A MG 42 and 15 men were all that was then left of my company. We crossed the highway from Smolensk, and the anti-tank ditches that ran to the west of it. In the next village my company and I had to remain behind another two hours, as a rearguard, until 2pm. On both sides of the village and the road along which we were withdrawing was open steppe. Whether and where there were rearguards was unknown. In front of the two houses right and left of the village street at the outskirts of the village I had a start made on digging foxholes. The comrades were not so keen on digging and said that we would have to weather out the two hours over midday. I gave way to them and we left it alone.
For an hour everything remained quiet and no enemy showed themselves. A man kept a look-out, while I sat with some others on the bench in front of the house. The sun was shining and the autumn sky was a cloudless blue. In that contemplative position I stretched out my legs in front of me, pushed my hands into my trouser pockets, and nodded off. Out of a deep sleep of only a few minutes, I was wakened by shots. The sentry ran up and made his report. From the hollow with the anti-tank ditches at the side of the highway, he said that cavalry had appeared. They had turned round when he fired on them and disappeared back into the trenches. The tense waiting and watching lasted about a quarter of an hour, until the cavalry once more came out of the hollow. They were wearing brown Russian uniforms, but with square caps on their heads. First there were 10, then 20, and then more and more, all forming up into a front, and at a gallop storming up to our village.
It must have been a squadron of about a hundred coming closer and closer. The anachronistic picture fascinated and hypnotised me. The last time that cavalry had attacked was the Polish cavalry in the Poland campaign. But in seconds I was awake and gave my order. It could only be to fire at will. They had already approached to within 300 metres of us when from the right flank, apparently from a neighbouring village, the flak of an unknown unit opened fire. While at first only individual horses reared and only a few cavalrymen fell, our rifle fire too was then beginning to hit. The remnants of the hundred or so drove down on us in a confused tangle. We had climbed out of the foxholes and were firing at will into the mass of them.
The attack collapsed, and soon riderless horses were chasing over the field. Some cavalrymen managed to turn round and to reach the hollow. Dismounted wounded Cossacks dragged themselves back. Injured horses were lying on the ground and thrashing about, whinnying. Because we had to save ammunition, we ceased fire, and fired no more after the stricken cavalrymen. The main responsibility for our success doubtless belonged to that flak unit. It certainly had rescued us from an uncertain fate. But the episode reminded me of those Cossacks, who with their skirmishing, wore down Napoleon’s Grande Armee on the retreat from Moscow.
Soon after we had evacuated the village as ordered, we passed a herd of cattle. While the animals were grazing on unsuspectingly, the machine-gunner let fly some bullets into the herd. It followed the order that nothing that could sustain life was allowed to fall into enemy hands. Anywhere that could be used for accommodation was to be burnt. Food, weapons, and equipment were to be destroyed, under the name of ‘scorched earth’. That followed the example set by the enemy in 1941.
I was back once again with the unit. After a fortnight during which I had my boots on day and night, my feet were so swollen that I was not able to get the boots off. I had ordered that the Kuchenbulle should bring me a pair of rubber boots and footcloths with the food vehicle. When he brought what I had asked for, the operation could begin. I had feared that the boots would have to be cut off, but things went well. Four men got hold of me, two of them pulled at a boot each and two of them held me by my shoulders and arms. As if they had wanted to pull me into four, they pulled me apart in opposite directions. But it worked, and my swollen filthy limbs were free.
Meanwhile, the autumn had begun. The so-called mud period was imminent. If it was not raining, the days were still hot, but during the night the temperature fell by 20 degrees. We were freezing, and the ‘oldies’ were no longer so easily dried. To warm ourselves we hoped for burning villages. Units operating in the rear saw that the villages to be evacuated were burnt to the ground. Night after night was bright. From the glare of burning settlements we would have been able to recognise our direction of march, even if we had not ourselves possessed maps and compasses. It seemed remarkable that the earth on the road along which we were retreating was burnt. It was not as if we had burned our bridges behind us.
I remember stopping one night in a burning village. While we waited in front of the fire, we dried our feet in the warmth of the glow, and rubbed our hands as a kind of recuperation. It seemed as if a watch fire of Prinz Eugen was warming us and illuminating the scene. For a short time we behaved as if the enemy were not already close behind us. We fancied ourselves in peace and security. All that remained of the entire battalion, officers and men, stood around the burning beams. We stared into the glowing element, smoked, drank schnapps or tea from our field flasks, chatted, or reflected on our forthcoming departure. Wood and straw crackled and the horses of other units snorted uneasily. In the warm air from the fire you breathed in the musty smell of old wood and rotten straw. Only the lime oven with the chimney resisted the fire.
It did not yet rain for days and nights on end, but in fits and starts, and for only hours at a time. But that was enough to swell the streams. Where otherwise the water might have reached to our ankles, we had to wade through fords up to our knees, or up to our bellies. In the twilight I observed a battery crossing. The path led steeply down to the water and just as steeply back up again on the other side. It was time for the gunners to get their horses to give it all they had. With Karacho, as we said at the time, the team of six stormed up the stony path. ‘Gallop!’ was the command. The gunners in the saddle hit at the horses, and those who were sitting on the gun-carriage clung to each other. While the rain spattered on the water of the swollen stream, the dauntless animals dragged the teams with the howitzers through it and up the slope on the other side. It was a kaleidoscope of power and movement that an artist might have been able to fix on paper.
A new platoon leader joined our company for 48 hours. Leutnant Bertram, who was about 40 years old, was a ‘12-ender’, recognisable by the two blue bands. He had only recently been caught by the Heldenklau. That was what the commissions were called who were combing through the home front troops to find men who were capable of serving at the front. He had served in General Meltzer’s company when Meltzer was still a Hauptmann in the 100,000-man Army. But then that was no use to him. His parade-ground snappishness, his dreadful Saxon and his clear air of anxiety cheered us up. As suddenly as he had come he disappeared again for no apparent reason. At that time it was said that the life expectancy of an infantry lieutenant, that is, the time in which he could expect to remain with his unit without being wounded, amounted to 13 days. Leutnant Bertram’s life expectancy had therefore been significantly shorter.