Häfner was a narrow but methodical man. He explained his plan of action to me in front of a map, and wrote up a list of everything he lacked, so that I could support his requests. I was supposed to inspect all the Teilkommandos; that was obviously impossible, and I resigned myself to staying a few days in Pereyaslav while I waited to see what came next. In any case, the Vorkommando was already in Poltava with Blobeclass="underline" given the state of the roads, I had no hope of joining them before the fall of Kharkov. Häfner was pessimistic: “The sector is swarming with partisans. The Wehrmacht is conducting sweeps but isn’t accomplishing much. They want us to back them up. But the men are exhausted, finished. You’ve seen the shit we’re eating.”—“It’s regular army food. And they’re having a much harder time of it than we are.”—“Physically, yes, I agree. But our men are morally at the end of their tether.” Häfner was right and I would soon see so for myself. Ott went out with a platoon of twenty men to search a nearby village where partisans had been reported; I decided to accompany him. We left at dawn, with a truck and a
Kübelwagen, an all-terrain vehicle, lent for the occasion by the division stationed in Pereyaslav. The rain slashed down, thick, interminable, we were soaked even before we left. The smell of wet wool filled the vehicle. Harpe, Ott’s driver, maneuvered skillfully to avoid the worst mudholes; the rear wheels kept slipping sideways in the muck; sometimes he managed to control the skid, but often the vehicle went completely sideways, and we had to climb out to set it right; then we would sink up to our ankles in the sludge, some of us even lost our boots in it. Everyone swore, shouted, cursed. Ott had loaded some boards into the truck, which we wedged under the stuck wheels; sometimes that helped; but if the vehicle was off-kilter, one of the drive wheels would start spinning on its own, projecting huge sprays of liquid mud. My greatcoat and my pants were soon completely covered in mud. Some of the men had their faces coated with it, you could just see their exhausted eyes gleaming through; as soon as the vehicle was unstuck, they quickly washed their hands and faces in a puddle and climbed back in. The village was seven kilometers from Pereyaslav; the trip took us three hours. When we arrived, Ott sent a group into a blocking position beyond the last houses while he deployed the others on both sides of the main street. The wretched isbas were lined up in the rain, their thatched roofs streaming into flooded gardens; a few soaked chickens were scattered here and there; we couldn’t see anyone. Ott sent a noncom and the