was vibrant, and its suburbs formed a vegetative contrast to the vast steppe leading to it from the west.

Cherry and peach trees burst with green and bore masses of fruit. In the villages, chickens and geese ran around the thatched houses. Panje horses grazed peacefully or pulled the loaded carts of the simple farmers.

Besides the railroad, the Volga was the main artery to Moscow. It was as wide as a huge lake and flowed lazily along the city for 15 kilometers. Ships docked in Stalingrad's harbor, brought goods and people into the city, filled their bellies, and sailed on.

The huge granary, built near the Volga, could be seen several kilometers from the city.

The "Barrikaden" artillery factory, the "Lazur" chemical factory, the "Red October" steel plant, and the "Dzerzhinsky" tractor factory, which was completed in 1930, but whose production had been switched to tanks, especially the T-34, brought prosperity to Stalin-grad.

Housing estates were built for the workers, and parks were used for local recreation. There were cafes, shops, cinemas, and hospitals. Stalin, who gave his name to this southern Russian metropolis, implemented his first Stalin Five-Year Plan here.

Sunday, August 23, 1942, was a gloriously warm and sunny day. The sun was shining over Stalingrad, and Katja Kalikova was happy and in a good mood as she put a scarf over her packed picnic basket. Their destination, like that of many other Stalingrad families, was the Mamayev Kurgan, the big green hill on the Volga. From here they had a wonderful view of the city and the river. Pure idyll in the best of weather.

"I would rather go to the little bay on the Volga and swim. I'm sure my friends will be there," Grigory begged, looking at his mother with big eyes.

"Not today, Grisha." She often liked to call him by his nickname. "We'll meet dad at Mamai Hill. You were looking forward to the picnic."

The eight-year-old stomped his feet angrily on the ground. "But it's summer and..."

"...and I've prepared a chicken. Look," Katja countered in a quiet voice, lifting the dishcloth over the picnic basket.

Grisha peeked inside. "Yummy! Oh yes. Picnic with chicken. What else you got in the basket?" he exclaimed happily, and the boy stuck a hand into the picnic basket.

"Slow down, Grisha, not so fast," Katja laughed.

When the boy found Russian rolls among the bread, he forgot all about swimming in the Volga. "When is daddy coming?"

"He said he wouldn't stay long. You know, he has to visit some of his patients in the hospital, and then he'll come straight to us."

"And maybe he'll go swimming with me and Boris later." Katja laughed. "Yes, Grisha, that can definitely happen."

"A great day."

Boris, Grisha's younger brother by a year and a half, came into the kitchen. "Are we going swimming?" he asked.

Grisha grinned. "We're going to do something much better. We'll go to the Mamayev Kurgan and play Cossack fortress. The enemies will come up the Volga in their sailing ships, and we will sit on a watchtower and watch them. We'll eat chicken and buns, and if the pirates attack, we'll beat them back with our sabres!"

"Hurray!" cheered Boris, "we are the brave Cossacks!"

Katja Kalikova came from a small village near Stalingrad. Her ancestors were Don Cossacks, and the handsome Russian embodied the wild and racy like no other.

The nurse met her husband, Pyotr, when he was a medical student and she was a student nurse. They became a couple and got married. He graduated, and after graduation they both got jobs at the Stalingrad hospital. The young couple could afford a good apartment and they felt very much at home here. With the birth of their sons, Grigory and Boris, the young family's happiness was complete.

Mamai Hill was busy, and Katja was glad that her favorite spot was still free. It was here that she had kissed Pyotr for the first time. She would never forget that night. He took her in his arms, told her that her eyes were brighter than the stars, that his heart was hotter than the sun, and that his love for her was as endless as the universe. She absorbed every word. And when their lips touched, her heart beat three times faster than normal.

Katja stood still. Her sons were close behind her.

"Here again?" asked Grisha, dropping the blanket. He knew his mother would say yes, because they always sat here. Only once, when the seat was occupied, they went to the other side. Where you could see the veld. But the boys liked this place better. From here you could see the Volga and the ships. This spurred the imagination of the two brothers and they had one adventure after another in the game. Here stood their imaginary Cossack fortress, which they defended with sabres made of willow branches.

"Yes, children. We'll stay here. Give me a quick hand with the blanket so you can play."

"When is father coming?"

Katja looked at her watch. "We have to wait a little longer. But I can give you a little piece of cake and then ..." She couldn't finish the sentence. She was drowned out by a loud: "Yes ... yes ... food for the brave Cossacks".

