StalingradDailyDiary

@michl080 Thanks!

@DailyStalingrad You should add "Echolot" by Walter Kempowski to your list of sources, a fantastic collection of diaries from well known as well as unknown people.

“Had he really imagined that he’d simply be able to board a plane here like he was getting on a train? That he’d be able to walk out of the catastrophe at Stalingrad like he was leaving a bad play? He can feel all the energy draining out of his limbs. But behind this impotence, he has the first inkling, albeit still only slight, that ‘Stalingrad’ has already transcended space and time, that there’s no longer any escape from it even if one went to the ends of the earth, and that unbreakable bonds now tie him to the hundreds of thousands still here — those who are still alive and suffering, the mistreated and the betrayed, and the dead. Anyone who survives these gruesome events unfolding on the snowy fields beside the Volga will henceforth carry Stalingrad with them throughout their entire lives. Minutes spent in the arms of their beloved wife — Stalingrad! The sight of their children’s sparkling eyes — Stalingrad! There’ll be no happiness and no tears without Stalingrad; no achievements, no work and no striving without Stalingrad. No rest, no sleep, no more dreams that don’t involve Stalingrad! And when this life finally comes to be weighed in the balance at the End of Days, the dead of Stalingrad will also pass judgement. And every thought and every deed that was not aimed at overcoming that ludicrous, destructive spirit that insisted upon the mass slaughter of Stalingrad as some ghastly ritual of a barbarian cult of idolatry would be repudiated.” Breakout at Stalingrad - Heinrich Gerlach

@LTJL2024 Thanks!

@DailyStalingrad Blood red snow is a classic, but I don't remember if it covered Stalingrad. I'll look at my collection (I have several "Landser Erinnerungen") and will let you know later

@soviet_war Thanks!

@steveon7 There will be more

@DailyStalingrad Is at the last tweet or u doing it again

@YoungBoozer8 In Karl’s story, yes.

@DailyStalingrad Is this the last entry??

2 February 1943 Finally the artillery and mortars ceased this morning. We listened to the wind whistling through the broken buildings and streets as we waited, unsure whether the quiet meant surrender, regrouping, or simply a pause before something final. Weiss stood near the doorway for a long time, helmet off, rifle leaning against the wall. He did not give orders. Some men checked their weapons out of habit. Others sat with their backs to the wall, eyes closed, as if already elsewhere. Shapes moved cautiously in the ruins nearby and we heard Russian voices. We watched as a group of Russians approached another German position about 100 metres down the street from ours. After some time the inhabitants emerged and formed up in the street. They looked as wretched as we do - all walking wounded, filthy and disheveled. Eventually the Russian soldiers reappeared and led them away to captivity. As the afternoon wore on the calm was disturbed by occasional outbreaks of shooting from beyond our sector. We speculated whether this was the sound of those of our comrades who preferred to go out fighting, or whether it’s the Russians taking revenge on the newly surrendered. We’ve agreed that if the opportunity presents then we’ll take our chances and try to surrender. But for now we wait. I can cannot comprehend what might come next - of an existence beyond this cellar and these broken streets. So my thoughts turn to what has passed. Of Friedrich and of Meier. Of all the lives I’ve seen extinguished in this hellscape - of the monstrous scale of the waste and destruction. But then, I cannot comprehend that either…

1 February 1943 Russian pressure continued steadily throughout the day. Mortar rounds fell in addition to heavier artillery, collapsing nearby positions and driving survivors toward us. The cellars filled with men I didn’t know, all equally starved, broken, frostbitten and silent. Command no longer exists in any real sense; only Weiss remained, holding us together by habit alone. Russian infantry are in positions nearby, but not exposing themselves. They know it’s only a matter of time before we collapse and don’t want to risk casualties unnecessarily - instead letting the bombs grind us down. This evening the bombardment paused long enough for us to hear Russian loudspeakers promising food and medical care. But no one really believes that’s what awaits us.

