As for Arno and the air he had also seen the Junkers 86 in the sky above Karlstad that day in June 1938. The low-flying bomber to him had played the role of a Herald of War, but something more as well. The machine itself was fascinating for Arno. He looked at the aircraft as a revelation from another world, warlike or not.
And now he saw this aircraft as another portent – of what? For some reason he saw it as a sign of relief, of hardships temporarily overcome. A sign saying: “You made it out of the Kamenets-Podolsky Pocket. Congrats!”
Arno bade farewell to the Petlyakov and walked back towards the trees. He returned to his bivouac on the spruce-branch covered ground under the engine of the 251. He felt safe there. The battalion was grouped into a hedgehog defence. The sentry rota had been drawn up. He pulled a blanket over himself and thought about the different hobbies he could have after the war. Mountaineering and hiking were high on the list. He had no desire to go hunting. He had seen enough killing already.
Arno was platoon leader. He knew little about the overall tactical situation. But he knew the breakout had gone fairly well. Hube’s Army had escaped being wiped out and that was a victory in itself. The Russians hadn’t been able to squeeze out and obliterate the Kessel, as they had with the Tjerkassy motti early in 1944.
16
Tarnopol
The sunlight shone into the cabin of Arno’s 251. The neighborhood resounded with distant thunder, gunfire and explosions. The platoon travelled in a column, the three SPWs rolling tirelessly along over the land under an azure blue sky.
It was April 8. The breakout had succeeded. The vanguard, in the form of Bäke’s armour, had two days earlier established contact with a reconnaissance battalion from Hausser’s SS Panzer Korps. Now the rest of the column, with Battalion Wolf in the rear, had reached friendly territory at Tarnopol. To be precise Tarnopol wasn’t entirely in German hands at this moment; pockets of Russians still fought fiercely, but the German troops had the upper hand in the region.
Overall the situation was good. 1st Panzer Armee was out of the sack. They had travelled over 200 km through hostile territory, fighting their way through the Russians time and again. In the city, in the woods and on the plains, against armoured units and against infantry. An intense week.
Battalion Wolf was nearer Tarnopol than many. Since leaving Rissnovsk they had driven or trudged along muddy winter roads, over brown meadows, through bare hardwood copses and through pine forests where the snow was till melting beneath the dark fir canopy. Ditches, streams and rivers were swollen with melting water. Tarnopol, for its part, had been a trouble spot since March. Just a few days ago the German garrison had surrendered and Tarnopol had been taken by the Russians. But the tables were turned now and Hausser’s units were about to reclaim the city. Some parts in the south were cleared already. Battalion Wolf would get quarters there, getting a little rest, and then join in the cleanup.
The road Arno’s column travelled along led up on a ridge, overgrown with trees and bushes. They halted in an oak grove. The company’s vehicles were deployed in aerial protection under the oaks and Arno’s driver followed the example. When he and the platoon’s two other vehicles had parked up, Arno gave the order “five minutes’ break.” Then Arno went to a house nearby on the edge of the trees, as ordered by radio. Arriving at the house he saw that a number of men were already there. Captain Wistinghausen, Sergeant Pankow, two orderlies and Second Lieutenants Dion and Shasta. Arno greeted them. The Captain returned the greeting with a finger against the peak of his cap. A thin smile crossed his tired face as he turned towards the plain and pointed to a town in the distance:
“Behold, the city of Tarnopol!”
It was the beckoning outpost in the northwest, the goal of the breakout, the legendary Tarnopol. The city, complete with several plumes of smoke, shimmered slightly in the springtime sun haze, a sprawling mass of houses, streets, squares, blocks, backyards and parks. The city was divided in two by a river, the Seret, which the breakout force had already crossed out of town. On the right, beyond a few fields and meadows, there was a large wooded area. Several roads lead on towards the city. It was busy with traffic: single vehicles, marching columns and convoys alike, all heading for quarters in the uncontested parts of the city.
Overall it was theirs, but this was no city of peace and quiet. The enemy was active and so were their forward units. A fresh plume of smoke rose above the city as they watched.
The Captain filled them in on details. Some of Hausser’s battalions were fighting in the city right now. Battalion Wolf would soon be deployed in the mop-up. The enemy was mainly grouped in the north, in the industrial area, as well as in some other bases in the city. It would be hard enough, but the Germans wouldn’t have to fight for every house.
The Captain finished his briefing with the order: “March off in an hour.” Then the officers remained, standing on the ridge chatting. Arno returned wearily to his Platoon. He found a path through some bushes. He thought it would be a shortcut but it wasn’t.
Halfway through the brushwood forest Arno sat down for a cigarette. He was shattered. Even he, the epitome of cool. The breakout from Hube’s Pocket had been nerve-wracking. Ten days in a mobile hedgehog, fighting for life, left its mark.
He looked up into the blue sky and emptied his mind. He reached zero, mental zero. For a moment nothing existed but his blue eyes, looking up into the eternal blue.
Arno smoked his cigarette, finished it right down to the butt, where he sat. His platoon was in Bauer’s capable hands while he was away. No hurry then. The main vegetation of the brushwood was salix, everything sprouting with green sprigs. The ground was wet but Arno sat on his pigskin gloves. Grass was growing all around, last year’s bleached out, yellow grass was already streaked with green in anticipation of spring.
When Arno finally got to his feet and emerged from the brushwood, he didn’t know where he was. He saw plenty of vehicles, German ones luckily, but it wasn’t his own platoon. The shortcut had been a detour. Losing his sense of direction was a sign of how tired he was. So he returned to the north, searched around and eventually found his men and his three SdKfzs. He called Bauer and asked if all was well. It was.
“Mount up in 45 minutes,” Arno said.
As for the situation at large, it was now clear that the breakout had indeed succeeded. Hube had managed to force his way out of the Pocket, defeating a number of Russian units in the process. Hube’s gamble was a tactical victory. Strategically, however, it was a defeat for the Wehrmacht, Germany’s once invincible Army. Now it was virtually back to the staging areas of Operation Barbarossa of July 1941. All the death and destruction deep in Russia had been for nothing. All the dead comrades were in their shallow graves, for nothing.
And yet, despite this, you must recognise the outstanding feat of the recently completed retreat. Hube’s breakout was, operationally speaking, a landmark in military history. A breakout performed by 200,000 men, smashing their way through enemy armour, without itself taking heavy casualties – such a result requires skill, sang-froid and tactical wisdom.