2
Hunger and Morale
In Rostov-on-Don, four hundred kilometres from Stalingrad, a group of men, wearing a variety of field-grey and slate-coloured uniforms embellished with gold and red and white and rows of glittering medals, were seated round a table. Some twenty heads whispering to one another, poring over documents and staring in deep concentration into the middle distance. These heads, moreover, belonged to the leading figures of the German army and air force. Their number included both forces’ quartermasters-general, the Luftwaffe generals Milch and Jeschonnek, the army group leaders von Manstein and Baron von Weichs and their respective staff officers. Also present – having been obliged to host this conference – was Colonel General Wolfram von Richthofen, head of the Fourth Air Fleet. And finally there were the opposite poles round which this whole martial world revolved. Sitting at one of the long sides of the table was the voluble and (albeit warily) blustering Hermann Göring, the white-and-gold-bedecked Reichsmarschall, while alone and aloof at the head of the table sat the silent, commanding presence of the Führer himself, Adolf Hitler – an extraordinary meeting of the Board of Directors. Dandified adjutants scurried about without a sound, assiduously whispering into reluctant ears. The oppressive spectre of dreadful events to come weighed heavily on the twenty heads gathered here. The lives of hundreds of thousands of people were at stake. The principal item on the agenda was how to supply the encircled Sixth Army.
The meeting began with a report by Baron von Richthofen on the Luftwaffe’s previous experiences in supplying German ground forces from the air. The colonel general, blond and clear-eyed, spoke softly and succinctly, though he found it impossible to fully conceal his irritation. The problem of air supply hung like a millstone around his neck. Because the supply canisters could only be dropped from the bomb bays of aircraft, pretty much all his bomber force had been doing of late was making supply runs. His offensive operations had been effectively paralysed. Nor had this just been the case since the start of the encirclement; it had been going on for months already, ever since September. The intention had been for German forces to press on to Astrakhan and Tbilisi and God knows where else, but no sooner had they set off than these advance forces found themselves running out of food and munitions and fuel. Small wonder, when everything was going awry here! And now they expected him to fly in three hundred tons of supplies to Stalingrad every day. Naturally, no one had told him how such a feat might be achieved.
‘Since the construction of forward airfields, at least we can fly in and land with Ju 52s,’ Richthofen explained, choking back his anger. ‘However, this has given rise to various new problems that clearly weren’t fully anticipated in forward planning. At this time of year, the weather conditions in the Stalingrad region are about as bad as can be. Most days we can only fly a limited number of sorties, and often none at all. That means we have to try to concentrate our efforts into limited windows, and we simply don’t have the aircraft numbers available for that. Plus, flying over the bare steppe the Ju 52s are sitting ducks for fighters. Our losses are appallingly high. We’ve lost—’
‘Yes, yes, we know all about that!’ Göring interrupted, nervously drumming his gold-ringed fingers on the table. ‘That’s why we’re here! We need to tackle the problem from a totally different angle. – Morzik, let’s hear from you, please!’
Leafing through a pile of papers, Colonel Morzik, Head of Air Transport Operations (East), launched into his presentation on the condition, operational strength, stationing and potential for concentration of transport units. His forehead was beaded with sweat, and the slightest interruption seemed to throw him. Sitting diagonally opposite him was the quartermaster-general of the army, General Wagner. With his hands clasped in front of him on the table, he sat there without saying a word or moving a muscle. Every so often, he’d close his eyes and tilt his head up to the ceiling. A suppressed smile played around the corners of his mouth. The Luftwaffe – typical! It damn well served the air force right, and its fat C-in-C sitting over there! He could still recall every detail of the meeting that had taken place about a month ago around this very table and with almost the same cast list present. No punches had been pulled on that occasion, for it had long since become clear that the two fronts in the Caucasus and on the Don could not be properly supplied simultaneously. The barren nature of the land around the Don elbow meant that there was no chance of getting supplies by foraging there. Everything had to be brought in, including fodder for the horses. But they just didn’t have enough transport capacity at their disposal for that. Those in charge of operations had been told about this unequivocally, and shown the relevant figures. And at the same time, the only possible solution to the problem had been raised: shorten the supply lines – in other words, abandon Stalingrad, withdraw from the Don elbow and pull the front back to a line running, say, through Zemlyansk, Morozovsk and Veshenskaya.
‘If we don’t bite the bullet on this,’ the quartermaster-general responsible had said at the time, ‘then I see disaster looming for the Sixth Army.’
And everyone present had agreed, even Manstein, who always wanted to go at things like a bull in a china shop. For adopting this solution would mean that the threat of being outflanked in the north would also evaporate, without having to abandon the Caucasus. Even Hitler seemed to be in agreement. Then Göring had intervened, blithely guaranteeing that the Luftwaffe would be able to fly in ample supplies, and assuming full responsibility.
‘Then the front stays where it is!’ Hitler had cried triumphantly.
‘As of right now,’ Morzik was saying meanwhile, ‘the bulk of the transport units are under the command of the Director of Mediterranean Transport Operations. Of course, we could withdraw a few units from that theatre. Then again, the fuel situation is very touch-and-go for Rommel… I honestly don’t know how far we can go without causing a negative impact on the Africa front…’
‘That’s it: just keep twisting and turning, my friends!’ thought General Wagner. ‘Serves you right. You’ve really made fools of yourselves! If you hadn’t stuck your noses in, the Sixth Army wouldn’t be up shit creek now. And as usual it’s going to be the army that has to put things right.’
Hoth was due to launch his rescue mission within a few days. He’d dig the Sixth Army out of their hole. And then, having learned from bitter experience, they’d withdraw at last from the Don elbow and see out the rest of the winter without any further scares.
By now, Colonel Morzik had finished his presentation. An embarrassed silence fell over the room. The report had shown pretty conclusively that the necessary transport capacity didn’t exist for supplying the Sixth by air.
‘The forthcoming operation by Army Group Don,’ the chief of staff of the Luftwaffe, Colonel General Jeschonnek, declared in a cold, aloof tone, ‘will settle the matter once and for all.’
‘Nonsense!’ Göring interjected brusquely. ‘Let’s not count our chickens before they’re hatched. If Hoth manages to break through, it’ll bring some relief at best, nothing more. And who knows how long he can keep the pocket open? Come what may, the army will remain in Stalingrad. The Führer has not altered his decision.’
That wiped the smile off General Wagner’s face. The army’s staying in Stalingrad? He could feel himself being rudely jolted out of his preferred role of indifferent bystander. For Christ’s sake, it wasn’t just about inter-service rivalry any more – the whole shooting match was at stake here! Back in September, when all the lines of communication were still open, they’d all agreed that an army would starve to death there come winter. Yet now, now that things had turned out even worse than the gloomiest predications, they were still planning to…? The army needed six hundred tons of supplies every day to live and fight effectively, not the three hundred they’d all so glibly taken to be the bottom line. But it was undeniably the case that even that figure was out of the question. Uneasily, he scanned the others’ faces: Jeschonnek’s cold death mask, the piggy eyes of Field Marshal Milch. These were people who could see the situation for what it was, surely. No, reason must prevail, and would prevail.