Hans Von Luck - Panzer Commander Read online

  In addition, the Russians were masters of improvisation.

  Thousands upon thousands of the T34 were produced, in factories that lay beyond the reach of our Luftwaffe.

  Vilnius was enveloped to the north and south, and captured. We were at once turned east, in the direction of Minsk. As divisional adjutant, many jobs fell to me that were far from being to my taste. It is true I sat in the CO's staff car every evening and learned something of our plans-and actions, which General von Funk explained with the help of maps spread out on his table. Though no less efficient, his style of leadership was nevertheless quite different from that of Rommel. I was sent by the divisional commander, more and more often, as liaison officer to the various units, especially when our communications broke down.

  We had now reached an area that was typical of the Russian landscape, vast forests and steppes, and roads that we would not even designate as country lanes. After brief downpours of rain, they turned into muddy tracks which were-only passable in some places after engineers or off-loaded grenadiers had felled, trees to make a wooden runway with the trunks. It was not so much our opponents that held up our advance as the catastrophic roads.

  In this impassable terrain, we lost touch one day with our motorcycle battalion. The divisional commander was afraid that it might have been cut off.

  “Luck, you're always hankering after something other than desk work. Our motorcycle battalion is not reporting. It must be about here (he showed me the spot on the map). Try and make contact with them and give me an account of the situation. But take care. In this great wooded area, there may still be Russians all over the place.” I had only my Mercedes available and set off with Erich Beck.

  Without contact with the enemy, but with considerable difficulty on account of the barely passable tracks, I reached the indicated area and did, in fact, find the battalion there.

  “Everything is okay here,” I was told, “but we seem to have penetrated some Russian units like a thom, without their full realization. It might be as well if division could free us from this situation. As soon as the Russians know we're here, things won't look too good for us.” I promised to report everything to the divisional commander and ask for immediate help.

  I drove back along the same track. Beside me sat Ericn K with his machine-pistol at the ready. After a few kilometers through dense forest, we came to a clearing. Both sides of the track were full of Russians. They recognized us at once, and I saw them bring their guns to the ready. It was another 30 yards before the track curved away again into the dense woods.

  “Beck, duck down and fire to the right and behind me to the left,” I shouted, crouched as low as I could at the wheel and pressed the accelerator.

  The first bullets were already whistling past us, inaccurately, however, since Beck had forced the Russians into cover by his bursts of fire. Our Mercedes cabriolet, which had certainly never been designed for Russian roads, jolted and bounced over the undu.1ating ground. One shot did strike the car, but caused no great damage.

  “Thanks, Beck, and thanks to our car. We certainly had some luck there.” I reported to the divisional commander, who smiled at me over his reading glasses and said, “Well, you wanted a taste of adventure. What more could you ask for? Thanks for your report at any rate. I'll have something done at once for the relief of the motorcycle battalion.” We gradually recognized the Russian tactics: they allowed themselves to be overrun so that they could then, in small groups in our rear, attack our supply lines and following infantry. We learned from prisoners that Hitier's regrettable order, that all commissars were to be killed at once, had turned out to be a boomerang. The Russian reaction had been as simple as it was effective. The commissars, political officers allocated to each unit to keep an eye on the morale of the troops and their commanders, knew of Hitier's order. So they kept their men in check by telling them, “If you fall The Russian Campaign, June 1941 to January 1942 69 into German captivity, you will be killed at once. If you take just one step back, we'll kill you.” This explained why so many Russians, usually supplied with only a ration of dry bread, allowed themselves to be overrun. But they would not surrender and formed the basis for the ever growing partisan activity. An essential factor was that Stalin, knowing of the Russians' love of their country, declared the war to be a great patriotic war.