A little later Katja sat on the blanket and read a book. Bees flew from flower to flower. Birdsong accompanied the laughter of children frolicking about. A few feet away, a young couple dreamed of true love. They whispered and giggled. Katja put down the book, lifted her head and smiled as she saw the couple flirting fervently. Then she looked at her sons. Boris and Grisha were jumping across the meadow, slashing at imaginary pirates with their willow sabres, and cheering when their little Cossack army managed to put the pirates to flight.

Katja enjoyed the sun. She put the book down, stretched and changed her sitting position. Her stomach rumbled and she wondered how long it would be before Pyotr arrived. The young mother was about to reach for her book again when she suddenly felt uneasy.

Somewhere nearby a loudspeaker was screeching. A tinny voice could be heard over and over again. "Citizens - Air Alert!" Then a siren sounded.

At first, the Sister was annoyed by this disturbance of the heavenly idyll. Lately, the false alarms had become more frequent. She didn't want to be bothered by the alarm and continued reading, but as soon as she started, she stumbled. This time was different. The announcements didn't stop. They kept echoing: "Citizens - air alert!" - followed by the deafening wail of sirens.

Katja became nervous. Dozens of people were hurriedly packing their things and leaving Mamai Hill. She checked her watch again, then looked for her boys. They were gone. There was a slight fear.

"Grisha, Boris," she called.

Nothing. Katja got up and put on her shoes. "Grisha, Boris," she repeated louder now.

"Mama, over here. Come on, quick!"

She turned around, relieved. She had found her boys. Both children were standing at the top of the hill, pointing toward the steppe. Katja ran up the hill. The view was clear. The sun was making the horizon shimmer a little, but she thought she could see a large cloud of dust in the steppe that seemed to be heading toward the city.

"What's that, Mom?"

The piercing wail of the sirens continued to be interrupted by urgent warnings: "Citizens - air alert!"

Boris pointed to the sky. "Look!" he said, and that was enough to give the sister goose bumps all over her body. She was surrounded by sheer panic. People were staring at the sky, running, leaving their belongings behind. Women were screaming, men were calling for their children.

Over the rising din of the screaming people, a low hum could be heard, steadily increasing, as if someone was turning a dial. Katja stared at the crowd, which had started out like a swarm of insects and had quickly grown to the size of a flock of birds. The Russian knew they weren't birds. They were airplanes. German planes. They were heading straight for the city. Katja turned white as a sheet. Her heart was pounding, her pulse was racing. At that moment, panic gripped her as well.

"Give me your hands and run, children!" she cried.

"Mommy, the chicken!"

"Run!" Katja screamed, grabbed her sons' hands and ran.

They raced down the hill. Not all the visitors to the Mamayev Kurgan had realized what was happening. The little family ran past a group of young men who were singing drunken songs and laughing as they opened another bottle of wine.

"Flyers!" she shouted to the people.

The young men waved back. "What's your hurry, pretty lady? Come on, let's have some fun."

Katja ran on, pulling her sons with her. An elderly couple had taken a nap in the sun, woke up and just stared, shaking their heads in disbelief. Others, realizing the seriousness of the situation, began to pack hastily.

Katja knew where the nearest shelter was. That was their destination. Boris began to cry. Grisha kept turning around, threatening to stumble, but his mother's strong hand prevented him from falling.

Not only on the hill, but also in the streets of Stalingrad, the warning words from the loudspeakers were not taken seriously at first. Only when the hum of the bombers' engines grew louder and the antiaircraft guns in front of the city began to fire, did the people of Stalingrad realize that they were under attack.

600 bombers of the 4th German Air Force flew towards Stalingrad and darkened the sky. Aircraft of all types, but mainly Heinkel He 111 and Junkers Ju 88 bombers, attacked the city on that sunny Sunday afternoon, dropping their deadly bombs.

Tons of high-explosive and incendiary bombs fell on Stalin Square. The explosives swirled down on the houses, hitting them and bringing death and destruction. Buildings collapsed thunderously. Scorching fire swept through the streets. People fled to the Volga to escape across the river. All the boats and ships filled up in a flash. Those who couldn't find a place tried to swim to the other side of the river.

The huge oil depots of the factories were hit by several bombs and set on fire. The burning oil poured into the Volga. The floating carpet of fire caught ships full of fleeing civilians. They could not escape the terrible death by fire.

Meanwhile, the heat of the fires raging and coalescing in the city sucked in the air. Whirlwinds of fire formed and again swept through the ruins with unimaginable destructive power.

