War Without Garlands: Operation Barbarossa 1941-1942 (2 page)

Saturday, 21 June 1941

The young NCO glanced up from his letter, the warm breeze of the Lithuanian plains wafting gently across his cheek. The weather was close and sultry. He continued to write:

‘I have a feeling that in the morning, or the one after, things are going to happen that will make the world sit up and take notice again. Moreover I suspect these events will not pass me by without some impact. Hopefully the near future will bring Final Victory a further step closer.’

His unit, the 6th Infantry Division,
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was one of 120 divisions poised along a demarcation line stretching between the Gulf of Finland and the Black Sea. An air of expectancy hung over this host, numbering some three million soldiers.

Leutnant Hermann Witzemann, a 26-year-old platoon commander, sat in a tented camp amongst his men, concealed in the forests beside the River Bug near the Soviet fortress of Brest-Litovsk. A beautiful summer day was drawing to a close. Scotch pines began to wave in the freshening evening wind. The sun’s rays penetrated the branches. ‘The blue sky was stretched over them like a tent,’ he observed. ‘We stood on the eve of momentous events,’ he confided in his letter, ‘of which I would also play a part.’ The unknown was unsettling. ‘None of us knew whether he would survive what was coming.’ War appeared inevitable. A new campaign was about to begin, but where? Unease before battle permeated everything: ‘After long conversations, questions and doubts we were serene and relaxed. As always, the last word that might have prompted differences was dropped.’
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Ital Gelzer further north occupied ‘a multi-coloured tent city under tall Scotch Pines’. He felt himself fortunate. As a guest of the Intelligence platoon commander he could actually stand up in his tent. ‘Very comfortable when dressing,’ he remarked. With a bright lamp and a covering over the floor it was cosy at nights, if the temperature did not drop too much. His access to maps was of particular significance. They gave some clue of coming events. Knowledge within a welter of rumour always gave a soldier authority. ‘All over the edge of the map that I am using now are arrows, pointing in the direction of Lemberg [Lvov],’ he wrote in his letter. Little had been finalised. During the evenings he played the harmonica between the camp fires, singing Swiss songs. His thoughts, like many others’, dwelt on loved ones on the eve of battle. ‘I think of you all dispersed around,’ he wrote, ‘and hope that eventually one day, there will be a postwar period during which one can ponder a future different from that our parents experienced.’ Enforced inactivity was frustrating. ‘Have I ever waited so long as these past days?’ he wrote. Rumour fed on rumour. ‘The news of the treaty with Turkey arrived; if it had been Russia, I could similarly have accepted it after the motto
“credo quia absurdum”
[I believe it because it is absurd].’ Gelzer finished his literary correspondence with a conspiratorial flourish. ‘When you read these lines we’ll all know plenty. We’re on the march this evening.’
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He was not to know it, but the arrows on the map indicated his future final resting place: Borysychoi, north of Lemberg. He would be dead within four days.

Leutnant Witzemann steeled himself for the coming conflict. His letters reveal an idealistic yet religious man:

‘God the Father grant me strength, faith and courage beneath whining bullets, under the impact of artillery and bombs, vulnerable in the face of enemy tank attack and the horror of creeping gas. Thanks be for love. Thy will be done.’

He was not to survive the first 24 hours.
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Deception measures for the coming operation, as yet unbriefed, were immense. They needed to be. Seven armies were massing along the 800km-long sector of the Russo-German demarcation line in Poland. Four Panzergruppen and three Luftwaffe Luftflotten were poised ready to go: 600,000 vehicles, 750,000 horses, 3,580 tanks and self-propelled guns, 7,184 artillery pieces and 1,830 aircraft.
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Two workers observing German activity around Maringlen airstrip in Poland had already guessed the likely reason. Jews and Poles had been obliged to build the runways by forced labour in 1940. Jan Szcepanink said, ‘I did everything that was ordered. If I was ordered into the wood to fetch timber – I fetched it. If I had to transport building materials for the barracks, I got on with it.’ The sinister implication of measures taken to disguise progress was not lost on them.