  Hans Von Luck - Panzer Commander

  It was not Nazi versus Communist. We Germans were the attackers destroying the Russian homeland; they were the defenders of “Mother Russia.” Our aerial reconnaissance reported large concentrations of troops west of Minsk and around it, the first large town in Russia east of the former Polish frontier. Our division was to thrust past Minsk to the north and cut off the Russians' retreat to the east. Another panzer corps was to thrust past to the south of the city. The vanguard was made up of the reconnaissance battalion and the motorcycle escorts. Minsk was enveloped in a pincer movement; the first pocket was closed and a large number of prisoners were taken. Our infantry, whose inhuman hardships made us feel sorry for them, followed up on foot and took care of the surrounded Russians. The panzer divisions were at once thrown into action for a further advance to the east. Again we had to fight our way forward through forests and along wretched roads.

  For our division, the goal was Vitebsk, a town that lay north of the feeder road Minsk-Smolensk-Moscow. We constantly met with resistance, but the Russians lacked any organized opposition.

  Our advance had been too rapid for our opponents to have had time to construct effectivb lines of defense. It looked very like another blitzkrieg.

  For the first time in our advance, we came into contact with the local population. We passed through typical Russian villages, in which wooden houses were ranged on either side of the country lane; each included a village church. The churches without exception had been converted into warehouses, but most of them had been plundered. The sparsely furnished houses had a large clay oven in the center, on which, in winter, the whole family slept. Below it stood the oven bench and in front 6f that a wooden table. In a comer of the room a candle burned, over which hung one or more icons, sacred pictures. In the middle of the village, one found a sauna, which was indispensable for all Russians since washing facilities in the houses were almost nonexistent. Directly linked to the house was a shed for a few cows, which a peasant was allowed to keep for his own use in addition to a small parcel of land for the cultivation of potatoes and maize for his daily needs. Otherwise, the inhabitants worked on the state kolkhoz or sovhoz, a kind of village or state cooperative.

  There, it was a matter of fulfilling the “norm,” the measure of all purely state concerns.

  The condition of the village streets was even worse than that of the roads we had to traverse so far, for here, in addition, the ground had been churned up by the little panye horses drawing the farm carts. Here, there was nothing to “requisition” in order to improve the diet of the troops. On the contrary, we gave the women and children chocolate and cigarettes from our ration.

  As divisional adjutant, I found time and opportunity to make contact with local people, in the course of which, my knowledge of Russian came in useful. I was astonished to detect no hatred among them. Women often came out of their houses with an icon held before their breast, crying, "We are still Christians.

  Free us from Stalin who destroyed our churches.“ Many of them offered an egg and a piece of dry bread as a ”welcome." We gradually had the feeling that we really were being regarded as liberators.

  The hot summer was beginning in Russia. It was often broken by heavy downpours of rain, which forced us to take shelter for the night in the houses. Whenever possible, we preferred our vehicles as night quarters, or the ditches beside the road, since we were afraid of vermin.

  Vitebsk, like Minsk, was also skirted widely to the north and south. A new, smaller pocket was formed, the elimination of which we again left to the infantry who had, so far, only marched and not yet seen any real action. Then the message reac
hed us that Major Riederer von Paar, the commander of the panzer reconnaissance battalion, had fallen. General von Funk called me in. “Luck, your work with me has been shorter than I expected. You will take over the recce battalion at once; I will have you confirmed as its commander. Thanks for everything. Good luck!” I called my aide. “Beck, we're off to the front again. Get the Mercedes ready and pack our things. We're driving to the battalion as quickly as possible.” That very evening, we received our combat orders: advance to the east in the direction of Smolensk. Our panzer corps, under General Hoth, approaching from the northwest, and another panzer corps from the southwest, would attack and seek to destroy The Russian Campaign, June 1941 to January 1942 71 strong Russian forces reported to be west of Smolensk and around it.

  MY battalion was to form the spearhead and “reconnoiter” to the east and northeast.

  We moved out the following morning. We came upon Russian stragglers, who were usually quick to surrender. Word had got around, it seemed, that prisoners would not be shot by us. We made good progress and, just west of Smolensk, struck a wide trail that was not shown on our maps. We soon discovered that the Russians had laid out this trail from Moscow to Minsk as a future highway; as we found out later, it had already been paved with asphalt west of Moscow. This trail became an aid to orientation during the rest of our advance.

