Yes, my Führer, with a tank regiment—
He’s very lucky. I hope he won’t get a swelled head!
My Führer, I assure you that he receives exactly the same treatment as any other soldier, and to spare him any unpleasantness among his comrades I make a point of never—
That’s very wise and cautious of you, my dear Paulus. Yes, yes, it’s always better to keep one’s distance. Where he is now?
Right here on the map, my Führer, about four kilometers from the Mamayev Kurgan. He’s been assigned to the—
I envy you, Paulus, for having two fine boys who are ready to spend themselves for Germany. They’re twins, aren’t they?
They are, my Führer.
When a woman bears twins, that’s pure heroism! Your Coca is fine breeding stock!
Thank you, my Führer—
Quite stylish, also. You made a good choice. Don’t worry about either one of your sons. Warlimont complained to you that we’re eighteen percent understrength, didn’t he? You see, I hear everything; I have my feelers out! Well, the troops will be found when we need them. We don’t need them now. But as soon as we’ve choked the life out of Leningrad…
Yes, my Führer, said Paulus. He longed to point out the enemy antitank positions along the Mechetka-Volga axis; where they were, the Führer’s map showed only whiteness. Moreover, Sixth Army’s flanks were screened with inferior satellite troops.
Frankly, said the Führer with an abrupt change of tone, I’m disappointed that Stalingrad’s still on the map. In a couple of weeks I’m going to make a speech at the Sportpalast. What shall I tell them? Will you have cleaned up Stalingrad by then?
If the Air Force had only—
My dear Paulus, we’re in complete agreement about that, the Führer said. Not one of us has been tough enough. The cowards and bleeding-hearts will never understand us…
With a loving smile, he clapped Paulus on the shoulder; and Paulus experienced what Major-General Schmidt liked to call the greatest happiness any of our contemporaries can experience—that of serving a genius.
He stood on a plain of rubble and discussed the situation with Lieutenant-General Pfeiffer. Schmidt was at his shoulder listening. His assault of the thirteenth had won Sadovaya Station and the edge of Minim. It had, in fact, been a perfect attack, and if Coca were here he would have told her exactly how he’d arrayed his divisions and why he’d closed his pincers where he did; after the war it would be pleasant to give a lecture about it to the officer cadets. The next stage was to take the summit of the Mamayev Kurgan. He’d achieved multiple penetrations along the entire Red front, his spearheads swelling outwards like the arms of an Iron Cross, then linking up to encircle the enemy in convenient-sized strangleholds. Now the enemy was Thirteenth Soviet Guards; they were harassing him from the eastern bank. Very well; he would take Stalingrad inch by inch and never let it go.
Hatchcovers up, his tanks paraded down the ruined streets, crushing rubble which sparkled blindingly under the dusty white sky. Whiteness glared through the hollow vertebral columns of charred buildings. White dust marked their footfalls.
Not much to report, Herr Lieutenant-General. We’ve captured the Univermag department store. And we’ve killed Fedoseyev and his staff—
Good. Were there any maps?
I’ll check with Section Intelligence, Herr Lieutenant-General.
Report back to me.
Herr Lieutenant-General…
What is it?
They keep digging in their tanks so we can’t see them, and then—
I’m aware of that. Would more ammunition make a difference?
Yes, sir.
I’ll do what I can for you. Now, which group liquidated Fedoseyev?
Here are their names, sir.
I’ll put them all in for decorations.
By your order, Herr Lieutenant-General!
A soldier screamed, and blood came beautifully from his heart. The rubble clinked faintly. It was no use trying to find the sniper.
On that same day, 21.9.42, he destroyed two hostile brigades and a regiment, razing the enemy strongpoints with his tanks, crushing those screaming Russians under his treads. He instructed Major-General Schmidt to put more pressure on Headquarters about our ammunition situation. He sent a postcard to Field-Marshal von Reichenau’s widow, the Countess von Maltzan, assuring her that her husband’s name remained on Sixth Army’s lips. And now he must prepare to attack the Red October Tractor Works.
Two nights later, he celebrated his birthday with a few of his staff officers while a counterattack of Siberians wrested a few meters of Volga frontage out of his hands. He obliterated those Siberians, of course. Until he had the Volga he couldn’t split the Reds’ defenses. He had repeatedly drawn everyone’s attention to that fact. But his exhausted men couldn’t recover the ground they’d lost. (Somehow we’ll manage, sir, Major-General Schmidt consoled him.) He understood, forgave; he permitted them to remain in place, with their weapons at the ready. Had he acted any differently, the way that the Field-Marshal von Reichenau, for instance, would have acted, let alone Schörner or those other hatchet-men, they’d have been quite shocked. But they were not even thankful; whatever fate sends us quickly becomes us, and we grow blind to what we might otherwise have been. And how else should it be? If we could see ourselves as capable of being different, then how resentful, or else in the opposite case how fearful that would leave us!
He took the long view. He felt extreme apprehension about the future security of his deep northern flank. It was unwise for us to rely upon the Romanians. He couldn’t explain that to Coca, of course.
First the birthday cake from OKW, then toasts all around. Retiring to his quarters, he lit a cigarette and began reading through the signals reports. Later on he’d open the card from Coca, which had actually arrived on last week’s airlift. Apparently the Russians were now digging in seventy rifle divisions and eighty armored formations, although where they’d gotten them nobody knew. To wipe them out, he might have to draw further manpower from his already attenuated flank troops. His vision blurred; his ageing eyes were having trouble focusing on the dispositions. Our Führer had demonstrated to him how necessary it was to complete Operation Heron soon, in order to link up with Army Group A before winter. And doubtless the Führer was receiving records of his behavior! For all he knew, Schmidt was one of the people reporting on him. Moreover, that annoying Colonel-General Richtofen at Air Fleet Four, a man he’d always treated decently, kept ringing up to advise him: Just one more push, my dear Paulus.—One more push! What did he know about it? And why wasn’t Air Fleet Four darkening the skies of Stalingrad as much as they used to? Nonetheless, on 29.9.42, lighting another cigarette, he sent in Thirty-eighth Infantry, One Hundredth Infantry, Sixtieth Motorized and his best-rested regiments of Sixteenth Panzer, hoping to choke off the enemy’s Orlovsky salient, which he did on 7.10.42, spending lives by the thousand in order to achieve this necessary result: He’d now compressed the Russians’ front to a maximum depth of twenty-five hundred meters. They were truly finished now.
The aerial reconnaissance report informed him of a large enemy ammunition dump on the east bank of the Volga, just opposite the Red October Works. He requested that the Luftwaffe excise it, and there were two bombing raids, but no one could tell him whether it had been wiped out; it might have been camouflaged.
Again the Romanians warned him that they were not receiving full supplies. Evidently they counted on his sympathy, since Coca was a country-woman of theirs. He promised to inform OKW (and did in fact inform Schmidt). Resupply, unfortunately, did not lie entirely within his power. Moreover, he was well aware that OKW was naturally inclined when resources were scarce to favor us over our allies, due to a certain variation in the latters’ fighting qualities.