The bombs of the next wave of attacks exploded in this inferno. The German Luftwaffe launched attack after attack. A huge wave of destruction swept over the city on the Volga.

The inferno lasted for three hours. Then Stalingrad was nothing but a burning pile of rubble, its soot-black veil of death shooting up for miles and visible far into the steppe.

The peaceful, happy, smiling Stalingrad, as we had known it until that moment, had ceased to exist. 40,000 people fell victim to the air raid. They were burned to death, torn apart by bombs, crushed by collapsing buildings, or buried in cellars. More than three times as many people were injured.

At the same time, German soldiers were advancing on Stalingrad. The first suburbs on the Volga River had already been reached when the flames of the city erupted. The soldiers saw the burning Stalingrad and believed in a quick victory.

Katja Kalikova huddled against the wall. Boris sat on her lap, and Grisha, pressed close to her, sat beside her. The shelter was overcrowded. The air was suffocatingly thick. It smelled of sweat, urine and fear. Prayers were being said. Children cried, babies cried. The ground shook again and again. Detonations could be heard and the extent of the destruction could be imagined.

Pjotr. Where are you? Please live!

Katja's thoughts were with her husband. She suspected the worst, wanted to be weak, cry, scream, punch the walls and run out, but she had a job to do. She had to protect her two sons. Grisha and Boris were all she had. They were her love. She had to protect them and get them out of the city. She had to be strong.

A thick lump formed in Katja's throat. She closed her eyes. A tear rolled down her cheek and seeped into her light blouse. Grishka saw it and squeezed his mother's hand. Boris just sat there motionless, staring ahead.

"Is daddy coming?" whimpered Grisha.

Katja returned his firm handshake. She couldn't answer. Her voice broke, but Grisha knew what this handshake meant. He was the man of the house now. He had to take care of his mother and brother. He, who only two hours ago had been a Cossack fighting pirates with his willow sabre, now had to feed his little family. Grisha took a deep breath. His stomach rumbled, he felt the roll cake trying to find its way up, suppressed the feeling of nausea and swallowed the thin spit that gathered in his mouth.

I do not surrender. I am a man. I will protect Mom and Boris!

He hugged his mother even tighter, put his other hand on his brother's knee, closed his eyes and began to cry softly.

Example photo

PA-0060-Landser vor dem Einsatz Landser before combat deployment

Privatarchiv Author all rights reserved by the author

3

The hard-fought battles for Hill 102 brought disillusionment to the German commanders. Contrary to initial reports, the fall of Stalingrad was far from imminent. On the contrary. The Soviet resistance was extremely stubborn and growing by the day.

The city was to be held as long as possible by the Russian defenders. This tied up the German troops while the Russian commanders in Moscow worked feverishly on a counteroffensive.

Stalingrad had long since been reduced to rubble. Hardly a house remained standing. The battle took a new turn. It would become a war of rats. Every part of the city, every street, every building, every floor was to be fought over bitterly. Not a single yard was surrendered without a fight.

The Russian snipers were particularly effective on Mamai Hill. Among them was the son of a peasant from the Urals, Vasily Saizev. He was not only very accurate, but also full of ideas.

At his suggestion, a new sniper movement was created in the 62nd Army. Snipers and their scouts were deployed in groups in the regiments. These small groups positioned themselves along the front lines and repeatedly inflicted casualties on the German troops. They would usually set up one to three camouflaged hideouts, lie in wait for a target, strike, and immediately move to the next hideout.

This approach decimated the enemy and destroyed their psyche. Sniper teams quickly earned a reputation for terror. They were invisible, they lurked where no enemy was suspected, they were silent, and when they struck, they brought certain death.

The 295th Infantry Division had not only suffered heavy casualties in the battles for Height 102, but had also lost an enormous number of officers to the use of Russian snipers. Saizev and his men had shown themselves to be masters of their deadly craft.

The captain's company suffered more than two-thirds of its losses. On the same day, it was removed from the front line and transferred to the stage for rest and refreshment.

While the company staff stayed with the troops in a collective farm in a suburb of Stalingrad, the platoons were housed in the nearby Balka, a natural erosion gorge.

The office was located in a small outhouse. The second room was used as a storeroom and also as a living room for the company sergeant.

The writing room was heated by a small stove. Three tables were converted into desks. There was a typewriter on each one. Letters were also piled up on the first table. All of them had a black border.