  Before long, we met with fairly strong resistance, so we veered away to the northeast. The encirclement of Smolensk was literally there on offer. Within a few days, with the help of our air force, we enveloped Smolensk from the north and south and formed a huge pocket, in which there were said to be over 100,000 Russians threatened with capture. With my reinforced battalion, I held and closed the Smolensk-Moscow trail. We were only 400 kilometers from Moscow.

  We were given a few days' rest, one of which I used to go to a makeshift collecting camp that had been set up near Smolensk.

  In it were penned thousands of Russian prisoners in a closely packed space with no protection from the hot sun or the torrential showers of rain. They seemed apathetic, their faces without expression. Their uniforms, which were simple but practical, were dull and further emphasiitd the impression of a gray mass. Because of the danger of lice, their heads had been close-cropped. They seemed resigned to their fate, for since time immemorial, they had only known oppression. Whether it was the tsar, Stalin, or Hitler, oppression remained oppression. In a pouch, they carried their “iron ration”: dry bread. Later, even we would learn to treasure it.

  Many of them called out to me for-voda, water. They seemed to be suffering severely from thirst. Our services behind the lines had not been prepared for so many prisoners. With the best intentions in the world, they were quite unable to look after them and evacuate them quickly. Nor were things much better for the Russian officers. They, too, lay about apathetically. Now and again, someone would start up one of those Russian songs that reveal a corner of the Russian soul. I felt sorry for them, for they too were human beings like ourselves.

  In contrast, however, to the way Russians might appear to a foreigner, we also got to know another side of them. They were like children who could tear the wings off a fly one minute, and in the next, cry over a dead bird. They might share their last crust of bread one moment and then hit the same person over the head. They fought with what they had. Once, we came to an abandoned village. A dog ran up to us. He wagged his tail and whimpered. When we tried to stroke him, he crawled under an armored vehicle. Suddenly we heard a bang, an explosion. The vehicle was damaged, but luckily failed to catch fire. We ran up to it and discovered that the dead dog had had an explosive charge concealed in the fur of its back with a movable pin as detonator. When the dog crawled, the detonator tipped over and triggered off the explosion. The dog had been trained to find meat under armored vehicles. Unfortunately, from then on we had to shoot all dogs that approached us.

  While the mass of Russian prisoners seemed to accept their fate as the will of God, our own fear of falling into Russian hands was great. We often heard the wounded say, “Please take me with you or else shoot me. I couldn't stand Russian captivity.” Another day, I obtained permission to go to Smolensk to see the old city. I took along my orderly officer and two men as guard.

  Here, there was, as yet, practically no German occupation since the pocket had formed more to the west of the city and was now being mopped up by the infantry.

  Smolensk looked as though it had been abandoned. Destruction in the industrial quarters and of the bridges over the Dnieper was immense. In the midst of the ruins, Smolensk cathedral pointed to the sky. It appeared largely unharmed. I followed the women and the old men and as I entered the cathedral, was deeply impressed by its beauty. It looked intact. The altar was adomed; burning candles and many icons richly embellished with gold bathed the interior in a festive light. As I went up to the altar with my companions, an old man, poorly dressed and with a flowing beard, spoke to me in broken German.

  “Gospodin officer, I am a pope who used to preach here before the Lenin-Stalin era; I have been in hiding now for many years, scraping a living as a shoemaker. Now you have liberated our city. May I say a first mass in this cathedral?”

  “How is it,” I asked, “that your cathedral is in such good condition?” His answer surprised me.

  The Russian Campaign, June 1941 to January 1942 73 to America in tsarist times bought the church and all its treasures “Immediately after the Revolution, Russians who had emigrated from the Russians who, at the time, were in urgent need of American dollars. The cathedral is American property, which is why everything is-almost-unchanged.” I have never been able to verify his statement, but it was not very important to me. Without referring to HQ, I gave the pope permission to celebrate mass the next day, for which he wanted to bring in an additional pope.