31 January 1943 The shelling continued through the night and much of today, heavy but uneven. Several buildings behind us collapsed, sealing streets and potential escape routes - not that there’s anywhere to escape to! Weiss adjusted positions again, though our world had shrunk to a few cellars and one broken street. By midday, the rumour became certainty: Paulus had surrendered - but only the southern pocket. The north was expected to follow. The knowledge settled heavily. We were no longer holding for relief, only for time, though what that time was meant to achieve no one could say. Weiss spoke quietly, reminding us to conserve ammunition. The cold and hunger gnawed constantly. I found myself thinking not of home, but of what it would mean to still be alive tomorrow, and whether that was something to hope for.

January 1943 The fighting resumed in short, violent bursts today. The Russian infantry pushed closer, moving back into the ruins opposite us. Weiss ordered us to hold fire until they were close and in the open. We did, and they pulled back again. It was nerve wracking letting them get so close, and each exchange costs us ammunition we cannot replace. There are almost no rations left anywhere. Hunger has become a physical weight, pressing down on the chest and making it hard to think. One man collapsed during watch and had to be shaken awake. Weiss rotated us more frequently, to keep us moving. Rumours circulated that Paulus had been promoted to Field Marshal. Weiss pointed out it was likely intended as an invitation to shoot himself, rather than in recognition of his conduct. No one understood what that meant for us, except that it did not bring food, ammunition, or relief. That night, Russian artillery fired intermittently. Enough to remind us they’re still there.

29 January 1943 The fighting today was closer, more confused. Russians pushed into the ruins opposite us, clearing room by room. We heard shots, panicked shouting, then silence. When they appeared in the street, Weiss ordered us to fire. We did, briefly, and they withdrew. Afterward, no one spoke. We all understood that this could not continue much longer. Starvation is taking its toll. Hands shake uncontrollably. One man tried to chew on a piece of leather from his belt and broke a tooth. Another simply lay down and refused to get up again. Weiss let him be. This evening we scraped together enough fuel to melt snow for water, but there’s never enough. My stomach cramps constantly now, a deep, hollow ache. I have a persistent, pulsing pain in my temples. I shiver with fever. A few of us spoke quietly this evening about how this might end. We were all agreed we had little reason to expect Russian captivity to be any much than our current conditions, despite whatever was said over the loudspeakers and reported in printed leaflets which were dropped on our positions from time to time. Moreover, even if we tried to surrender, there’s every chance the Russians would shoot us out of hand, or that one of our own lot have a pop at us. We decided best to sit tight and defend as best we can, for as long as we can, or until we hear word to the contrary.

28 January 1943 We woke to shelling nearby, closer than yesterday. Dust and powdered brick drifted down steadily from the ceiling, settling on our faces and inside our mouths. No one bothered to brush it away. Weiss sent two fellows to search an abandoned cellar behind us. They returned with nothing—no food, no fuel, no ammunition, no news. Russian infantry attempted to cross the street twice during the afternoon. Both times we drove them back with rifle fire, but at a cost. Ammunition is almost gone now. Weiss counted rounds afterward and said nothing. Hunger makes time stretch strangely. Minutes feel long, hours blur together. I think of food constantly—not meals, just the act of swallowing something warm. In the evening, snow began again, covering everything, even erasing the dead for a time.

27 January 1943 The cold is constant now, not something that comes and goes but something that presses in from all sides. We burn scraps of wood torn from desks and doors, but the heat never lasts. Hunger has become sharper than pain. Men speak less, conserving energy as if words themselves require calories. Russian fire continued through the day—short bursts, mortar rounds probing our position. Weiss rotated us carefully, keeping one or two men awake at all times. We fired only when we had to. Each shot felt like a decision that could not be undone. One man collapsed while standing watch. He didn’t cry out, just slid down the wall and stayed there. Frostbite or starvation—no one checked. We pulled his coat tighter around him and carried on. At night, we listened to the Russians shouting to one another, confident, unhurried. They are not afraid of us anymore.