As soon as they got up, Sergeant Major Schmidt had lit the fire and put on a kettle of water. Schmidt was a lively little fellow whom everyone respected. Freshly shaved and eager for a cup of hot coffee, he took the boiling water from the stove and carefully poured it into a filter.

"Mhmm ... smells good," he muttered and set the kettle aside. His eyes fell on the letters and he shook his head. His good mood had suddenly vanished.

The door opened and the captain entered the study.

"Good morning, Captain Koenig," Schmidt greeted him.

"Good morning."

"Coffee will be ready soon."

"Thank you."

The officer hung his cap and coat on a nail on the wall, walked to the largest of the three desks, and sat down. He lifted the typewriter to the center. To his right lay the broken identification tags of the fallen, to his left white typing paper. He took a sheet and fed it into the machine.

"How's the shoulder today?" asked Schmidt, pouring water into the filter again. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted in.

"It's better, but I can't lift my arm any higher than this ..." at the same time he made a movement that ended with a face contorted in pain.

"Is letter-writing any good?" the Spike said, indicating the amount of work involved. "I could also..."

"Schmidt, they were my people. I fought with them. They fell and I survived. I must write these letters myself." He emphasized the word "must" extremely. "It is not easy, and every single letter is difficult for me, but if I were to delegate this work, it would be like a denial of the highest honor from my point of view."

"I see," the company sergeant replied, placing three cups on the table and pouring.

The door opened and a corporal entered. He limped in and greeted the other two soldiers.

"Good morning, Otto. You set your watch by my coffee," the spit returned the morning greeting.

"As soon as my leg is healthy again, I'll run away from your coffee," the corporal laughed. "I always say take a spoonful less and it will taste better, but no..."

"Coffee just has to taste like coffee. You can also use Mu-ckefuck for colored water," Schmidt grinned and served the coffee.

Captain Koenig took a sip. The corporal was absolutely right. The coffee wasn't exactly good, but it was a wake-up call. It was strong and black. The officer put down the cup and picked up the next brand.

"Lieutenant Erich Kleindienst," he read aloud.

Pictures flashed through his mind. He relived the terrible hours of battle. The young lieutenant was right next to him when he was shot in the head.

"A sniper," the captain muttered. His thoughts immediately turned to Germany and his son.

It could have been Rolf. My God, I hope my boy doesn't have to go to Russia. Damn snipers!

More sniper hits caught his eye.

They also got the engineer. And many others. There are only two officers left in our company. Lieutenant Funke and me.

Captain Koenig leaned back. He had noticed something. He thought about it, made a quick note and pushed the lieutenant's badge aside.

The enemy was outnumbered. They fought hard and stubbornly and definitely had very effective snipers.

They're not just firing wildly at us, trying to kill as many as they can, but they're choosing their targets carefully, killing where it hurts.

Sniping has always been Koenig's hobby. His father was a gunsmith at heart and introduced him to guns as a child. As a boy, he hung on his father's every word when he talked about the front lines in World War I. And the little boy found the stories about the snipers particularly exciting.

"My son, you couldn't even walk on the thunderbolt without fearing they'd get you. They literally stole our sleep," he said.

When Erwin Koenig was 17 years old, he received the news of his death. His father had been killed at Verdun. For Kaiser, people and fatherland.

Erwin's mother, a teacher of German, Russian and English, never got over her husband's death and took her own life two years later. It was to her that Erwin owed his foreign language skills, some of which he taught himself.

After leaving school, Erwin Koenig decided to study engineering and married his wife Ilse while still a student. Their son, Rolf, was born in 1924.

Koenig quickly rose through the ranks of his company. His language skills allowed him to work in Russia and England. When Ilse died of severe pneumonia eight years later, he stayed in Germany with Rolf and gave up his corporate career.

Rolf went to boarding school and was a model student. Erwin was very proud of his son. His son loved guns as much as his father and grandfather. The two spent their weekends in Grandpa Koenig's old workshop, tinkering with guns and repairing hunters' weapons.

They were also among the best shooters. They won several tournaments and gave shooting demonstrations at smaller village festivals.

Then the war broke out. Erwin Koenig, a lieutenant in the reserves, had to enlist. Initially assigned as a platoon leader, the eloquent engineer quickly attracted attention.

Even as a platoon leader, Koenig distinguished himself in battle and was quickly promoted to first lieutenant and finally captain.

Koenig was transferred to the regimental staff. There he served as an assistant commander, where, among other things, he was instrumental in training the regiment's own sharpshooters.

Koenig had never forgotten what his father had told him about the deadly sharpshooters of World War I, and he attached great importance to the phenomenon of sharpshooters spreading fear and thus weakening the enemy's psyche.

