The general muttered something incomprehensible and turned to leave. He seemed less than overjoyed at the prospect of assuming responsibility.
Breuer found the head of the Austrian intelligence section, a portly, asthmatic captain, in a foul mood. He’d been moved out of his bunker to make room for the staff of Colonel von Hermann. Muttering under his breath, he took his plate of sauerkraut and dumplings and went to sit in a corner. He left it to his adjutant, a first lieutenant with the weather-beaten, strong-boned face of a Tyrolean lumberjack, to bring his visitor up to speed on their current position. Breuer was happy to let him give a long-winded account of what was going on.
‘Our position is… how can I put it? Well, we don’t have a position any more! When we arrived here, our general just pointed out over the snowy fields there, see, and told us: “This is where our new defensive line will be, gentlemen!” So, there and then we just banked the snow up into walls and ramparts… and then, when we got hold of some entrenching tools, we dug ourselves some foxholes, one every ten metres, each for two men – up to chest height, right – and we chucked some rags of clothing from dead Russians in for extra warmth, and later we even managed to construct a couple of small bunkers for the battalion and company staff. So then the Russians launched a rolling attack, shouting through loudspeakers that we as Austrians shouldn’t be letting ourselves get killed for the criminal Hitler. We just laughed at that and let them have it, right? Until they bombarded the hell out of us yesterday with their artillery and those damned Stalin organs, that is… And then their infantry stormed us, wave after wave, and they overran us with tanks… and today, we have to find a way of pushing them back again.’
Up to midday, the Welfe Regiment’s attack made excellent progress. The battalion on the right flank had overrun the Russian positions, destroyed a heavy mortar detachment and almost reached their final objective. The men of the Eichert Battalion were still occupying the high ground. The Austrian general kept putting off the moment when his forces would relieve them. During the afternoon, Captain Eichert stumbled into the bunker, with blood seeping through a fresh dressing round his right arm.
‘Colonel… General, sir! We can’t go on like this! They’re laying down heavy artillery and mortar fire on us up on the hill… it’s never-ending! We’ve taken twenty per cent casualties already. If we stay up there for another two hours, the whole battalion’ll be wiped out!’
‘I thought as much. I knew we’d have no joy trying to hold that position,’ the general replied, not without a hint of schadenfreude. ‘No one can hold out for long up on that bleak hill. First the Russians take it, then we do. And every time the enterprise costs unsustainable losses – but there’s no telling the army that, oh no!’ he added, finally remembering that they were all in this together. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve tried suggesting – and the Corps backs me up on this – that the front line should be moved back down to the bottom of the hill. Nothing doing! comes the answer. Hitler’s orders! I can hardly go to the High Command and make the same request.’
‘Look, Eichert, I’ll get on to the army right away and see what can be done,’ Colonel von Hermann, himself very shocked, told the captain, before ordering him back to his post. But before he could deliver on his promise, a message arrived from the combat group: ‘Hill 124.5 has had to be abandoned in the face of overwhelming enemy infantry forces. Unable to evacuate all of our wounded!’
Unold’s hands started shaking, all his sense of superiority suddenly dissipated and his composure blown away like chaff in the wind. He telephoned the Wehrmacht and asked to speak to the chief of staff. He gave a detailed account of the situation and proposed moving the front line back down to the base of the hill.
Then he put the general on the line: ‘…No, the Russians won’t gain any advantage from it! They couldn’t hold it either… Any time we like we can just blow them off it with artillery, just like they did to us… Yes, we’ve still got plenty of ammunition for that!’
He then handed back to Colonel Unold. Presently, on the other end of the line, it was none other than General Schmidt, the army’s chief of staff, to whom Unold found himself speaking.
‘Yes, sir,’ the colonel said, and the others in the room saw the colour slowly drain from his face, ‘Yes, sir, General!’ He reinforced this last ‘Yes, sir’ with a brief, tense bow as he stood there holding the phone. After a few minutes, he put down the receiver. Taking a deep breath, he turned to Major Kallweit, who had just come in to report that they’d taken out the last of the Russian tanks that had broken through.
‘So, Kallweit,’ he announced breezily, ‘new orders for you straight from the top! At nightfall, your tanks are to take Hill 124.5 and hold it until the infantry arrives at first light.’
For an instant, the major stood there as if thunderstruck. And then Kallweit, the imperturbable Kallweit of all people, found his nerves failing him for the very first time.
‘What!?’ he roared. ‘That’s sheer bloody madness! At night? We’re not bloody cats; we can’t see in the dark! And when the morning comes, they’ll pick us off before we even realize what’s happening!’
The colonel shrugged his shoulders.
‘It’s no use getting upset,’ he said. ‘Orders are orders.’
By now, though, the major was in full flight.
‘Fuck orders!’ he screamed, abandoning all propriety. ‘The top brass has no idea about tank ops! Letting a bunch of infantry tossers wank around with tanks is like… Look, you could afford to do that on manoeuvres, maybe, but not here in this shitstorm!’
He stormed out without saluting and slammed the door behind him.
By nightfall, First Lieutenant Welfe, who had been with the battalion on his left flank during the attack, was able to report that he’d reached the former main defensive line. Flushed with this success, he immediately called the commander of his division to inform him. ‘Yes, General, sir, a complete success! The First Battalion was particularly brave. The battalion commander led the charge, holding his baton… He was killed, unfortunately… Shot through the hand, then when he was being transported back on a tank, they got him in the stomach too. He died at the dressing station. Yes, indeed, a great shame… Otherwise? Around six per cent dead, ten per cent wounded. Yes, sir, thank you! Why’s that, General? Oh, right! Right… Very well, then… All the best… General, sir!’
The lieutenant replaced the receiver and, removing the monocle from his eye, polished it absent-mindedly and blinked as he stared into space. His face was pale. Colonel von Hermann was keen to learn the latest.
‘So, Welfe – what does your CO have to say? Is he happy?’
‘Yes, very,’ replied the lieutenant in a deadpan voice. ‘He said how much he appreciated all we’ve done, and wished us farewell and all the best.’
‘Farewell?’
‘Yes, he’s leaving. The staff’s being flown out! On the eighth – for redeployment elsewhere!’
During the night, the tanks captured the high ground. And by the morning of the following day it was back in Russian hands again. The Panzer regiment had five total losses, while eight more tanks were severely damaged but capable of being salvaged. The Eichert Battalion suffered forty per cent losses, either dead or wounded, and another fifteen per cent disabled by frostbite. The only success of the day was that the army top brass now adopted the division’s suggestion and moved the front line down to the base of the hill. The Austrian general expressed his heartfelt thanks to Colonel von Hermann for having achieved that.