‘When the Germans finished the runway they let the grass grow and grazed cattle on it. It looked more like pasture than an airfield. White clover on the runway provided good grazing. The hangars were constructed by driving tree trunks into the ground. Hanging over this was wire or a green net overlaid with foliage. As leaves dried out they were replaced with fresh.’

Over 100 airfields and 50 dispersal strips had been built in Poland alone as part of the eastern build-up. Both Szcepanink and his friend Dominik Strug, looking on, were under no illusions. ‘Everybody knew, they knew,’ both said, ‘that this was preparation for war against Russia.’
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By early June, Oberleutnant Siegfried Knappe’s artillery battery had arrived in East Prussia. Exercising around Prostken near the Russian border, Knappe and the other battery commanders were invited to conduct a map study to ‘determine the best positions for our guns in the event of an attack on Russia’. Their battalion commander insisted it be done ‘carefully’. The existence of the Russo-German Non-Aggression Pact was cited in response, but they were reassured, ‘it is just an exercise.’ The positions were duly determined. Thereupon the battery commanders were ordered to send work details of soldiers dressed in civilian clothes to load 300 rounds of ammunition onto carts and transport them to their assigned gun positions. ‘Your men are to look like farmers doing farm work, and your ammunition is to be camouflaged after you unload it,’ instructed their battalion commander. The realisation sank in. One of the battery commanders asked: ‘When are we going to invade, Major?’ This caused acute embarrassment to their battalion commander, obviously labouring under security constraints. ‘It is a purely hypothetical situation. But we have to make it look as real as possible,’ he said. Civilian clothes were borrowed from local farm families and the ammunition concealed under brushwood in the reconnoitred positions.
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Tanks moved up under the cover of darkness. The forward elements of the 1st Panzer Division departed its garrison at Zinthen near Königsberg on 17 June. They were ordered to march only by night. Officer reconnaissance teams dressed as civilian hunters and farmers went forward to inspect the former German-Lithuanian border closely. Once the division was complete in its assembly areas, further movement by armoured vehicles was forbidden.
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Schütze Albrecht Linsen, living in a hidden encampment near Wladowa on the high west bank of the River Bug, recalled that ‘any activity outside barracks was regulated by strict orders on camouflage’; duties were conducted under cover of trees. Routine continued, not enthusiastically ‘but with growing tension’.
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There was collective awareness of impending events, but as yet no precise direction. Gerhard Görtz, another infantryman, speculated:

‘We ourselves became aware around 20 June that war against the Russians was a possibility. There was a feeling in the air. No fires were allowed, and one could not walk about with torches or cause any noise. At least something was fairly clear – we were shortly to embark on a campaign!’
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Affectionate letters from home reflected even greater unawareness of what was happening. One wife wrote to her husband Heinz:

‘Are you on a big exercise? You poor tramp. Oh well, hopefully things will soon get started so that the peace, long awaited, will finally come, when we can be man and wife, or better still, Daddy and Mummy.’
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At midday on 21 June Gefreiter Erich Kuby, a signaller, confided to his diary: ‘I am on duty and little is going on.’ His newspaper
Die Frankfurter Zeitung,
although only a week old, had nothing new to say. Kuby had surmised what might happen, but nothing had been confirmed. Interestingly, the padre had begun to conduct services that same afternoon.
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Eleven months before, General Franz Halder, the German Army Chief of Staff, had hastily jotted down the essence of a high level conference conducted by Adolf Hitler at the Berghof. The invasion of Britain appeared improbable. ‘To all intents and purposes the war is won,’ Halder wrote. Factors that Britain may have hoped would change the situation needed to be eliminated. Such hope could only be provided by Russia and the United States. Remove Russia and ‘Britain’s last hope would be shattered’. Mastery of Europe and the Balkans was the issue. The elimination of Russia would remove the United States too, because Japan’s power in the Far East would increase tremendously as a result. Halder scrawled an interim conclusion: ‘Decision: Russia’s destruction must therefore be made a part of the struggle. Spring 1941.’
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Hitler’s decision to invade Russia was not purely, or indeed primarily, motivated by his desire to knock Britain out of the war. Ideological considerations were the imperative powering conflict. These had been outlined in rambling and turgid form in
Mein Kampf
as early as 1925. Beneath the street dialogue terminology, of which Hitler was an acknowledged master, was a sinister causal chain that could only result in war against the Soviet Union. Race was the basic determinant of human civilisation. At one end of the spectrum stood the German nation, the embodiment and bastion of the Aryan race. At the lower end were the Jews, a parasitic and degenerative influence that threatened to destroy civilisation. German supremacy would be achieved first by destroying domestic political enemies and then by foreign conquest, eliminating the victors of World War 1. To reach their full potential, Aryan Germans needed to expand the geographic bounds of the Reich into the east, gaining
Lebensraum
(living space). The eventual aim was to create a German Empire from the Urals to Gibraltar, free of Jews, in which the
Untermenschen
(sub-human races) like Slavs would be subjected to Helot-like serfdom.

By 1941 a substantial portion of the German population, including much of the officer corps, fully subscribed to this philosophical conception. Halder took notes at a two and a half hour meeting of some 200 high ranking officers and generals in the Führer’s office in Berlin during which ‘colonial tasks’, once the east had been subjugated, were discussed. Russia would be broken up: northern Russia to Finland, with protectorates established in the Baltic states, Ukraine and White Russia. Halder noted:

‘Clash of two ideologies. We must forget the concept of comradeship between soldiers. A communist is no comrade before or after the battle. This is a war of extermination… We do not wage war to preserve the enemy.’

He recorded a series of brutal, yet hardly debated, directives under the precursor, ‘This war will be very different from the war in the West.’ The war against Russia would involve ‘extermination of the Bolshevist commissars and the communist intelligentsia’.

The principles the staff officers were enjoined to embrace were to be reflected in future high command directives. ‘Commanders,’ Halder wrote, ‘must make the sacrifice of overcoming their personal scruples.’
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Many did.

Generalfeldmarschall von Brauchitsch, the German Army Commander-in-Chief, released a series of directives two months later to the rest of the Wehrmacht, defining their freedom of action in the coming war.
The Treatment of Enemy Inhabitants in the ‘Barbarossa’ Operational Zone,
released in May, was secret, and could only be communicated to officers. In essence it directed ‘pacification’ measures against any resistance in newly occupied areas, ‘which was to be eradicated promptly, severely and with maximum force’. Troops were given the ‘duty and right’ to ‘liquidate’ irregulars and saboteurs ‘in battle, or shoot them on the run’. Collective reprisals would be exacted from villages where resistance occurred. The infamous Commissar Order of 6 June was preceded by the introduction that ‘in a war against Bolshevism, handling the enemy according to humane rules or the Principles of International Law is not applicable’. Communists were not to be treated as conventional PoWs, ‘they are hitherto, whether in battle or found conducting resistance, in principle, to be shot immediately’. They were identified to soldiers as wearing a special badge ‘with a red star with an embossed golden hammer and sickle, worn on the arm’.
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The
Oberkommando der Wehrmacht
(OKW) and
Oberkommando des Heeres
(OKH) were issuing decrees that dispensed with Germany’s international and legal obligations. These were military directives, not SS orders. Senior generals – including Erich von Manstein, Walther von Reichenau and General Erich Hoepner – issued parallel directives. Hoepner reminded his troops in the Panzergruppe 4 that, ‘it is the old battle of the Germans against the Slav people, of the defence of the European culture against Muscovite-Asiatic inundation, and the repulse of Jewish Bolshevism’. No quarter was to be given in the coming pitiless battle: