‘We stopped and stared at the wooden seats on which thousands of Muscovites had sat and waited for the tram to clang down the road from Moscow. There was an old wooden bin attached to the wall. I felt inside and dragged out a handful of old tram tickets. We picked out the Cyrillic letters which by now we knew spelled “Moskva”.’(19)
The forward triangle of villages and towns around Krassnaya Polyana occupied by the 2nd (Vienna) Panzer Division was the nearest Kiel that had been driven toward the Moscow suburbs. Katjuschki, held by the Kampfgruppe ‘Buck’ from 134 Regiment, formed part of an integrated defence position mutually supported by Gorki, held by Kampfgruppe ‘Decker’ to its north-west and Putschki to the rear. Oberleutnant Georg Richter’s battery from Artillery Regiment 74 was in Putschki with Kampfgruppe ‘Rodt’ from 2nd Regiment. It was ‘a big town, practically a city with factory blocks and store-houses’, Richter explained, writing proudly in his diary, that they ‘were the furthest forward of all the divisions operating on the Ostfront’. Now wearing Russian felt boots, the artillery officer felt the rate at which temperatures were falling merited daily inclusion in his diary. Starting at −15°C on 3 December, he plotted a daily decrease to −28°C on the 6th. The battle had become merciless in his opinion, sustained by the inescapable logic that ‘what you took once, even with weak forces, was held’ because ‘if you give it up, it could only be retaken with very heavy casualties’. His artillery battery, not even directly in the forward positions, had already suffered a notable 12 dead and 20 wounded. ‘One learned what was meant by fear,’ he observed, because, in the face of such losses, ‘people who earlier commanded respect were exposed as panic-mongering cowards’. Doubts over whether they would actually take Moscow began to surface. ‘We were asking ourselves more often,’ he admitted, ‘whether we would truly break through this ring’. The frequency of local counterattacks also perceptibly increased. ‘The enemy is particularly lively with his attacks today,’ he announced on 2 December, ‘he has received reinforcements.’ It was a steady build-up, ‘first a battalion, the next day a regiment, two regiments, one division, two divisions’ and so on.(20)
The day before, Generalfeldmarschall von Bock accepted, ‘the fighting of the past 14 days has shown that the notion that the enemy in front of the army group has “collapsed” was a fantasy’. His forces were now dangerously over-extended. He complained to Halder, the Chief of the General Staff, that the seriousness of the situation appeared not to have been briefed to Hitler. ‘It was astounding,’ he said to Halder, ‘how little the highest levels of command were informed of my reports.’ The General Staff had retained a mystical faith in the resilience of the Ostheer, paralleled by a firm conviction that the Russians must be at their last gasp. Halder confided to his diary later that day:
‘I emphasize that we, too, are concerned about the human sacrifice. But an effort has to be made to bring the enemy to his knees by applying the last ounce of strength. Once it is conclusively shown that this is impossible, we shall make new decisions.’(21)
On a clear sunny day on 2 December, the men from Kampfgruppe ‘Buck’, occupying positions dug in the Katjuschki village graveyard, received their first hot food from the rear in many days. Previously they had endured snowstorms and the temperature was now −15°C. As they commenced eating, the forward outposts yelled ‘Alarm!’ The German battery outside Putschki immediately opened fire, sending salvoes whooshing over their heads to cascade in a series of crackling detonations on the edge of the wood south of the village. Crouching in their stand-to positions, the German infantry were acutely aware their hot food was going to waste, until Russian counter artillery fire interspersed with Katyusha rocket strikes, burst all over their positions.
Activity was apparent inside the wood. Trees were being snapped off and broken down like matchwood, until, with a series of deep-throated diesel growls, Russian T-34 and BT-7 tanks dashed aside the last trees and swung into an extended line and moved toward the German positions. Russian infantry were labouring through the deep snow behind them. ‘Like a steel Phalanx,’ the Russian armour bore down on the village of Katjuschki. As the Russian artillery switched fire to the rear onto Putschki the rumble of German artillery ceased. Low-flying bombers and thick-bellied ‘Rata’ Soviet fighters swept by and strafed and bombed the German artillery positions. Leutnant Richter had already developed a healthy respect for these attacks which produced a stream of casualties and ‘catastrophic’ damage to vehicles. ‘Enemy pilots,’ he recorded on 2 December, ‘kept our arses warm, as the Landser would say, throughout the day.’
The T-34s and BT-7s grew steadily larger within the sight telescopes of the two German 50mm anti-tank guns hidden among headstones in the graveyard on the southern edge of Katjuschki. Having lost artillery support, everything depended upon the detachment commander, Unteroffizier Hentsch, a cold-blooded veteran of many actions, to fight them off. Hentsch, aware of the T-34’s armoured protection, chose to open fire at the last possible moment and use all his stock-piled ammunition at close range. All were versed in the tactics: drive the accompanying infantry to cover and then engage the tanks. Any that broke through the position were to be left to infantry anti-tank teams who would attack them with hand-held explosive devices. The Russian tank commander, intent on his objective, failed to notice he had outstripped his infantry, who were pinned down by German small arms fire. Kicking up great clouds of snow, the tanks drove directly at the German positions.
The lead tank exploded on a mine as it entered the obstacle belt and ploughed to a shuddering halt, the first of several 50mm rounds slamming into its flank. It suddenly burst into a slurry of flame and black oily smoke. Three tanks were disabled, one after the other, by the solitary 50mm anti-tank gun. Thick clouds of dark smoke pouring out of the wrecks soon disorientated the remaining tanks, which abruptly changed course and began to bypass the village, moving in the direction of Putschki. Hentsch immediately began shooting into their rear as they moved off.
Three tanks remained in front of the graveyard, seeking the antitank gun causing so much damage. They machine gunned the positions and grave plots in a reconnaissance by fire. Another BT-7 erupted, metal, boxes and equipment flying off the decks of the tank as the internal pressure of the explosion flung the hatches open. Unteroffizier Braun, observing the action, saw:
‘A dappled-camouflage T-34 with a red flag in the turret [probably the commander] now knew exactly where the gun was. Having got through the mine belt he accelerated at full speed toward the anti-tank gun. The huge tank was 60 – 50 – 40 – 30 – 20m away. All the time the anti-tank gun fired back. Ricochets bounced high into the air from the forward sloping armour of the T-34. A few metres from the position the tank swung slightly left and rolled over the infantry and crew positions. The endangered soldiers dived out of the way as quick as a flash.’
Narrowly missing Braun, the tank churned around like an enraged dinosaur, smashing into the corner of a barn, which collapsed upon it. ‘It then disappeared into a cloud of snow,’ he said. The remaining tank meanwhile slowly traversed its gun onto the now clearly identifiable solitary PAK, whose fate appeared sealed. A single 50mm projectile slammed into the side of the T-34 at 823m per second. It did not move as a further four rounds tore into the smouldering carcass until it burst into flames. The twin supporting 50mm gun of the pair manned by Unteroffizier Becker had been moved from the other side of the graveyard as soon as the Russian artillery fire had switched to the rear.