26 January 1943 The Russians split the kessel into two separate ‘pockets’ today. We were fortunate, in that they didn’t break through our sector. But there has been chaos to our rear and all around. Through the day more lost soldiers and units strayed into our lines. At one point a group of Romanian cavalry pitched up. Without weapons, desperate and starving - their horses long since slaughtered and devoured - as it was clear we had nothing to share, they soon moved on. God knows where to. We’re part of the Northern pocket. Apparently Paulus and the other bigwigs are holed-up in the southern pocket. General Strecker is in command here. A hard bastard by all accounts - we’ve already heard word that any soldier caught taking airdropped supplies for himself will be immediately court-martialed. If anything drops nearby I dare say we’d happily take our chances! Despite the tumult all around, Weiss ordered us to remain in cover and wait. For what, he cannot say.

25 January 1943 The MG fired its last belt today. Weiss ordered the bolt removed and hidden. The weapon was abandoned in place, just another piece of scrap among the ruins. After that, we were infantry only, rifles with a handful of rounds. Weiss redistributed ammunition carefully, counting each cartridge. No one argued. This afternoon a group of three German soldiers wandered into our position. Their unit had been stationed in the west and had been destroyed in the most recent Russian offensive. Confronted with the chaos in the rear they had decided to make their way to our sector, as they had heard units were still functioning and defending. Weiss said they were welcome to stick with us and they agreed. They still had some ammunition and grenades. A few other small groups also appeared, but walked through our lines and towards the Russians, presumably on their way to surrender. We’re supposed to shoot at anyone suspected of this, but no one did. Russian movement increased in the evening. They are closing in methodically, reducing pockets one at a time. We can hear fighting to the west, then silence.

24 January 1943 Snow fell steadily all day, muffling sound. Fighting was sporadic, short bursts followed by long silences. Russian patrols tested us but did not commit. Hunger is now constant. One man boiled leather straps into a foul broth and shared it. We drank it anyway. In the evening, Russian loudspeakers announced that resistance was pointless. Weiss ordered no response. At one point we even heard the sound of a clock ticking played through the speakers, followed by some sort of haunting tango music. Huddled in our position, listening to the sounds wash through the destroyed streets - it was utterly surreal and sinister all at once. As night fell, I thought of Friedrich for the first time without the feeling I might be overwhelmed. At least the torment is over for him.

23 January 1943 Weiss tried to establish contact with neighboring units. The runner did not return. By midday, it was clear we were isolated again. Russian artillery struck several buildings behind us, collapsing escape routes we’d discussed the night before. Weiss adjusted positions calmly, assigning sectors as if this were still a proper defense. The structure helped. A group of Russians attempted to cross the street under cover of smoke. We drove them back, expending precious ammunition. No one cheered. In the afternoon, a wounded man crawled in from another unit and died without speaking. We moved him outside after dark. The cold preserves everything. Weiss spoke quietly about conserving strength. No mention of relief or breakout. Just survival until something changes—whatever that might be.

22 January 1943 During the night withdrawal I became separated from the others. No one noticed. No one would have been able to help even if they had. I moved alone through ruins I no longer recognised, guided by sound and avoiding open spaces. Near dawn I encountered a small group holding a cellar position. Their NCO asked my name and unit. When I reported, he nodded and said Weiss was still alive and nearby. The name meant something - structure, familiarity. I stayed. What remains of Weiss’ unit is six men, an MG with limited ammunition, other light arms, and no clear orders. Weiss himself looked older than I remembered, beard thick, eyes sunken. When he asked about Meier, Friedrich and the others, I simply shook my head. I could feel the emotion welling up inside me, and I didn’t dare voice it. Through the day we took turns sleeping and watching the street. The combination of hunger, fatigue and cold is crushing. It’s near impossible to muster energy for anything other than the most basic tasks. The Russians were close and emboldened. They know time is on their side.