He talked to the weapons master, had captured Russian sniper rifles shown to him, and studied how they worked. He demanded a lot from the selected snipers, but nothing he did not demand of himself.

Some of his individual training sessions went too far for his superiors. Even though they were aware of the snipers' effectiveness, they were given little respect and were still disparagingly referred to as sharpshooters. They embodied something sneaky, mean, and disreputable. No senior non-commissioned officer, and certainly no officer, took up the telescopic rifle. Except Captain Erwin Koenig.

He taught the men his way of looking at things and instructed them not only in weapons, but also in tactics and camouflage.

Soon rumors began to circulate about him, and behind closed doors people talked about one or two heroic deeds that never happened. Erwin Koenig had a reputation as a noble marksman without ever having fired a shot at an enemy. He became a phantom, and the word spread quickly.

This reputation and the general opinion about the sharpshooters should bring him back to the fighting troops.

One day the regimental commander said to Captain Koenig: "If you want to reach the rank of major, my dear Koenig, and possibly aspire to a good post in Berlin, I advise you to prove yourself again as a leader of a combat unit. Only there will your medals and your reputation as a good officer grow. I thought we might appoint you company commander for six months and then make you deputy battalion commander."

"Major?" came the hesitant and surprised reply.

"I like your abilities, Koenig. Not only are you a talented linguist, you're also a real expert with weapons. We need people like you back home. Especially where important decisions are made regarding the choice of weapons, etc. You would also spend more time with your son.

Erwin Koenig didn't have to think long. He had a longing for Rolf, a longing for home, a longing for peace. He wanted to wake up in a soft bed in the morning, to bathe whenever he wanted, and to go to a restaurant for a meal when he was hungry.

This was in the spring of 1942, and he agreed. Weeks went by and suddenly he was told: "One more city, one more battle. We'll get Stalingrad and you'll be home for Christmas, Captain Koenig."

Now he was sitting here in the steppe before Stalingrad and had to write more letters of condolence than ever before. He had seen hell on earth and knew that this battle was far from being won.

Koenig picked up the fallen lieutenant's badge again. He turned it between his fingers and finally placed it in front of him.

"Schmidt, I need an appointment with the old man!"

The first sergeant raised his head. "You mean the Battalion Commander, Captain?"

"No, I mean the regimental commander."

Schmidt reached for the bakelite receiver of the field telephone.

"Ask for Lieutenant Colonel Harras. He knows me and will see me."

The first sergeant, who had the rank of sergeant major, shook his head. "As if I could speak directly to the lieutenant colonel. I'll get the outer office!"

"You'll be fine, Schmidt."

While the spit tried to make the call, Captain Koenig typed the beginning of the next sad letter on the white sheet of paper.

He knew what the parents wanted to read. They wanted their sons to be heroes.

This young lieutenant was a hero to them!

Again, the captain saw the young officer before him. He will not write to his parents about how Lieutenant Kleindienst trembled beside him or how he had to vomit because of the disgusting stench. He will write them that he was brave. His parents made the greatest sacrifice a war can ask. They gave up their child.

I don't want to sacrifice my child, he thought to himself and typed the first words on the paper.

Click, click, click, click...

The sound of the typewriter resembled the monotony of grief. Each stroke will bring a tear of despair. This letter will be read a thousand times, and a thousand times it will evoke deep sadness and incomprehension.

Even worse than the battle itself was the task of informing the bereaved of their loved one's death.

Captain Koenig tried to take enough time to find the right words for each of his men. If possible, he tried to add something personal. But that often didn't work. In the end, his name would be at the bottom of a letter that no one wanted to receive. A letter that, with its few grams, weighed so much that it could crush people.

Dear Mrs. Kleindienst,

Dear Mr. Kleindienst.

I hereby fulfill my heavy duty to inform you that your son, Lieutenant Erich Kleindienst, was killed in action at the age of 20.

While attacking a Soviet position on Mamai Hill, he heroically charged the enemy at the head of his platoon. Thanks to his courage and fighting spirit, we achieved a decisive victory in the Battle of Stalingrad.

Erich was shot in the head and died instantly. He didn't have to suffer.

Your son was buried in Stalingrad with full military honors. As soon as time permits, I will send you a photo of his grave.

Sincerely yours

Erwin Koenig

Captain

Company Commander

Koenig wrote ten more letters that morning. The loss rate was immense. Finally, he pushed the typewriter aside and got up.