  The following day, I went to Smolensk again, having informed the divisional commander in the meantime; as a precaution, I took along an armored patrol.

  The sight that met our eyes when we arrived was breathtaking.

  The square in front of the cathedral was full of people moving slowly toward the entrance. With my orderly officer, I jostled my way forward. Already, there was not a comer left in the cathedral in which people were not standing, sitting, or kneeling. We remained standing to one side to avoid disturbing the service by our presence.

  I was not familiar with the Russian Orthodox ritual, but the ceremony that now began drew me more and more under its spell.

  Invisible behind the altar, one of the two popes began with a monotone chant, which was answered by a choir of eight voices standing in front of the altar. The chanting of the precentor and the choir filled the vast space of the church. The acoustics gave the impression that the chanting came from above, from heaven. The people fell on their knees and prayed. All had tears in their eyes. For them, it was the first mass for more than twenty years. My companion and I were greatly moved.

  How deep must the faith have been of these poor, oppressed people; no ideology, no compulsion or terror had been able to take it from them. It was an experience I shall never forget.

  Our next goal was a town called Vyazma, on the Smolenskmoscow road, little more than 200 kilometers from Moscow. With the reconnaissance battalion I was to put out feelers to the east and northeast on the nqrthern side of the trailireconnoiter our flank, and push forward a3 rapidly as possible.

  After about 50 kilometers we encountered stiff resistance. We discovered that the Russians had set up a strong line of defense on the hills east of a wide valley on a tributary of the Dnieper, a few kilometers north of the town of Yartsevo, anchored by T34 tanks 74 PANZER COMMANDER and heavy artillery. I reported the situation and the division formed up for a full-scale attack.

  Fierce tank artillery duels broke out, which lasted for days.

  My birthday was 15 July, which I wanted to celebrate in some way or other, as it might be my last. Since we were stuck and unable to move, I invited my fellow commanders to a “meal.”
My “hotelier,” Fritsche, from my own company, was given the job of conjuring something up. On the western hill, within sight of the Russians, lying some thousand yards away, a table was set up and decked with an assortment of delicacies. In the normal way, they would hardly have attracted attention, but here, in Russia, they were rare. With an “organized” bottle of vodka and some bottles of Moselle, we drank to an uncertain future.

  The battles at Yartsevo lasted longer than we would have liked.

  The blitzkrieg seemed to be over. With considerable losses, we finally broke through. Unfortunately, among those who fell was the commander of our motorcycle battalion and I now had to assume command of that, too. Now I was even more the eyes and ears of the division, with four companies of motorized veteran soldiers under my command.

  Resistance grew stiffer and stiffer. The Russians now appeared with the T50 tank, which was much better armed and armored. To knock it out from the front, we had to use the 88mm guns.

  Vyazma remained our goal. Before that, we had to conquer the upper reaches of the Dnieper River.

  It was very hot in those August days, but the dry continental heat was quite bearable; it was a hardship only for the infantry following on foot.

  While the bulk of the division fought its way slowly forward, my job was to reconnoiter to the north and northeast on our open left flank. There was as yet no continuous front. The tank divisions had thrust forward like wedges and left their flanks exposed. We went through trackless terrain with few settlements, and through neverending forest. The roads were merely trails for horse-drawn carts.

  Once, when I was on foot looking for a route to get around a bridge that was impassable, I came face to face with a Russian soldier. He was standing by a tree and apparently intended us to overrun him. But then, as if in slow motion, I saw him raise his gun and take aim at me. “Eitherr”, I thought, jerked up my machine-pistol and was the first to fire. The Russian lost his gun and fell to the ground. When I got to him, he was still alive, but not for The Russian Campaign, June 1941 to January 1942 75 very long. I shall never forget his eyes. They were full of questioning, “Why?” Here it became clear to me for the first time that “You or me” was decisive. In this, there was no room for feelings.